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Now available for preorder:
The San Francisco Panorama.
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Home Alone.BY JAMES CUMMINS
Della closed the book, finished for the night. "What's that?" he called. "Death of a Salesman? That Willy guy? What was his name? Willy—" "Loman," she answered. "On the totem pole! His totem pole was only average." She giggled. Ham's pole was only "average," too, which made him nervous before a fuck. She liked that in a man. A CNN poll once canvassed fifty "ladies of the night" to see how they'd rank a man's "Willy"— a priest, a pool boy, and a car salesman topped the whores' ratings—the used car salesman's dick, especially, "above average." He yelled, "Not funny!" "So how's your Willy?" she yelled back. (He washed it before each fuck.) "Nilly? Don't towel off too well!" The night grimaced outside, quite like a totem pole. "Ha ha," he said, as he lay down, his pole most un-pole-like. "I think I read Salesman in school," he said. "Stayed up all one night." She snickered, "Raising your D average, no doubt." He winced, but played along. "Fuck you," he said. "You wish," she said. "Or your Willy wishes." She reached down, grabbed it. "Hey, Willy!" Della singsonged. "Are you a token pole?" "Fuck you! You think that makes me want to fuck?" "I wasn't reading Death of a Salesman—" "You make me feel like Dame Edna Everage—!" "You look like Dame Edna Everage tonight! And that was Mamet, not Miller, tonight!" This wasn't going well. Mocking Willy could mean watching the Dow Jones average crawl by, followed by sports. "Hey, guy, some pole!" she breathed, as if she meant it—no salesman blew smoke like Della when she craved a fuck. Tonight, Leno was kissing Dame Everage. "My Willy-pole ... Come here, you wittle fuck!" Ham turned away. "Hey, call the car salesman!"
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