The Fed and the Floozy A short story by Hannah Poulter

    This story needs a small introduction. It was written by Hannah in 2015 and was published in "Tales From the White Horse" in November 2015. It is a romantic story which is written using the language of 1906 New York. A glossary will follow at the end of the story. To my mind this is a masterpiece and deserves to be read.

The Fed and the Floozy

The man laughed loudly at a joke that only he had heard. The noise of the busy Fifth Avenue Park suffocating the conversation as he played with his dark brown slicked curls, before buttoning up another jitney button to his grey waistcoat. It was very clear this man was no hillbilly nor a rinky-dink wino. In fact he could easily pass for a hawkshaw or fed in his fancy doodads and his killer ice.

His companion muttered a quick good-bye, as the man took a long drag of his cigar. He was watching a welcher arguing with a loan shark when he saw something that caught his keen eyes. A posh, dolled-up girl walking through in her Sunday Best, and her brown hair done up with a Marcel wave. He watched her intensely as she made her usual journey through the park. She sat sown on a rusted park bench, before taking out of her bag a paperback "Sister Carrie". She flicked through the pages, and began to read.

He stood up then slowly walked over to her and took a seat beside her. She did not notice him as she  was too busy reading this humdinger book:

       "Oh Carrie, Carrie! Oh blind strivings of the human heart! It is when the feet weary and hope seems vain that the heartaches and the longings arise. Know then, that for you is neither surfeit nor content," The man quoted with exaggerated compassion.

The woman looked up startled and impressed. Her approving hazel eyes met with his. For a brief moment she gazed into his emerald eyes before replying. "In your rocking chair, by your window dreaming, shall you long, alone,"

"You have good taste!" He said. "Allow me to introduce myself. I am John Kent, you may have heard of me. After all I am a poet."

"I'm Georgina Mayfield." she replied coolly. "A famous poet? I haven't heard of you."

Not put off by her reply John continued. "Georgina, eh? That's a beautiful name. It's a privilege to meet such a changing peacherino. Makes a nice change from the floozies around here. So today's the 23rd July 1906, how about a date next Thursday, the 26th, then?"

"You may gussy up well, but I don't need you being on the make, I'm not duck soup, so lay off!" Georgina retorted.

He looked taken aback, his face dropped in a false hang-dog expression. "I like you, Georgina, you're too good for this world." John frogged. "I see right through that little act of yours. You pretend you're above the riff-raff and dingbats, yet you're no wisenheimer. You have a fine way with words, in fact you might even make a good author, or poet. Wasted talent."

Georgina gulped, knowing she was treading on thin ice. Her secret could easily be revealed in the bat of an eye if she didn't step carefully. She quickly composed herself and ignored the warning signs rattling around her head. She hoped to quickly to close the curtains on the never ending conversation
©️Hannah Poulter 2015