Bonnie ZoBell

The Pep

Saul’s tra­di­tion in the 80s, going to the new Peppermint Lounge on 45th, turned rit­u­al once he met the wait­ress with the spark­ly cleav­age, her oral cav­i­ty the most las­civ­i­ous thing he’d ever made it with, which he did every chance he got on those Friday nights, behind the stage door, in the kitchen, the walk-in freez­er, and she was groov­ing on it too until one day he got stub­born and want­ed to sit and con­ver­sate instead of flit­ting around doing the dis­co thing, so she bashed him in the mouth with her serv­ing tray, and now two decades lat­er he still goes to den­tal rehab on 47th.


The wait­ress ran out the back door, gal­loped two blocks of side­walk for the audi­tion, the but­ter on her blouse, the tuna on her skirt, the milk­shake in her hair giv­ing her an edge for the mon­ster movie, a will­ing­ness to scream, be revolt­ed, and wor­ry about her life and well-being to her fullest until she dis­cov­ered she was six­ty-third in line.


BONNIE ZOBELL has received an NEA, a PEN Syndicated Fiction Award, the Capricorn Novel Award, and was includ­ed on Wigleaf’s 2009 Top 50 list for very short fic­tion. Her work has been includ­ed or is forth­com­ing in The Los Angeles Review, Night Train, Storyglossia, Necessary Fiction, The Greensboro Review, JMWW, and Pank. She received an MFA from Columbia, teach­es at San Diego Mesa College, and can be reached at