I remember the smell, that robust combination of incense, sour milk, sweat, and boiled peanuts. On broiling sunny days, you could add the acrid diesel exhaust of buses, stinging your sinuses, and stale alcohol fumes streaming on cold air from the bars.
Growing up, Chinatown meant this. My mother took me there to get a monthly haircut. Her friend owned Sheena’s Barber Shop on that infamous whorehouse row, Hotel Street, the word hotel in quotation marks, for no serviceman during this street’s World War II heyday overnighted there. It was in and out, if you know what I mean, and then off to a tattoo parlor for the world renowned “I Got Stewed, Screwed, and Tattooed in Honolulu” stamp of approval.
Now there’s a work of art for your wedding night. What bride wouldn’t love to see her brave groom’s service to his country memorialized in such a poetic manner.
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Aloha on this #WriterThursday. I hope all is well. Today’s #WritingPrompt is
Use it to inspire a piece of writing and then post that piece as a comment below. I would love to read it : )