There are five places of interest in Skanklin. The eat while you watch cinema, the two dollar store .
Two dollar stores are real! I like real. Let’s face it. Nothing useful is made for the cost of one single dollar. It takes at least two bucks to purchase a high quality vitamin!
Beyond the cinema and the ‘store’, there is the Gandhi-Mart and Catholic Used and Cheap thrift store, there is, Mr. B. Got. Mr. B. Got is a liquidator. If you need a magic eraser, a door stopper or a can of beer from India, the B is the place to go. Of
course, there is the other ulterior motive. There is Angel! Angel is no an angel. She is coarse like a piece of fine sandpaper. Her voice? Like a drunken sailor on leave. And, her smile tells of a life lead by lust and cookie dust! I have been in love with Angel since the day she rolled into town. Or, better put, got towed into town. Her Harley up on its pegs, looked like a jaded and broken mechanical horse. Angel, and her bike, had blown a gasket. And, until the day comes when the one only bike shop in town locates Angel’s ancient Harley and it’s blown part, the angel will remain in my heart and in Skanklin.
Glorious day! Angel provided me with not only a notebook. She provided me with the most sought after item in my world, her phone number.
I easily could have gone to the cheaper store. I most likely could have found a couple of pieces of slightly used paper within my house. But once smitten twice pushy! I jump at every opportunity I can to witness the Angel in action.
“Is that it, honey? Whatcha planning on writing?”
Words dripping with confidence and sex. I had been ridiculed by many friends. Harassed and bullied by acquaintances who knew of my crush. Every single one of them pissing in my Wheaties with,
“She ain’t no dyke!”
I have been known, back in my drinking days, to turn many a straight gal. I have also been seen running nearly naked through a few bar parking lots. Running like there would be no tomorrow from the irate husbands. All it takes is time and patience and I will get me a live Angel.
“I’d like to see your number in there, but I don’t see it. How much more for the notebook with the number in it?,” had been my reply.
Of course, Angel had smirked that knowing and self confident twitch of the lip. She took a pen from her breast pocket, nodded at me and jotted something on the inside cover of my newly purchased notebook:
“For a good time, call, Angel, 604-369-1289”
Fuck those townies. Screw all those straight and straight- laced pinheads down at Bunny’s Shave’ n Wet. I got the coveted number!
That friggin’ class. Tonight should be the night for learning about ridden hard and hung up wet women named Angel. Tonight should not be the night to stuff the mounting sexual frustration. The same frustration that tends to pent up bad thoughts. The same boxed negative feelings that, you guessed it, causes, anger.
I kissed Towanda good- night, I told Bogart he was to be in charge of the feline brood, kick started the ancient moped and headed down to the Unitarian church. Right around dusk, my town is different than any other town in the States. It glows neon and fades a dusty red in the rear-view mirror. The patrons of Skanklin stroll by holding hands and reminiscing about recent factories that have shut down. Out of nowhere, my small town is bearable and bright and something you dream about.