The town where I was born, grew up, escaped, and now reside could be described as a logging, rednecked, sailor town full of testosterone, kegs, gun stores, and churches. Men drive pick up trucks with mud flaps and gun racks and sport mullets with pride. Because it’s a navy town, men outnumber women 5 to 1. The women could be described as typically overweight, hungry for sailor blood and sport aqua net big hair styles that would make David Lee Roth jealous. The sailors (squids) always travel in packs and can be recognized both by their numbers and short haircuts with baseball hats. The theme of “townies vs. sailors” seems all too prevalent at any public establishment, hence resulting in the occasional bar fight.
A typical night on the town..
Kathleen picks me up in her jeep, cigarette dangling from her lips, loud Duran Duran “Hungry like a wolf” emanating from the stereo, her dressed to the nines tight black pants, open toe sandals with heels, and a low cut tight fitting shirt. She tells me she made arrangements to have her son spend the night at his grandmas, so her house is available for an after hours party. (Remember we all are single mothers here). We drive away singing away with the CD player, occasionally letting out a sarcastic “OW” to a camero full of squids.
“Where do you want to go?” She asks
I give my usual response “Where is there to go” (besides crazy like Patsy Cline I think to myself)
“Lets pop off to the tavern for a couple drinks and see how we feel” I agree.
We arrive at the local tavern and Kathleen makes a beeline for a seat at the bar. She knows all the bar stool regulars, plus the bartenders. She greets many of them with hugs, while I merely wave and smile (I don’t know them very well). Bad Companys “Feel like making love” plays on the jukebox. I recognize one of the guys sitting at the bar from high school, though he has gained some weight. Both Kathleen and I light up cigarettes and order vodka cranberrys (double). We talk bar talk (sports, Survivor) until Kathleen tells one of the barstool regulars that I work at a library. Suddenly, conversation shifts to me “Oh you look like a librarian” someone says (I wear glasses). Another tries to impress me with his knowledge of books. I order another drink, and a shot, and consider calling up friends on my cell phone.
After an hour or so, Kathleen gets restless…. Doing her best impression of John Travolta in Saturday Night Fever she says “I want to dance”. I know what is coming next, she wants to go to the local meat market, squid infested dance club. Im happy here, I try to say, though I know my words are futile. We get back in the jeep and head out to the dance club.
To be continued……
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"The mark of an immature man is that he would die knobly for a cause. The mark of a mature man is that he would live humbly for one" - Catcher in the Rye -WARNING WRITER SPELLING CHALLENGED! But Sometimes you have to say "what the fuck!"
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