Wednesday, August 30, 2006

Love In The Red Hot Fritos Isle

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It seems to me we can never give up longing and wishing while we are alive. There are certain things we feel to be beautiful and good, and we must hunger for them.---George Eliot

    It was just another day of gasholes and beer humping at the Arco today until I saw her. Six foot five, blond, athletic. She is a classic American beauty. Someone you'd expect to see in a beauty pagent or a rodeo. I wanted her.

    She had driven in to the Arco lot in a large white van. She was wearing bluejeans that made her legs look like they rose up from the ground and went on forever. Statuesque doesn't even begin to descibe the effect of her. I wanted her.

    She was strolling through the short isles of chips and candy bars until I walked up and stood next to her. I was pretending to be checking the cooler door shelves for bottles missing out of six packs or holes in the rows of single beer cans that needed to be pulled forward.

    We stood side by side for what seemed like a very long time. I was racking my brain trying to come up with a good pick-up line. She seemed to be waiting for it.

    She wasn't wearing any strong perfume that I could comment on. She just smelled clean, like a bar of Zest. Her white blouse had no commercial message on it like the retards wear and it would sound pretty stupid of me to say what a pretty color her white blouse was.

    No ring on her finger . . . or in her nose or ears. I assumed there wasn't a metal rod stuck through her tongue.

    She had a big head. Not too big for a woman of her height, but still it was big. I imagined my head nestled on her shoulder and it felt right. I imagined us riding horses in the desert and it felt true. I wanted her.

    What could I say? What could I say? What on God's green earth could I, the middleaged, overweight smoker with bad teeth and a minimum wage deadend Arco gas station job, possibly have to say to a real woman?

    My mouth opened, because my mouth . . . and the rest of my body . . . was up for this, but alas, my brain balked.

    She eventually moved on.

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