leather wheel with every syllable of Roxanne.
I was making my way into town for a six hour shift at a chain bookstore which in our little mountain oasis doubled as a post-office and tripled as a bank. I'd recently won a hard-fought battle to get my boss, Derik, to let me wear pants. After I had caught the third pervert in a week trying to catch a peek on my way down the stairs, I wasn't having anymore of anyone's nonsense. It was however, eighty three degrees and rising, and in my black blouse and slacks, I was turning into a walking salt lick.
Johnny's green convertible pulled up next to me at the corner of Blifford and Ivy. Johnny swerved so quickly to my side of the road that the wheels almost barreled over the curb and I threw myself back, falling onto the wet concrete. Johnny gave the window crank a couple hard pumps, then leaned out, shades a Lennon-styled blue.
"What's up Chuck? You need a ride to the funeral?"
I'd met Johnny three times before:
1. The first was during my horrific freshman year experience of trying to be an "all-rounder" through joining my all girls school's rowing team. My mother tried to convince me all summer that joining a team sport would make me a better fit for [insert school, man's name, society, her own approval, etc.]. We were at a lake in the Waikato, sitting under tents listening to our coach's saliva as it enunciated each command with a splash on our faces.
I was in the same boat as Johnny's twin sister Dalia, who is to this day, an outright aged potato . Johnny was watching our race with his parents, wearing high waisted pants, suspenders and a Black Sabbath band t-shirt. He was leaning against our pile of bags next to Spike, the boys' team coxswain.
"Did you hear that Babe is keeping it? She's fucking Joey-what's-his-face, and yet she's keeping it."
I was making my way into town for a six hour shift at a chain bookstore which in our little mountain oasis doubled as a post-office and tripled as a bank. I'd recently won a hard-fought battle to get my boss, Derik, to let me wear pants. After I had caught the third pervert in a week trying to catch a peek on my way down the stairs, I wasn't having anymore of anyone's nonsense. It was however, eighty three degrees and rising, and in my black blouse and slacks, I was turning into a walking salt lick.
Johnny's green convertible pulled up next to me at the corner of Blifford and Ivy. Johnny swerved so quickly to my side of the road that the wheels almost barreled over the curb and I threw myself back, falling onto the wet concrete. Johnny gave the window crank a couple hard pumps, then leaned out, shades a Lennon-styled blue.
"What's up Chuck? You need a ride to the funeral?"
I'd met Johnny three times before:
1. The first was during my horrific freshman year experience of trying to be an "all-rounder" through joining my all girls school's rowing team. My mother tried to convince me all summer that joining a team sport would make me a better fit for [insert school, man's name, society, her own approval, etc.]. We were at a lake in the Waikato, sitting under tents listening to our coach's saliva as it enunciated each command with a splash on our faces.
I was in the same boat as Johnny's twin sister Dalia, who is to this day, an outright aged potato . Johnny was watching our race with his parents, wearing high waisted pants, suspenders and a Black Sabbath band t-shirt. He was leaning against our pile of bags next to Spike, the boys' team coxswain.
"Did you hear that Babe is keeping it? She's fucking Joey-what's-his-face, and yet she's keeping it."
