12 Jan

If you sit still enough and cross-legged, like an Indian like, you can feel your heartbeat. If you sit still, it’ll move you. It’ll actually swing you gently up and back. Hold your breath, you’ll see. Same thing happens with your legs. If you cross them. And sit still. The one on top. Still now. Watch it, it bounces gently with the heartbeat. Mama tells me it’s because I’ve a strong lifeline. Strong heart means strong life. That’s what mama says.
Me then.
The girl who jerked off Davey Styndall in homeroom while he wrote: Rush, 2112 on his Trapper Keeper, was five feet two inches. She had straight, black hair and wanted to grow it as long as Crystal Gayle. Her dream was to be able to sit on it. She had a crush on Ms. Dibiasi, who drove a 1976 Ford LTD. Girls weren’t supposed to like other girls. And besides, she’d wanked Davey Styndall. She was someone. She was ashamed and proud. She could sew a stuffed seal in Home Economics and not have the loops of thread show through the seams. She cheated in Music and wrote an old, Irish song in the wrong key or clef and won a composition prize for it. In History, she would stare at Mary Ellen Vizdos’ tits and wish she’d had them herself. And then she wished she could put her mouth around them. Girls weren’t supposed to like other girls. She was ashamed. And proud.
Me now.
I’m not half bad for a thirty-nine year old single mother with three kids. Not after make-up and eyeliner. I get out of bed and I’m fifty. On good days I can pass for thirty. The cigarettes leave lines on the face, right there where you laugh and scruntch up the nose, and right there by the eyes. Most of the time I think I have cancer. I had an emergency hysterectomy last week. One morning I woke up with horrendous pain in my side, like a kidney stone like. The hospital said my ovary was filled with blood and ready to burst. How I ended up a widow is, the cops showed at my door one Friday afternoon last year and told me. Kenny’s appendix burst while he was driving back from Tulsa after dropping off a load of live pigs for the Indians to slaughter on the reservation. The cops said it’s a miracle he didn’t swerve and kill no one else. That it was after midnight and no one was driving that stretch of highway. Pigs got slaughtered and Indians ate and I got left with three kids and a 1976 Gremlin that misfires every time you start it.
On good days, I can pull off thirty.


2 Responses to “Dee”

  1. Slyboots 13/01/2008 at 5:51 AM #

    okay, I have to brag- got carded today. So on good days, I can pull of questionable 20something. Hah.

    And yes, this one is good. Veddy, veddy good.

  2. (S)wine 14/01/2008 at 5:36 PM #

    i always get carded…and it’s usually by teenage kids working the check-out (we can buy wine and beer at supermarkets).
    the…more mature cashiers…can see the bags under the eyes and all the lines and channels cut into the face.

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