Calliope
09-24-2007, 08:21 PM
Dedicated to Mom - who just finished all 2,000 miles of the AT
Augusta, Maine, along the Kennebec River. I head into 'downtown,' a hardscrabble one-road stretch called Water Street. The economy here is primarily tethered to the City Government and the State Hospital, but there are a few pretensions of boutique bohemia timidly sprouting like dandelions in sidewalk cracks.
My first 'tourist score,' however, occurs en route. A quintessentially Maine 1-dwelling Saturday tagsale. A few ragged children's toys lay out on a blanket, a couple of tables contain mildewed lamps and kitchen accessories. Also: a portable clothesrack with a few wrinkled T-shirts.
They're all fem T-shirts, each with a hokey slogan. There's 'Real Blonde' with Tinkerbell [pink], 'Glamour Girl' with faux rhinestones [coral] and, best of all, 'I Love My Rotten, Ungrateful Boyfriend' [black]. All Petite Mediums. 'How much?' I ask.
'25 cents each,' says the lady. I look at her. She's a weathered, chainsmoking 35 bottle blonde in a lazy, greying L.L. Bean running top & pants ensemble looking at me. I'm 48, bottle red, lowcut Vanilla Star bluejeans with embroidered butterflies, a 'Girls Inc.' [lavender] T-shirt and, natch, Pink Crocs.
I hand her three quarters and take the 3 T-shirts. I'm aware these used to be hers. She's aware the next owner will be me. This mutual recognition is silent.
Across the Kennebec and into town, I pass a Gun Shop and a Christian Science Book Store, the latter closed and For Lease. A few classic red pickup trucks whizz by. I hear young male yells of 'Pussy!' and 'Fairy!' Those comments are presumably directed at me, who is proud to be both. I proceed.
On the corner of Water, I see a mesmerizing sight. It's a lingerie shop and there's a stunning mannequin in the window, ghostly white pornographic curves dressed in a 'naughty' Betty Page leather bikini w/ knee boots, all cherry red. I sigh, paralyzed.
Like any MtF, I'm in the dialectical crosshairs - lusting for the (ever faded, ever denied) promise of (mainstream) sex (just like a guy) and, of course, wishing myself to be that woman, so perfectly proportioned and so contentedly alluring (just like a gal). Otherworldly gender stereo.
Suddenly, the mannequin tilts her head and smiles at me. Wow. She's alive. That is, she's a model who was doing one hell of a great job pantomiming. And I see in her gleaming, benign eyes she has seen through me, saw everything I was thinking. Like a fairy godmother.
Weird, earlier that day, I was putting in my earrings, no mirror, and got one in the 'wrong hole,' an earlier upper lobe piercing from the 1980s. It closed over 15 years ago, but, lo and behold, maybe atmospheric pressure, open - and willing - again. So now I have 3.
Augusta, Maine, along the Kennebec River. I head into 'downtown,' a hardscrabble one-road stretch called Water Street. The economy here is primarily tethered to the City Government and the State Hospital, but there are a few pretensions of boutique bohemia timidly sprouting like dandelions in sidewalk cracks.
My first 'tourist score,' however, occurs en route. A quintessentially Maine 1-dwelling Saturday tagsale. A few ragged children's toys lay out on a blanket, a couple of tables contain mildewed lamps and kitchen accessories. Also: a portable clothesrack with a few wrinkled T-shirts.
They're all fem T-shirts, each with a hokey slogan. There's 'Real Blonde' with Tinkerbell [pink], 'Glamour Girl' with faux rhinestones [coral] and, best of all, 'I Love My Rotten, Ungrateful Boyfriend' [black]. All Petite Mediums. 'How much?' I ask.
'25 cents each,' says the lady. I look at her. She's a weathered, chainsmoking 35 bottle blonde in a lazy, greying L.L. Bean running top & pants ensemble looking at me. I'm 48, bottle red, lowcut Vanilla Star bluejeans with embroidered butterflies, a 'Girls Inc.' [lavender] T-shirt and, natch, Pink Crocs.
I hand her three quarters and take the 3 T-shirts. I'm aware these used to be hers. She's aware the next owner will be me. This mutual recognition is silent.
Across the Kennebec and into town, I pass a Gun Shop and a Christian Science Book Store, the latter closed and For Lease. A few classic red pickup trucks whizz by. I hear young male yells of 'Pussy!' and 'Fairy!' Those comments are presumably directed at me, who is proud to be both. I proceed.
On the corner of Water, I see a mesmerizing sight. It's a lingerie shop and there's a stunning mannequin in the window, ghostly white pornographic curves dressed in a 'naughty' Betty Page leather bikini w/ knee boots, all cherry red. I sigh, paralyzed.
Like any MtF, I'm in the dialectical crosshairs - lusting for the (ever faded, ever denied) promise of (mainstream) sex (just like a guy) and, of course, wishing myself to be that woman, so perfectly proportioned and so contentedly alluring (just like a gal). Otherworldly gender stereo.
Suddenly, the mannequin tilts her head and smiles at me. Wow. She's alive. That is, she's a model who was doing one hell of a great job pantomiming. And I see in her gleaming, benign eyes she has seen through me, saw everything I was thinking. Like a fairy godmother.
Weird, earlier that day, I was putting in my earrings, no mirror, and got one in the 'wrong hole,' an earlier upper lobe piercing from the 1980s. It closed over 15 years ago, but, lo and behold, maybe atmospheric pressure, open - and willing - again. So now I have 3.