Small Town by Mary Anne Griffiths

There are women in small towns that stand outside the bar with a Canadian in their right

hand and a cigarette in their left late Friday nights. Their Farrah Fawcett hair falls across the wool-pile letters of their old high school jackets. They still wear designer jeans and too much eyeliner.  They know every one of the guys at the bar.

In a small place like this, women still hang around pool tables at the Legion reminiscing about the bush party after graduation and wish someone would ask them for I.D.  They’re never lonely. They don’t own a little black dress.  Women around here still wear black Cougar shoes and listen to Loverboy. When the clock tolls 2 A. M. they walk home after last call to their downtown apartments. They still keep your old phone number in the side pocket of their purse along with the Maybelline eye compact. Sometimes they come across it and smooth out the over-folded cigarette pack paper like it was something they were supposed to do a long time ago.

  They work here making French fries at the fish and chip joint or serve you coffee at 6:30 A.M. as you head out to work after a stop at Tim’s. I think one is a cashier at the Loeb on the corner of Charles and Thames. One got so far as to be a bank teller at the local bank. This one is dangerous. She knows how much money you and your city wife have in your account. She sees your paycheck every Friday from the only factory in town. She knows if the other guys make more than you and keeps real close tabs on that. Oh—and don’t forget to sign for your cash. She counts your money with a possessive intensity. Like it was hers.

Each one remembers how the backseat of your ’79 Chevy squawked when bare skin rubbed against it. Each one still becomes excited and flushes red upon hearing a man’s leather jacket creak as he lifts his beer to his lips. They never remember that you have children.

These women have been abandoned here. They didn’t go to college or the city. They stayed home in their lilac-coloured bedrooms with Shaun Cassidy posters, crying all night when you got accepted to University. They still have the same hairdresser. They can throw a good baby shower. They’re an asset to the community. Don’t ever forget that. They know what street they will set up house in—if the wife would just move out. They know your brand of beer and that you get real excited when the Leafs score. They are always in the corner of your vision when you’re looking for a 40 watt bulb at the downtown Home Hardware.

They have become very smart by never leaving here. Years of experience have instilled a confidence in them that they are not afraid to show. They are in a position of power. And they are always laughing too loudly.