Northern Maine. 1991. There was no winter in New York. Everyone was heading to Miami. It was trendy. My friend Philippe and I decided to drive to the farthest reaches of Maine. We listened to NEVERMIND and did speed. Ft. Kent was really winter. I wanted to cross the St. John’s River into Canada. Philippe was an illegal from the UK. He rode in the trunk. Both ways. I guess I broke the law and I won. Philippe said the food was better in Quebec. Later that night at the Moose Bar a local asked if he could dance with my girl.
“My girl.” Philippe had long hair and was skinny. The rest of the girls in the bar weighed more than a log. “Be my guest.”
“Some guy just asked me for a dance.” Philippe was outraged.
“And you said no.”
“Of course I said no.”
“I said it was okay.” I explained how girls in Maine had a reputation for ugly. Philippe was the prettiest girl by a long shot.
“Thanks.”
“Did he offer to buy you a drink?” We were running low on money.
“Yes and he had weed.”
“So get to it, Thelma.”
Such are nights along the St. Johns.
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