Tuesday, April 20, 2010
I bought a magazine. It had Nick Cave on the front, and short interviews featuring Lemmy Kilmister, Lou Reed, and Leonard Cohen. I couldn’t pass that up, too many cool people. I don’t write half as well as any one of those guys, but I like to try. There was also a free CD attached. It contained nothing that interested me, and probably constituted a reasonable portion of the $10 price of the magazine. But…fuck it. I’m stupid and impulsive. The cashier at the register was beautiful. She was probably in her early 20s. She appeared to be one of those punker girls who is going for the ironic 1950s housewife look. Horn-rimmed glasses sat atop her nose. Short bangs fell upon her forehead, with a ponytail in the back sticking up. A very conservative and concealing dress hung over her. Bright red lipstick framed a giant Cheshire cat smile. She was an abso-fucking-lutely stunning girl, with all kinds of cool tattoos peaking out from underneath her clothes. She told me the total. I gave her my credit card. The signature on back was almost completely worn off, so she asked for a photo ID. I produced my driver’s license quickly and handed it to her. She smiled again, looked at it and back at me. I smiled back and said, “Same ponytail.” At which point she laughed out loud, covering her mouth demurely, and replied, “That’s exactly what I was thinking.” Then I said, “Yeah, if I ever get a haircut, I’ll be fucked. Never be able to use that credit card again.” And smiled. She laughed again, and said, “Oh, no!” with a gentle sort of amused faux-sympathy. I wished her a good night, and she returned the well-wishing with a big smile. I’ll probably never read the magazine.