Her pink beer coozie matched the hint of a thong that optimistically peeked above the waist of her faded and fashionably torn skin tight jeans. The spotless white T-shirt was bunched up and tied in a knot above her belly-button which was appropriately located in her parlor-tanned and firm abdomen. There was just a hint of muffin-top at the jeans, but it was the sort of thing that some men considered almost Rubenesque.
The blonde hair was probably from a bottle of some sort. Not quite platinum, but more than white-yellow: it was flawless down to one millimeter from the scalp. No doubt done three days prior to the Saturday race, most likely after work on Wednesday when her ex had the kids for the evening at the bowling alley.
Menthol cigarettes carried a tantalizing scent to the crowd behind her in the bleachers, and drew even more attention to her voluptuous curves. Some of the older men thought her to be a blonde Jessica Rabbit, and the teenage boys didn’t care who she looked like, she was the promise of everything that their hormone soaked bodies sought at this point in their lives.
For the last 17 years she’d been working in the office of the auto-body shop, making out invoices and drawing salesmen like flies into her web. The boss loved her for her work, not her body, and he treasured the fact that she could get ten percent knocked off a drum of sealant where he was lucky to get it at wholesale. But outside of the office, the pigs in the shop bays talked trash about her virtue and her looks. She’d overheard them and it killed her inside that not one of them took the time to talk to her or even buy her a sandwich for lunch. She was just a thing to them.
Her goal on this Saturday afternoon was to drive every male, and a couple of females, behind her in the stands to the edge of lust-driven madness. It was the only superpower she had, and she was going to wield it like a lightsaber tonight. Why not? She was lonely, and bored, and her ex had the kids until school on Monday. She wasn’t looking for a dance partner, but she still had to dance: this was the place to do that in Naples on a Saturday in March.
For the next four hours she danced, swilled light beer, and generally got hammered. She was a lightweight drinker, and didn’t view that as a problem because it was way cheaper to get a buzz on. She thought a lot about her wasted years in college, where the predators had finally given up on her when they found out she was waiting until marriage.
She did. She loved her ex to this day, but he loved a lot of other women. The only reason he had joint custody was he was filthy with money and took good care of the kids. He even paid her enough alimony to make her life easier financially. But she ached for the loss of that family dream she’d always nurtured.
Around six that evening the light beer bottles had stacked up next to her but wouldn’t quite make a pyramid. She switched to her preferred poison, and got up, shook all the moving parts for the crowd, and hopped down two steps to the sidewalk that led to the concession stand.
She returned with a corn-dog and a funnel cake. And two more lights. Her performance with the corn dog was x-rated, and frankly out of character for her, but tonight she was throwing caution to the wind. Once the stick was clean and clear of any particles that contained a calorie, she dove into the funnel cake with gusto.
Six minutes later she licked her fingers clean, rinsed them with a little beer, and hugged herself. The clouds had thickened and the rain looked like it was coming back. It was definitely colder out judging by the stares of two teenagers to her right.
She donned her rhine-stone-studded jean jacket to stay warm, and the stretching and twisting to get that body-suit-tight item on grabbed the rest of the men’s attention. A little sigh of sadness went up into the night as the jacket was buttoned over her exquisite midriff.
She sat back down on her bleacher seat, and killed the last two beers over the next hour. The races whimpered to an end, and as the crowd filed out, her hopes for glory went with them.
She’d have to be content with being the biggest memory of the swampbuggy races for those folks in her seating section, for her heart was empty. She shuffled out to her faded blue SUV and drove home, keeping to the side streets to avoid the police.
After entering the house, she grabbed a cola from the fridge, and called her momma. Another Saturday night alone in what seemed like an endless string.
