Last night at a Greyhound Bus hub I was sitting and waiting and reading when I heard a duo of giggles erupt below my chair. I found two young girls lying in a "P9" position, fondling each other's hands and each one whispering things that had the other erupting in loud giggles and the resonating "outside voice" that is usually found in trailer trash women.
Both "girls" were dressed in pink pants that hugged their baby-fat butt cheeks and black hooded sweatshirts that bore an effigy of Jack from A Nightmare Before Christmas. One was Caucasian and the other was real Asian. Both shared about three braincells, two vaginas, and one wardrobe. They tickled and poked and sang in a kind of manic daze, high on hormones that had no place to go but to their heads. These were the girls that would never look for or notice a man over five feet eight inches tall. These were the girls that would rather explore each other's nether regions or date smooth bodied emo-boys than spend ten minutes with any sick macho that dared to grow real facial hair.
Along came the mother . . . .
She was blond (faux real) and had spent the better part of an afternoon squeezing into jeans she stole from her daughter's closet; shifting and sucking until they clamped shut and left a circular life preserver of fat around her waist (perfect for rebounding off dank alley walls on a long walk home from the local biker bar).
She gathered the two girls, imploring them to behave, to stop singing, to stop freaking out the world . . . but to no avail. They swaggered onto a bus for Phoenix and I never saw them again . . . until I arrived in Los Angeles for Christmas.