Jun 30, 2024

Skin it

The corner store where we shot the shit.

She moved to that island thirty years ago without ever having visited. 
I met her at Fish & Chips - the fish and chips food truck down at Ford Cove.
A super cool woman. 
I'd specifically go down to the Cove to chat with her – 
but mainly off-season. 
Because the tourists were too much for me. 
She also worked stocking shelves and doing cash at the corner store. 
I thought that she was psychic. 
So, I sniffed around when I was with her. 
And she was. 
Folks would come into the Cove and have her choose their 
Lotto tickets. 
They'd line up sometimes six or seven deep. 
I watched them. 
Customer after customer came in with winning tickets. 
Myself included. 
She picked the Set for Life tickets for me. 
I started with winning free plays, then cash. 
Each win increased with each ticket. 
My lucky streak broke when I went against my intuition
that she was psychic 
and got my ticket from another gal. 
I haven't won since - and it's been three years. 

Snacks Gallery Art Supplies

We were both at the Nirvana concert at the PNE Forum in '94. 
She was at the front - against the stage and ended up passing out. 
While she was out, she saw seven white horses. 
That's when I knew I was dead. 
Sam had very cool style. 
We'd talk music, vintage, and jerkoff dudes. 
The eras we'd like to put together, 
the cut of the women's silky nylon 70s blouses, 
vintage Lees 
and why the 90s does 70s worked so well. 
She loves shopping at thrift stores. 
Her Dad owned a clothing boutique in Kerrisdale - similar to Hills. 
No kids. 
We lived in Whistler at the same time. 
She worked at The Boot pub. 
Our paths most certainly crossed at some point. 
I was probably drunk and told her I liked her outfit or something. 
Shoulder-length blond hair – 
I like to keep it like Kurt's
She's edgier than her identical twin sister. 
A tough cookie. 
I never used to be like this
Old drunk dudes hit on her, and she's had enough. 
I'm tired of being nice. 
 - I can relate - 

The Cove

She found a dead sea lion with a perfect hide 
down at Sandpiper Beach. 
I wanted the hide for a rug. 
So she decided to skin it. 
When she was scoping out the situation, 
an old dude came over and told her he'd found it first. 
You're a woman. You don't have the means to skin it. 
They argued. 
He laughed in her face. 
Go ahead and skin it then. 
She got her knives and started. 
The old dude sat on a log, watched and mocked. 
It took hours. 
She said around the third or fourth hour, 
she'd become so angry at the old dude disrupting 
what was supposed to be a cathartic ritual that 
she lost focus, sliced too hard, and tore through the hide. 
She kept skinning, and the old dude kept mocking. 
You're doing it wrong. 
By the end of the day, she had the hide. 
I didn't think you had it in you. 
She told me that every time she looks at that 
tear in the sea lion's hide, 
hatred boils up inside her, and she takes it out on all men. 
Talking with her down at the Cove 
and with her twin at the pottery shop 
were the high points of my time on that island. 
It's a joy to speak with like-minded women my age. They're hard to find.  

The Wind