THE ANSWER.
the new blazin strips for a limited time only were almost unbearable in my esophagus. i looked up at the changing-letter sign 30 feet in the air.
NEW BLAZIN STRIP
and my mom joked about fellow balding customers coming through the door, up to the counter.
"So how about this 'strip?'"
yeah, mom. with pockets full, pocketfuls of 20's. i think she was mainly calling the girl who "waited on us" a whore.
a hooker.
a slut.
a hussy.
a street-walker.
a courtesan.
a rake.
a roue.
a lecher.
a trollop.
a minx.
and there was just so many things wrong with that.
another thing catches my mother's eye/s and she blurts it out quietly and kind of discouragingly.
"CHRIST...is the answer."
oh, that old slogan.
that old catchphrase.
that old, old shibboleth.
it was pressed on a maroon semi-truck, circling in the high school parking lot. was he lost?
was he crazy?
was he MAD?
was 'he' a 'he?'
hehe...
and for some reason, i couldn't believe it. well i could halfway.
"WHERE IS MY CAMERA?"
i blinked and looked at my mom. she was kind of smiling due to me kind of laughing. it was in reverse, neutral and drive. this 80's guy walks in, and leaves. just like that. satisfied with his golden necklace and his golden, crispy strips. he was probably flirting. but i was just intrigued. was this guy told to do this? and if so, who? his boss? his dad? the lord, "our savior?"
the blazin strips were taking off their thongs in my gut.
the soda pop was cheering them on.
the mashed potatoes just stayed in the corner, smoking a maxi pad. or a misty, i mean.
"CHRIST...is the answer. CHRIST...is the answer. CHRIST...is the answer.
he was secretly brainwashing the whole city. or just that section of the city. i wondered.
"is that legal?"
"yeah. it's probably his rig."
still.
the girl enters. brown dress. white pajama-type shirt underneath. badges all over. looks up to her dad.
"LOOK, DADDY!!"
her little index finger pointing.
"ow camp song's on dat twuck!"