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Listening to the radio, lying back on her bed, basking in the heat of summer-time. Trying to find what she used to feel in old songs. Leaving everything undone because she just didn’t want to do it their way anymore. “They call it a teen-age crush She didn’t daydream in black and white; she dreamed in technicolor. Marilyn Monroe laughing atop a subway grate while the train ran beneath her, Elizabeth Taylor in a dress had to be melted down and poured into, husky voice. “If you like that type,” her friend said, “I’d rather be Jackie O. Everyone knows they’re homewreckers. Who wants to be a homewrecker? They never win.” But she wasn’t so sure about that. She knew movies, she’d seen a thousand of them and she knew; everything can change in the blink of an eye. And anyone who loves movies knows the underdog only loses going into the second act. The movie’s not over until the credits run and there’s always a chance so long as the story’s not done yet. She always knew her destiny was greater than the sock hops and boys with their nervous sweaty palms and sugar coated lines. Somewhere, she knew, there was a greater place than the backseat of a ’57 Chevy and a deeper thrill than furtive kisses at the drive in theatre. She longed for more, and more wasn’t Mr. Tall Dark and Handsome. More wasn’t dating the best player on the team. More was being the best player on the team. She just didn’t know what game she wanted to play or what she wanted to do next. It seemed like things were kind of stuck. An ugly routine had calcified around her, trapping her in. But she held out hope she’d find her place, somewhere. She started wishing on shooting stars, passing trains. Crossing the street when the signs admonished, “Don’t walk!” She needed danger! They say be careful what you wish for, you might just get it. One day, over breakfast, a friend whispered to her that Tacoma held secrets. “Deep in the heart of the city,” he said, “After it gets dark, they lace on their skates.” “Who are they?” she asked. “They’re the denizens of downtown, the ladies in who paint their faces. They’re all someone else during the day but at night they are The Dames. They’re a little dangerous. They aren’t the type to be easily swayed. They fight like savages amongst themselves but if you threaten any one of them, they’re a raging, unified force. Some say that if they found themselves in Hell, they’d give the devil a hearty kiss before taking over.” “Sounds like my kind,” she thought. So one night, she screwed her courage to the sticking point and ventured downtown. In and out of old buildings, her heels clicking on the pavement, echoing off the empty buildings, through a parking lot and up some rickety stairs…she found them, a pride of ladies…the sort with a saucy turn of shoulders and a deadly swing to their hips. She knew them at once. She sambaed over and introduced herself. No one felt the need to simper. No one said any false hellos. She was there. That was enough. And now there’s some place she doesn’t have to bonsai herself to fit into. It isn’t easy but she didn’t want easy. She wanted interesting. And even so, it is harder than she thought sometimes. She’s not an expert, not even quite. She still falls down but she gets up every time. And as long as she’s writing the story, she knows, everything can change in an instant. It can all turn on a dime. Anything....Anything is possible!
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