Drunken Public School Whore at Large in a Snowstorm

I'm wearing green fuzzy bunny ears and sitting on a nice economical wire-thin comforter with green and vaguely purple abstract design in a double room at the Econo Lodge in Flagstaff, Arizona. Thar's snow in them hills...outside. It's snowing, blowing snow, the kind that cracks your lips and your ass in one effortless breath. The mountains are still brown, I imagine...somewhere beneath the massive blanket of cocaine drowsing this modest college/ski town's chain restaurant signs, there are still mountains, fluff with the puffs of prairie dust moving in sing-song circles around me, covering my eyes in a thin film...that was this morning. Warm and dusty driving, heat spots on the freeway muddled by rattlesnake camouflage, images of nineteen thirties depression era children, the moving ghosts of abandoned lots, sweeping the front "yard" clean.

I have no winter clothes. I came here to see the Grand Canyon, to spend a little of my first paycheck...ice drenched dance hall of cars outside, a lazy white do-si-do we see through the window, and Amanda and I whispering "cock" and "taco" as exaggerated Midwestern women, raising our salted Margaritas like stretch-marked, battle scarred soccer moms "staying late at the PTA meeting...to help set the cafeteria back for the next day, y'know...y'know? Someone had to stay and help with the...Hic."

Would she be embarrassed? This woman...let's call her Mrs. Farson. Let's say she runs the Nine Points Youth Hostel in Minnetonka, Minnesota. And let us also say, for the sake of bragging, that she had four Margaritas tonight, and let us then say, for the sake of blushing, that she flirted with the Scotch-Irish college transient (he's transferred schools three times and changed majors five) working the cocktail table and got herself and her girlfriend Marge (for Marge gets funny/gassy on the sauce) a free shot of Cuervo. "Taco!" Marge says, raising her glass. "Cock!" exclaims Mrs' Farson. It seems to be some sort of inside joke.