Small Town Boas

The town of Tintrap was stifling and yet endless. It was so small that if you blinked you missed it. At the same time it seemed to go on forever; no matter how hard you tried it felt as if you would never reach the end of the myopic borders and actually get out of this place.

Belinda knew this town all too well, and knew that indeed it was small enough to squeeze the life out of you but still so vast that its provincial mindset expanded far into the unknown. Every unfortunate sod who managed to drop out of the womb in this neck of the woods never left the town. It was not the usual adage about not taking the town out of the boy or girl. Rather the town and its attitude was like a disgusting fungus that permeated every conversation, ever perception, and every aspect on one's life. It was an incredible stink that no matter how hard you scrubbed you could never remove the stain from your soul.

Late Monday afternoon and Belinda meandered along the dusty and drab main street. As far as main streets went this one was about as nondescript as a bowl of melted vanilla ice-cream. For starters, someone had the audacity to name the street - wait for it - Main Street. Actually it was originally called Puswell street after the jerk who founded this hell-hole in the first place. But in 1922 some old bag named Miss Birdsimmon insisted that Puswell was just not befitting enough of a name for a town that was thriving. Thriving, now that was a joke since the only thing that ever thrived here was a heap of soggy mushrooms. After a heated debate and thrice-held vote (Gram always said thrice so it kind of stuck in this case, and suited the old-fashioned stuff like a tight-fitting wife-beater) the town renamed the street Main Street.

Main Street had never known the word thrive, or anything vaguely thesaurus-like. Every building sagged with a tired list as if it would be an enormous relief for a tornado to come along and put everything out of its misery. Tornadoes have places to go and people to upset; Tintrap is not part of the itinerary. No one could remember when a coat of paint had last been applied. Hey, maybe the buildings would collapse in a heap under the weight of the new paint. Not to mention the shock.

Belinda tugged at her purse strap just a bit more to keep it from sliding off her sweater laden shoulder. How she longed for the summer when you could run around in sleek and sexy tank tops that exposed creamy tanned skin the color of cocoa butter. Today's wintry chill and snappish wind added to the forlornness of this place. Despite being almost 4:00 in the afternoon, the street was almost deserted. Tintrap prided itself on a place for everything and a time for everyone to be in their proper place.

Belinda recognized the futility in fighting with the purse strap and simply caved in, allowing the purse to dangle just inches from the ground while the strap aligned itself into the crook of Belinda's elbow. Fine, whatever.

Belinda knew where everyone was right about now and what she had to do about it.

to be continued...