Ode to Wicked Wanda

There once was a whore who lived on the outskirts of town.

Her name was Wicked Wanda, and she had a fair, but very incomplete number of teeth.

You know the sort. In her 40’s, looked just over 54, sunken eyes, on or was on drugs of some kind, but lived a fairly normal life in that Canadian maritime town on the coast.

She lived off the main drag, a small walk away as everything was there, and she looked like a dirty blond gypsy in her oversized, hippie skirts and ill (vs. loose) fitting shirts.

Didn’t look like a whore at all. But, though they all knew of her trade (which also included generous Canadian UI cheques and a house that was hers outright, how many Americans have that dream without debt, financial turnarounds and misgivings), no one judged her or spoke of her behind her back. Just to say who she was, laugh a little at her appearance, and name, but no more than they would anyone else in their eccentric little town.

This place still had old mining shafts left in the dense woods, clear running water which tasted of peppermint it was so virginal, couples who collected Sarsaparilla root at the base of certain trees, when one of them got out of another short term stint in jail, so they could fuck their brains out that and many afternoons to come. Lesbians, photographers, Indian protesters (of the dotted, Eastern sort), old, leather faced Canadian drunks who played pool and drank plural numbers of beer without adding an “s” to the word (as in, I drank 13 beer last night vs. 13 beers), and said things to you like “I just wanna say, I am ashamed at what we did to your people” and after you explained that you weren’t a First Nation/Indian/Native, he belched, and looked to the floor in thought, and said “no…..no, what we Did to your people, was not right”. No need to burst his bubble. They’re all like that there.

Even Wanda. She was in their very easy going (easy to be sure), patchwork quilt of misfits. And she wore it well. None too flashy, or overstated. Just like a small town girl, except she didn’t do it for free like the good girls.

On the bus, along the granite foundry highway, you think “what a good, honest woman doing good, honest work”.

Why were there no parades for Wicked Wanda? She certainly deserved one. Any good soldier boy will tell you, you can't have a war without a whore on the front lines, cheering you on.  Skirt up between her legs and a gap-toothed smile on her face.

M. Lucia