Olympigs

There was traffic trouble so we turned off the main drag and headed down an eastside sidestreet. We were in the real Dope City now. Deals were going down behind every door and in the shadows, in the alleys, the dope was as cheap as the high was short lasting. That is the best thing about being a beer hound: you know what you get in every bottle and you know how many bottles it is going to take to get you where you are going.

Sonja has not spent half the time in the city as I have. She is nearly always aghast when we get near the diseased heart of the city. The only way for Sonja, and most people, to get around that aghast feeling is to get good and fucking loaded like the locals. On this day Sonja had not had enough wine.

As she was shaking her head in disbelief a solution to all the Eastside's problems occurred to her. "I bet Oprah would know what to do. Why doesn't Canada have an Oprah? All we've got is Fanny fucking Keefer and she doesn't know her ass from a hole in Olympic security any more than the Olympigs can tell the difference between a knitting bee and a sleeper cell hiding in a cave on Whistler."

Everyone is calling the police in charge of Olympic security the Olympigs. The word may just be one of the unexpected legacies of inviting the world over to get drunk and watch curling.

"Hey!" Sonja shouted as we slowly rolled down the forgotten street. "That's the Roller Girl store!"

We had looked for the Roller Girl store before but never found it. We had even asked the Olympigs where Roller Girl Street was. They were standing on a street corner, trying, like always, to look important. They were looking for someone, anyone, to taser. Stumped them all. They had heard of Roller Girl Street but they could not even point towards where the street might be. Do not go looking for donuts on Roller Girl Street.

I pulled the car into the sparkly store's rock parking lot. Sonja said, "You go in by yourself. You'll have more fun." I went in.

The first thing I saw when I walked in the door was a blonde trying on a pair of roller skates. Her white legs stretched out one after the other like two limousines. I ought to go out shopping more.

Then I saw Roller Girl. She is real exuberant. I like that.

She learned to skate at the Stardust. I like that too. The Stardust fucking rocked. Taking a girl out to the Stardust and then the Round-Up after was as close to guaranteed head as you could get back in the '70s.

I bought some roller girl socks. Swedish colours. Real pretty. Told Roller Girl, "They're for my girl."

"Lot of guys who buy socks here say that," she almost winked.