The Harborside Mobil Stop-n-Go shines its beacon, its big old sign with all the gas prices, the ones that go back and forth a few cents every day for reasons I’ll never know, way up high for the boats to see. After closing, all the lights in and around the store go out except for the ones on that sign. I like to pretend the Stop-n-Go is something like a lighthouse and after midnight, I am the lighthouse keeper, bringing those sea-sad boys safely to shore. Watch out for those slimy jagged rocks, those top-chopped-off piers covered in switchblade barnacles. Remember those too-many-beers you were drinking all day in the sun and come on home to me. Come to me, with your fish gut coconut sunscreen smelling skin, your fingers pricked by hooks and lures. Pull in with your speedboat easy, check your hitch and all your tires. Clean your windshield and fill up.
“Ma’Donna” – A character study experiment published in the 36th anniversary (and farewell) issue of the Green Hills Literary Lantern. Direct link here.
Okay so…Shirts for Skirts was a sex worker who frequented the Highway 41 Mobil station across from the Sarasota harbor boat docks. My friend worked there in the late 90s, when we were both in art school. I never knew her real name and I only saw her once. I’ve never forgotten her.
Madonna was a bleach-blond bad-built butch-body (apologies to the esteemed Jasmine Crockett) who frequented the Video Library where I worked, during the same time period. She and the assistant manager would have sex in the employee bathroom during working hours. She had a raspy, too-loud voice, and would loiter by the counter for hours, talking about anything to anyone. Always had some new drama or tragedy going on. I remember no details, I tuned out her words, but apparently I was not successful in tuning *her* out completely.
The Ma’Donna in this story is an amalgam of a certain type of lonely, hustling, dangerously suntanned woman of a certain class of Sarasota, Florida, who, for whatever reason, refuses to leave my mind.
What else…a friend of mine actually did work as a sex worker decoy for the police. My dad’s office was near Gillespie Park. The magic of Hypercolor shirts. Everything in this story has little bits of my memories scattered throughout.
I am not sure if the story is entirely successful. My attempt to capture a sincere Florida vernacular that I’m familiar with might be a little cringe (though I swear, that’s how the speech is.) My husband asked if the narrator is two different people (it’s not) though I cannot give a good reason for the tone shifts. I think I was playing with ideas about how someone appears on the outside, even to themselves, versus inner potential? Ma’Donna certainly sees herself as an artist, her work a noble service. So why not give her the ability to communicate that part of herself in what an outsider would consider elevated language?
IDK.
Here’s the link again. Let me know what you think.
Painting, above, by me. Untitled portrait, c. 2014
Kelli Dianne Rule: Author 
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