Jackie

 January 27, 2026

Woke to a perfect beach dawn, drove hard, entered my driveway at the stroke of noon. Almost no trace along the way of the terrible storm that was to have been. The power failure I intended to avoid by gong to the beach did not happen. In one sense, the journey was a waste. In the other sense it was a good time and (for the most part) exactly what I needed. In the bar last night I met Jeff the bartender, a through-hiker who’s looking for land in Black Mountain. Jackie floated in on a cloud of Ariana Grande perfume, which has a fluffy tassel you can add to your key chain when you finish the bottle. I noticed Jackie the whole time I was there, with her leopard coat with a Rolling Stones logo, and her provocative black gown. Turns out she is actually the stripper and club entertainer one assumed her to be. She showed me photos of her last gig in Asheville, where she wrestled and, apparently, made love to another stripper, who had one hand. They looked like sisters.  “She’s a sober woman with one hand; I’m an alcoholic with two hands. That’s how you tell us apart.” Her impression of Asheville is not entirely favorable. “There’s a lot of performative wokeness in that community.”