THE PRETTIEST GIRL IN NORTHERN MAINE by Peter Nolan Smith

Northern Maine. 1991. There was no winter in New York. Mild and snowless. Everyone was heading to Miami Beach. The art-deco district was suffering from discovery by the fashion elite. Too many people who thought that they were VIP on Ocean Avenue for my tastes. I was over blonde bikini models.

Snow had to exist in the north. It was vacation time. Darkest February. I had time off from the diamond exchange. My friend Philippe ran a nightclub in the Meat Packing District. We decided to drive to the farthest reaches of Maine. The car was a 1982 Cutlass. The heat worked and the stereo was loud. We listened to NEVERMIND and snorted speed up the coast of the Casco Bay. The ground was bare. We stopped one night in Camden and another in Bar Harbor. The bartender in Camden was 27. She weighed over 300 pounds. The fashion sense for the women in the bar was a cross between shabby and manly.

"Any woman in Maine is twice the man either of us will be."

"Aren't there any attractive females?" The waitress at the restaurant in Bar Harbor was missing two front teeth. The skinny 30 year-old had a big nose. I was attracted to her. Phillipe had stopped my flirtation, since he was mostly into Asian women. New York had plenty of those.

"Maine is renown for the ugliness of its women. It's a state where the men are men and the women are men too." The 27th Maine had stood its ground at Gettysburg. Only ugly men came back from those battlefields. All the pretty ones died heroes.

The next day we drove across the barren potato fields of Aroostook County. Old US 1 ended at its northern terminus. Key West was on the other end. Some two hundred miles south of Miami.

Ft. Kent was really winter. Snow drifted deep against the houses. I wanted to cross the St. John’s River into Canada. I actually wanted to drive north until you couldn't go any farther north. It was night. A meal and sleep were on the schedule. The Arctic would have to wait until tomorrow. We had a room at the motel nearest the river.

"I might not be able to come back." Philippe was from the UK. His passport visa was two years out of date. The slender Englishman stood in a tan coat, looking at the snow-covered steel truss bridge. The wind of the frozen river was 20 degrees south of zero and his long hair whipped across his face.

"You can come back." I appealed to his weakness. We had eaten lobster the previous evening. Fort Kent's cuisine was centered on pizza and burgers. "There's a great French restaurant in Clair."

"Really?" Phillipe was a hearty eater for a thin man.

"The Resto 120." The restaurant had been recommended by the motel manager. Her last name was Quelette. Fine cuisine was a specialty of the lost tribe of France. she wore her weight well. "Tourtières, soupe aux pois, et pommes persillade. Cheese. Wine. Good bread."

"What about customs?"

"You ride in the trunk." If the technique worked for millions of wetbacks, it couldn't be too much trouble to run a snowback operation at a sleepy border crossing.

"No way."

"It's either that or burgers."

"Or a deportation cell. No thanks. Burgers and fries tonight." Phillipe stormed over to the nearest bar. FOOD flashed neon in its window. Labatt Beer too. I stared across the icy river with disappointment. This was as far north as I would go this year. I joined Phillipe in the Moose Inn. He didn't take off his hat. No one in the bar did. It had a pool table, jukebox, wooden bar with draft beers.

Fuck the Resto 120.

We ordered burgers and fries. Safe. Labatt on draft. The bar was filled with loggers, snowmobile sledders, and the state road crew. A storm was due in two days, so everyone was getting in their drunk tonight. I bought drinks for the road crew. We were out of speed. I was crashing hard. Phillipe played DJ on the Jukebox. We danced to LOUIE LOUIE. My battery was on E.

"You mind if I dance with your date?" The man had a cross-eyed squint. One lens of his glasses was cracked. He was about my age. 40. For a second looking at him was like seeing your personalized 'Portrait of Dorian Grey'.

"My date?" It took me until he glanced over his shoulder at Phillipe to understand ' my date'. Philippe's long hair hid his face. The rest of the girls in the bar weighed more than a log. His illegality in America had halted my exploration of the North. "You want to dance with my date."

"She's better looking than any of the other girls in this town.“ He lit a cigarette with a match. "They weigh as much as moose in a peatbog."

"Be my guest.” I was too tired to explain his mistake. "Just a dance."

"Cool."

The townie staggered off to Phillipe. His mouth mouthed 'you wanna dance'. he said something else and Phillipe looked shocked. He came back to the bar.

“Some guy just asked me for a dance.” Philippe was outraged by the offer.

“And you said no.”

“Of course I said no.”

“I said it was okay. You have to be the prettiest girl in northern Maine by a long shot.

“Thanks.”

“Did he offer to buy you a drink?” We were running low on money too.

“Yes and he had speed.”

“So get to it, Thelma.” I dropped two quarters and played KC and the Sunshine Band.

I was ready to party along the St. Johns.

No one asked me to dance.

Then again I wasn't the prettiest girl in Northern Maine.