John Wilcock’s ‘Typical Village Girl’


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September 4, 1957, Vol. II, No. 45

The Village Square

By John Wilcock

I don’t know why people always sound so disparaging when they refer to “a typical Village girl.” The sort of chick I visualize as a typical Village girl is pretty cute, and when I can find one she’ll suit me fine.

She has long hair, just like people say, because girls should have long hair. (As far back as I can remember, the girls I’ve liked have had long hair and they’ve almost always been washing it when I called to ask for a date.) She lives in a comfortably decorated walk-up that, like as not, she converted with her own hands; sure there are sling chairs and a big divan with bright cushions and a poster advertising Manolete’s appearance in Seville and Malraux’s “Voices of Silence,” which she’s never read, on the bookshelves.

But the place looks untidy and yet neat at the same time, if you know what I mean. It takes a Village girl to work a trick like that.

This girl, I guess, works uptown though she paints or acts or writes on the side. She likes cooking and conversation and she’s pretty alert in the sense that she doesn’t miss any of the minor developments in our daily round. When she finds herself in a strange neighborhood she’s interested in what records are to be found in the jukebox — not necessarily anxious to play them, mark you; just interested — and she understands, though I don’t, why people like myself have a compulsion to stay awake so late. (I once seriously considered compiling a list of girls I could call up around midnight and just talk to.)

She’s intelligent and not highbrow, this Village girl, and she can’t pass a dog in the street without wanting to pet it, and she likes wandering around and chatting and drinking beer and, of course, loves me madly, and where the hell is she?

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