Space is tight inside Lu’s Launderette. Stacey finds herself standing shoulder-to-shoulder with a man about her age. They’re both folding their shirts, pants, shorts, and undergarments. She starts feeling self-conscious as she knows it’s not her imagination that he’s been surreptitiously eyeing her lace-trimmed thongs and silk teddies. Her face reddens when he catches her eyes.
He smiles and says, “I don’t mean to be rude, but I’m wondering where you buy your underthongs.”
Stacey suppresses a laugh as she’s never heard such a term before, though they sound just as accurate as panties. She clears her throat to quell the urge to giggle and replies, “At Madam Madison a couple of blocks from here, actually.”
“Excellent. That’ll be my next stop, then. Hey, men wear those crotch covers too. Check this out.” He shows her a pair of black nylon thongs. “They’re comfortable, and as you know, they dry quickly.”
For a minute, Stacey doesn’t know how to respond. Then, she thinks, why not. She remembers her father wearing Speedos, why not thongs indeed?
“By the way, that’s a nice looking bra. Are those from the same place too?”
My father had man boobs, but he didn’t wear a bra, Stacey thinks. She hurriedly stuffs her last articles of clothing into a duffel bag and leaves without an answer.
Freddy is excited about lunch because he gets to try Spam for the first time. His mom told him she would serve it sometime this week and it is the end of the week, so he thinks today must be the day. He runs downstairs toward the dining room. As usual, he doesn’t wear his eyeglasses because they’re uncomfortable. But his myopic vision discerns a plate sitting on the dining table, which isn’t set but they’re an informal family. The closer he gets to the table, the better he is able to make out a pinkish, rectangular shaped piece of meat in the plate. Eagerly, he picks it up and bites down, but the texture is rubbery and the taste isn’t anything he’s ever had before.
“Dumbo!” Freddy turns around to the sound of his sister’s laughing.
“You’re eating my phone case. I left it there to soak in baking soda to get the stains off. Now, you put your teeth marks on it.” His sister charges over to him and grabs her case from his hands.
“Next time, wear your glasses, so you can see what you’re doing,” she says, as she walks away with her phone case and a faint smile.
Mike steps outside of his glass-walled office to retrieve his report from the printer, which is located across from his enclosure. As he heads back to his door, he glances to the right and sees Lindsay, his office crush, talking to one of the new Account Managers. He becomes jealous, gets distracted and crashes into the transparent doorway. He staggers back, dazed. When he opens his eyes, he sees his crush and the new guy staring at him, seeming concerned.
“Barney!” Betsy screams, paralyzed by the sight of the eight-legged creature that appears to peer at her from the bathroom corner.
Betsy’s husband, Barney, runs inside the bathroom, where his wife is naked and dripping from getting out of the shower.
“I’m too afraid to get my towel. That thing is too close. Help!” Betsy screeches while rubbing her arms.
Barney is still eyeing Betsy. As a newlywed, he’s still in awe of how lucky he is to be married to such a voluptuous beauty. He quickly forgets why he was summoned. He strides over to Betsy, picks her up, and beds her down.
Caught off guard, but pleasantly so, Betsy too forgets about the spider, as they romp around the bed. As she closes into the moment of no return, her eyes flutter open and catch the dangling spider from the ceiling. She screams as if there is no tomorrow.
[Inspired by Lynn Thaler’s blog: Random Life Thoughts: Morning Visitor]
A Series of Ludicrously Bad Hair Days, Day 5, see Day 4
[Poetry dominates short story]
A man known as Cowlick comes out of the one restroom and raises his voice, “There’s no fire. I, uh, I lit a match because . . . to freshen the air. . .” He scowls at the woman known as Singed, who stands close to the restroom, speaking directly to her. “I didn’t know we have a human smoke detector.”
A Series of Ludicrously Bad Hair Days, Day 2; see Day 1
[Poetry crashing into a short story]
“My toupee has blown away!” False Hairy screams.
“Everyone, please don’t move.” Maddie turns off the ceiling fan and apologizes, “I’m sorry, False Hairy, for forgetting some of us have hair that may go astray while the fan moves like a schizo UFO.”
A Series of Ludicrously Bad Hair Days, Day 1
[Poetry in collusion with a short story]
Haironymous Bush reads the plaque on the door. Inside are people of varied sizes, ages, and sexual persuasions with one thing in common and nothing more. Their bad hair days outnumber the good. They all stand in attention as their Chapter Hairmeister, Maddie O’Hare, leads the opening prayer, “Dear Lord, help us overcome our frizzies, split ends, and turmoil over our tresses. Bless us with a calmer mood.”