Image: Pixabay
Although poor, the four friends still have fun. With a six-pack, a deserted parking lot lit by a full moon, a radio, and a dart board game, they have created a makeshift outdoor pub.
“My turn tonight,” Derek says, as he straps the dartboard onto his butt and stoops over.
Don’t stray; stick to my dick.
Image: PIxabay
Image: Pixabay
Baby Toula is an ugly baby even her own mother can’t kiss, although she claims to love her, only because she came from her womb. That’s a womb its owner, Mama Lydia, did not know had become a receptacle to a hodgepodge of chemicals, such as synthetic fragrances she’s inhaled and the artificially preserved lotions her skin’s absorbed from the time she was a little girl to the mature fruit bearer she has now become.
As with any unsuspecting person, Lydia paid no heed to what her body was accumulating over time. How did she know the sweet, cloying Vanilla Ice cologne contained something that was also the lethal ingredient in a bug spray? Or a window cleaner? She isn’t one to question things like that. To her 20-something life, it’s more about fun stuff–like tasting those delicious bon bons that come in unnaturally vivid colors. She simply thought that if others bought them, they must be fine. The companies that churn them out are household names, so they can be trusted. Their packaging says they are mostly natural and good for you.
Now, she rocks on her chair looking at her baby from across the room, because Toula repulses her. She has pustules on a face that should be smooth-cheeked. And what should be shiny, baby fine hair is more like a patch of raised bumps. Where her lidded bright eyes would have been are unblinking dots filled in with odd-shaped cells. How she welcomes a loud cry. Instead, there’s only occasional bursts of heaves that raise her hackles.
Lydia thinks Toula is an unfortunate seed, though not a bad seed like her older sister Lizzie, who grew up to butcher their parents. Lydia will have to make sure Toula doesn’t have access to any axes.
You have restless legs, Felix recalls his doctor saying, as he finds himself walking around in his underwear in the middle of a busy street.
I have to be dreaming, Felix thinks because people seem to ignore him. He sees a woman approach him with a rictus that is supposed to pass off as a smile, but not quite successfully.
“Are you lost, dear? My husband used to fade out and wander off too. God rest his soul.” She takes his arm and guides him down the street. “Let me take you to my place; it’s just a short walk down to get you reoriented.”
Definitely a dream, Felix decides, as he plays along and allows the woman to help him. When he sees an uneven, worn looking building with missing bricks on its façade and a couple of windows with fine cracks like spider webs, he’s confident it’s all a dream. How can a lady who carries a Gucci purse and wears fine leather shoes live here?
But the woman acts like she’s right at home when she opens the door and leads him inside. The bright interior and clean spartan lines of the furniture cements his belief it’s all a dream. She leaves him thinking and reappears with a glistening cold glass of milk. “Here, you look thirsty to me.”
Felix drinks it quickly, not really tasting anything. He suddenly feels drowsy and again assures himself it’s only a dream, as he finds himself on a bed. His lids are weighing down.
He wakes, not knowing how much time has passed, and sees he’s now chained in bed, underwear removed. The same woman hovers nearby with the same thin smile. “You’re still dreaming, dear.”
Image: Pixabay
He banged her up bad
She’s almost six feet under
He climbs out the ditch
Sobered up quickly
He misses her suddenly
She made him feel good
Remorse sets in him
He yells up to the heavens,
“I loved my Corvette.”
Image: Pixabay
Luke admires his silvery 5-o-clock shadow, which makes the dark streak in his silver-white hair look indigo. If he was just a decade or two younger, he would do a somersault. Perhaps add a few more decades. He’s never really been limber, even when at 21. Last year when he buried his dear mother and a week later, celebrated his 70th birthday, he felt like a butterfly that finally shed its cocoon. Farewell, Lucia. Welcome, Luke.
Now that he’s completed his hormone treatment to realize his true self as Luke, he’s ready to hit the club tonight and try out his new look. The blue jeans encasing his long legs and button down plaid shirt hugging his wiry torso give him the appearance of an aging Marlboro man, with a punk look since he spiked his newly cropped hair with styling gel.
Luke strides over to the bar and catches the glance of a woman playing with her pearl strands. Luke winks at her and smiles. She reciprocates. Encouraged, Luke joins her.
“Buy you a drink?” Luke signals the bartender to give the woman another of what she’s having.
The woman’s eyelids appear weighted down with layers of false lashes. Her red-painted lips separate into a smile, revealing ivory-colored veneers. “Hey, cowboy, tell me what else you can give me.”
“Another drink?”
“I’m thinking more along the lines of a back rub?” She clutches her purse, ready to leave.
“Lady’s choice.”
“I live right around the corner.” She takes his hand and they both walk a block.
Once inside, she pounces on him and starts to take off his shirt. By this time, Luke realizes how quickly he’d gotten into a situation he didn’t expect so soon. His end game was to flirt and do some heavy petting with clothes on, but this woman is turning out to be hornier than a toad, and he doesn’t have all the equipment quite yet to give her a full ride. He gently pulls away from her and says, “Whoa, why don’t we sit down for a bit? I didn’t even catch your name . . .”
Breathing hard, the woman stays standing and looks disappointed. “I guess I mistook your cues. Every man I meet at that bar has only one thing in mind and that’s why I go there. I’m sorry but I’m not into name sharing. What we have here is a failure to copulate. Nothing at all just isn’t that cool, handsome.”
[With thanks to Paul Newman’s 1960s prison classic, “Cool Hand Luke”]
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.
Gus signs his name with relish, as he registers in as a contestant to Doug’s Hot Dog House’s annual wiener eating challenge. He walks to the counter to pick up his platter of freshly boiled ‘dogs, each resting peacefully in a pillowy hot dog bun. His stomach lurches; he knows this will slam him later but he has to have something to talk about at Larry’s party later tonight. Whenever he is invited to social events, which by the way is rare, he feels small when he has so little to say.
The hot dog eating contestants sit side by side on a 12-foot rectangle picnic table on the eatery’s back patio. Gus sees someone he knows a couple of places down. He catches their eye and they both acknowledge one other.
“I gotta win this,” Gus mutters to himself, as the whistle blows for them to start gulping down.
“Go, Bill!”
“Just swallow it, Sam!”
“Yay, Dad!”
Gus tries to tune out the onlookers’ cheers for their chowing champions, along with the disgusting grunts, splutters, and groans from the hopeful victors. As he plows through his franks, he ignores the gorge that starts to form in his throat. His face flushes from squelching the two most likely routes the food might travel as it erupts from inside his body. As he forces the last hot dog into his mouth, he gets dizzy. His cheeks burn from tears that drip from the corners of his eyes. Suddenly, all light blots out.
“Hey, dude, you okay?”
“Yo . . . hello . . . “
Gus starts to come to as he hears voices calling him back to consciousness. His eye lids flutter, determined to open. He sees a circle of faces looking down at him.
“You with us?”
Gus’ vision becomes clearer. He’s still at the Hot Dog House, but away from the table. He doesn’t remember moving from where the action seems to be winding down now as he looks back at the faces still staring at him.
“Whoa.” A bearded man helps Gus, who struggles to get up. “Take ‘er easy . . . just sit fer a while. You ain’t missin’ anythin’.”
Gus is sitting up now, noticing that he’s on a narrow cot not too far from the ground.
“We get the occasional . . . . But you’ll be okay. You weren’t out too long.”
“Am I disqualified?” Gus asked, feeling his stomach twist for a different reason.
A woman wearing a denim visor shakes her head. “No, dear. I believe you won second place.” She looks up at the others. “Am I right?” The others nod.
Gus faintly smiles, thinking he can legitimately say he passed out, which should make his story seem even more interesting. Just think; he could say he saw a light at the end of a tunnel, or he could describe how he saw his body laying helpless as it seemed to float above himself, attached only by a silver cord. And because he really was a winner, he could say that it was worth the pain, thanking everyone for their help.
So Gus goes to claim the runner’s-up prize, which so happens is a brass-embossed wiener trophy. Perfect. Now he’s got a story and a souvenir to break the ice at tonight’s party.
Image: Pixabay
The boardroom is full today because the company’s former Chairman, Mr. Ralph Finley, is in attendance to make a special endowment to the R&D group, among others. Twenty people sit around the rectangular conference table, all waiting for Mr. Finley, who is having a coughing fit. In between blowing his nose, he mutters to them, “Allergies, I forgot to take something for them today.” The people murmur their understanding. Suddenly, Mr. Finley sneezes so hard, his dentures fly out of his mouth and clatter on the table. For a moment, no one seems to breathe; the only sound is the clacking of teeth.
Karina Pinella 
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