It’s a great honor and
pleasure to welcome author Lisa Souza to our humble hut.
Lisa was the outright
winner of our Captivating Opening contest, with the delightfully mischievous Beauty and the Bridesmaid.
She was raised on the
mean streets of Spokane, Washington, wrestling five siblings for attention and
hot meals.
Lisa modestly describes
herself as “a terrible multi-tasker” but at the same time belongs to roughly
the same number of clubs Tiger Woods’ caddy handled at the U.S. Open.
Lisa lives in the
Snohomish Valley with her husband Mark Souza, a best-selling horror author, her
two creative daughters, and rescue dog “Tater,” perhaps the world’s goofiest
looking hound.
I initially lured Lisa over on the pretense that this was a typical author interview, and got her to ’fess up a few likes and dislikes so that I could subject her to my “Hypothetical Q & A”
And now we have her bio tucked
away above we can press straight on with it – this is followed by the first two
chapters of the fantabulous Beauty and the Bridesmaid for your enjoyment also.
Stef: Lisa, welcome aboard!
That is, welcome aboard
the Quasi-Tanic, a rusty tub en route
to Darwin, Australia, where it is destined to disgorge its passengers; many of whom
are intent on attending a rarefied Racial Equality convention.
But destiny is a fickle
mistress, and following a minor collision with a Greenpeace ship the Quasi-Tanic begins to take on water.
Lots of water. A klaxon wakes you up followed by a crackling declaration from
the Russian captain that: “There iss no need to panic, but better you get
quickly out of bed and into one of the serviceable lifeboats,” followed by:
“and don’t bring any more but you can carry in one hand or we throw over side.”
The first question is,
what are you going to take from your luggage?
Lisa: Ruh-roh! I dread a deadline and I have small hands. I
stuff a jar of Nestea Instant Ice Tea Mix and its companion box of sweetener into
a Ziplock bag, along with a toothbrush because dental hygiene is critical. Admittedly
these are poor survival choices (I’ve seen “Naked and Afraid”) but I left my
machete in my other pants. The dreaded “paperback versus Kindle” debate comes
next and since charging an e-Reader on a Russian lifeboat sounds dicey, On Writing by Stephen King, Persuader by Lee Child, The Husband by Dean Koontz, A Wrinkle in Time by Madeleine L’Engle
and The Handmaid’s Tale by Atwood get
forced into a modest canvas bag – the Ziplock bag goes in next. That leaves
just enough room on top for clean underwear and one of those diminutive shampoo
bottles, so small it will barely wash your bangs.
Stef: As the small and
decrepit lifeboat begins to groan its way down through the darkness to the
water line, a Russian crewman comes flying past with a howl which is quickly
followed by a splash!, then a large
designer trunk lands smack in the middle of the vessel, followed by a divinely
dressed lady. There are grumbles from some of the other passengers, which the
lady is oblivious to as she disentangles herself from a stunned passenger and
proceeds to the bowsprit, where she ejects a yelping dog with a deft swing of
her purse and takes up residence there.
As dawn begins to break
you realize that the dog, now ensconced between its owner’s legs, must be Anna,
the Golden Retriever who replaced the famous Trixie, because the snoozing owner
is Dean Koontz himself. At the stern of the boat a soggy Russian crewman is
tinkering with the outboard motor while at the same time glaring at the divinely
dressed lady at the prow…who looks uncannily like drag queen icon Ru Paul.
A further examination of
the shipwrecked souls reveals:
·
Two orange-colored young women, one of them waving an
iPhone on a selfie-stick while they pucker up in various poses.
·
A heavily tattooed man with a swastika emblem on his
brow and an even more heavily tattooed woman on his lap.
·
Three bespectacled Catholic priests in various states
of bewilderment.
·
Two creepy-looking Ronald McDonald clowns.
·
A Corgi dog, who must be Molly-the-evil-one because
she’s chewing on author Stephen King’s cowboy boots as he jots his observations
into a notepad.
So here’s a nice easy
question: in a dogfight, who would you put your money on and why? Anna the
Retriever or Molly the Corgi?
Lisa: As an avowed pacifist and closet chicken, I dread
conflict. To avoid bloodshed, I’d engage the priests and clowns together in a
drum circle. The rhythmic noises ought to confuse the dogs, who will
telepathically agree that humans are stupid and end their rivalry. I’ll be a
hero to all. Well, except for Stephen King. He’ll keep insisting his money’s on
the stumpy Corgi with the Napoleon complex.
Stef: Okay, yes, well, one
cannot argue with Napoleonic history – it seems Mr. King has a point; so, with
this tenet in mind, how about a rumble between Dean and Stephen?
Lisa: Who will prevail? I see Mr. Koontz leaning toward
McGyver style tactics, a real tool-using thinker. Mr. King? More Jack Reacher:
well read, but schooled. Neither wants to fight, (such nobility!), but when pressed,
I’ll say advantage King. He seems battle tested.
Stef: The Russian crewman
issues an oath and hurls the outboard motor into the Indian Ocean, which is as
still as a mill pond, the humidity and temperature rising as a lone herring
gull wheels a lament above (the albatross thing has already been done). You
have time to reflect on your predicament amid this motley crew of castaways. If
the paltry water supplies reach critical level, who’s the first passenger – on
first impressions – to surreptitiously tip overboard? And what’s the following
order should the rations diminish near to naught? To accommodate your delicate
sensibilities I have already hypothetically placed the two civilized mutts into
a trailing inflatable dinghy so the holy men and clowns do not invoke a howling
neurotic episode.
Lisa: Thank heavens I’m not responsible for the dogs. So do
not need that stain on my karma. To avoid spiritual failing, I’d take one for
the team and hop over the side with my Ziplock bag in my teeth. The books remain
on the boat while my fragile, velociraptor-like arms tow the boat toward the
horizon. Let’s go with that. It sounds far more virtuous than “toss those
corporate clowns.”
Stef: Probably for the best,
Lisa – I’m guessing they’d have thrown you overboard first anyway, so you might
as well jump… You catch a glimpse of a large dorsal fin in your peripheral
vision, and you proceed to paddle like crazy in a naval zigzag maneuver as the people
you are towing cheer you on (and make side bets). Finally, fate cuts you a
break when you spot a luxury yacht bobbing in the distance – but is it a
mirage? There are a couple of other famous people aboard this small-yet-magnificent
vessel – who are they and how do you react?
Lisa: Anyone who knows me well would definitely throw me
overboard first, so it’s mighty fortunate for me that yacht showed up. And
look! It’s Oprah Winfrey and Martha Beck searching for inner peace on the open
sea. I pull a Ricky Bobby move from Talladega Nights, flailing and screaming,
“Help me, Oprah Winfrey!” to get her attention. And of course she does help, because
hello, she’s Oprah Winfrey. She points a manicured finger at Koontz, King,
clowns and yours truly in turn shouting, “YOU get a Coast Guard Cutter! And YOU
get a Coast Cutter!” With the press of a cell phone, Oprah arranges an escort
of the Maritime Guardians while I use the lull to select a lame animal totem
with assistance from that lame animal guru, Martha Beck. I’ve been waffling
between the Blobfish and the Possum because both speak to me and both creatures
are oh-so lame. Koontz sees me as a Blobfish but King leans toward Possum and
they nearly come to blows again. Fortunately, the priests intervene.
Stef: Lisa, your altruism is
making it hard for me to torment engage you. I had planned to cast you all away on a bug-infested, radioactive
desert island, and reduce you all to not-so-noble savages to see who would be
the last man standing. But if you can’t even nudge a fast-food clown into the
briny deep I fear you are a lost cause. So I will set you one last dilemma
before you and Oprah sail off to Darwin to trawl the bars and astonish the
natives.
Question: Oprah has arranged
for the Australian Volunteer Coast Guard to pick up the lifeboat castaways (the
next time they turn up for work). She hands you a generous measure of Remy Martin brandy and asks you whom she
should take from the now-leaking tub to lessen its load. And I already know
what you’re thinking, Lisa: “surely we
can make room for everybody…” – but if you select too many I am going to
hypothetically kill them all via food poisoning at the hands of Oprah’s
executive chef: undercooked coq-au-vin, I think…a most appropriate penalty for
a self-confessed chicken like yourself. So you have to second-guess my
parameters to avoid mass destruction (except you, who opted for a dessert for
all three courses).
Lisa: Ooh! Ooh! I got this! I’ll sort them in ascending
order. We’ll keep cramming them in the yacht till Oprah gets a frowny face.
1. Oprah: It’s her boat,
people. She’s coming.
2. Martha Beck. She was
already on the boat. Besides, anyone who has read her work knows she is
destined for sainthood and I want in on that.
3. Oh, Dean Koontz, my secret
author boyfriend, with your incredible unforeseen twist in The Husband and the astoundingly fresh Odd Thomas: my life
preserver is your life preserver. And of
course you can bring Anna along because separating families is wrong.
Lisa: What? You can’t fit anyone else? Oh pretty puh-leeze?
Just a few more?
Stef: Now, I’m not quite
that mean, Lisa, though the slinky little boat is already brimming with her
support team. Go ahead – tell me who’s next…
4. Stephen King. You know
why you didn’t make it before Koontz? The
Stand. Dolores Claiborne. The Dead Zone. And I just inhaled your
latest Finders Keepers. You’re a
genre-hopper, King, that’s what you are. How dare you shine in genre after genre, old-school horror to
paranormal to murder mystery? Leave some space on the shelves for the rest of
us, King. And don’t let me see you sneaking into Women’s Contemporary fiction
or you’ll find your bacon stuck waiting behind the Selfie-Sisters, who are not
exactly top of my rescue list.
Lisa: Oprah’s giving the stink-eye so space grows scarce.
But surely just a few more?
Stef: Okay, Lisa, I was bluffing about fatally poisoning
these souls – poor or otherwise – but the last castaway you (inevitably) save
should at least develop a decent dose of Delhi-belly after opting for the duck
liver pâté. Pray, continue with your rescue order to completion, dear lady…
5. The Corgi. Yes, I’m
ashamed of myself for putting a dog above people, but I really like dogs. My dog
is sort a mutated version of a Corgi: she’s a shelter rescue dog, a German
Shepherd Basset Hound. (If a shepherd lost its legs in a tragic accident? One
that also stretched her length a foot past what looks right? Yep. That’s my dog
Tater).
6. The priests. I was
schooled by the Jesuits. And my dad was going to be a priest (pretty sure
there’s a book in there somewhere). I have a soft spot for the clerical collar.
7. Ru Paul: Style that ship.
8. Russian crewman: Who
doesn’t love an accent?
9. Tattooed woman: She could
have swapped spots with the Corgi if she’d made better relationship choices.
10. Selfie-Sisters: There’s
something disturbing about pumpkin-colored-over-tanners wielding an iPhone when
survival is at issue. Besides, they won’t even notice that they aren’t being
saved – at least till the battery fails.
11. Corporate Clowns. Enough
said.
12. Swastika dude: Haters go
last.
Stef: Thank you so much for
taking part in this bit of nautical fun, Lisa! After reading your debut novel Beauty and the Bridesmaid I knew I could
rely on you to be Queen of the Subjunctive!
Lisa: Thanks for having me aboard, Stef. You have inspired
and concerned me: next time I go on a fictional vacation to Australia, I’m definitely
bringing my machete.
Stef: And last, but by no
means least, Dear Reader, we have the opening two chapters of Beauty and the Bridesmaid:
“… a darkly comic tale of transformation and choices, frenemies and friendship, the heroic saga of a nice woman who just wants to look in a mirror and feel beautiful, but may find the price is higher than she bargained …”
CHAPTER ONE
“I’m a virgin.”
“Hmm?” Ginny continues admiring her ass from various angles in a three-way
mirror.
“I’m a virgin, Gin.” She still doesn’t respond, so I figure clarification
is in order. “I have not known man. I have unintentionally embraced the
celibate life. I remain carnally unchallenged.”
This time she hears me.
She glares down at me from her perch. “Can we stay on task, here, Dot?”
Can she comprehend how boring this is? I’m going snow blind from all the
white. They use white to symbolize virginity and I am an expert on virginity.
Unlike Ginny.
She should wear red. Maybe with racing stripes and corporate logos.
“You are so messed up, Dot.” Ginny eyes the Vera Wang knock off from a
different angle. The simple white satin number clings to every inch of her till
it reaches her knees where apparently it loses interest and puddles to the
floor. “This may be the one.”
I’d look like a Macy’s Float in that thing: big, round, and secured with
ribbon at the bottom. Eek.
She grins at me. “Mom’d kick my ass if I pick this one. D’you see the
price tag?”
Are you getting this? Did you see how she just totally glossed over that
heartfelt revelation? I don’t really blame her. Ginny has always had the
attention span of a gnat. And gosh, with the wedding looming a scant seven
months away how could it be any different? No mock designer wedding gown
selected? Oh, the horror. My predicament doesn’t enter her consciousness. I’m a
sex deprived manatee in sweat pants, but this pales in comparison to critical
issues such as:
The ring;
The flowers;
The caterers;
Ginny’s perfect ass in almost Vera Wang.
She set the hook two months ago, convincing Samuel T. Johansen III to drop
to one knee and beg. Now sure, copious amounts of Jägermeister were involved
(aided and abetted by an unbelievably revealing tank top), but she got the
ring. Technically, he could still throw the hook, and this makes Miss Ginny
Lake nervous indeed. She wants him in the boat before he can flop free. Bashing
him over the head with an oar is not out of the question. Ginny’s goal
oriented.
Caveat emptor, Sammy boy, caveat emptor.
Consider: I, Dorothy Alana Lindell, just admitted to being a virgin in a
public place. This proves conclusively that I’m desperate to switch the topic
from GINNY’S WEDDING to anything else. Absolutely anything else. Yes, even my
pathetic, undefiled state. And when you’re painfully single, the only thing
that might possibly out-bore someone else’s wedding is someone else’s baby.
Oh my god: how incredibly boring will Ginny be when she gets pregnant?
Her majesty turns and waves a manicured hand toward the register, ignores
the assistant directly behind her. “Dress woman! You there! This is the one.”
Dress woman? Ginny’s such a pill.
Register woman hobbles over in three-inch heels. “Excellent, Miss Lake.
And the tiara? Will that work, or would you care to see something else? Perhaps
with longer veiling?”
Dress woman has a name – Tiffany. It says so on her nametag. Neither she
nor her assistant offer their names. They stand like stiff little Chanel
soldiers in arch destroying shoes and boxy suits, pursing their inflated lips.
Maybe they got a group rate. I’ve seen ling cod with smaller mouths.
Bully for them, though, for not hauling off and decking her. I would have
taken a swing at Ginny by now, were I not her best friend. Besides she’s my
cousin.
“Vera Wang simplicity sometimes suggests the need for more elaborate
headgear,” the one in charge counsels.
I fear her overly inflated mouth may accidentally explode. I take a small
step back, just in case.
“Ya think?” Ginny shoots an ‘are you brain damaged?’ look at her.
Bridezilla must have stowed her Catholicism somewhere in the folds of
pseudo-Vera Wang.
I take a seat on a hard, armless chair, the kind that should come with
warning labels and free chiropractic care. Half of my butt fits. The chair
complains loudly, causing both “dress women” to glare my way. I offer a feeble
smile.
I would sell my soul for a Cherry Coke, but all this place offers is weak
tea that smells like dirt and leaves. Best I keep dry.
I glance at my wrist. Nothing there. One day I’ll wear a watch. The link
types nip the tiny hairs on my arms and the leather ones can never quite
circumnavigate my wrist.
“Ginny, what time is it? I gotta get back to work.”
My cousin and former R.H.V. - that’s “Red Hot Virgin” to the uninformed,
barely glances my way. “I’m nowhere near done, Dotty. We haven’t even addressed
the footwear issue. If you have to go, call Dressler’s about the flowers, ’k?
Maybe you could swing by there tonight? Make sure Sam doesn’t mess up the
order? I’ll end up with plastic daisies from Kmart if he starts checking
prices.”
“Can’t tonight. Remember? Daters Anonymous. I have a meeting tonight.” And
I’ll be switched if I take yet another bus to do your dirty work again today. “Later,
Ginny.”
~ ~ ~
Tap, tap, tap. Doc Devers is forever tapping that damn pen of hers. She’s
unaware of how annoying it is. It’s a tiny little snapping sound, plastic
against paper, a bit hollow in places.
Sometimes I’d like to slap her.
We’re trapped in the meeting room of Valley General Hospital, my pathetic
posse and me, holed up with Doctor Pepper Devers – A.K.A. Pepper the tapper.
She’s asked me not to refer to her as Dr. Pepper so I fight that urge, along
with the compulsion to reach across two people and snap her pen in two.
The room is fairly small, maybe twelve by ten, all low ceilings, safety
beige walls and match-the-vomit carpet. It is a hospital, after all. The chairs
are three-mile-orange, the institutional plastic kind. The seats are the same
molded plastic that proved too small for my ass in high school, so clearly I’m
overflowing mine now. With one butt cheek hanging exhausted over the edge of
the chair, Dever’s interminable tapping, and the collective sighs and moans of
my fellow detainees, I am miserable.
Doctor P sets the pen on her clipboard (sweet relief) and begins her
opening spiel. I’ve heard this part before and set my brain to mute. Now it’s
all fuzzed out noises, like the old Peanuts cartoons with a teacher
interrogating Charlie Brown: “wah, wah wah wah.”
Group Therapy is weird beyond imagining.
The participants range in age from nineteen to sixty-seven. When everyone
shows up there are three men and four women, sprawled on chairs, limbs dangling
in varying degrees of looseness (depending on their medications).
I’d love to see the criteria Doc used to assemble this troop, but the
stated purpose is “Relating to the Opposite Gender.” Opposing genders. This is
war.
My calendar lists it simply as “DA,” shorthand for Daters Anonymous. Here’s
what I’ve learned so far in group:
Don’t name your daughter Elvira.
If your brother offers to keep an eye on your wife, say no.
Meth and daycare don’t mix.
Pepper’s FM radio voice permeates my brain fog. “Last week, Don was
discussing how his wife’s adultery affected him sexually. Don, is there
anything you would care to add before we move on?”
I glance over at Donald Pleasant. If Don were food, he’d be pudding. His
flesh swirls around him in soft, creamy folds that coins could get lost in. He
wears an ill fitting shirt in a bilious plaid paired with pants so high-waisted
he’s in danger of choking. If that weren’t bad enough, he’s also a nail biter.
Eventually, he’s going to gnaw off a hand. Poor Don.
He squints hard through thick glasses. Clearly he can’t make out the
orange chair, let alone the doctor’s elegant presence. He aims his voice in her
general direction.
“Well, Doctor, I think I’ve reached a new level of understanding,” he
shares between finger nibbles. His voice has the vaguely sinus-y sound of a
chronic asthmatic.
Doctor Devers shifts toward him in her hard plastic chair. “Yes, Donald?”
“What’s to understand, Donny boy?” Mike pipes up. He stretches back in his
chair, threatening to tip it. “You’re wife did your brother and tried to poison
you. Badda bing, badda boom.” Mikey twists his hands thumbs up, thumbs down,
punctuating his brilliant observation. I’m scared to death of him. He looks
like what he is: tough and wired. What Mikey lacks in hair – his head is
completely shaved – he makes up in tattoos.
He’s here by judicial order rather than desperation. He’d chased his wife
six blocks before the cops apprehended him. At that point, he informed them
that she’d escaped from their aquarium and he was merely trying to save her.
The police confiscated a net of ropes he’d been swinging over the petrified
woman’s head at the time, (which turned out to be the hammock from their back
yard) and snapped some plastic restraints on him. He later admitted to
ingesting copious amounts of crack that day, yet somehow his lawyer managed to
convince the court that all Mikey needed was a bit of R and R and some
counseling.
I doubt his soon to be ex-wife agrees.
“I think I know why she needed Robbie. I think… I think I was being
neglectful. Maybe I didn’t consider her needs enough.”
“That’s very insightful, Donald.”
“And it’s…like…total bullshit.” Elvira rolls her heavily made up eyes. She
resembles her namesake in all ways save one: no boobs. Her chest is practically
concave. Today she’s done up all Goth: long black dress, limp as a greasy lock
of hair, far too much makeup in splotches of white and black – but her voice,
as usual, is all peppy surfer chick. Think ‘Fast Times at Ridgemont High’ meets
Tim Burton. She continues, “No offense, but you’re kinda ugly, dude. I think it
was just a matter of time till she booked.” Elvira snaps her gum between black
lips.
This isn’t delivered as an insult, just a casual remark. Which strikes me
as hilarious. I bite down hard on my lower lip and contemplate my own stubby
fingernails.
When I dare to look up, Devers is suppressing a smile under her hand, but
it rests in her eyes. “Remember the rules, Elvira. No name calling. Just
information, observation, and assistance.”
“Nothing personal, Don.”
“Perfectly okay, Elvira.”
Susan steps in. “Donny may be on to something, you know. Men don’t pay
attention. They never think about how the woman feels. It’s all about them.”
Susan is sitting on her hands, trying to warm them. She’s a single mom, a
soccer mom, and she’s battling a crystal meth habit she picked up while racing
to keep up with an ADHD son. Since her box cutter accident a few weeks ago, she
complains that her hands are always cold.
That must have been some accident. I wonder how common is it to “accidentally”
slit both wrists with an X-acto Knife?
“What does it get you, Donald? So what if you were neglectful back then?
What can you do about it now?” Jasper says.
Jasper is a wild card. I’ve no clue why he’s here. He could sub for Devers
if he wanted to, offering calm and sane advice. He’s even attractive in a tweed
elbow patches kind of way. His beard and mustache are trimmed short, the sandy
brown color making his blue eyes sparkle. Maybe he’s a physician. Mom says
doctors make terrible husbands – and she should know, given she married two of
them – so that may explain his presence in Relationships 101.
Don dislodges a fingernail-deprived hand from his mouth. “Well… I could
call? Call and tell her I’m sorry about everything. Validate her feelings.” He’s
animated, talking faster now.
A groan rises like a fart from the group, causing people to wave their
hands and roll their eyes. Everyone starts bitching at once. They’ve heard Don’s
story multiple times. I allow myself to check out briefly while the doc tries
to rein in the mob.
I concentrate on Peppy Le Doctor’s perfect hands, pristine French manicure
tap, tap, tapping on her clipboard, pausing to scribble something, thin and
elegant like the rest of her. What if that pen gets accidentally snatched clean
out of her hands?
I snap back at the mention of my name. Crap. What was the question?
“I asked if you recall what might have created your issue with weddings?”
“You refer to my utter contempt for them? March 5, 1989, 7:00pm, the
day Melanie Fox forced my fat butt into a taffeta sausage skin while she
married the love of my life.”
Okay, okay, so maybe he wasn’t the love of my life. Does the love of your
life have to know you’re alive?
Elvira scrunches up her overly made up face. “Are you serious? I was like
two years old in ’89. Move on, dude.”
You’re a little helper, Elvira.
I search for a place to rest my eyes, but when a hint of pity develops in
Jasper’s baby blues, I break contact.
“Remember: constructive, Elvira.” Pepper aims her tapper at me. “Dorothy,
how does that experience help you now? What did you learn that might help you
make new choices?”
I face Dr. Pepper, the spitting image of Candice Bergen in her elegant
suit. “Let’s see. Never wear taffeta. It makes your butt look big and if caught
between the thighs can start a fire.”
There are a few muffled grade school giggles. The good doctor raises a
fist to her chin, leans forward: Candice Bergen looking thoughtful. She’s not
letting me off that easy. “Anything else?”
I sigh. “Okay. How about ‘the world has no patience for ugly people?’ How
about ‘a crowd is more likely to laugh out loud at a fat girl than a single
person might, but both will turn on you in time?’ You need more? Okay, how
about ‘always being cast as the sidekick at someone else’s nuptials sucks.’ It’s
boring. It’s expensive. It just sucks. Being ugly SUCKS!” My voice bounces in
that tiny, stuffy room, a kid having a tantrum, not the calm observations of a
twenty-four year old adult.
Silence. Group appears stunned.
Suddenly Elvira leans forward. “Oh my god it totally does suck!” she
screams.
Who knew I’d find a champion in Elvira?
Anna Lanisovich, quiet up till now, juts out her pointed Russian chin and
proclaims in her heavy accent, “Dah. It sooks.”
Donald tears up, glares over at Doctor Devers, betrayed. “She’s right you
know. Everyone blabs on about how nice I am. How kind. What a beautiful soul.
What crap! What bull pucky! Who wants to date your inner beauty?” He shrugs,
defeated, “Women will let me debug their computer or pay their Visa bill.
Denise was even willing to marry me ’cause I had a steady job. But when my handsome
brother showed up? I was road kill.”
“Almost literally, Donnie, dude. What with the poison and all.” Elvira
shares.
A free for all erupts, lasting for the remaining fifteen minutes. Everyone
but Jasper and the Doc lament and swap tales of discrimination. This should
have made me feel validated. Instead, I’m more miserable than ever. This isn’t
an area where I want to be right.
Maybe group isn’t such a hot idea.
During the melee, I sneak out, hoping to catch the 8:05 bus. There’s a bus
stop on the East end of the hospital parking lot with an overhang to keep the
weather off. Unfortunately, no such protection exists on the way there. I’m
soaked by the time I reach it. Worse, I must have missed the 8:05, which leaves
plenty of time for rumination.
Maybe Elvira’s right: I should be over it. The thing is I had trusted
Melanie. She was supposed to be my friend. We’d known each other since grade
school. It still hurts to believe she could be so callous. Couldn’t she have at
least warned me?
~ ~ ~
He called me first, you know: Gavin Dorset, Inglemoor High School’s
esteemed wide receiver phoned me. Oh all right. He was flunking bio and in
danger of losing his position with the team. He wanted a tutor, not a love
interest.
At the time though, I believed in my soul that once he met me, there would
be this cosmic connection. He would sense my inner beauty, warm to my sense of
humor, admire my intellect. I’d become a doctor and he’d be a surgeon and
we’d have six kids.
I know. I was an idiot.
He’d gotten my name from the school’s bulletin board where I offered
tutorial services in biology and math, an easy way to make a buck. Gavin needed
to pass bio not only to maintain his eligibility as a player, but also because
his father – that would be Doctor Dorset – assumed he’d be going to med school,
which was unlikely if he flunked basic biology.
When Gavin phoned, I practically flew over to Mel’s to dish. Her parents
house, a typical seventies rambler, was less than half a mile away. I hopped on
Cherub, my rusty red three-speed and arrived panting and gasping seconds later.
She opened the door to my crazed banging. “Hey, Dot. What’s up?”
“We have so got to talk.” I raced ahead of the bewildered Mel to her
bedroom, where an explosion of Pepto Bismol pink covered walls, lampshade,
drapes, and bedding. I plopped down on her bed, making a sizeable dent. “You
will never ever guess who called me. Come on, guess!”
Melanie had her braces removed three weeks earlier, and was only now
comfortable revealing teeth. Free of metal, they look huge in her tiny heart
shaped face. She smiles broadly down at me. Given her tiny stature, Mel rarely
looks down at anyone. “Well? Spill.”
“Gavin Dorset! I’m going over to his place to tutor him in bio!”
Her bright smile dims. “Gavin? Yeah, I heard he’s having some problems
with that class.”
“Mel, don’t you get it? This is my chance! You know I’ve had a crush on
him forever! I’m actually going to be in the same room with him. Alone.”
She turns her back on me, studying a pink butterfly on the curtains at her
window. “Don’t get your hopes up too high, Dot. I heard he’s seeing someone.”
I miss the tension in her voice. I am too high on hope.
I tug on the back of her shirt. “Who cares? Let them find a new man. Let’s
get to the important stuff, Mel. What do I wear? I need to look hot, but not
slutty. Come on, girl, help me out.”
I pester her, drag her to the mall to shop for the perfect outfit. And I
blow nearly every dime I’d saved from tutoring on that silly outfit. What was I
thinking?
~ ~ ~
The rain slaps at the little shelter,
the sound snapping me soundly back to the little overhang where I’m trapped for
at least another fifteen minutes. Not a shocker, the weather, just a standard
Pacific Northwest event: rain, followed by showers, rain without end, amen. In
good years, like this one, the rain is warm, so I may be soaked, but I’ll live.
That particular year, though, my senior year of high school, we had arctic
rain, rain that wanted to be snow when it grew up.
~ ~ ~
Back then, in the miserable, icy damp of that day, I huddle under the edge
of a building, carefully avoiding eye contact with the wet strangers around me.
A bus kiosk stood five feet in front of me, but was already jammed full of
people. The lot of us could pass for a homeless enclave, lumpy outlines of
bodies covered in oversized coats and rain ponchos that look like tarps, faces
barely discernible. A few rogue types carry umbrellas. I assume they are
Californian, since native Washingtonians rarely get caught carrying.
The rain continues its assault, snapping and popping off the ground,
overwhelming the leather of shoes, oozing into socks. Water works its way up
the edges of my pants from below and down my thighs from above. Diesel fumes
from the buses couldn’t break free of the inversion layer and remain in place,
a cloud of exhaust that burnt the lungs.
By the time my bus arrives I am stone cold, barely able to climb the steps
to board. I took the only available seat behind the driver and fall into a
stupor, lulled by the motion of the bus and the heat which had been cranked up
to compensate. When I come to, the combination of temperature and humidity fogs
the windows. I take a swipe at it with my still wet arm to remove a spot to see
and reveal a neighborhood completely unrecognizable. There was a moment of
panic before I remember why I was making this journey. Fortunately, my
unconscious cuts me some slack and it’s only a couple more blocks before I
reach the correct stop. I tug the rope to signal the driver.
The bus slows, stops. I, a pathetic oversized imitation of Madonna – that’s
if Ms. Ciccone had a slow metabolism and limited fashion sense – teeter from
the bus. My pants are too spandex-y for warmth, and although the rain beads up
nicely on the fabric at first, it soon seeps well into my skin. My heavy
makeup, too gaudy to flatter, runs black stripes over my cheeks. Exit
Madonna-wannabe, enter Alice Cooper. Assuming Alice been popping Prednisone or
stuffing himself on Denny’s Grand Slam breakfasts.
The leather jacket, so fashion forward at the point of purchase, is
swiftly destroyed in the downpour; cheap, useless, zipper already rusting. The
boots that complete the ensemble slap my sides in a plastic garbage bag. No way
I could survive the trek from the bus stop to Gavin’s in those things. Instead,
I slosh through the damp in my sneakers.
Within minutes I spot his car – who but a football star drives a Mustang
in high school? – parked at the curb outside his house. The windows are steamy
so I assume occupancy, but can’t see in. That works for me. I need to make
wardrobe adjustments and mentally cross my fingers that no one had seen me yet.
I lean against a stop sign in order to swap out footgear. Moisture creeps
down my back. I adjust the leather bomber jacket, tug at the Lycra pants and
voila: a giant, damp, black ice cream cone with very sparkly boots.
I wobble over in my silly boots and rap on the driver’s side window,
confident Madonna now had a rival in coolness.
Groans and a muffled curse or two filter from the car. Another minute
passes before the window eases down. Gavin Dorset glares out.
“What in the hell do you want?”
I try to ignore the pelting rain as it finds its way inside the collar of
the jacket and down my back. I play it like I’m just too cool to notice. “I’m
Dot Lindell. I’m your bio tutor.”
His head tips to one side “And I care because?”
The lack of enthusiasm puts the brakes on my response. “Um…well…it’s
Thursday. You picked the time, remember? You said you had practice on
Wednesday, so –”
He waves a dismissive hand, “Ah, crap. I guess I did. Well, see, now –,”
he glances back into the car, then faces me again, “– now’s not such a good
time for me after all.” This is greeted with high-pitched giggles.
I know the laugh; know the voice. Mel’s voice. My best friend’s voice.
Gavin continues, “See, tutor-girl, I’m kinda busy at the moment.”
The voice of my former best friend whispers from Gavin Dorset’s car. “Tell
her you’re busy.”
Let’s get cracking on that ulcer.
I swallow a couple of times, find my spine. “Look, Gavin, I hopped a bus
to be here. You want to fail bio, hey, it’s your call, but you owe me ten bucks
for the session.” I push an open palm through the window, along with a good bit
of the moisture now soaking me.
“Je-sus!” More muffled noise. Something crushes into my hand.
“Here’s twenty. Get lost.”
I squint: a twenty. A mountain of cash at seventeen. “Whatever. You know,
you won’t get into med school if you fail high school bio. Might want to give
that some thought.”
I saunter off, trying to look cool without twisting an ankle. The cold and
wet bite at me, but my face burns as though scorched by acid.
When I am certain to be out of visual range, I drop down on the soggy
sidewalk to do the shoe swap and saturate my butt in the process. By the time
the first boot finally pulls free, the sky opens up and truly weeps. The
intensity of the falling water obscures my vision with a shiny, oily film. I
tug off the remaining boot by Braille, blinded by disappointment and rain and
cold.
That’s when I officially became Dorothy Lindell, the last of the Red Hot
Virgins.
CHAPTER TWO
It’s May. To spite me, it’s a glorious
spring day, all golden sun and azure skies. Oh, what a perfect waste of a
perfect day this shall be! Why? For I am dressed like the aftermath of a terrible
Barney explosion, like the wrath of a vengeful, purple God.
And nothing, my friends, says ‘you go girl’ like yards of violet taffeta.
Yes, taffeta. Again. What is this magnetic attraction between me and taffeta?
Elvira warned me. Didn’t she tell me to get some new friends?
Ginny selected plum and rose for her wedding colors. Plum my eggplant ass.
This dress is purple. PURPLE. Seven months of planning and Ginny lands me in
this chaos of a dress. Sigh.
The wedding planner, to her credit, spent days trying to talk Ginny into a
more sophisticated palette. How about chocolate and amoretto? Basic black and
silver? Hell no. Ginny intends for her bridesmaids to look like plump, purple
sausages, explosions in ruffles and taffeta. She will then sail in, slim and
chic in her simple gown, Audrey Hepburn amidst lumpy, purple-clad Oompa
Loompas.
To be fair, Ginny has always loved this color. And her taste zigzags from
elegance to double wide trailers, unfiltered Camel cigarettes and Jägermeister.
Regardless, Virginia Lake will wed Samuel Tibbets Johansen III of the
Boston Johansens in less than ten minutes. She’s chosen St. Louise’s, a
Catholic church in Bellevue, about ten minutes from Ginny’s apartment. It’s not
Saint Mark’s Cathedral, but it is still reasonably churchy. The smell is off
though. A sea of vanilla scented candles and white roses mask the usual aromas
of incense and aging bathroom deodorizers. At least the candles aren’t purple.
Lucky candles.
I’m being snide. Ginny is, of course, ravishing in that Vera Wang number
(which she purchased over Aunt Vonda’s screams of protest and Uncle Jake’s
sighs). And I’ve told her so, oh maybe a hundred or so times in the last hour.
Her majesty is holding court in the crying room, grilling the wedding planner
about no-shows. How else can she identify who to snub later.
The rest of us are crammed into the back of the church, sweating to the
purple. Two of the groomsmen herd guests up the aisle. Those of us not yet
roped into service are milling around in purple splendor.
My escort has yet to arrive. He is supposed to be some distant cousin on
Ginny’s father’s side. He’s gay, (so said Ginny, expert on such things), and
according to the pinch faced stick of a girl whispering next to me, he’s wicked
cool. Ginny had spoken of him with awe and a touch of annoyance: she’d tried to
get him to design the wedding – and no, I haven’t a clue what that implies –
but he declined, citing scheduling difficulties. He also skipped the rehearsal.
Kennedy? Kennedy something? Size zero girl mentions that he’s an image
consultant.
And then he arrives. Or rather he glides, smooth perfection wearing, in
theory, the same holy-smoking-Jesus purple suit the other groomsmen are
wearing. He’s tall and buff beyond reason. He’s immaculately presented, totally
working the grape where Prince himself couldn’t have pulled it off. And clearly
he bats for the other team.
Kennedy draws delicately on one of those clove cigarettes that were huge
back in the fifties. It mixes with his cologne, creates a cloud of scent around
him. The cigarette rests in one of those Marlene Dietrich style holders (who on
earth uses those things? In a church?). He frowns over a thin plume of smoke
and waves the stalk of the cig at me.
“You look beastly in that.” He’s got a slightly affected East Coast Prep
School/almost British sound to his voice.
“Yes. Yes I do. You’re implying someone could look good in it?” I cough
out the smoke. Temper, temper, Dot. “Note that I didn’t choose this gem of an
outfit.”
He releases another thin trail of smoke, considers. “Next time such an
unprecedented fashion failure occurs, swing by the office. Adjustments can be
made. Alterations. Corrections. Oh it will remain hideous, of course, but less
so.”
I look directly at him, trying to place the face which looks strangely
familiar. It comes to me: the cover of Barbara Cartland’s “The Ruthless Rake”:
same cleft chin and the amused blue eyes. That is, of course, if Dame
Cartland’s hero rode sidesaddle and wore a purple suit.
“You can make this offense to daytime television attractive?” I wave a
hand at the front of the dress.
He inhales delicately – not easy for such a big guy – and slowly releases
the smoke. “My dear, there is always a path for maximizing the positive.” He
pauses, smiles broadly, “Although Ginny certainly has made a game of it.” His
generous mouth gleams with what I assume are veneers. I’d hate to think anyone
could have such nice teeth without having to pay for them. That just wouldn’t
be fair. His business card materializes. He slips it into my hand. Where does
one store a business card in a pocket-less dress?
With few alternatives, I insert it into my ample cleavage.
“Look, Kennedy, my guess is your fees are in the platinum range. I doubt I
can afford you.”
His smile broadens. He reaches over and pats my hand. “Fear not. I need a
project. And you, my dear,” he says, taking a step back, “qualify. And of
course you’re family, more or less. Besides, you tolerate our dear cousin
Ginny.” He glances over his shoulder. Ginny is taking up her position behind
us. He makes a face as though he’s inhaled ammonia, coughs once, continues, “That’s
laudable, truly laudable. Few have survived. Just look at Johansen. He’ll be on
a short leash. Wonder if he’s developed inner ear plugs to dampen out that
stream of self-serving chatter.” He takes another drag. “What do you do for
filthy lucre, my dear?”
I’m too stunned to refute his summation. “I test software.”
“Not for Microcosm by any chance?”
“The very same.”
“I’m miserable with computers. Abominable things. My assistant Jefferson
normally handles all things technical, but I foolishly let him take a vacation
and now I’m lost. Not even certain what’s scheduled for next week. This gives
me a thought. We could arrange an exchange of services. You could track down my
calendar while I...” he waves his hand at me.
“I’m sure I can talk you through it.” I shrug. When I look over at him,
the cigarette is gone, (no idea where) and the silver holder disappears inside
his lapel with a deft hand movement. “Excellent. A prisoner exchange: my
wayward technology corralled in exchange for you, drastically improved of
image, yes?”
I’m about to argue. Not a fair barter. Way more work for him than me, but
before I can respond, we get shushed by the wedding planner, bun so tight it
eliminates wrinkles. She pushes her prissy face nose to nose with mine and
shushes me before swiveling and shoving the first boy-girl team up the aisle.
She offers one more glare at Kennedy and I before clickity-clacking off to
reconnoiter with Ginny who has taken up her position behind us.
“Bitch.” Kennedy J has few qualms about dealing with the help. “She’s
pushing that Kim Novak thing a bit past its expiration date.”
I suppress a laugh. We’re next up in the processional. I have a big stupid
smile on my face. Kennedy just slays me.
The service begins. And goes on… and on, ceremony without end, Amen. I
barely avoid lapsing into a coma during a chorus of “Lord, oh Lord, My Sweet
Lord” and only the pain of good old Catholic kneeling keeps me from nodding
off.
Kennedy makes it bearable. In direct violation of eye daggers from the
priest, the best man, and that tight-bunned wedding planner, he delivers
caustic observations just within earshot, causing my enormous purple dress to
quiver as I fight off giggle fits.
The event finally ends. Ginny and Sam drive off in the limo bound for the
reception. I’m supposed to race over to The City Club to help with gifts and
cake, schlepping along in Aunt Vonda’s car. That was the plan, anyway.
Until Kennedy suggests we dog such plebian responsibilities and hit a bar
instead.
He knows this great place where the bartender has a thing for him. Dressed
in such festive garb, we’ll get our drinks for free.
“Can you imagine the potential for intrigue in these outlandish costumes?
Far greater than milling around at The City Club. What do you think?”
Before I have a chance to think, I hear my voice say, “I think I’m all
over it.”
For the first time in my entire life, I blow off responsibility. A stupid
grin pins itself on my face. I abandon my post. Blow off my cousin’s wedding.
And dressed in perhaps the ugliest dress ever conceived, I follow my homosexual
savior to his Hummer.
“Loud car for such an understated man,” I wave at the enormous silver
grill.
“Sometimes grand gestures are best. Especially when it comes to
ostentatious displays of success. Festive, don’t you think?” He beams at the
SUV. “Thing is a monster. Just eats the road, I tell you.”
~ ~ ~
I rarely go to bars. Okay, never. I
have never gone to a bar before. And I’ve certainly never been in a gay bar.
Kennedy has. Before I can rethink my decision, Kennedy wraps his arm through
mine and sweeps me in, where he is recognized immediately. Swarms of friendly
faces surround us. Above the din of music and chatter, a handsome guy in a
dress shirt and jeans points at the dance floor. Kennedy demurs, smiling an
apology, motioning toward the bar instead. We take up stools and get
comfortable. Four of his buddies have trailed us into the bar. They immediately
vie for “best story” competition. I can barely catch a word over the pounding
music, but it hardly matters. In short order I’m buzzed on my first ever
Appletini. It’s heavily alcoholic but I’m not driving so who cares? I’m over
twenty-one.
Kennedy knows everybody or has done everybody, either biblically or in his
professional capacity. There’s a rock star guy with carefully spiked hair and
green eyes. The three piece suit guy (oh he cannot be gay. That’s just wrong!),
who turns out to be an attorney. My favorites so far are the Cambodian
brothers, Somnang and Sovann, currently sharing the dance floor with me. I
promise to donate the dress to Sovann who wants to make throw pillows out of
it. Like Kennedy, he has given me a business card. Being without pockets, and
since Kennedy refused to let me bring my monster bag along, it is being held in
suspension in that same sweaty niche between my breasts where Kennedy’s
formerly rested.
On my god this is fun!
The bar area is crowded and loud, and terribly chi-chi. I’m already wasted
on my second Appletini, which I’ve concluded is composed of copious amounts of
alcohol and something green. Since I very rarely drink, it’s easy to push down
the guilt demons with each swallow. Who cares that I abandoned my cousin’s
wedding? So what if I’ve casually misplaced my identity as a heterosexual?
Everyone here assumes I’m the life of the party and a drag queen. So be it.
There I am, happily holding my Appletini glass by the stem (is this a
fresh one?) when I catch sight of my swollen fingers. They’re stubby, porcine
digits with bubblegum pink nails (Ginny insisted). My stomach lurches and a
wash of blood flows to my face as I stare at those hateful, fat paws with that
ugly polish and catch a glimpse of obscenely purple dress. I’m about to fall
straight down the rabbit hole into a sea of self-hate, when as quickly as the
wave of disgust and nausea came on, it recedes.
Back to the ocean with it! Away issues of fatness, nail polish, and dress!
They’re of no relevance to Dot the Happy Drag Queen!
I concentrate instead on watching Kennedy make witty remarks to the
bartender. Here’s a guy who obviously knows how to enjoy himself. He snatched
fun from a boring wedding and that’s no simple feat. This is a man to admire
and emulate, my new role model.
By closing time, I’ve danced in bare feet and Kennedy has made a date with
that bartender, (an endearing fellow named Max with the chest of bodybuilder
and the gentle smile of a Saint Bernard). Max the bartender offers to drive us
home, but with grace, Kennedy declines.
“I must take my fairy princess home unscathed. But we’re on for Friday at
nine, right Max?” They share sunny smiles and a gentle touch of hands before we
head off to the car.
The Hummer appears by magic – I don’t recall his leaving it with a valet –
but then again, I don’t recall much of anything after my fourth Appletini. Or
was it my fifth? Kennedy asks directions to my place and he shudders at the
address.
“Listen, my dear. You really must come by the office. Let mamma fix, yes?
Find the time. Tuesdays are best. Mondays are always a mess, so best to avoid
them, but do what you have to do.” I promptly fall asleep, waking to find we’re
at my apartment building.
Kennedy must have assisted me out of the car and into the apartment,
(probably shaking his head the entire time). All I know is sometime during the
night, I wake up still in that ugly damn dress. I strip the offensive garment
off and stomp on it a few times, then flop back down on the bed, relishing the
feel of cotton under my skin while enduring the sick spins that come from too
much booze.
Still, my mouth tugs up in an easy smile. I had so much fun. I ignored
everyone’s agendas. I laughed and drank and chatted and made friends. For the
first time in twenty-four years, I felt twenty-four, not fifty.
Never mind that everyone thought I was
a man in drag.
Thank you for reading this article. If you wish to use our book formatting services to create new books (or modify existing books) please visit our dedicated page:
CLICK HERE TO FIND OUT MORE
Our service provides quality Kindle (mobi), ePub, and KDP-print paperback interior design at affordable rates, and also provides many free extras.
And when you want to promote your current or new books, why not use the number one affordable, premium Tweeting Service, which reaches a network of over 1 MILLION readers. Visit TweetYourBooks.com to find out more and see their latest offers and giveaways.
No comments:
New comments are not allowed.