by Joyce Armor
“Are you okay? You look kind of, I don’t know, stunned.”
“I’m fine,” Ellie said in a tone that really said, “I’m not going to talk about this with you.”
He got the message. “Did you bring an electric shaver by any chance?”
Ellie shook her head and raised her eyes heavenward as if he had asked for a 90-pound diamond. “I know this will come as a surprise, but Muskman is supposed to be hairy.”
“It’s not for me. It’s for Tiffy.”
“Oh. Sorry.” Now she felt dumb for overreacting. What was it about this guy that made her temporarily insane? “Actually, I think I did.”
He followed her to the closet, where she pulled out her gold Samsonite bag. “Why don’t more women use a straight razor on their legs and pits?”
One of the deep philosophical questions of our time.
“I can’t speak for all womanhood, but I somehow always end up doing a real hack job with a razor. And I like the buzz.”
He smiled. God only knew what he was envisioning. She almost shuddered. She unzipped the bag and rummaged through it, coming up with a little blue case, which she handed to him. Then she placed her hand on his back and tried to steer him toward the door. Yeah, like that’ll work. He stopped, turned and smiled beguilingly at her. He might have gotten the message about the forbidden topic, but he suddenly decided to ignore it.
“So you found him, eh?”
It wasn’t like she could throw him out—he was deceptively strong—not that she wasn’t tempted to try. She walked back to the bed and sat heavily. Rather than sighing as loud as she wanted to, she crossed her arms. “I really don’t want to talk about this with you.” God, could you sound more prim and proper? A perfect little tight-ass.
He took a step toward her, but thought better of it and stopped. “Oh sure, I understand.”
She scoffed. “I highly doubt that.”
He looked at her so long she wanted to jump up and run from the room herself.
“I’m very insightful, you know.”
She couldn’t tell if he was kidding or not, so she opted for a snide answer. “Good for you. That must come in handy when you’re trolling. Don’t forget, 7:40 tomorrow morning. Don’t be late.”
He looked like he was about to share something insightful with her, but he stopped and smiled too knowingly at her instead. Or was she reading things into his smiles that weren’t there? “Yes, bossy lady, I mean boss lady. See you then.”
He left, thinking about how much he enjoyed getting under her skin. It was almost too easy, except she sure knew how to dish it out. He smiled at the memory of her angry eyes shooting daggers when the car got stuck. Oh, this was going to be an interesting few days. And then he remembered Tiffy. Good old Tiffy. Good old voluptuous, free-spirited Tiffy. Good old uncomplicated Tiffy. He shook his head, trying to clear it. Keep your eye on the prize. Tiffy. Not Ellie. Life might be complicated, but he didn’t have to deal with complicated women. Keep it simple, right? Eye on the prize.
When he got back to his room, good old voluptuous Tiffy was sound asleep, curled up on her side, snoring in a wheezy kind of way. She was wearing a filmy little pink pajama top that didn’t leave much to the imagination. In fact, none of her left much to the imagination. He debated on making enough noise to wake her up. Hell, he debated on whether to wake her up by jumping on her. But for some reason he saw Ellie’s accusing face. God, he must really be tired.
He washed up, brushed his teeth, undressed down to his boxers and climbed in bed next to Tiffy, who didn’t wake, sigh or cuddle up next to him. She didn’t move, in fact. He lifted his arm and gave her a pretend Muskman spray.
For her part, Ellie watched the door for several minutes after Russell left, as if she could lure him back. No! No, no, no, no, no. You don’t want him back. He’s a player. For God sakes, he’s sleeping with another woman right now. Well, no doubt he’s not sleeping…
That thought helped her get a grip. And she definitely needed to get a big grip. Besides, she had no doubt seeing Brian would blow Russell right out of her mind. And good riddance to bad...bad furriness.
* * *
The massive Las Vegas Convention and Visitors Authority center includes hundreds of thousands of square feet of lobby, meeting rooms and exhibition space. The following morning, the parking lot teemed with cars, trucks, vans and buses, some plain and others positively psychedelic, as numerous people in various styles of dress unloaded vehicles and wheeled crammed dollies up a wide back ramp.
Inside, a massive, carpeted hallway with people, from hippies and bikers to corporate types, bustling back and forth, boasted one sandwich board announcing the Desert Underground Comix Expo and another touting a John Smith reunion. The latter apparently was drawing John Smiths from all over the country. Who knew? Other signs welcomed a gastroenterologist gathering and a country craft fair. In the comix expo’s expansive exhibition room, the convention was slowly coming together as publishers, artists, independent record producers, novelty companies, printers, shippers and related exhibitors set up their booths, ranging from huge to diminutive, from the ridiculous to the sublime.
Chantella, dressed in one of her black Madonnaesque half outer wear, half underwear outfits, walked the length of one aisle, stopping to check out the booths of Alternate Reality Comix, Comictopia, Rip Off Press, Zia Records and other exhibitors. Various booths displayed “Zippy the Pinhead,” “The Fabulous Furry Freak Brothers,” “Flesh Gordon” and other provocative publications. Ellie nearly burst out laughing as a man staring at the unique and beautiful Chantella wheeled a dolly right into one of the booths, where a guy had to jump out of the way.
By the time Chantella arrived back at the Full Court Press booth, Ellie had just begun hanging t-shirts and Roger and Wesley were opening cartons and setting out comix for display. Chantella asked Ellie about her Brian calls, and beamed as she explained she’d finally hit pay dirt.
“So who was it?”
“I don’t know.” Ellie pulled out a t-shirt and shook it. “Maybe his wife. His girlfriend. His mother? She didn’t sound old, though.”
“But you’re sure it’s the right Brian? Your Brian?”
“She said he worked at Caesar’s Palace for seven years, until two months ago. He’s managing a new casino that’s opening this weekend.”
“Bad. That’s bad.”
“What?”
“Just think. In all the weekends in the entire history of time, his casino is opening the one weekend you’re here. It’s kismet; it’s meant to be. This is perfect. So you went there.”
“No.” Ellie rearranged several of the t-shirts already hanging, feeling somehow exposed. Chantella had a way of cutting through the bull. She had a lot of wisdom for one so young; she was an old soul.
“But you will.”
“Yes. Maybe. I don’t know.”
“You will. You must.”
“I want to be you. You’re so sure of everything.”
Chantella laughed as she spread out several of the novelties on the display table, including the salt-and-pepper boobs. “It’s easy when you’re fixing someone else’s life.”
Isn’t that the truth?
Ellie rearranged a couple more t-shirts. “I don’t know if I want to put myself through the grinder again. I can take rejection as well as the next person, but sometimes enough is enough.”
“I never took you for a coward.”
It was Ellie’s turn to laugh. “Oh yeah, when it comes to romance, I’m the mother of all weenies.”
Chantella adjusted her lacy black bustier as a couple strolling by the booth gawked at her. She smiled at them. She was used to the stares. Chantella knew her style was a little ‘round the bend…okay, maybe quite a bit around the bend or even way past the bend…but growing up in a family of nine kids, she had never felt like an individual, just one of a pack, until she reached her teens and took a stand. Those were the Goth years that eventually segued into today’s own unusual look.
She liked being different. No, maybe she needed to be different. The appearance, she knew, was superficial, and if it repulsed some people, then yay. They could go away. But internally, in reality, Chantella wasn’t that different from most women. Inside her beat the heart of a true romantic. And as any woman who was happy in her relationship, she wanted everyone else to be in a happy relationship, too. She would like nothing better than to see Ellie find her mate and wouldn’t be adverse to encouraging her along that path.
Roger sauntered over to them, wearing his standard hippie attire, including a blue Hawaiian shirt and the ever-present khaki shorts. He must have 12 pairs of them. Ellie couldn’t imagine where he had found a Dove Bar and kept it from melting in the Vegas heat, but he was eating one. “The posters and Muskman are still in the van,” he said.
“The real one or the cardboard one?” Chantella asked.
“How can you tell the difference?” Ellie said, and the others chuckled.
Chantella volunteered to retrieve them, and Roger handed her his keys. “It’s in the back lot. Four aisles down on the right. I think it was aisle H. Or maybe M.”
As she walked off, Full Court Press’s erstwhile partner Spencer Keys approached. He somehow looked European although he was dressed in jeans and a polo shirt. In his late 50s and sporting a gray-streaked ponytail, he was still good-looking, not to mention virile-looking, with a strong jaw, nice straight nose and piercing gray eyes. He carried a large, weathered leather shoulder bag. Maybe that was it. American guys were much too insecure to carry anything that might be misconstrued as a purse. He definitely appeared confident. Spencer passed Chantella as he headed toward Roger and did a double-take.
“That had to be Chantella,” he said. “Shazam.”
“Hey, man! You made it.” Roger grabbed him in a lengthy man hug.
Just then Bonnie returned from the restroom. She tossed her purse under the table. “Spencer! When did you get in?”
The newest arrival released Roger and hugged Bonnie. “About an hour ago.” He stepped back. “You’re as zaftig as always, mama.”
Bonnie smiled warmly at him. “How are you? We’ve missed you. I’m so glad you decided to jump the pond.”
He bowed. “Très bien.”
“Oh, Spencer,” she said, backing up a little. “This is Ellie. And Wesley.”
Spencer kissed Ellie’s hand. “Enchanté.”
“You betcha,” she smiled. “I love your artwork. You’re a legend.”
“Hey, dude,” Wesley said, offering a hand. They shook.
Ellie was grateful no one asked where Muskman was. She had waited for him and Tiffy in the hotel lobby this morning until precisely 7:40. By 7:41 she was pulling out of the parking lot and ridiculously happy and somewhat triumphant to do it. Now she just felt petty and guilty. You wanted to punish him for choosing Tiffy over you. “That’s ridiculous,” she mumbled. If they weren’t here in another 20 or 30 minutes, she would head back to the hotel and find them. It would be easy to blame Russell for this since he seemed to bring out the worst in her, but she knew this was all on her and she felt bad. And small.
A few minutes later, Spencer and Roger walked the convention center floor, surveying the booths as they talked. Spencer noted how much bigger this convention was than the last one he had attended, nearly a decade ago. In other ways, the convention hadn’t changed, with many of the same exhibits and exhibitors. Thanks to the Internet, he had kept up on the latest publications. Overall, he wasn’t too impressed, but then artists always were opinionated, and he could imagine what others were saying about him. They passed a woman made up as ‘50s pin-up queen Betty Page, which led Spencer to ask about their own popular character.
“Where’s Muskman?”
Roger shrugged. “He’s not a punctual kind of guy.”
“Perfect typecasting.”
“Did you pass Sludge’s booth on your way in?”
“No, not by design, but I’m glad to have missed him.”
They stopped at a food booth with a red and white striped awning, where Spencer bought a hot dog and soda and Roger got a cup of coffee. Roger gestured toward a nearby area where tables were set up and they sat.
“His booth is down at the other end, second aisle, I think.”
“Have you talked to him?”
“No. Like you, I’m putting off the inevitable as long as possible, I guess.”
Roger always seemed to find a way to deal with Sludge without getting into it. Spencer had more of a temper and was a little more volatile than Roger. Actually, most everyone was more volatile than Roger. He could eviscerate anyone verbally, but he was a peacemaker, not a fighter.
On any given day, Spencer might be pleased to feed Sludge his teeth. Now, however, in some ways, he felt too worn and too zoned to deal with Sludge, like he had enough of the weight of the world on him to take on any more. Or maybe it was jet lag. Their former partner had gone from an intense but partying dude to an exceedingly hostile and borderline whacko, and Spencer didn’t deal well with angry whackos. He’d had enough of that from his old man, who tried to beat the artistic side out of him and turn him into an athlete, a plan that obviously didn’t work. His mother was more supportive although timid. She would never openly stand up to her overbearing husband, although she would encourage Spencer in private to try to offset her husband’s criticism. Somehow the family dynamics had resulted in one ball-buster sister and one sister who wasn’t a nun but should be. Spencer did not have many happy memories of his upbringing, but he eventually realized it probably did contribute to his imaginative and biting writing and artwork.
“Good,” Spencer said between bites of his hot dog. “Maybe we’ll luck out on Sludge and miss him altogether.”
“I’m not holding my breath on that one, brother. He’s too hostile to let an opportunity to harass us get past him. He’s done it here every year for the last decade. Oh, except the year Jamie was so sick and we didn’t come. I’m surprised he didn’t show up at our house that year.”
“Yeah, how are the kids these days?”
“Long since not kids anymore. Don’t know when that happened. Happy enough, I think, and productive citizens. We’re pleased about that. Jamie’s an attorney in D.C. Works for the Republican lobby, but we don’t hold that against him. Much. Two kids in elementary school. Chelsea is an environmental specialist, whatever that is, in Seattle. She’s married to a guy who owns yogurt shops throughout the Northwest. No kids, by design. How’s your daughter?”
“Carrie is on her third marriage. Maybe this one’s the charm. They live in Broken Arrow, Oklahoma. He’s some kind of a construction savant. Her twins are eight now, I think. Cute little buggers. They’re archery champions, if you can believe that.”
“There are all these little subcultures in the country, and world, aren’t there?—archers and dancers and horse people and crossword puzzlers and Nazis. I suppose we’re one, too, the comix people. I don’t mean that they’re organized, just that they share an interest.”
“Yeah, and artists.”
“Especially artists.”
Roger was content to think of anything other than Sludge. Hard to believe Roger, Bonnie, Spencer and Sludge were once pretty good friends as well as business partners. Alas, water over the bridge. But he couldn’t shake the feeling that trouble was coming. It seemed to follow their old partner and current nemesis everywhere he went. Sludge…everybody had called him that so long Roger couldn’t even remember his given name. Milton? Martin? Nelson? Whatever it was, one thing was for sure, something bad was in the air. Trouble followed Sludge like Tiffy followed Muskman.
Chapter 7
Two hours later, the Full Court Press booth had come together admirably. On a 10-foot by 8-foot backboard covered in black velvet, a number of the company’s comix hung, displayed in a haphazard way that looked somehow just right. The board included issues of “Muskman,” “The Disembodied Head,” “Phar Out,” “Rinky Dink,” “Gooses” and �
�Amazon Semi-Virgins.” In addition to the t-shirts, hanging off to one side, the booth held stacks of DVDs as well as several of the most popular novelty buttons and toys. A fishbowl and notice invited visitors to sign up for the company’s catalog list by dropping in business cards or handwritten notecards. The table also included a full list of publications the company offered and prices, with boxes of comix stacked below the table, hidden by a black table skirt. A message board touted an autograph session featuring world-renowned artist/writer Spencer Keys.
Wesley stood behind Ellie and Bonnie, rearranging items on the backboard. He couldn’t ever remember not having an artistic eye, even as a kid. A few of his friends thought he was nuts working at Full Court Press when his interest and talent was in drawing medieval cartoons. That’s when he asked them to name the medieval cartoon companies. Like zippo. Working for Roger and Bonnie, he was learning about the business and the process of bringing comix from concept to storyboard to production. And for Wesley, it was never about fame and fortune anyway; it was about the art, and if Chantella was the only one who ever saw it, and it brought a smile to her face or touched her heart, that was good enough for him. Although it would be nice to get just one comic published and rub it all over his naked body.
At the table, where the women were seated, Bonnie tapped her fingers nervously. She had surprisingly slender fingers for her rather buxom body shape. She had stood up and sat back down several times. “I hope they don’t run into Sludge. This is driving me crazy. I can’t stand it.”
Was it Ellie’s imagination, or did Bonnie seem more protective of Roger lately? It truly was charming how close those two were, after 30-some years of marriage, two kids and a couple of grandchildren. Again, it seemed to Ellie that she was always the odd man (woman) out. The whole world was mated up except for her. Was she really too picky? Too chicken? Too weird? Too unlucky? Or all of the above?
Abruptly, Bonnie grabbed her handbag, jumped up and strode off, calling, “I’ll be back” over her shoulder. For a big woman, she sure could move fast when she wanted to.