by Jeff Strand
“Not too bad.”
“Are your classes going well?”
“They’re okay, yeah.”
“I’m pleased to hear that. My classes are also going well.”
“Do you think maybe we could go somewhere to talk in private?” I asked.
Laura shook her head slowly and deliberately. “Anything you wish to say, you can say in front of my friends.”
“Okay, I’ll start with ‘Please don’t gang up and beat the living crap out of me.’ I’m here to do some serious groveling.”
“Groveling is good. I like groveling.” Laura regarded her friends. “Do the rest of you like groveling?”
“I like groveling,” said Trisha.
“Groveling works for me,” Becky added.
“But you have to grovel without saying ‘I’m sorry,’ because my threat to kill you if I hear you say that one more time stands,” Laura explained.
“I understand.” I took a moment to compose myself, which was made fairly difficult with all three girls staring at me. “Okay, I guess it’s obvious that we got off to a bad start. And I’m going to freely admit that the bad start was entirely due to my own clumsiness and lack of control over certain bodily functions.”
“I’m pleased that you understand that,” Laura said.
“Now, why I’m here. Basically, I was a little antsy knowing that there may be someone out there carving ‘Die, Seth, Die!’ into local livestock. I mean, you know, having people make voodoo dolls of you is nothing but a hassle, especially trying to get your fingernails back. I think women started wearing fake nails to keep the voodoo doll producers away from them.”
Laura furrowed her brow. “You’re trying to be amusing. I don’t think you came here to be amusing. If you did come here to be amusing and make peace, you should know that you’re failing at both.”
Tough crowd. The voodoo doll observations were supposed to continue for another three jokes, but I decided to let it drop.
“Okay, here’s the deal. I want to make up for all the laundry problems I’ve caused you.” I reached into the grocery bag and took out a bouquet of eleven red roses. I’d purchased a dozen, but while arranging them I’d discovered an interesting new fact (thorns hurt), causing me to drop one and knock off most of its petals.
I gave the roses to Laura, and for the briefest fraction of the briefest second I saw a flicker of a smile on her lips. Her expression quickly returned to Bad Momma territory, but I was encouraged. I wanted to glance at Trish or Becky to gauge their reactions on how I was doing (“Run, you poor bastard, run!”), but kept my eyes on Laura.
“There are only eleven,” she pointed out. “It goes well with your inadequate personality.”
I wondered how many guys she’d performed fellatio on. My curiosity was strictly concerned with whether her tongue had severed their penises.
(Let’s hear it for Number Four!)
“Yes,” I agreed humbly. “It does.”
“You’re doing a little better,” said Laura. “Anything else?”
“As a matter of fact, there is,” I told her, reaching into the grocery bag again and taking out a box of Tide. “I figured you could use this if we ever ran into each other again. And,” I said, making my voice sound like an announcer, “it also makes a handy—”
“Don’t try to be amusing,” Laura warned.
“I’m done,” I said.
“Okay, I can use some more detergent.” Laura took the Tide from me and set it on the desk. “Any other offerings?”
“One last thing,” I said, taking two candy bars out of the bag. “Here, Milky Way and Milky Way Lite. I figured Milky Way would be insensitive if you were on a diet, and Milky Way Lite would be insulting if you weren’t, so I got both to cover my butt.”
“I’m allergic to chocolate,” said Laura.
I felt a cool breeze blow across my butt.
“But Becky and Trish aren’t,” she continued, “so I’ll pass your gift along.”
“Thank you,” I said.
Laura gestured to the door. “Now, get out of here and stay away from me. We’re even now.”
“Get out of here. I can do that.” I crumpled up the grocery bag and headed for the door. Trish winked as she opened it for me.
I started to turn around.
“Don’t turn around,” Laura said. “Just go.”
I left.
As I walked down the hallway, I wondered if that had been a success or a failure. She hadn’t hung me from the ceiling by my belly button (an outie, making this a physical possibility), but I couldn’t help feeling a bit depressed. What had I expected? Her to throw her arms around me when I gave her the roses? A relationship between us was ridiculous—I’d only come there to make peace, right?
Becky and Winky’s door opened. Laura stuck her head out.
“Hey, doofus, you need an escort!” she said. She hurried down the hallway after me, then took my hand. “And I need somebody to take me to lunch.”
We interrupt the plot to bring you the educational segment of our book...
10 Ways To Tell That You’re Not A Trout (for all of you who asked)
1. You don’t live underwater.
2. You don’t have gills, fins, or scales.
3. You have a job.
4. You have hands and feet.
5. You can read, write, and solve mathematical equations.
6. You can answer a telephone in the correct manner.
7. When somebody says “Hi, Trout!” you don’t respond.
8. When you stare into the mirror, you honestly believe you don’t look like a trout.
9. The last time you saw a trout hooked, reeled in, gutted, and eaten, it really didn’t bother you much.
10. Your parents insist that they would never have raised a trout, and still they raised you.
This information may seem unnecessary, even frivolous. But as long as any of you have any doubts about whether or not you may be a trout, I intend to help ease your turmoil. Because, as much as I try to fight it, I care.
—Seth Trexler, Your Friend
Chapter Eighteen
“Love Me, Baby, Love Me”
I’m going to get philosophical for a moment. If nothing else, it will balance out all those penis jokes in the last chapter.
What is love? Where does it come from, and what does it mean?
Or, more specifically, why was I wildly, insanely attracted to somebody who had treated me like I was covered with a five-inch thick layer of mutant fungus? Sure, she was gorgeous, but this wasn’t just a physical I-Wanna-Stand-At-The-Foot-Of-Your-Bed-And-Do-Gross-Things-While-You-Watch love, this was something deep! I mean, this was an attraction that could have entered stalker territory! I might have built a shrine to her in my dorm room, except that the danger of gas leaks made lighting candles a bad idea.
Why was I feeling this way? Why did her touch make my internal organs feel as if they were rearranging themselves like furniture? Why was I envisioning scenarios involving us complaining that the grandkids never came over for Thanksgiving anymore?
“Ugh, your hand is all sweaty,” said Laura, removing her hand from my grip as we continued down the hallway.
See the way she talked to me? Why was I obsessed with her?
Stupidity certainly played a role, but, really, Laura had a certain... aura, for lack of a better word. If you would like a worse word, she had a certain “thingie” about her. And though she’d been insulting me constantly, I didn’t detect any real malice. Okay, maybe a little real malice, but at least no hatred. But, hey, here I was, walking down the hall with her, and we’d actually spent three seconds holding hands!
So maybe she was attracted to me, too.
What the hell was wrong with her?
Love. Don’t try to explain it. That’s what Hallmark is for.
* * *
Without speaking, we walked outside to the Sniper Hall parking area. Laura led me to her car, an incredibly used blue Plymouth. There was a yell
ow sign in the rear windshield that said “Dead Baby On Board.” I wanted one. Maybe several to give as gifts.
“Where’d you get that?” I asked, pointing to it.
“From a catalog. There’s this place that has all kinds of sick stuff like that. I place an order every couple months.”
That’s why I was so attracted to her! We were both sickos!
She got in the automobile, shoved about six years’ worth of fast food refuse off the passenger seat, then unlocked and opened the door for me. I climbed in and she started the engine.
“So, where are we going?” I asked.
Laura shrugged. “Doesn’t matter. I know a place that has great steak and lobster if you don’t mind paying.”
“Actually, the roses came pretty close to wiping me out,” I admitted.
“I was only kidding,” Laura said. “How do hamburgers sound? Dutch treat.”
“That sounds fine.”
She pulled out of the parking area, and after a seatbelt-inducing left turn we were on Trade Point’s main street.
“I have a question,” I said.
“Shoot.”
I pointed my finger at her like a gun. “Bang.”
No, I didn’t really do that. I was just testing how much of a geek you’d believe I could be.
Rewinding...
* * *
“I have a question,” I said.
“Shoot.”
“The first two times we met, did you really hate me?”
Laura thought about it for a long moment. “Yes,” she said, finally. “Yes I did.”
“So where are you now? On a scale from hatred to passionate love?”
“I’d say somewhere around mild dislike.”
Only mild dislike! Yes! Let the fireworks begin!
“No, really, I don’t have any special opinion of you,” she said. “I’m enough of an optimist to hope that our previous two meetings were exceptions. I did like you bringing me roses, candy, and Tide. I think that there’s a smidgen of a chance that we could become friends. How about that?”
“Sounds good to me,” I replied, reaching over and squeezing her breast.
No, I didn’t really do that, either.
Rewinding...
* * *
Oh, what the heck? Let’s see that again.
“Sounds good to me,” I replied, reaching over and squeezing her breast.
Rewinding...
* * *
“Sounds good to me,” I replied, keeping my hands to myself.
Okay, my inner voice said, you’re really nervous but you’re doing fine so far. For round two, you need to maintain the appearance of an interesting person. Prove that you can keep a fascinating conversation flowing.
“What’s your major?” I asked.
God, what a loser, my inner voice muttered, throwing up its hands in resignation. It vanished, and I’ve never heard from it to this day.
“Theatre,” she replied. “I want to be an actress.”
“Really? Movies? TV? Politics?”
“The stage. Live audiences.”
“You want the live audiences?” I asked with disbelief. “If I’d been performing to a crowd of mannequins I might not have messed up so bad at the comedy contest last night.”
“That was you?”
“That was me,” I admitted. “You heard about it, huh?”
“Oh, sure, everyone was talking about it after the show. I came back after I got cleaned up but they were already on the last act.”
“What’d they say?”
“They said that...you didn’t remember your lines as well as you could have, but that your friend did a decent job of covering for you.”
“And they expressed it that kindly, huh?”
“Oh, of course,” said Laura. “I certainly wouldn’t try and spare your feelings. Did you really look like you were about to give birth?”
“I hope not, but probably.” I sighed wistfully, which I thought made the whole conversation all the more romantic. “I really don’t know what happened. I mean, my brain just shut down. It was like I was back in algebra class.”
“Well, you deserve points for walking out on stage, at least. Some people wouldn’t have even been able to do that. Who wrote the act, you or your friend?”
“We collaborated. I’ve written a few comedy skits on my own, actually. I even had a humorous piece accepted for this magazine called Gleefully Disturbed.”
See how I effortlessly worked those credits into the conversation? Pretty swift, huh?
“Gleefully Disturbed?” Laura asked, excitedly. “You sold something to Gleefully Disturbed?”
“Yep. Have you read the magazine?”
“No, but I think maybe I’ve heard of it somewhere.” We stopped at a red light behind a Volkswagen. “I can’t remember where, and I’m probably confusing it with something else, and, yeah, now that I think of it I’m sure it’s a different magazine I’m thinking of... Twisted or something, but that’s really neat. When does it come out?”
I paused. “Eventually. Maybe.”
“Well, I’d like to read it when it does.”
“I’ll forward a copy to your retirement community.”
The light had been green for about two seconds, so Laura honked at the Volkswagen and leaned out the window. “Are you waiting for an earthquake to propel you forward? Go!”
“Why doesn’t it surprise me that you’re an aggressive driver?” I asked, smiling.
She took a sharp left turn across traffic that I thought was worth at least three flippings of the traditional bird from other drivers, and we pulled into the hamburger joint. A neon pink sign flashed its name: The Burger Bordello. With a tender comment about the quality of parking performed by a sports car in the handicapped spot, Laura selected a space and shut off the engine.
I glanced over at the restaurant. “The Burger Bordello?”
“It just opened last semester. They’re trying to appeal to a younger, hipper crowd. The food’s lousy but it’s got a nice atmosphere.”
We walked across the parking lot, wove through the Christian picketers, and entered the lobby. A studly man and voluptuous woman stood at the door, their combined uniforms containing approximately as much material as a shoelace.
“Hi there,” said the man in a studly voice that seemed to say “I’m the hottest, firmest, most incredible lover you could ever imagine. You’ll need a wheelchair for two weeks after a night with me.”
“Welcome to The Burger Bordello,” said the woman in a sensuous voice that seemed to say “It’s too early for this shit.”
“Would you like to sit in the Cigarette Afterward section, or the No Cigarette Afterward section?” asked the man.
“No Cigarette Afterward,” Laura told him.
“Okay, follow me.” Our host led us into the main part of the restaurant, where the walls were covered with pictures of half-naked people holding hamburgers and French fries in an unwholesome manner. We passed one of the waiters, who was carrying a high chair to a nearby family of six, then were seated at our booth. The tablecloth looked like a blanket, and there was a pair of pillows at the end.
“Your Madame of Beef will be with you in a moment,” said our host, handing us our menus. “We hope you...savor your experience.” He walked away, his muscular buttocks glistening in the red lights.
“Come here often?” I asked Laura.
“Every once in a while. It’s nice for a change of pace. The restrooms are especially interesting.”
I touched the tablecloth. “I wonder if they wash these things each time.”
“You look a little uptight,” said Laura. “It’s just an adult-themed hamburger joint. Lighten up a bit.”
“I’m lightened. Really.”
“You look nervous. I bet you’re the kind of person who would go to an orgy and make everyone wear name tags so you knew who you were screwing.”
I was thankful I didn’t have a drink to choke on.
“I’m not
nervous,” I insisted.
“Yes you are.”
Yes, I was. But it was the company, not the environment.
“Welcome to The Burger Bordello,” said our waitress as she approached the table. She was a woman in her mid-forties, wearing a slinky pair of red pajamas adorned with feathers. “My name’s Maude, and today I’ll be fulfilling your wildest burger fantasies.” She pulled a notepad out of her garter belt. “Would you care to order a foreplay, or are you ready for the main penetration?”
“What are your specials today?” Laura asked.
“Oh, I’m sorry, I should have mentioned those before I tried to take your order. Sometimes I just get enthusiastic and go off too soon. Let’s see, we’ve got the Doggy-Style Deluxe, which is a lean, hot patty of beef mounted by grilled onions, a ménage a trois of bacon, and a generous orgasm of mayonnaise. And there’s also the Steak & Mushroom Burger, S&M for short, which comes tied up and includes onion ring handcuffs. Both come with sixty-nine fries, and if you’re feeling pure, you can get a cherry tomato on the side. Oh, and make sure to leave room for our Rear-Entry Hot Fudge Sundae.”
I looked over the menu for a moment. “I’ll just have the regular old Missionary Burger.”
“And what protection would you like to use?”
“Excuse me?”
“Condom-ents. I recommend the pickle.”
“Everything but mustard, please.”
“Okay, one Missionary Burger, hold the lubrication.” She turned to Laura. “And for you?”
“I’ll have the Dominatrix Deluxe, with a side order of Fetish Fries.”
“And what would you two like to spit or swallow?”
“I’ll just have ice water,” said Laura.
“Me too,” I said, frightened to hear their drink selections.
Maude tucked her notepad into her garter belt. “Your order will be ready to stimulate you shortly. If there’s anything I can do to you, don’t hesitate to whisper suggestively into my ear.” She left.