by C. D. Payne
“Are you taking any herbal or protein supplements?”
“Er, no.”
“So, you have abdicated responsibility for your body and are letting doctors convince you that you are a sick person.”
“I’m really, really allergic to mold, Miss Arbulash.”
“Well, this is your lucky day, Carlotta. We had an impetigo outbreak last week. I had the locker room disinfected from top to bottom. They cleaned the air ducts over the weekend and installed an ozone purifier. It’s like a hospital surgical room in there.”
“Oh,” I gulped, “that’s, uh, nice.”
Miss Arbulash dumped my books and purse on a shelf, then handed me a clipboard. “We’re doing circuit training this week.”
“Circus training?”
I imagined exotic gymnastics involving lumbering elephants.
“Circuit training, Carlotta. Your job is to make sure every girl does her allotted reps on each machine.”
By now my fellow classmates were drifting out of the locker room in their gym shorts and T-shirts. They didn’t seem too happy to see Carlotta, still in street clothes and holding what they (rightly) interpreted as a symbol of cardiovascular tyranny.
“Whatsamatter, Carlotta?” called Janice Griffloch, a zit-plagued wanna-be thespian I had once anonymously fixed up with Trent Preston. “Got your period?”
Miss Arbulash blew her whistle, signaling for the tortures to begin.
Circulating meekly among the reluctant exercisers, Carlotta was the subject of much sotto voce abuse.
“Sucking up to ol’ Elbowgash, huh?” whispered my friend Sonya, puffing away on an overloaded treadmill.
Not a good attitude. Not good. Carlotta dialed Sonya’s speed UP a notch.
I drifted over to where My Love was working out on the butterfly station.
“That’s very good for the bust,” Carlotta commented approvingly, awarding Sheeni a dozen extra reps on my chart.
“You are going to burn in a lake of fire,” hissed My Love, rotating on to the stair-climbing machine when Miss Arbulash blew her whistle.
Next, I counted the weightlifting reps of tall Barb Hoffmaster, who with each crunch appeared to be chanting under her breath, “Pet dyke, pet dyke, pet dyke.”
What’s that supposed to mean?
The only person not emanating overt hostility was Sonya’s pal Lana Baldwin, a rather plain girl I knew only from her hillbilly accent and spectacularly incorrect answers in business math class. She smiled at me while skiing on the cross-country machine. So Carlotta adjusted her incline lower and added another quarter-mile to her total.
Eventually the workout came to an end: Miss Arbulash harangued her pupils for their lackluster performance, they stared at their shoes in transparent indifference, then everyone (including Carlotta) was sent to the locker room.
“Uh, I’m also allergic to steam,” a desperate Carlotta pointed out.
“It’s only water vapor,” replied Miss Arbulash, handing me a plastic whistle. “I want you to keep things moving in there. Blow your whistle if there’s any horseplay.”
A teenage youth’s first impressions of the girls’ locker room: battered grey lockers, blue and white tile floor, water-stained ceiling, clouds of billowing steam, noisy chatter, chlorine odor, human odors, warm moistness, waving towels, brassieres, bare backs, bare legs, bare buttocks, panties, breasts, nipples, sullen stares, pubic hair, pounding heart, feelings of trespass, panic.
Struggling to gain control of my whirling mind, I attempted rational thought. “Oh look,” Carlotta noted to herself, “Barb Hoffmaster is not a natural blonde.”
I prayed my glasses would fog. Perversely, they refused.
Sheeni, naked as a clam, pushed rudely past me on her way to the showers. “Voyeuristic pervert,” she hissed.
“Pet dyke. Pet dyke,” someone whispered behind my back.
I couldn’t turn around. My motor system had shut down from sensory overload.
Lana Baldwin dropped her towel and smiled at me again. I noted that she was plain only from the neck up. Thinking selflessly of my lonely pal, I wondered if she found body hair attractive on men. She bent over to dry her cute little feet. She had an extraordinarily pink anus. I considered blowing my whistle and sharing this discovery with the group. Then thought better of it.
“So that’s how you put on a bra,” I thought, learning something new. (Carlotta had been hooking hers together and stepping into it like a skirt.) Naked Sonya drying herself off. Yes, fat girls require more towels; it’s only logical. Discreet gliding on of armpit scents. A spritz or two of perfume. Hasty yanking on of clothes to allow more time for critical hair fussing and makeup application. Shoving and elbowing before the too-small mirrors as the seconds tick down. Angry eruptions of hair spray. Moans of despair as the ringing bell touches off a final mad scramble. A withering glance from My Love as she slams her locker door on Carlotta’s hand. I feel no pain. I follow the departing hordes into the gym, gather up my books, and stumble down the corridor toward art class—a small plastic whistle still clutched in my now-throbbing hand.
I had lived through the longest seven minutes of my life. And I get to do it all over again tomorrow.
4:25 p.m. Needless to say, Fuzzy was in Carlotta’s face the entire walk home from school.
“Were you like really in the girls’ locker room? God, that is so incredible!”
“It’s no big deal, Frank. It’s only gym class, not backstage at Radio City with the Rockettes.”
“What was it like? Tell me!”
“Well, it was very much like the boys’ locker room—only with less towel-snapping and more lace.”
“Oh man, Carlotta. I used to wonder why a smart guy like you was running around dressed like a chick. Now I know it was a true stroke of genius!”
“Yeah, well personally I’m sick of it. You don’t know how lucky you are being able to walk into a restroom and unzip in front of a urinal like a normal person.”
“Well, anytime you want to switch, Carlotta, I’ll put on that dress and take over your locker-room duties.”
“I’ll keep that in mind, Frank.”
8:45 p.m. I was grappling anew with the hydrogen atom when the phone rang. It was Apurva calling collect from remote Mississippi. She reported excitedly that in eight hectic hours they had passed their blood tests, secured a license, put two “modest gold rings” in layaway (requiring more cash from Carlotta), outfitted Trent with essentials, and made an appointment with a judge on Thursday afternoon. They can’t get married sooner because the state imposes a three-day waiting period to permit sober reflection and allow inflamed premarital passions to cool. Married folks in Mississippi, it seems, have not acted impulsively.
“Did they ask you if you had your parents’ permission?” I inquired.
“Not at all, Carlotta. They seemed more interested in knowing if we had the $35 for the license.”
“They probably wondered why you waited so long to get married.”
“I sometimes wish my dear Trent was not so handsome. The clerk informed him privately that if things didn’t work out with me, she was available and willing.”
“How is Trent?”
“Fine. My darling looks ravishing in his new sports jacket. The waitress at the Chinese restaurant wrote her phone number on his napkin. Do you know, Carlotta, if my parents are very upset?”
“Not too bad,” I lied. “They figure you’re with Trent somewhere.”
“I know they’ll like my darling, once they get to know him.”
“I’m sure of it,” I lied. “He’s a charming guy. What’s Oxford like?”
“It’s a pleasant small town with many historic buildings. We took a long walk after dinner. Parts of it remind me of India.”
“How’s your motel?”
“Quite comfortable. I told Trent not to worry. Large insects are common in subtropical regions. They are not necessarily a sign of poor housekeeping.”
“Are the natives f
riendly?”
“Oh, very friendly. We have encountered no prejudice, although some reactions can be perplexing. I told an elderly woman by the ice machine that I was Indian, and she asked if I was getting rich on casino gambling.”
Again thanking me profusely for my generosity, Apurva gave me the name and address of their motel. I promised to wire additional dowry cash first thing tomorrow, wished them sweet dreams, and hung up. The phone rang immediately.
“Voyeuristic pervert.”
“Sheeni, that’s not fair. I did everything humanly possible to stay out of that damn locker room.”
“You mean you did everything humanly possible to stare as brazenly as possible at Lana Baldwin’s naked ass.”
“I wasn’t staring at anyone. I was doing my best to avert my eyes.”
“Well, just make sure Carlotta has her wig glued on tight tomorrow.”
“Why?” I asked, alarmed.
“I shouldn’t be spilling the beans, but the rumor is that Barb Hoffmaster and Janice Griffloch are leading a plot to toss Carlotta in the shower.”
“Thanks for the warning, darling. I have just one thing to say.”
“What?”
“You have by far the best body of anyone in your gym class.”
“Voyeuristic pervert!” Click.
So much for paying someone a sincere and informed compliment.
TUESDAY, March 2 — Much of the front page of this morning’s newspaper was given over to sensationalist accounts of the further depredations of the “Geezer” virus. All over the world irate computer users are being mooned and their valuable files scrambled. Yesterday’s banner headline in the New York Daily News: “Thanks a pantsful, Geezer hacker!”
I suppose I should worry about this, but I have far too much on my plate already. People should just learn to back-up their files and avoid promiscuous network coupling. Abstinence: you preach it to your kids, now try it with your computer.
Only two weeks to go until Sheeni’s fifteenth birthday. While Carlotta was cutting clothing technology class to wire money at my bank, she also transferred a large wad to her checking account in preparation for Sheeni’s costly natal-day celebrations. It should come as no surprise to anyone that My One and Only Love is a Pisces.
At lunchtime Candy Pringle and other do-gooder senior girls passed out lengths of yellow plastic ribbon for students to tie to their lockers, backpacks, and cars to demonstrate their concern for Trent’s safe return. I was not pleased to see that Sheeni and Vijay were wearing matching yellow armbands as they dined together. All of Trent’s swim team buddies have shaved their heads (and reportedly their pubic hair as well) in solidarity with their missing pal. As you might expect, the school is abuzz with Trent and Apurva rumors—some of the more improbable ones having been initiated by Carlotta herself.
In business math class Carlotta chatted up friendly Lana Baldwin, who said, “Heck, they all talk like this back in Nitro, West Virginia.” She confessed she doesn’t have a boyfriend. It’s no wonder, considering the way she dresses. The average male student in the school simply has no idea what’s going on under her dowdy tweed jumpers and sloppy pullovers.
After that class Carlotta’s Ossifidusbrittalus syndrome flared up again, and Nurse Filmore excused her from the balance of the school day. I hope her cheerful presence was not missed in the girls’ locker room.
8:10 p.m. I just had another long phone conversation with Apurva. She reports they have purchased their wedding rings, which they are now wearing to get a feel for married life. So far so good. Today they toured Rowan Oak, Nobel laureate William Faulkner’s lavish 1840s-era home set on 21 magnolia-strewn acres. They admired his antique Underwood portable typewriter, inspected a small stable he built with his own hands, and peered into the smokehouse where he cured his own bacon. I wonder if the Nobel Prize selection committee is impressed by these sorts of extracurricular author activities? Should I be nominated, I must remember to show them Carlotta’s recently completed black A-line skirt.
This proximity to Great Literature evidently excited Trent’s poetic imagination. Apurva was eager to share his latest work, titled “Diet of Worms.”
Bitter memories
Compose my breakfast,
Sprinkled lightly with
Longing and regret.
Lost friends
Nourish at midday
With their absence
And neglect.
Faded dreams
Sustain at night—
A solemn feasting on
Ambitions deferred.
Somewhat more intelligible than his previous “futurist percussion” efforts, but not pointing to a very positive state of mind as marriage looms. And what, I wondered, was on his dessert menu—angst a la mode? Carlotta politely agreed with Apurva that it was a “brilliant effort,” but suggested—as one girl to another—that she splash on a little more perfume before retiring this evening.
“And how are things going in that department?” Carlotta couldn’t help but ask.
I could sense Apurva’s blush from 2,500 miles away. “Very well, Carlotta. Somehow I feel I can discuss these things with you. We’ve been reading more books on the topic. My darling Trent has been hunting for my G-spot.”
“Any luck?” I asked, intrigued.
“Not so far,” she admitted. “But the search has been most stimulating.”
WEDNESDAY, March 3 — I nearly gagged on my donut when I opened this morning’s newspaper. There above the fold on page one was a full-color, highly unflattering photo of my father—in handcuffs. He’s been arrested by the FBI!
Working around the clock, federal computer experts had followed the trail of the Geezer virus back to a suspicious PC clone located amid “squalid conditions” in a “rundown” modular home on the outskirts of Ukiah. The creator of the most insidious virus in computing history has been found: alleged super-hacker George W. Twisp.
Scanning the news article, I once again experienced that all-too-familiar scrotal rhumba. The story reported that because of the “sensitive nature” of Mr. Twisp’s employment, officials are speculating he may be an “eco-terrorist” sent by “radical elements” to “infiltrate and disrupt” the timber industry.
My father, an environmentalist? The guy has never recycled a can in his life!
9:30 a.m. A worried Fuzzy Defalco cornered Carlotta by her locker just before homeroom this morning.
“Yes, Frank,” I assured him, “I’ve seen the newspaper.”
“What are you going to do, Carlotta?”
I lowered my voice. “What can I do? It’s out of my hands. Don’t worry, Frank. We’re safe.”
“But, Carlotta, the last guy they nailed for cooking up a virus got five years in the federal pen.”
“Yeah, I know,” I said, closing my locker. “Most parents deserve a little jail time—for neglect and emotional abuse—but five years is pretty extreme, even for my dad.”
“Are you going to confess?”
“Don’t be delusional, Frank. You know me better than that.”
12:50 p.m. As Vijay was absent from school, Sheeni (now wearing yellow ribbons on both arms) consented to join Carlotta for lunch. I could tell My Love had seen the news reports and was determined to get to the bottom of things.
“I never realized Nick’s father was such an expert on computers,” she observed, munching the middle of her sandwich in her endearingly infantile way.
“Sheeni, for being a sophisticated person of the world, you eat a sandwich like a three-year-old.”
My Love chose to ignore this remark. “One might even describe the Twisps as a one-family crime wave. Soon another member of the clan may find himself behind bars—for criminal peeping.”
“It was all an accident,” I whispered. “There was a bug in my program.”
“I might have known Nick was behind all this. It’s obvious the fellow has unresolved Oedipal issues.”
“Nick was not trying to send his father to prison.�
��
Sheeni gazed at me, applied her sensual lips to the soft underbelly of her sandwich, bit down, and masticated with arresting grace. Her luminous azure eyes bored into the very center of my being.
Carlotta began to sweat. OK, maybe she’s right. Perhaps my subconscious has been plotting a terrible revenge. A tough break for Dad, but what an insight to share with my future analyst.
4:35 p.m. The rest of the school day was uneventful except for girls’ gym, where Carlotta again performed her slave overseer duties and nude ablutions monitoring. Alert to locker-room treachery, she positioned herself by the exit door to the gym—one hand poised on the doorknob, emergency whistle clamped firmly between her teeth. I was admiring the classical proportions of Lana Baldwin’s naked torso when a half-dozen towel-swathed girls, led by Barb Hoffmaster, made a feint toward the showers, then suddenly whirled and bolted toward me.
“Get her!” they screamed, their towels flying and breasts flopping.
“FLEEEEEEEE!” screeched Carlotta’s whistle, as I dashed into the gym just ahead of the thundering herd. “FLEEEEEEEE!”
Miss Arbulash looked up from where she was discussing treadmill belt alignment woes with Janitor Bob and two of his low-IQ student assistants. The fellows dropped their wrenches and stared open-mouthed.
“What’s going on here?” Miss Arbulash demanded.
Carlotta’s pursuers skidded to a stop, squealed in surprise, clutched at themselves, turned, and scuttled back into the locker room.
They never laid a glove on me.
And an outraged Miss Arbulash gave them all a week’s detention for attempted hazing of her valued assistant.
Later, on the walk home from school, Carlotta informed her pal Fuzzy that he had a date on Friday night with Lana Baldwin.
“Lana Baldwin!” he exclaimed, incredulous. “She’s the mousiest chick in our class. And she talks weird.”
“She can’t help it. She’s from West Virginia.”
“How come she eats lunch with all the fat girls?”
“Well, she’s buddies with Sonya Klummplatz. But don’t hold that against her. And don’t kid yourself, guy, she’s hot.”
“Really?”
“I’m talking illegal Chinese firecracker—from the neck down, of course. And she’s very nice. She doesn’t know you from Adam, but she’s agreed to the date on my recommendation. So be nice to her.”