by Inman Majors
Feeling that one mystery had been solved, she went back to her LoveSynch page, ready for message two from Fitzwilliam Darcy.
12
Dear TheosMom75,
What a lovely, gnomic message you have sent to brighten the inbox of my day! I read it numerous times, and studied it, initially, as if coming across an unknown free verse classic by Dr. William Carlos Williams. On closer inspection, however, I thought I discerned a certain (if understated) formalist aesthetic. Says I: activate scansion mode, Mr. Spock.
Pulling out the trusty pencil and marking (as some out-of-fashion New Critic might) stress/unstress to your rhythmically impeccable line of poetry—Hey. Nice to meet you. Off to work—I experienced an exquisite flash of Eureka!
Archimedes sitting down in his warm tub and realizing that water was being displaced by his volume had nothing on my discovery that your words, your elegant, sphinxlike words, were (drumroll, please): iambic tetrameter!
As a lover of poetry, I must insist that you not reply again while the pen of opportunity is affording you verse such as this. But should your beneficent Muse need a well-deserved respite from her (his?) efforts sometime in the not-too-distant future, I hope you will grace me with another of your lyrical efforts.
Yours in the traditional poetic foot—
F. Darcy
Penelope read this through several times. This Fitzwilliam dude was definitely messing with her. That was obvious. On the other hand, the ribbing seemed good-natured and pretty funny, and she felt flattered that he’d taken time to compose two long messages. No one she knew could just dash off something like that. This matter of time raised the question of why F. Darcy had so much of it, and now the voices of Sandy and Rachel popped into her head, reminding her of her weakness for smart, quirky, and underemployed men.
She considered this. The argument had merit. Of course they also said she had a weakness for huge, huge rednecks. In fact, Sandy had once suggested that her life had been one long yin and yang journey from smart boys in short robes to HHRs in duck blinds, a continual yo-yoing from one to the other then back again, ever seeking the opposite of what she’d just left. But was Sandy alone on a weekend? Had she wrestled with a softball mother at a frontier roadhouse? Penelope thought not. And was Sandy a medically certified psychologist? Again, no. Hell no, in fact.
Deciding to let those who are without sin cast the first psychoanalysis, she banished the disapproving voices of her friends and replied:
Dear Mr. Darcy,
so much depends
upon
a red wheel
barrow
but if that doesn’t work
beam me up, Scotty!
Sincerely,
Elizabeth Bennet
She was proud of herself for remembering the William Carlos Williams poem and gave a grudging salute to the draconian but efficient Mrs. Sketchin for that bit of recall. Waffling for several minutes about whether to sign off as TheosMom75 or as the love interest of Fitzwilliam Darcy in Pride and Prejudice, she eventually threw caution to the wind. Who cared? It was Internet jive talk. She wasn’t asking to be whisked away to the heath or whatever of Pemberley at Derbyshire. She wasn’t sure she was ready to date anyway. Of course, James was dating already. But was she in a competition with her ex-husband?
No. Absolutely not. That would be just too high school. Okay, forget dates and men and Mrs. Sketchin too. Time to focus on finding a job. How could she consider dating when she lived with her mother? Talk about high school.
It took approximately three minutes to canvass the skimpy offerings in Hillsboro and its environs. Waitresses and dishwashers and day-care workers about covered her options. She had moved on to reading a list of the biggest jerks in Hollywood that took ten times longer than it should have because you had to switch a page for each new entry when another pop-up appeared for something called “Paybacks Are Hell Heaven!”
A quick perusal revealed this to be a website that featured snapshots of women in various states of undress, if various meant naked but with shoes, socks, bra, or hat on. What struck Penelope immediately was the amateurish quality of both model and photographer. These were snapshots, pure and simple, taken, if the first few were any indication, in dorms, hotel rooms, or trailers. One showed a Rolling Stones poster in the background, another a Jamaican flag with a marijuana leaf in the middle. Most included bedside tables loaded with beer cans, as if both photographer and model had recently been chugging a few. A few women were middle-aged, but most looked in their twenties, goofy with youth and lack of cellulite.
One photo of a girl with red hair drew her attention especially. It was the tan lines, those two big strips of white against the girl’s brown skin. Everyone else looked the same color all over, as if they either never went out in the sun or only went out completely nude. The picture that caught her eye was old, a Polaroid, and the girl looked sleepy in a pleased sort of way under her wavy red hair. There was a gravity bong on the table beside her and a mounted fish above the waterbed, which she lounged upon as if it was the finest that the Taj Mahal had to offer. Penelope thought she looked like the sweetest, prettiest idiot she’d ever seen.
Which made her mad when she looked again at the website name and fully registered the word payback. This was one of those places where guys sent in photos of their ex-girlfriends and wives. Losers. Jackasses. Creeps.
Truth be known, way back when, she’d posed for some reasonably tasteful nudes for the HHR. She remembered the day perfectly. They’d gone out to the lake with Paulie and Theresa and done flips off Paulie’s dad’s pontoon boat despite drinking about two cases of Bud Light between them and smoking weed Rastafarian style for the duration. Afterwards, she and the HHR had gone back to his apartment. She was in her sophomore year of college and the HHR had started his lawn business. He was rolling in dough, at least compared to everyone else they knew, and had his own place with no roommate. They were just about to mess around. The HHR was standing at the sink, naked save for his high-top sneakers and the Lynyrd Skynyrd bandana he always wore at the lake. He was draining his fifteenth beer of the day while singing “Gimme Two Steps” and dancing in a comic way. Basically the big goof was performing a nudie Texas Two-Step.
She had to admit the HHR could dance. And he was funny. And yes, handsome too. His curly hair was blondish brown and lay casually in Cupidesque rings beneath his bandana. His body was lean and muscular and he was good in bed.
She was on the waterbed, laughing at his antics, feeling frisky and ready for come what may. Smoking pot had that effect on her sometimes. Most of the time, actually. And earlier in the week, she’d dyed her hair red, just for the heck of it. She wished he’d get a move on. This would be her first time making love as a redhead, and she was curious if it would feel different. If he wanted to try out his new Polaroid, she was game.
Penelope paused violently in her recollection, the weird nostalgia for the early days with the HHR fleeing as suddenly as it had come.
Polaroid? Waterbed? Redhead?
Her eyes darted to the computer screen and the smiling, pretty idiot with the wavy red hair.
OMG, OMG, OMG.
What if George saw this when he was down here searching for behemoth bosoms? What if he already had? What if her mother saw the photo and offered tips on modern personal grooming? Or if James saw? Or Theo? Or any of those bullies on his bus? Or Fitzwilliam Darcy after they exchanged Eiffel Towers or whatever the hell it was that indicated you were ready to go on a date? Or anyone else in the whole world who owned a computer? Her preacher, her former teachers, that shy bag boy at Kroger?
This was her first reaction.
Her second reaction was to compare her memory of the photo session with the proof now staring her in the face. There was nothing remotely tasteful about the way she was sprawled there on the HHR’s beloved waterbed. In her mind’s eye, her legs had been decorously closed, with just a hint of peek-a-boo, like one of those old burlesque photos. But the stark evidenc
e before her showed a full-on splay. She’d even raised her hips a bit, surely at the HHR’s prompting. The coup de grace, however, to the memory she’d nurtured of herself as an artistic model was a hand caught mid-motion, finger curling toward herself, beckoning the photographer to hurry up and come sample the tasty wares. God, she was a complete tart back then. Even the largemouth bass above her could tell that. His plastic eyes were practically goggling at the spectacle below. And the bong in the background? Classy. Child services would be calling any minute now. Forget Theo spending an extra night with James. He’d be living there permanently if this got out.
This wasn’t erotica. Not close. No, it was a straight beaver shot as featured in every magazine the HHR had managed to steal out of some trucker’s garage. She might as well have been hiking a leg over a Harley Davidson.
There were other details of life with the HHR in the Polaroid: the faux-wood paneling of the back wall, the Black Sabbath sticker on the headboard, the sock drawer that the HHR never once in four years closed. And there on the floor, her cute little white two-piece of that summer, looking too shy and delicate for the sordid scene taking place on the bed.
And then the depth of the HHR’s betrayal began to sink in. He was a lot of things, most of them stoned and shiftless, but he’d never before been a sneak, nor mean, nor vindictive. Yet here was proof that he was all these things. He swore that he’d burned those photos, and she shuddered to think what the others might show. She seemed to recall trying out several poses, and even had a hazy recollection of visiting the pipe while the HHR was still snapping away. Yes, now that she thought of it, she had definitely posed nude while hitting a bong. The bong was green. Her name was Tinkerbell.
Recalling all this, Penelope spent a moment wondering if she was really meant for life in the middle class.
Then she grabbed the phone and dialed. She knew the HHR’s number because it was the same landline he’d had back in his freelance photography days. The HHR didn’t trust cell phones, believing both his liberty and his sperm count to be imperiled through their use. Simply put, the HHR wanted to mow lawns and smoke weed without government intervention. And he wanted his full allotment of spermatozoa. Thus the landline.
Yeah, and he also wanted to send in naked photos of her without her permission just to be a perverted loser of a jerk. The HHR, doubtlessly searching for his phone among the taxidermy equipment that littered his domicile, took about fifteen rings to find the receiver but finally answered with a: “Yello.”
“Don’t yello me, asshole.”
“Oh hey, Penelope. How are you?”
“And don’t oh hey, Penelope, how are you me either, asshole.”
“Hey now, you already called me asshole once.”
“That’s because you are an asshole.”
“Now that’s three times. And that seems like about two too many. We aren’t married anymore, Penelope, in case you forgot.”
Her bimbo self was still smiling at her from the screen. She seemed to think that Penelope should just chill. Maybe get reacquainted with trusty Tinkerbell. This younger version of herself, caught for all eternity in her serene horniness, really got her going now.
“Asshole, asshole, asshole. Why did you send in that picture of me? God, I can’t believe you. I can’t believe you’d do that to me.”
No response came from the HHR, other than a long intake of breath that was followed by a minor coughing spell. The idiot was smoking dope as she ranted.
“Are you smoking dope right now, you asshole? I mean right this very minute?”
“That’s immaterial. And frankly, inadmissible.”
“What?”
“If I ask if you’re taping this conversation, then by Virginia statute, you have to say yes or no. So I’ll ask you: Are you taping this conversation?”
Penelope replied with the full extent of her profane vocabulary, the lion’s share of which she’d learned while in the HHR’s company.
“So,” said the HHR after another long intake, another coughing bout, “you confirm that this conversation is not being recorded by any device?”
“I just told you no, idiot.”
“Then yes, I am smoking marijuana, Penelope.”
“Why did you send that picture in?”
“What picture?”
“That naked picture, you idiot. You dumbass. You asshole. It’s on Paybacks Are Heaven.”
“Really? That site is pretty raunchy.”
“Oh my God. You sent in a picture of me.”
“Penelope, I still have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Maybe because you’re stoned out of your gourd.”
“Again, immaterial. What is your point?”
“You sent in one of those Polaroids you took of me NAKED that day after we went to the lake with Paulie and Theresa. And you told me you burned them all. You lied to me. You betrayed me.”
“I did burn them. You saw me do it, out in the firepit.”
“Yes, I saw you burn some photos. But you obviously didn’t burn them all or else half the world couldn’t see me naked on the Internet right now.”
The HHR didn’t answer. She heard a lighter being flicked, another gulp and swallow. Then the phone was set down and minor shuffling could be heard in the background. A minute passed and Penelope’s ire grew. Then a truly massive, though still muffled, coughing attack could be heard. Penelope was just about to get her car keys to confront the HHR in person when he came back to the phone.
“All right,” said the HHR. “I am now online and looking at the Paybacks Are Heaven website.”
“What took so long, damn it? You seem pretty casual about all this. I’m really pissed.”
“I got a new hookah—or a chillum, as it’s called in Uzbekistan—and thought I should clear my head before addressing your very real concerns.”
Oh my God, thought Penelope, he’s in his clear-headed phase now. This was a plateau only the HHR could reach, where if he just smoked enough weed he could power through his buzz and come out the other side, ready to philosophize and solve the minor problems of the world. This state was inevitably accompanied by precise language and a soothing monotone.
“You see the picture, jackass?”
“Indeed I do. And let me say first off, Penelope, that you look absolutely smoking hot. You’re like the second hottest chick on there. Other than that gal pulling off her yoga pants. So frankly, I’m not sure what the problem is. You are simply in the natural state, the same way you came into this world. The same way all of us came into the world.”
“I’m arching my back, you asshole.”
“Yes, I see that now. You are a sexual being. No shame in that. The Creator meant for us to be sexual, else He wouldn’t have made lovemaking so pleasurable.”
“You sent in that picture, you big fat liar.”
“I did not send in that picture, Penelope. That would be an invasion of your privacy and you know where I stand on that issue.”
“How did it get on there then?”
“That I do not know.”
Penelope paused. She could tell the HHR was truly in his philosopher mode now. She was getting sleepy just listening to him. Looking back, she wondered if it was his soothing stoned voice that had induced her to marry him in the first place. She’d always felt slightly hypnotized in his presence, such was his ability to get her in a relaxed state. It had probably been his stoned-philosopher voice that had talked her into posing nude as well.
“Okay, Plato. I saw you burn about ten photos out in your firepit. So here is a simple question. Did you burn every one of them?”
“I did not.”
“Aha!”
“I couldn’t. I had to keep one for sentimental reasons. You know you were my first real love.”
This was likely true. He’d been married three other times since their nuptials, but she was his first blushing bride. She began to feel a little sorry for him.
“And,” said the HHR, “some memories
just can’t be trusted to the spank bank. I had to have one visual. Come on. That was a rocking night.”
“Spank bank? Seriously?”
“My memory is not what it once was. You know I’m nostalgic.”
This was true. The HHR was nostalgic. He found it impossible to throw out any bong or pipe that had once treated him in a righteous manner and kept his former companions scattered about the apartment like decorative lamps he never turned on. He also had a whole shed full of antiquated leaf blowers that he’d spent many an enjoyable afternoon with, including his first one, which he’d named Calypso.
“So I did mislead you,” continued the HHR, “about burning all those pictures. I apologize for that. I kept the one. But I’d never send it to any website. You know I wouldn’t betray you like that. That was our private moment. I didn’t even know it was missing from my drawer.”
Penelope wondered if this was the same sock drawer he preferred left open, but thought better of inquiring. She found that she wasn’t as angry anymore and that kind of made her angry too. She said: “Well, it got on there somehow.”
This elicited another flick of the lighter and the turbulent sound of water rushing through intricate tubing. Then the HHR said, in his clearest, smoothest voice yet: “Hey, I bet I know what happened.”
13
Penelope waited for the explanation that was forthcoming, but the HHR had gone silent. He did this sometimes when winded after working himself into the philosophical state. Penelope could see him now, gazing off to the horizon, or else staring, rapt, at one of the lunging, open-mouthed fish mounted on his wall, pondering the Grecian Urn thrill of the never-ending catch. Or just too stoned to stop gaping. Finally he resumed speaking:
“Penelope, I stand corrected. You are the hottest babe on this site. I think the gal in the yoga pants is a pro pretending to be an amateur, so she’s disqualified. Damn, you look good in that picture.”