Crazy Little Thing

by Layce Gardner

  Crazy Little Thing

  Saxon Bennett & Layce Gardner

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Published by Square Pegs Ink

  Text Copyright © 2014 Saxon Bennett & Layce Gardner

  All Rights Reserved. This book, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any form without the authors’ permission.

  Editor: Kate Michael Gibson

  Katemichaelgibson.com

  DEDICATION

  To our readers, without you there would be no us

  Acknowledgements

  Much love and thanks to Kate Michael Gibson, Emma Gardner, Judy Baker, Melanie Polito, Jaynes Pehney, Charlotte Demesko, Karen Kormelink, Liz Mc Mullen, and all the other women who make writing fun!

  Ollie Speaks

  Ollie stared directly into the lens of the video camera and asked, “Ready? Camera’s on?”

  The camera moved up and down in a “yes” movement.

  Ollie ran her fingers through her short blonde hair and took a deep breath. She laced her fingers together, bent them backwards and cracked her knuckles.

  “Okay… My name’s Ollie Hiland. I live in Houston. That’s in Texas. You might say Houston is an acquired taste. Actually, it tastes like smog. It smells like car exhaust. It looks dingy and gray. But to the people that were born and bred here, it’s the best place on earth. People say that California is where you should be. You know, to surf and stuff. But if you ask me, we have way better waves… I’m supposed to be telling you what this movie is all about… excuse me: film. The director told me to call it a film not a movie. That sounds pretentious, but whatever. Here’s what’s happening… I’m getting divorced. My wife called me up last week and said she wants a divorce. She kicked me out of the house almost a year ago. So her wanting a divorce wasn’t a big surprise or anything. That’s the thing, you know, that sucks. Gay people fought so long and so hard for the right to get married and now we’re getting divorced just like everybody else. My wife wants to marry another woman. So, what can I do? She loves somebody else.”

  Ollie stared at a place off-camera. “Story of my life,” she whispered.

  Divorce 101

  “If you ask me, there should be some sort of class you have to pass before you can get married,” Ollie said. She turned the wheel and guided her van around a corner. The bright orange Volkswagon van was Ollie’s pride and joy. She had never owned another car and at her age that was saying something. The van not only got her to where she was going, but had served double-duty as her home on more than one occasion. It had a table, a sink, a mini-fridge, a bed and a pop-top. It was a complete house on wheels. Ollie knew that as long as she had her van, she had a place to call home.

  “What, like a Marriage 101 course?” G-Ray asked.

  “More like Divorce 101,” Ollie said.

  “Wait,” G-Ray said. “This is good stuff. I need to capture this on film.” G-Ray was Ollie’s best friend since the first grade when Ollie beat him up for giving his cookie to Karen Johnson. Ollie had a crush on Karen Johnson because she was the fastest reader in the whole class.

  G-Ray was tall, gangly, sported dreadlocks and looked like your typical anti-society surfer bum. His dreadlocks were natural, not done in a beauty shop. He hadn’t brushed his hair since sixth grade when he lost a bet with Ollie about whether Karen Johnson would kiss him. She didn’t. He lost. That was the beginning of his locks.

  G-Ray wasn’t exactly stupid - not in a Forrest Gump way - but he did look the opposite of intelligent. In fact, he was often mistaken for homeless. One time G-Ray had stood outside a coffee shop waiting on Ollie and a man dropped a quarter in his mocha cappuccino. He wasn’t too proud to suck the foam off the quarter and put it in his pocket.

  G-Ray pointed his camera at Ollie. Once the red light came on, he urged, “Okay, Ollie, we’re rolling. Keep talking.”

  “What do you want me to say?”

  “Be organic, man. Like, say whatever pops into your head.”

  “Okay,” Ollie said. There was a long pause. Silence and more silence. Ollie laughed. “My head is empty.”

  “I’ll kick-start you with some questions. Cool?”

  “Cool,” Ollie agreed.

  “Is Ollie your real name?”

  “No way I’m going to divulge my real name on film.” She peered at the camera and explained, “I got the name Ollie because when I was little, like four or five, I was the first kid in our neighborhood that could do an Ollie on my skateboard.” She smiled at G-Ray and the camera. “That’s my story and I’m sticking to it.”

  G-Ray made a rolling motion with his hand indicating he wanted her to continue talking. She rambled on, “Um… I like to surf. But I grew up and had to have a job that made some cash so… I work at a surf shop on the beach. I do artwork on the side. Airbrushing surfboards and skateboards. I also paint the shells of hermit crabs and sell those.”

  G-Ray rolled his hand again.

  “Okay, talking, talking… Um, Janis Joplin is from Houston. Just some F.Y.I.” Ollie looked over at G-Ray. “I was once called the Janis Joplin of the waves.”

  “Who said that?” G-Ray asked.

  “My dad.”

  “So, here you are sitting behind the wheel of your most excellent van. Where are you headed?” G-Ray asked.

  “Well… we are on our way to pick up my wife, Claire. We got married last year in Iowa.”

  “Why Iowa?”

  “You know why,” Ollie said.

  G-Ray lowered the camera and whispered, “Yeah, Ollie, I know why. But the audience doesn’t. This is called exposition. So if I ask you questions that means I’m asking on behalf of the viewing audience. Like, it’s not me talking, okay? I’m playing the part of the unseen narrator, man. I’m like the fourth wall personified.”

  “Aliens fried your brain, G-Ray. I know you said they went up the other end, but they got your brains too, my friend,” Ollie teased.

  “I am choosing to ignore that unjust remark. Tell the audience why you went to Iowa to get married.”

  “What?”

  “Just answer the bleep question,” G-Ray said.

  “Did you just say bleep?”

  “Yeah.” He explained, “I’m going to bleep out any cussing or swearing, you know, so this can maybe get a PG rating. We’ll get into bigger theatres that way.”

  “You can bleep it later, can’t you? You don’t have to actually say the word bleep, do you?”

  “No, but it serves as a bookmark, you know. Every time I hear bleep, I’ll put in a bleep noise.”

  “That’s the stupidest bleeping thing I ever bleep heard,” Ollie said.

  They laughed. G-Ray zoomed the camera in closer on Ollie. “So, spill. You got married to Claire…”

  “Yeah, we had to leave our home state of Texas and drive clear to Iowa because that’s where it was legal for same sex couples to get married. Then we came back home to Houston and set up house. But Texas won’t let us get divorced because in their eyes we aren’t really married in the first place. So we have to drive all the way back to Iowa to get divorced.”

  “Wow,” G-Ray said. “Bummer.”

  “And not only that, but when I contacted the judge he said we have to establish residency in Iowa to get divorced. We have to live there together for three months. And only then can we get divorced.”

  “Double bummer. But you could just stay married, right?”

  “Not really. Because Claire, my wife, wants to marry somebody else. So we’re off to th
e land of Hawkeyes. We’re driving up there together to save on expenses. Actually, she’s paying for the whole shebang and I’m along for the ride.”

  “And I’m capturing the world’s first lesbian divorce on film,” G-Ray said. “This documentary is going to be my Carrie.”

  “Carrie?”

  G-Ray said, “Yeah, Dood, like Stephen King. Carrie was his first book and jumpstarted his whole illustrious career.”

  “Well, I hope this film has a different ending.”

  “What is a Hawkeye anyway?” G-Ray said, changing the subject.

  Ollie shrugged. “I think it’s some kind of fauna that’s native to the area.”

  “I’m off the grid, man, or I’d goggle it.”

  “It’s pronounced Google, G-Ray, and you’ve never been on the grid so how could you possibly go off it?”

  “I’m old school, so sue me,” he said.

  Ollie looked in the rear view mirror. “So how’s Sleeping Beauty doing back there?” Ollie was referring to Esmerelda. She went by the nickname EZ. EZ had long shaggy hair with bangs that hung low over her eyes. Her skin was ghostly pale from lack of sunlight. EZ was a narcoleptic who fell asleep at the drop of a hat. In fact, she had fallen asleep at a Bananarama concert in the late 1980s and had rarely been awake since then. When she did wake up she always seemed surprised to learn that life had gone on and it was no longer 1987. Which explained why she was wearing parachute pants, moon boots and a Pointer Sisters T-shirt with the neck cut out, Flashdance style.

  G-Ray looked over his shoulder at the lump on the bed in the back of the van. “Hey, EZ! Wake up!”

  EZ suddenly sat straight up, her eyes popped open, and she blurted, “Relax, don’t do it! When you want to, go do it!” Then she fell back over and continued snoring.

  Ollie and G-Ray shouted at the same time: “Frankie Goes to Hollywood!”

  “Jinx, you owe me a coke,” Ollie said.

  “I’m still up by two points,” G-Ray said.

  “Not for long,” Ollie said, “my luck is changing. I can feel it.”

  G-Ray aimed the camera at EZ. “She’s right back to sleep. I don’t think I’ll ever get used to how she can do that.”

  “She told me once it was a defense mechanism. Too much stress and she conks out. Some people drink, some smoke, some take Valium; she falls asleep. Could be worse, I guess,” Ollie said.

  “It’s sad, though, man,” G-Ray said. “She’s missed like three whole decades.” He turned off the camera.

  Oscar the Weenie dog jumped up in Ollie’s lap. “Hey, there Oscar. How ya hanging?”

  Oscar was the epitome of dogs. He was one of those dogs who enjoyed being a dog. He savored every aspect of dogdom. Every smell was to be cherished, every lick was delectable and each and every moment was to be thoroughly humped until it was humped out. He may have been a little Weenie dog, but he had the attitude of a Bull Mastiff.

  Not long after Claire had thrown Ollie out of the house, Ollie had purchased Oscar. He was being sold out of the back of a station wagon in the Walmart parking lot. Ollie lost her wife, but gained a dog. And there were some days she thought she got the better bargain.

  Oscar panted happily and pressed his face against the window. Ollie scratched him behind the ears. “I hope Claire doesn’t forget to pack her allergy pills,” Ollie said. “Or this is going to be one long trip.”

  Claire Speaks

  “How’s my hair? Is my hair okay?” Claire asked, looking right at the camera. She fluffed her bangs and lightly patted the top of her head.

  The camera nodded up and down in a “yes” movement.

  Claire cleared her throat, sat up straighter, and smiled. “Okay… Here goes… Hi! My name is Claire Drummond. I am an investment banker. I work for a large firm, but I can’t say their name on camera without their permission. I am married to Ollie Hiland. We got married on a spur of the moment type of thing. You know the old U-Haul joke which isn’t really a joke? Well, we actually drove the U-Haul, metaphorically speaking, to Des Moines and got married. Then once the honeymoon was over and the infatuation had worn off, I realized it was a mistake. A big mistake. We had nothing in common. Nothing. And so we split up. Then I met Scarlet when she hired me to take a look at her portfolio. She’s a very aggressive investor. Scarlet is the love of my life. We have a lot in common. And I want to marry her. But first I have to divorce Ollie. I guess you could say our whole marriage could be summed up thusly: I bought high and sold low. And now I have to take the losses.”

  Claire looked down at her feet. A flash of sadness crossed her features then was quickly replaced by a tight smile. “Is that all you need?”

  The camera shut off.

  Gluten Free

  Claire stood in her bedroom looking at her suitcase, which was lying open on her bed. She had finished packing. All her clothes were rolled neatly. Dryer sheets were placed between layers of clothing to give them a fresh smell and Ziploc baggies held her toiletries.

  Claire double-checked her mental checklist. “That’s it,” she said, closing the suitcase. “I think I have everything.” She was wearing her traveling outfit – a pair of black stretchy pants, a scoop-neck black T-shirt, and black Converse low tops. Her outfit was strategically designed to avoid wrinkling, hide stains, and be comfortable enough to sleep in. She pulled her brown hair up into a ponytail and looked at her reflection in the full-length mirror. “I look like I’m going to rob a bank.”

  “You look like Audrey Hepburn,” Scarlet said.

  “Yeah, if Audrey Hepburn gained fifty pounds and was going to rob a bank.”

  “Remember, no gluten,” Scarlet said, wagging her finger at Claire’s reflection. At twenty-nine, Scarlet was much younger than Claire. The age difference didn’t bother Scarlet. It bothered Claire plenty.

  Scarlet had flaming red hair. She also had a red-hot temper and sexual appetite. Everything about Scarlet was scarlet. Scarlet tapped her toe and warned again, “You promised, no gluten. It makes you bloat.”

  “I know, I know,” Claire said. “No gluten. You want to write it on my forehead?”

  “Don’t be cranky,” Scarlet said. “I’m not the one with the weird-ass allergies.”

  “They’re not weird-ass, as you so eloquently put it,” Claire said. “Lots of people get hives.” She absentmindedly scratched her belly.

  It was true that Claire wasn’t feeling at the top of her game. She was retaining water, emotional, at turns hyper and lethargic, and in a bad mood in general. She blamed it on gluten and numerous other things. But deep down, she was worried there might be another cause. And maybe, just maybe, the cause was standing before her right now with one hand on her hip and one eyebrow raised accusingly.

  “I haven’t even eaten gluten and you’re acting like I have,” Claire whined.

  Scarlet buried her face in the crook of her arm and dramatically turned her back to Claire. “You can’t go,” Scarlet whispered. “I can’t live without you.” When she turned back around, there was one perfectly shaped tear under her eye. She didn’t wipe it away. She let it sit there on her cheek where Claire couldn’t help but notice it.

  “What?” Claire said doing her best to look anywhere but at Scarlet’s lone teardrop. “Of course I can go.” She dug her fingernails into the sensitive flesh around her belly button, scratching hard.

  “You can’t go!” Scarlet yelled, stamping her foot in a tantrum. She flung open Claire’s suitcase and began tossing clothes out of the case and into the air. “I won’t let you! I can’t live three months without you!”

  A pair of panties sailed high into the air and parachuted down onto Claire’s head. Her eyes peeked through the leg-holes. She couldn’t believe this was happening. Wait, yes she could. This was just like Scarlet. Make a big dramatic exit scene. She would leave Scarlet wailing and keening, gnashing her teeth, and ripping her hair. No, that was too biblical. Scarlet would cry and throw a few things - inexpensive things from Pier One; she wasn’t a fool – and
guilt Claire. God, she could feel the hives popping out all over her butt.

  Claire ducked just in time to dodge being smashed in the face with a picture frame from Hobby Lobby. She noted that it was a frame Scarlet hated.

  “Why why why!” Scarlet wailed. “Why did you only pack your sexy underwear? Look at this!” she said, yanking the panties off Claire’s head. “These are your sexy panties!”

  “No, they’re not,” Claire said. “I don’t have sexy underwear. I have normal underwear. Underwear that befits a woman of my age and status.”

  Scarlet moaned and threw herself facedown onto the bed. She pounded her fists into the mattress like an angry toddler having a fit. After a few moments her tantrum waned to a few ragged sobs.

  Claire sighed deeply and sat on the edge of the bed. She tried to soothe Scarlet by patting her back. “Honey, I have to do this so we can get married. Remember this is for us.”

  “You don’t love me,” Scarlet whined like a petulant child.

  “I do. I do love you,” Claire said softly, patting Scarlet’s head. “That’s what this is all about. If I didn’t love you, I wouldn’t be getting divorced so we could get married.”

  Scarlet peeked through her fingers. “You do love me?”

  “Of course I do, honey. You’re my little booger wooger bear.”

  Scarlet smiled weakly. “You’re my little monkey wonkey butt.”

  Claire tenderly wiped Scarlet’s tears away. Scarlet pulled Claire close to kiss her. Claire turned her face away, saying, “Blow your nose first.”

  “Huh?”

  “Your nose.” She pointed at her own nose, which was wrinkled in disgust. “You have some snot and stuff. Blow your nose.”

  “Oh.” Scarlet grabbed a tissue from the box on the nightstand and blew so hard it sounded like a goose honking. She looked back at Claire and said with a stuffed-up nose, “Make lub to meb.”