Mary Janice Davidson, Michele Bardsley, Chris Tanglen - Lighthearted Lust (Ellora's Cave)

by james

  “Um, okay.”

  “Spectacular! I can’t wait! You’re not intending to cancel on me as soon as my back is turned, are you?”

  “I wouldn’t dream of it.”

  “Spectacular!”

  * * * * *

  Melody had been sitting at the keyboard for over an hour and hadn’t even finished a paragraph. This wasn’t like her. For Melody Talaway not to be able to concentrate on a graphic scene of brutal horror was unheard of. She’d been dumped because she only cared about her writing, and now she couldn’t write.

  Irony sucked.

  Okay, here was the solution. She was going to fill herself with alcohol straight down to the bone marrow, act like a drunken idiot in public, and

  thoroughly embarrass herself.

  Or maybe not.

  Maybe she’d just start smoking again. She dialed in the combination of the padlock on her bottom desk drawer, removed it and set it aside, and then slid open the drawer and took out one of her forty-two packs of emergency cigarettes. She found a lighter, tore the nicotine patch from her neck, and lit up.

  Ahhhhhh…

  After she finished, she threw away the cigarette butt and applied a new patch. The cigarette (her first in nearly a day) had been wonderful, but she didn’t

  feel much better.

  It was time to call her mother.

  “Hi, honey.” Agatha answered her cellular phone on the third ring. “How is

  everything?”

  Melody frowned. Was that the sound of semiautomatic weapons in the background? “Where are you?”

  There was an explosion that Melody suspected was grenade-derived. “A campground in Michigan,” Agatha explained, talking loudly over the noise. “Your father and I and the rest of the group found an old junker automobile, so

  we’re blowing the shit out of it.”

  “You always were into the arts.”

  “I had to sit down after a couple of clips. Your mother’s not as young as she

  used to be. Hold on a moment, dear.” There was a pause as her mother shouted at one of the campers. “Dammit, Harry, be careful! That shrapnel almost hit me!”

  Maybe joining her parents for a weekend of destructive mayhem was the answer to her problems.

  “Sorry about that, dear. So how are you?”

  “Alex dumped me last night, but I’m handling it just super.”

  And then the tears started again.

  She unloaded on her mother for a solid ten minutes, applying a second nicotine patch halfway through. “I was a terrible person, Mom! I ignored him! All he wanted was a little attention, and I never gave it to him! I’m evil!”

  “That’s ridiculous, dear. Hitler was evil. You’re merely selfish and inconsiderate. You’ll get over this quickly enough. You just need to go out and have some fun.”

  “I don’t feel like leaving the house.”

  “Tough shit. Go on, treat yourself to a nice dinner. Forget all about that kid. Listen, dear, I have to go now…your father is breaking out the blowtorch. Love and kisses!”

  “Bye, Mom,” Melody hung up the phone. Maybe her mother was right. Maybe she just needed to get out of the house, have some fun for a change. Go out to dinner, someplace she’d never been to before. There was that one place, Dual Streams, that sounded good. At least she’d overheard a couple of people at work raving about it. They had live entertainment, so it wouldn’t be too uncomfortable going by herself.

  That was it. She’d put on her Happy Sweater, go out, treat herself to a burger and some music, come home, take a bubble bath with that slimy mango-scented gook her mother had given her three Christmases ago, then go to bed.

  And hopefully not dream about dying a lonely, decrepit, miserable old maid.

  However, a dream sequence like that one might work in her book. She jotted the idea down in her notepad. Good, she was getting her muse back. Everything was going to turn out fine.

  CHAPTER THREE

  For about forty-eight seconds, Melody allowed herself to believe that everything was going to turn out fine. On the forty-ninth second, she discovered that her Happy Sweater had fallen on the closet floor and been trampled with dirty shoes. Alex must’ve accidentally knocked it off the hanger when he was gathering up his clothes. It had to have been an accident. No matter how bitter he was, Alex would never purposely sully her Happy Sweater.

  Okay, it wasn’t a big deal. Her Happy Sweater—an orange sweater covered with goofy red lines that looked like smiling mouths—was getting a bit faded anyway. She selected a simple black blouse to go with her jeans, got dressed, washed her face, headed for the door, and came to the realization that she had no idea where in this or any other world her car keys were.

  They were supposed to be hanging on the little stone key hook shaped like a mutant octopus tentacle that was by the front door. That’s why she’d bought the thing. You know, I lose my keys a lot, she’d thought to herself while she was browsing the aisles at Really Weird Things. Perhaps if I were to purchase this mutant tentacle key hook, I wouldn’t lose them anymore. It was sound thinking, flawed only by the assumption she would actually use the hook if she bought it. She’d used it a couple of times, but once the novelty wore off she’d returned to her old method of simply flinging the keys in whatever direction was most handy when she walked in the front door.

  Melody stood there for a moment, hoping that maybe the Key Fairy would show up and give them to her. But the Key Fairy, being an unreliable bitch, was nowhere to be found.

  Okay, the keys were probably on the kitchen table.

  Nope.

  Maybe she’d set them on her desk.

  Nope.

  Maybe they were stuck under the cushions of the love seat.

  Nope.

  The bed stand?

  Nope.

  Her pocket?

  Nope.

  The microwave? Nope, she’d learned her lesson last time.

  Twenty minutes later she found them in the bathtub. She didn’t know how they got there and didn’t care.

  She went outside, got in her red truck, shut the door, fastened her seat belt, put the key in the ignition, started the motor, put the truck into reverse, backed out of the driveway, said “fuck,” applied the brake, put the truck into drive, pulled forward into the driveway, put the truck into park, shut off the motor, took the key out of the ignition, removed her seat belt, opened the door, got out of the truck, and went back inside the house to grab her purse, which contained the money that made it so convenient to purchase edibles at restaurants.

  After returning to the truck and backing out of her driveway again, she picked up her Happy Tape, Songs to Bring Cheer to a Miserable World, and popped it into the cassette player. She drummed her fingers along the steering wheel as the upbeat tune began.

  “When things are looking bad.

  There’s no reason to be sad.

  It’s best just to be glad.

  ‘Cause glad, it ain’t no fad.

  And if you’re feeling blue.

  Here’s just what you should doouuurrrrrwwwwwww…”

  The cassette player spat up about six inches of the Happy Tape before Melody could shut it off. She quickly ejected the cassette, trying to be careful not to break the dangling tape. Since she was being careful not to break the tape, she was being less careful regarding the act of driving. This fact was hammered home as her truck bashed into the rear of a shiny new Mercedes that radiated waves of costliness.

  The tape broke.

  * * * * *

  Tim wandered into the back area of the café, where his younger brother Peter, who co-owned and managed the place with him, stood rolling some dough.

  “How was the wedding, bro?” asked Peter. “Any garter accidents I should hear about?”

  “Nothing that exciting. But do you remember Karen, the maid of honor from Frank’s third wedding?”

  Peter concentrated for a moment. “I think so. Tiny little person? Cute as a button? Cover material for th
e magazine Women You Can Never Have?”

  “No. Tall woman. Many muscles.”

  “Oh, yeah, I remember her. By the way, does anyone really consider a button cute? I can’t honestly say that I’ve ever been attracted to a button, or any clothing-related item. Okay, that’s not true; there was that pair of stiletto heels, but—”

  “Anyway,” Tim interrupted before Peter could get carried away with his musings, “we’ve got a date Tuesday.”

  “Really? Is she gonna take you to the gym and bench press you?”

  “The movies. It won’t be that bad. She seems like a very nice person, with occasional moments where she’s terrifying. Maybe going out like this is what I need. I mean, it’s been forever since I’ve found somebody I’m attracted to, so it’s time to start socializing with people I’m not.”

  Peter nodded. “In the game of love, you’ve got to set your sights low. Just tell yourself ‘At least she doesn’t spray me with Raid while I sleep’ and you’ll always be happy.”

  “Disturbing advice, as usual.” Tim sat down at a small table and picked up a stack of order forms.

  “Who knows?” said Peter. “Your perfect woman may be on her way right now, a smile on her face and glowing love in her heart.”

  * * * * *

  Dealing with the pissed-off Mercedes owner had not been the most pleasant experience of Melody’s life, certainly less pleasant than having her brains fucked out by Alex. As Melody stepped through the doors of Dual Streams, she had nothing resembling a smile on her face nor glowing love in her heart. But at least she’d made it here without the world coming to an end.

  She was going to have a good time tonight, dammit! Nothing was going to stop her!

  Nothing!

  She took a seat and began to peruse the menu as a waiter approached her table. “Good evening, ma’am. Are you by yourself tonight?”

  Melody barely stifled a sudden sob. She nodded.

  “A fine choice. That way you don’t have to listen to people chew.” The waiter obviously realized he was treading on dangerous territory. “Would you care to order a drink?”

  “Yes. What do you recommend?”

  “The strawberry daiquiri. Just between you and me, sometimes after I’m done for the night I’ll suck down six or seven of them.”

  A strawberry daiquiri. Alex had almost ordered a strawberry daiquiri on their first date, but changed his mind at the last second to a piña colada. Melody felt a tear trickle down her cheek at the memory.

  The waiter glanced uncomfortably at his shoes. “Do you need a few minutes?”

  Melody shook her head. “No, I’m fine. I’ll just have a glass of water, please.”

  “Would you like alcohol in it?”

  “No, thank you.”

  The waiter left. Melody glanced around the café. Decent, upbeat atmosphere. Nice smell. No peanut shells on the floor. Moderately tacky paintings on the wall. A small stage and microphone, vacant at the moment.

  She did have a copy of Meet Johnny Chops-A-Lot in her purse, and was tempted to go up and read an excerpt. Maybe these people would like her writing. But with her luck tonight would be Snobby Critic Night at Dual Streams, and in her current mental state a negative reaction might just send her over the edge.

  Unappreciated Horror Writer Kills 14 Diners, Self.

  “It was pretty cool,” says annoying local poet.

  She was still debating whether or not to read when the waiter returned with her water. “Are you ready to order?” he asked.

  “Yes. I’d like the Dual Streams Deluxe, no tomato.”

  “An excellent choice. Would you like fries or potato salad with that?”

  Melody had to stifle another sob. Oh, how Alex had loved French fries with

  his hamburgers! The tears were starting again, and there was nothing she could do to stop them.

  The waiter looked very uncomfortable. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

  “I’m fine,” Melody sobbed. “I’m having a good time.”

  “Glad to hear it. Ummm…I’ll go give the kitchen your order and…I guess I’ll be back…sometime…to check on you.”

  Melody desperately tried to get herself back under control as the waiter left, but it wasn’t working. I should have stayed home and microwaved some tater tots. She rested her head on the table and cried.

  “What a night.” Larry walked into the back area to grab the tray with the fake sample desserts. There was still the huge dent in the cheesecake from where he’d dropped it a couple of weeks ago.

  “Having problems?” Tim slammed his pen against the desk. He had to do that every few moments to keep the ink flowing. Somebody kept taking his good pens.

  “Oh, the usual stuff. My grandmother’s out there showing everyone my naked baby pictures. This guy at table twelve has sent back his fries three

  different times, saying they don’t taste potatoey enough. And this lady, she’s out there crying for no reason.”

  “Not potatoey enough? This isn’t another repeat of the turnip fries incident, is it?”

  “Nah, it’s mental illness. Would I get fired if I mixed some dandruff into his ketchup?”

  Tim sighed. “I’ll go talk to him. We’re still at a point where even our deranged customers are valuable business.”

  * * * * *

  “I don’t mean to be a pest,” explained the middle-aged gentleman with the bow-tie, “but when I order French-fried potatoes, I expect genuine potato flavor.”

  “Of course you do.” Tim tried not to wince at the gentleman’s voice. It was quite possibly the whiniest voice he had ever heard in his entire life, and in the restaurant business Tim heard whiny voices galore. He considered suggesting a good vocal surgeon, but decided against it.

  “I mean, why would I order a potato product if I don’t want genuine potato flavor?” asked the gentleman. “You wouldn’t order asparagus that didn’t taste like asparagus, would you? I know I wouldn’t.”

  “You’re absolutely right.”

  The gentleman continued whining, but suddenly his words faded out of hearing range as Tim gazed upon a woman so beautiful, so stunning, so radiant, that it was all he could do not to rush over to her table, drop to his knees, and promise to worship at her feet for all eternity.

  The weird thing was, she wasn’t even all that attractive at the moment! Her face was red and blotchy from crying, and she was using the corner of the tablecloth to wipe her nose. Not to mention her seriously bad hair day. He could rattle off a good five or six dozen actresses who were more physically attractive right off the top of his head (though he didn’t), and yet he was absolutely one-

  hundred-percent enamored.

  “…you can do that for me, right?”

  Tim nodded at the gentleman. “Absolutely.” He began to approach the

  woman’s table as if drawn to it by some supernatural force.

  Whoa. Hold on, Mr. Neffster. This is inappropriate behavior. Go back to the kitchen and take care of the potato freak.

  Tim forced himself to walk the other way. God, what a woman! What was it about her? Maybe she was one of those mythical siren creatures who attracted sailors and lured them to their deaths. What a great way to die, if necessary!

  He returned to the back room where Lyle the dishwasher stood cutting some vegetables. Tim borrowed his knife, cut a raw potato into quarters, and arranged the pieces on a plate in an attractive fashion. Without a word, he picked up the plate and left the kitchen.

  “Here you go, sir.” Tim delivered the plate to the whiny-voiced gentleman. The gentleman probably responded, but Tim didn’t hear it because before he knew it he found himself walking over to the gorgeous woman’s table.

  “Good evening, ma’am. How are you doing tonight?”

  Tim immediately regretted asking something that stupid. Her puffy eyes and blotched face indicated that she wasn’t preparing to do the Snoopy Dance of Joy anytime soon.

  “My life sucks,” she informed him, accompanied by
an impressively loud sniffle.

  “Well,” said Tim, “I’d hate for your life to suck while you’re here with us. Is there anything I can do to make your visit more pleasant?”

  “You could give me a personality transplant to keep me from being such a

  selfish bitch.”

  Tim considered that. “How about a complimentary drink?”

  The woman shook her head. “I’m terrible. I’m rotten. In the grand hotel of

  life, I’m just a warm spot in the kiddie pool.”

  “Mind if I sit down?”

  The woman shrugged. Tim sat down across from her and extended his hand. “I’m Tim Neffster, owner of this establishment.”

  She shook it. “I’m Melody Talaway, writer with no talent, social life, or

  chance of fulfilling my hopes and dreams.”

  “You’re a writer? What do you write?”

  “Crap.”

  “What variety of crap?”

  “Horror novels.”

  Tim leaned forward, excited. “Really? What have you written? Maybe I’ve

  read it.”

  “You haven’t.”

  “I might have. I try to make up for not reading traffic signs by reading

  books.”

  “Have you read Meet Johnny Chops-a-Lot?”

  “No.”

  “Blood Sundae?”

  “No.”

  “Splat Goes the Weasel?”

  “No.”

  “Whose Heart is in My Popcorn?”

  “The movie-hating grandmother with the electric carving knife?”

  Melody’s eyes widened. “Yes! Yes! That’s it!”

  “Yeah, I read that last year!” Tim exclaimed. “I swear, I’ll never forget that part where they put those maggots in the blender then liquefy them and mix them in the soft drink syrup! That was so cool!”

  Tim glanced over at a couple of nearby patrons who looked slightly grossed out. “Sorry, but it was.”

  “I’m thrilled that you’ve read it!” Now Melody had a huge grin. There was suddenly no trace of the distraught woman from before.

  Tim returned her grin. “I’m thrilled to meet the person who wrote it.”

  All right, he’d done his duty; now it was time to get back to work. His only responsibility was to make her visit to his café a more pleasant experience. If she needed extra napkins, he was supposed to provide them with a wink and a smile. Maybe not the wink, that would be flirting, but his job here was to ensure customer satisfaction, not console the poor woman. He had stuff to do, as well as that scary date with Karen. He needed to tell her that he hoped things worked out, and then leave.