by L. A. Knight
Nancy inched her car forward in the valet line. “Helen, I’m sure it’s just a passing phase.”
“Yeah . . . so is middle age. What’s the ungrateful son-of-a-bitch need with me when he’s got naked centerfolds parading around his office like he was Hugh Hefner.”
Nancy looked to her right as the valet approached—her eyes catching sight of a lighted billboard. As the man reached for her door, she accelerated out of line.
“What are you doing?!”
“Let’s skip lunch; I just had a crazy idea.”
“Tell me. I like crazy.”
She exited onto Glades road, pointing to the billboard.
CUSTOM ELECTRONICS
You Design It - We Build it!
* * * * *
THE WOMEN ENTERED the store an hour later, having bought two electronic dog training collars at the local Pet Supermarket. They were greeted at the jewelry counter by a short gray-haired Israeli man in his sixties, who gazed lazily at them from behind coke-bottle-thick glasses.
“Can I help you ladies?” he said, his accent heavy.
From a brown plastic shopping bag Nancy removed the two still-packaged electronic dog collars. “We’d like you to rig these electrical devices to a man’s watch.”
“Why? Are you teaching your doggy to tell time?”
“Can you do it or not?” Helen asked.
“Pay me enough, I can do anything. Where are the watches?”
Nancy and Helen looked at one another, then searched the glass display case.
Nancy pointed to a large faced watch. “That one for me.”
The manager removed the watch from the case. “That’s a dive-master watch. Does your doggy like to scuba dive, too?”
“The watch isn’t for my dog, it’s for my boyfriend.”
“And you’re training him to tell time? It’s a little cruel, don’t you think? You should try bribing him with treats.”
“Get me one just like hers,” Helen said.
“Two dive watches it is.”
“When do you think they’ll be ready?” Nancy asked.
“I don’t know, I never designed a watch with a shocker before. A faggala once paid me to rig a spiked neck ring for his gerbil. Is your boyfriend a faggala?”
“No. Look, is there any way we could get the watches by Thursday? I have an important seminar that I’d like to bring mine to as show-and-tell. It could lead to a lot more business for you.”
“What a blessing,” the Israeli man said, the sarcasm dripping. “Okay, Wednesday it is. But you have to pay for the watches now.”
Nancy reached for her purse, only Helen stopped her. “This one’s on Vincent.” She handed the manager a credit card.
He glanced at the name. “You’re a doctor?”
“It’s my husband’s card.”
“Your husband’s a doctor and he can’t tell time? No offense, but I hope he’s not the same schmendrik scheduled to remove my prostate next week.”
RUBY TUESDAY
Jacob was en route to his second service call of the day when his iPhone reverberated in his shirt pocket. “Ruby, I can’t talk now.”
“Then just listen. I spoke to the booking agent who handles the Improv at City Place. If she likes you, she said she’ll commit to two Tuesday nights a month beginning next week.”
“Wow. That’s excellent.”
“She wants to see your act right away; did you bring the Bush dummy with you like I advised you to do last week?”
“Yes, but—”
“Good. I’m going to text you the address.”
“No need, I know where the Improv is.”
“The tryout’s not at the Improv, it’s at a private home in Lake Worth. I’ll meet you there in an hour.”
“An hour? Ruby, I’m en route to a service call.”
“That’s a job, this is your career. See you in an hour.”
* * * * *
MAYBE IT WAS the positive vibes coming from his meeting with Zev, but Jacob felt like his luck was improving -- the private home located in a gated community less than three miles from Jacob’s second service call. Having fixed the client’s computer in record time, he arrived only a few minutes late.
The driveway and adjacent curbs were lined with vehicles. Locating a parking spot, he gargled the remains of his bottled water to lubricate his throat, then grabbed the case with the Bush dummy and hustled up the driveway.
At least I’ll be performing to a real audience this time. He rang the bell.
The door opened, revealing Ruby Kleinhenz—who was wearing a squirrel outfit—her long gray wig adorned with cute squirrel ears, her arms and legs in furry gray boots, sleeves, and paws. What was not concealed was her bare mid-section and buttocks, the revealing gray-thonged undergarment quite sexy.
Jacob stared at her, baffled and strangely aroused. “Ruby?”
“You’re late. Hurry up; we need to get you dressed.”
“What are you talking about? What is all this?”
She dragged him inside where he caught a glimpse down the hall of a dozen guests—all wearing furry animal costumes.
“It’s a furry party,” Ruby explained, dragging him inside a guest bedroom. “We need to get you on stage before the furry festivities begin.”
“What the heck is a furry?”
She pushed him down onto the bed, tearing off his shoes and socks. “Furries are people who dress up like anthropomorphic animals. It’s part fetish, part hidden persona. They’re quite a creative bunch—just go with the flow. And they like to throw parties, so take this seriously.” She unbuckled his belt, pulling off his dress pants.
“Hey!”
From an open closet she removed a brown and white puppy suit hanging on a hook. “Put this on.”
Jacob slid his legs into the suit. “Wow, it’s soft inside.”
“You need a cute furry name.”
“Rock-a-poochie.”
Ruby smiled. “Where did that come from?”
“It was my favorite stuffed animal when I was growing up. What’s your name?”
“I don’t have one; I’m just dressing like this to help you get the gig.”
“Come on, you need a name. How about Nutcracker Jones.”
“Fine. Now stick your head on, grab Bush, and kick some furry ass.”
* * * * *
THERE WERE FIFTEEN of them, seated around the living room and lying in colorful clusters on the floor. Most were in full costume (fur-suitors), a few of the more provocative entries revealing thonged underwear or jock straps. There were tigers and a sexy Siamese cat, a bear named Snuffy, a red fox and his lamb, a pink pony, a black and white cow (complete with udder), a purple beaver, and an assortment of dogs—each furry evoking the noises of their particular species.
Men and women, gays and straights . . . who could tell? All Jacob knew is that it was his most receptive audience ever.
Feeling giddy, he decided to end with an animal joke. “Mr. President, what’s the most frightening experience you ever faced? Was it 9/11? The shock and awe of the Iraqi invasion?”
“There were two experiences that stand out, Rock-a-poochie. The first was when I choked on that damn pretzel. Saw my life flash before my eyes . . . frightening. But the scariest experience had to be when I was lost in the woods back when I was governor of Texas.”
“What happened?”
“Gave a speech on illegal immigrants, got lost on the drive back to the mansion and ran out of gas. Had to walk. Figured I’d take a shortcut and ended up in the woods. I was lost for three days—hungry . . . exhausted. In the middle of a dark and stormy night I came upon a farmhouse. I knocked on the door and a farmer and his wife answered. ‘Please,’ I said, ‘I’ve been lost in the woods for days. I haven’t rested. I haven’t eaten. If I could just rest in your barn for the night . . .’
“The farmer said, ‘Nonsense. We’re good Christians; you’ll sleep in our guest room tonight.’ Well, they took me in, fed me, and then I f
ell asleep in their guest room. When I woke up the next morning, the farmer’s wife cooked me a great breakfast. Good people. Solid Republicans.”
“You must have been very grateful. How did you thank them? Money? Political favors?”
“Better. See, a lot of people don’t know this about me, Rock-a-poochie, but I can talk to animals, and they talk to me. Just like God.”
The furries went crazy.
“See that? Anyway, I told the farmer and his wife about my gift, and then I went outside to talk to the animals—you know, to get the inside scoop. First I spoke with the horse . . . ” The woman in the pink pony outfit applauded. “. . . then I had a few words with the cow. ” The man in the cow suit stood and bowed. “Last, I spoke with the sheep. ” The woman in the lamb furry high-fived her boyfriend, the fox. “When I was done I came back inside to deliver the news.
“‘Folks,’ I said, ‘I spoke to your animals . . . there’s good news and bad news. I spoke to the horse, and the horse really likes you, only you recently switched from a round bit to a square bit and its hurting his gums, so you need to switch back.’ The farmer looked at me, amazed.
“‘Next, I spoke to your cow. The cow likes you, too, but she needs to be milked twice a day, not once.’
“‘Amazing,’ the farmer said.
“‘Now, I spoke with the sheep . . .
“’-- hey, those sheep are liars!’”
The group burst into laughter and baaing sounds, clapping with their fur-covered paws.
Jacob bowed, the Bush dummy waved good-bye, and then he hurried off to change in the guest bedroom.
Ruby was waiting in her squirrel outfit, her thong undergarment gone. She slammed the door behind him, locking the door.
“Ruby, wait—”
“I’m tired of waiting. I want to feel your furry groin pushing up inside me.”
“Really? This costume has a fly?”
“Let me show you.” She reached for his dog suit.
“Ruby, I can’t.”
“Why not? Don’t you find me attractive?”
“I do, but I have a serious girlfriend.”
“You’re not listening. I don’t want to have sex with Jacob, I want to do it doggy-style with Rock-a-poochie.”
“Oh. I guess that’s okay.”
She reached for his furry groin. Located the velcro flap . . .
—only to be interrupted by a knock on the bedroom door. “Ruby, you need to move your car, the Mayor can’t get out.”
“Move it for me, I’m busy!”
“Where’s your keys?”
“Find my purse . . . never mind, I hid it. Just wait a second, I’ll be right out.” She located the thonged undergarment and snapped it around her waist and buttocks, then turned back to Jacob. “Stay.” Kneeling to his groin, she reached beneath the bed, gathered up his black dress pants, socks and shoes, then exited the bedroom.
“Jesus, Jakester, what the hell are you doing?”
Jacob turned to face the Bush dummy, which was leaning back against a pillow. “It’s okay, sir. Rock-a-poochie will give her a quickie, and then we can be on our way.”
“Shit-for-brains, there is no Rock-a-poochie, there’s just you and your hard-on. Now make like a dog and flee before she comes back and squirrel-fucks you to death.”
Suddenly in a full-blown panic, Jacob stuffed the Bush dummy in its case and opened the door—only to see Ruby hurrying back through the crowded hallway.
He shut the door and locked it.
Ruby tried the knob. “Rock-a-poochie, open the door; it’s Nutcracker Jones, come to lick your nuts.”
“Ruby, it’s me . . . Jacob. I have to get back to work. Can I please have my pants?”
“Not until you handle our unfinished business. Now open the door or I’ll claw my way in.”
He backed away. Searched the room. Hearing her work the lock, Jacob unlocked and opened the window. He grabbed the Bush dummy – only to lose his balance in the fur shoes and fall out the open first floor window onto a hedge, taking the screen with him.
Gathering himself, still dressed in full-costume, he hurried to the company van—only to realize the keys were in his pants. “Shit . . . shit . . . shit . . . shit . . . wait—there’s a spare key in the glove box!”
He tried the doors—locked.
Contemplating the passenger window, he punched it—his furry paw offering nothing more than a glancing blow. Looking around, he located a painted-white round curb stone.
“Mr. President?”
“Smash it, Fido! You can fix the window a lot easier than you can fix this with Nancy.”
Gripping the rock, he heaved it at the window—shattering it and setting off the alarm.
“Oh, hell.” He reached inside to unlock the passenger door as a dozen costumed figures ventured out the front of the house to check on their vehicles—scurrying back inside as a police car accelerated down the street, screeching to a halt behind the van.
Two armed cops leaped out of the squad car, aiming their weapons.
“Freeze, fur ball!”
“Paws in the air!”
“Don’t shoot! It’s my vehicle; I locked my keys in the glove box.”
“Let’s see a license and registration.”
“The registration’s in the glove box with the keys. My license is in my wallet, which is in my pants, which is in that house. The squirrel has it and won’t give it back unless I fuck her.”
The two cops looked at one another and laughed. “This is better than the guy we arrested last month for murdering his Yoko Ono sex doll.”
“Yeah, that was me.”
“Jacob?” One of the cops pulled his dog head off, revealing the familiar sweat-laced bearded face.
“Son, I don’t know whether to arrest you or party with you.”
“Please guys, can you just get my wallet and clothes back from the squirrel.”
They turned as Ruby approached. She had dressed into her street clothes and was carrying his clothing. “Jacob, you bad dog, you left this inside.
She handed him his stuff, kissed him on the lips, then climbed inside a black Porsche 911 parked across the street and drove away.
DRY-HUMP WEDNESDAY
Olivia Cabot valet parked her silver Mercedes SLR McLaren at West Boca hospital, grabbed the ticket from the attendant, and marched into the visitor’s lobby.
A uniformed older black man greeted her with a smile. “Morning, ma’am.”
“It’s afternoon. The patient’s name is Cabot.”
The security guard scanned his computer monitor. “I have a Truman Cabot. Room 316, Bed B.”
“That’s him. Any chance he died over the last hour?”
“Excuse me?”
“Never mind.” She handed him her driver’s license.
The guard typed in her information and snapped her picture, which spewed out of the side of his machine as a guest pass sticker. “Take the elevators on the left and—”
Olivia pushed past him before he could finish.
* * * * *
SHE HAD GOTTEN the phone call two hours earlier. When the man had identified himself as the physician treating her father at West Boca hospital, her heart had raced with adrenaline.
“Ma’am, we need you to come down to the hospital and sign a few papers.”
“If it’s a Do Not Resuscitate order, I can give you a fax number to expedite matters.”
“That won’t be necessary.”
“You mean he’s already dead?”
“What? God, no. I’m calling because he listed you as an emergency contact.”
“The emergency—was it a stroke? A heart attack?”
“It was a circumcision.”
“Sorry, I didn’t hear you. It sounded like you said circumcision.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Is this a joke?”
“You weren’t aware your father was admitted Sunday morning to have his foreskin removed?”
“You must h
ave the wrong Cabot. My father’s name is Truman; he’ll be eighty-three years old on Friday.”
“Truman Cabot. Born March 7, 1939.”
“This is insane. Why the hell would he be getting his dick flap removed at his age?”
“Comfort, cleanliness, a religious conversion—it’s really none of my business. But we need you to come down as soon as possible.”
* * * * *
OLIVIA CABOT STEPPED off the elevator onto the third floor, quickly finding her way to room 316. The first bed was occupied by an older gentleman with a thick Italian accent who was receiving instructions from a Jamaican nurse from behind a partially-enclosed curtain.
“Mr. Coglioni, your colonoscopy is scheduled for three p.m. You need to finish your prep.”
“Mi fa cagare!” (It makes me poop.)
“I’m setting this port-o-potty by your bed so it’ll be close. Do you know how to use it?”
“Va fungool.” (Fuck off.)
Olivia walked past the closed curtain to the next bed. Her father was sitting up, arguing with a male nurse.
“Sir, I can’t discharge you until I change your bandage.”
“And I told you, I don’t want another man touching my Johnson! Olivia, tell him.”
“I’m his step-daughter; would you give us a few minutes?” She waited until the male nurse left. “Truman, what the hell? Have you lost your mind?”
“Ah, here we go. I told the doctor not to call you, that I already had a ride home, but did the son-of-a-bitch listen to me? Hell, no.”
“Why on earth would you get a circumcision?”
“What do you care?”
“You’re eighty-two years old. What’s next? Tattoos? A tongue piercing?”
“If it makes my bride-to-be happy.”
“Your bride? You’re getting married again?”
An explosion of diarrhea echoed from behind the drawn curtain, followed by a gag-inducing smell as Mr. Coglioni emptied his bowels into the port-o-potty.
“Hey, Luigi, do that in the goddam bathroom!”
“Shaddup and go fuck your goomah!”
“She’s my daughter, not my girlfriend, you dumb guinea wop.”