Operation Dimwit

by Inman Majors

  Missy was texting again so Penelope paused once more.

  Seriously, these are GMO skunks. And there’s literally hundreds

  of them.

  One skunk. Half a mile away.

  Why are they stalking me? Am I emitting something? Tammy dosed the hell out of me today down at the Shack. Is that it?

  Have you ever been outside at night before?

  Probably not.

  Because it smells like that all over town every night.

  Maybe in Skunk Town, USA.

  I’m not coming to get you.

  I’m breathing into a bag now.

  Go home.

  My gag reflex has stopped working.

  Hitting the sack.

  Dimwit’s smarter than he looks.

  Suggest you do the same.

  And with that, she muted the incoming text alert and returned to LoveSynch:

  Though longing to break out the black tail for our evening together, I shall refrain for now. Hopefully, in the not too distant future, we will attend a proper gala, but for now I will stick to the modern trend of casual-is-better (oh why was I fated to be born a century too late? Were there ever a natural Edwardian, it is I!). Now be gone, non sequiters! And do stay on task, Fitzwilliam, old boy. What I am taking unforgivingly long to convey is this: please wear whatever you like. I want you to be comfortable and happy in my home.

  If you’ll forgive another literary allusion before I close my modest epistle, please know that I shall wait anxiously and faithfully for your arrival, as your mythic namesake did for heroic Odysseus.

  Until tomorrow, alas—

  Fitz. Darcy

  Penelope finished reading and let out an audible sigh. Fitzwilliam’s missives often had this effect. She appreciated the time, effort, and apparent sincerity he put into them, but how was she supposed to reply? She didn’t write epistles. In fact, the only other person she knew besides Fitzwilliam who did was Paul from the Bible. And no one seemed to respond to him either. It was just too much pressure.

  Perhaps she should check her Facebook page before replying, just to clear her head. She did that now, and found—as usual—a pastiche of the following on her timeline:

  1. Inspirational quotes from the devout among her friends

  2. Photos of old ladies with comedic captions about drinking and/or sex from her more libertine acquaintances

  3. Vacation photos; children photos; flattering portraits of the posters themselves

  4. Political articles of both persuasions marked READ THIS

  5. Dessert recipes

  Was that all Facebook was good for, making you feel vaguely dissatisfied with your life, your friends, and your experiences? She felt like she was missing something. Maybe she should post a shot of her new place to advertise that the door was open and the party about to begin. Or even a short video of her belting “Single Ladies”? She was weighing possibilities when a friend request popped up from someone named Megan Scott.

  She racked her brains but couldn’t think of even a single Megan. Maybe it was someone from elementary school who’d moved after first grade or something. Or another of cousin Becky’s soccer mom friends from Richmond. Every day on Facebook she received about ten thousand photos of smiling, sweaty kids holding trophies, none of whom she knew. But she’d never refused a friend request and saw no reason to start now. The travel girls from soccer—champions all—had her blessing as well. Then the request vanished. She scrolled up and down her page to see if it had moved elsewhere—Facebook was always shuffling stuff around—but former/future friend Megan Scott had vamoosed. Maybe she’d decided Penelope’s page was boring and reconsidered the friend request. If that were the case, Penelope could appreciate her discernment.

  It was mysterious, to say the least, but she’d stalled long enough. It was time to bite the epistle bullet. She went back to LoveSynch and wrote the following:

  Dear Fitzwilliam,

  I’m looking forward to it as well. Let me know if I can bring anything. You originally said not to, but I hate to arrive empty handed. I’m glad to make a salad or dessert or something. Just let me know. I’ve got the directions in my phone, but just in case I get lost, you might want to give me your number. I thought I knew every street in Hillsboro, but I’ve never heard of yours. Is Pemberley a fictitious wonderland or something? J

  See you tomorrow and do let me know what I can bring.

  Penelope

  Her teeth felt weird after the cranberry juice so she went to brush them again, her mother’s familiar voice ringing in her ears about cavities and future root canals should she ever go to bed without perfectly scraped canines. Thoughts of her mother reminded her again of the housewarming present hiding in the dresser. Why was she associating the two? Did it stem from that time in high school when she’d snuck Winston Hackler in the house one winter afternoon, only to have her mother bust them in the basement just as Winston was starting to get familiar with that cute fluffy sweater of junior year?

  It was truly a case for Freud.

  She grinned at her paranoia, thinking how different she was from Esmeralda, the protagonist of Carnal Liaisons. Speaking of which, it was time for a heavy dose of erotica and then lights out. She was near the end of the book, and things were really starting to heat up in the Hollywood office where studio boss Esmeralda Duvall took absolutely no prisoners, business or otherwise. All those handsome, insecure men trying to make it big in the movies were like putty in her hands when the hosiery turned to bondage materials. When last Penelope read, the young intern from Nebraska—the one with such high hopes for his ska band—had never seen it coming when Esmeralda pinned him against the microwave in the snack area. Needless to say, that was one tofu burrito that never got eaten.

  7

  Bright and early Saturday morning, Penelope was sweating away on a stationary bike, lamenting that she’d only had enough coffee for one smallish pot. She felt groggy with exercise and lack of caffeine. The gym was swarming with oldsters, third-shifters pumping free weights through bloodshot eyes, and an assortment of women torturing themselves as Penelope was now doing. Why she’d chosen Ultra Alpine as her setting she’d never know. But she was, by God, going to haul her ass up Von Trapp Glacier for the full twenty minutes even if it killed her.

  She’d be feeling less at death’s door if she’d hadn’t botched her audio choice. Like some academic rube, she’d chosen an educational podcast instead of hard-charging rock-and-roll. It was a ludicrous decision. Who gave a rat’s ass about that Dutch man and his long-lost identical twin, separated by two continents, a language barrier, and fighting on opposing sides of a war, when your heart was about to fly out of your chest? With AC/DC or something she could have battled this bike to the bloody end. These old fart twins on the podcast were wheezing worse than she was. She was sorry for the trials, glad for their reunion, but could they not speak a little faster or more forcefully? It was like biking the Alps with double Methuselahs on her back.

  There. She was done. Muttering apologies to the Van Slyck brothers

  of Amsterdam and feeling happy—after the fact—that they’d gather once more around the yuletide goose as they’d done as boys, she disembarked. She paused for a moment, legs quavering, to give the bike a hard stare. She’d be ready for its ass next time, and Ultra Alpine as well. Back in Black would make sure of that.

  At the water fountain, she stood slurping away, kicking herself for forgetting a water bottle. Speaking of that, she needed some new ones. All hers were nasty from their months spent cavorting under the car seat. That, or the plastic straw had been chewed to a stub by Theo’s weird oral fixation, likely an evolutionary remnant from his days as a member of the beluga clan eating nothing but plankton. All the other women had cute, clean receptacles that fit neatly under the fancy spigot designed for filling such vessels. She, on the other hand, was left gulping away at the same nozzle all the sweaty guys used. No telling what was falling out of their mouths as they bent to drink while stil
l huffing from their dead lift grunting sessions.

  Okay, now she was grossing herself out just for the heck of it. Why did she do that? It was a bad habit. She was thinking all this—water bottles, whale boys, guys sweating into the fountain—while casually drinking, breaking for air, then drinking again, working on the assumption that no one was waiting for a turn at the fountain.

  This assumption proved faulty when a female behind her harrumphed.

  Penelope stopped slurping immediately and turned, water dripping off the side of her face like a dog recently gone to town on a toilet, to offer an apologetic smile. No one liked a fountain hog, herself included. The waiting woman had a pink water bottle with a decal from a local winery. She was a fit oenophile, much like TheosMom75 advertised on LoveSynch. Penelope offered a Sorry about that, but this didn’t seem to appease the wine-loving workout lady, who stood there glaring even after Penelope had moved hurriedly to the side to clear the lane for hydration.

  Penelope now stood next to the elliptical chin-up machine, thinking the woman meant to strike up a conversation. She had this notion because the thirsty throat-clearer had made no further movement toward the fountain but simply stood gazing at her with an unsparing eye. She seemed mesmerized by all things Penelope Lemon. Was it her ensemble that caused such frank appraisal? Her one good workout outfit, the sassy fuchsia spandexy thing like all the cool-looking women wore, was dirty, so she’d grabbed what was clean: ratty shorts, mismatched anklet socks, and a T-shirt that said “Team Mom,” which she’d bought as a joke at the thrift store a few years back.

  The woman gawking at her wore a name tag. This tag indicated that she was not just fit but professionally fit, and an official staff member of Fitness Plus. The name on the tag was Megan.

  After what felt like an unusually long time for a smiling, apologetic person to be stared at, Penelope nodded and moved on. She was discombobulated and wondered if perhaps she was misinterpreting things after battling the stationary bike tooth and nail over the Matterhorn. A cup of coffee from the fitness bistro would clear her mind and she raced toward the energy beans like one long-lost Van Slyck twin toward the other.

  She got her coffee and sat down in the little café area that divided the front lobby from the fitness center proper, a position that allowed her to see all the people huffing and puffing on the main floor.

  Suckers.

  Rejuvenated by the steaming mug before her, she checked the barrage of texts she’d ignored from Missy the night before.

  It’s like my entire face is a skunk’s butt.

  Like where my nose should be is just straight ass.

  Hello? Are you there? Why aren’t you responding?

  You’re kidding right? No way you’d abandon me now.

  I am literally choking to death.

  My death is on your hands. Tell Damien I love him. Do Not Ask For Whom The Bell Tolls!

  Penelope was chuckling from the enjoyable morning read when she felt eyes upon her. Looking up, she found Fitness Megan working away at a machine and giving her the stink eye. WTH? Who was this Fitness Megan person and why was she so strict about water fountain etiquette? Hillsboro wasn’t in a drought or anything. Shouldn’t she be demonstrating proper lunge techniques with a kettlebell about now?

  She went back to her texts, sure that paranoia was at play, and had a new one from Missy.

  Made it home finally. Like at three. No thanks to you.

  Penelope smiled and replied.

  Glad to hear. Knew you could do it.

  We have to get rid of these skunks. Do you know anybody?

  Carl Jr. probably does. Ask him.

  Yes! Carl Jr. can save the day. Dimwit hasn’t outfoxed us yet!

  Got to go. At the gym. Weird trainer lady is currently staring at me while doing squats in front of a mirror.

  Why?

  I took too long at the water fountain and it made her mad.

  Come over and have a Bloody Mary and forget about it. Gyms are for neurotics. Love your body as it is.

  Tammy’s Tanning Shack?

  Touché. Any hot guys I need to see? I love a sweaty man. Carl Jr. always has a faint dew.

  Yes. One. But got to go. Will call later.

  Fitness Megan was still squatting, still glaring, and she’d added audible grunts to her repertoire. Whatever. Theo was texting.

  We’re a couple of hours from camp. Dad forgot my inhaler. Can you mail it to me? Dad says like today.

  Could she mail it? Of course she could. Right up James’s ass.

  Another text came in.

  We forgot a water bottle too. Dad says overnight it and inhaler.

  And now she had to pay for the express shipping?

  Another text.

  Dad says he will pay you back.

  Damn straight he would. Mr. Proud Packer? Give her a break. You could stack the trunk to Euclidian perfection, but who cared if you forgot the inhaler? Penelope thought her mantra could be reduced to this: Less slide rule precision, more albuterol.

  She took one final gulp of her coffee and instantly the magical elixir did its thing. Her mind cleared, and pieces of a puzzle that had been rattling around in her subconscious slowly fell into place. She imagined that James—in the driveway, staring into the void of a popped trunk with luggage all around his feet—often felt like this at the Eureka! moment.

  To wit:

  1. James was dating a trainer.

  2. A person named Megan Scott made—and then mysteriously removed—a Facebook friend request.

  3. The scowling woman at the fountain was wearing a Megan name tag.

  Ergo: continued mean looks from the woman currently doing weird pirouettes at the TRX had nothing to do with fountain decorum and everything to do with a trunk-packing whiz of a Tarheel named James.

  A number of thoughts passed through Penelope’s head. That she’d been Facebook-stalked the night before was indisputable, as plain as the coffee she’d just spilled on her Team Mom T-shirt. One Megan Scott, trainer, was perusing for juicy details about a certain Penelope when a wayward finger had slipped, an unintentional friend request made, and her snooping adventure had gone briefly awry.

  Penelope considered the facts and decided it was only natural when taking up with someone new to check out the former spouse. Nothing to worry about. Finding this interpretation of the Megan Scott situation agreeable, she put on her headphones, cranked some Zeppelin, and headed for any device that looked to have only one pulley.

  A half hour later, she was on a leg machine advertised for the inner thighs. She was working those inner thigh muscles pretty hard when the reasonably hot guy she’d mentioned to Missy plopped down on the

  machine next to hers and began to exercise his outer thighs. Penelope found this awkward, his legs going in as hers went out, especially when she realized their movements were synchronized. She slowed her pace. That it was vigorous in the first place was something of a surprise. She’d spent the prior twenty minutes roaming peaceably around Fitness Plus, trying to act like she was following a highly detailed routine like everyone else.

  Deciding she would like a better angle at which to observe Mr. Outer Thigh, she twisted toward him in a show of adjusting the machine’s weight. Turned this way—her nose awash in delightful Old Spice cologne—she chanced a full-on gawk.

  “That one sticks sometimes.”

  “Ramble On” was blasting away in her earbuds, but she heard what he said anyway and jerked upright. She was looking at the reasonably attractive man now and trying to bring her legs back together. They were currently splayed as wide as her hips would allow, frozen in place by the restraining device, which seemed to be jammed. She glanced around and discovered the peg she’d been fake adjusting was now lying on the floor beside her. Apparently she’d dislodged it when the man spoke and now she was pinioned in mechanical no-man’s-land. Her current pose and the machine that held her there brought back unwelcome thoughts of things she’d been latched to at the gynecologist’s off
ice. She smiled, pointed to her earbud, and said, “Huh?”

  It was a complete stall move, but the best she could do under duress. And now one of her earbuds popped out. It was dangling dangerously close to the pulley that moved the weights when the machine was operational. A tangle here would complicate matters further. She swished her head sideways and swung around wantonly with her arm to corral the wayward bud, but found that her compromised position limited upward mobility as well. And now her claustrophobia kicked in a little. She was weighing how to extricate herself from the medieval stretching rack when the fairly attractive man with the no-nonsense deodorant popped out of his seat, retrieved the peg, and said, “What setting?”

  Penelope had no idea. What she did know was that the recent coffee stain on her Team Mom T-shirt had just come to the man’s attention. His wrinkled nose was fleeting but undeniable. He looked to be rather on the fastidious side. Now he seemed to be weighing the whole package before him: the splayed legs, the coffee blotch, the dangling earbud that proved that middle-aged women could still get the Led out.

  “Thirty, I think,” Penelope said.

  “Number three setting?”

  Penelope now gave in to the ridiculousness of her predicament and the notion of meeting a cute guy at the gym—in Hillsboro—when her one snappy outfit was in the dirty clothes.

  “Your call,” she said. “I have no idea.”

  He nodded in a serious manner—it was clear he was all business at Fitness Plus—and bent to position the peg. As soon as she heard the satisfying click, Penelope brought her legs together and stayed like that a moment, trying to decide whether to just pop up before she was imprisoned again or make a show of finishing her set. She felt the dedicated fellow beside her would appreciate the latter, and not wanting to look ungrateful, she went back to opening and closing her thighs. The guy beside her did the same, and once again Penelope noted their harmonized motion.