Operation Dimwit

by Inman Majors

  “Are you a new member?”

  The question was accompanied by the steady clacking of metal plates. Old Spice was really going to town on his outer thighs. She surmised his peg to be set at fifteen by the Fitness Plus accounting system.

  “I am, actually,” said Penelope, thankful for an excuse to pause in her exertion. “How could you ever tell?”

  “I’ve never seen you before.”

  “I just joined last week. I’m still trying to figure out how all this stuff works and where everything is.”

  “Great gym. I’m here like six days a week. Seven if I can swing it.”

  Penelope could believe it. He was not tall, maybe five nine, but all lithe muscle. Taking a firmer gander now while his head was once again facing forward, she realized that he was likely a little older than she was, maybe midforties. What hair he had left was shaved close and his serious brow glistened with sweat and intensity. Penelope had never dated a bald guy before but thought she could swing it if she had to. He was handsome in a stern sort of way. On his wrist was a plastic gizmo that looked like a watch but wasn’t.

  “If you’re not using that, can I get a set in?” said a harsh female voice from the other side of her.

  Penelope yanked her head around, aware that she’d breached the Fitness Plus code of conduct by sitting at the inner thigh machine without actually working the inner thighs, to find Megan Scott, trainer, looking peeved.

  “Sure,” said Penelope, flustered but popping up.

  She was still basically midlaunch from her perch when Megan Scott yanked a towel she’d stored somewhere on her person and made a big show of wiping the seat where, seconds before, Penelope had been resting so comfortably.

  “You must be new,” said Megan Scott. “You’re supposed to wipe off the machines when you’re done using them.”

  These thoughts went through Penelope’s head simultaneously:

  1. It was like forty degrees in Fitness Plus, so one P. Lemon wasn’t sweating in the slightest.

  2. She hadn’t known about the towel rule, but would follow it in the future.

  3. Even if she had known, she’d been too rushed off the machine to cleanse the germy, infectious body fluids seeping out of her.

  4. Megan Scott was pretending not to know her, despite an evening spent as an investigative reporter.

  “Hey, Brad,” she said to Old Spice as she moved the peg from three to ten.

  “What’s up, Megan?”

  What followed was a discussion of a future rock climbing event.

  Penelope stayed glued to the spot, pretty sure Megan Scott had smirked while adjusting the peg. If so, it was a nervy move. She could have done more weight. A lot more. Her legs were really strong. In fact, half of her wanted to stand glaring at Megan Scott until she finished her set then hop back on the machine, peg it up to about thirteen, and show what was what when it came to inner thigh power.

  The other half, however, was pretty tired and just wanted to go do a few crunches on one of those big rubber balls everyone seemed to be playing with, then get on down the road. This was the decision she made. No need to get into a goofy weight lifting contest with James’s pushy new girlfriend.

  She was heading out of the gym, feeling light of foot, the big rubber ball as fun as advertised. Rounding the corner, she was hailed by the sort of handsome bald guy who wore Old Spice.

  “Hey,” he said, jogging to catch up.

  “Hey,” she replied, fearful for a moment that he was going to keep jogging around her even after she’d stopped. He seemed chock-full of energy.

  “I’m Brad,” he said, still pacing back and forth like someone dancing the hustle, a towel around his neck.

  “I’m Penelope.”

  “Sorry,” he said, pointing at the gizmo on his wrist. “Didn’t get out of the office till near midnight.”

  Penelope must have looked puzzled for he slowed his pacing in her vicinity to say: “Twenty thousand steps a day. Missed yesterday. Doubling up today. Gotta get forty K or no frozen yogurt for me.”

  Penelope had no idea what he was talking about, but the people at the check-in desk were looking at them now and Penelope wished he’d hailed her sooner—or later—when they were a bit out of public range.

  “Since you’re new,” said Brad, “I was wondering if you might want someone to help you come up with a workout routine or something.”

  “You must have seen me roaming around aimlessly.”

  Bald Brad came to a complete stop for the briefest of moments and smiled. “Yeah, you looked like you were kind of faking it. Glad to give you a shout sometime and show you the ropes. Some of these machines are a little complicated.”

  Penelope considered this for a moment, giving her number to a guy she’d just met. When was the last time she’d done that? James? That karaoke night at Wet Willie’s when she’d brought the house down with “Precious” by the Pretenders?

  She considered, as well, her married suburban friends, who preferred her in a 24/7 macramé club.

  She also thought briefly—very briefly—about Fitzwilliam. Then she forked over the digits.

  8

  Later that morning, Penelope was in the car, enjoying the warm satisfaction that always came after a successful voyage to and from UPS. She didn’t know how UPS shops were in the rest of the country, but the Hillsboro version truly rocked. It was amazing how fast they could box, tape, address, and send a steroid inhaler screaming toward an asthmatic little adventurer in North Carolina. The fact that they had a little bowl of Dum Dums for the customers was just icing on the cake.

  She was gnawing exuberantly on one of those suckers when she checked the clock on the dash. Theo should be arriving for his first camp sojourn within the hour and this would be her last chance to hear his voice for two whole weeks. She didn’t know how she could miss him already, but she did. She dialed James’s number, knowing that Theo would answer. No way James would face the music after his inhaler debacle. Master packer, her ass.

  “Hey Mom,” came Theo’s reply.

  “Hey honey, are you guys almost there?”

  “Yeah. Dad says we’re close. We’re out in the middle of nowhere. I can’t even get Wi-Fi. But before that, you wouldn’t believe it!”

  Her son now launched into a recitation of his blissful four-hour PlinkyMo day, a tale of high adventure, near misses, and heroic captures. He’d added a whole parcel of North Carolina Plinkies to his virtual menagerie. The tale, epic in scope and breadth, took about eight minutes to recite, and Penelope was pleased that—doomsayers to the contrary—the American oral tradition was alive and well.

  By the time he’d finished his Homeric yarn, she was sitting in the driveway of her new place, weighing Soft Linen versus Daisy White.

  “That’s great, honey. And listen, I overnighted that stuff, so it should be there Monday afternoon. Try to avoid mold and feathers till then. Well, I love you. Write me lots of letters, okay?”

  “Love you too.”

  She didn’t miss the fact that he’d hung up before committing to correspondence, and had to salute his stubborn refusal to be pinned down. That was one trait he’d gotten from dear old Mom.

  After lunch she was applying even-awesomer-than-expected turquoise to another wall and rocking out again with her good friend Beyoncé when the phone rang. She picked up to find Missy in a near panic.

  “I can’t get hold of Carl Junior. He’s down at Dollywood and won’t be back till next week. Damn it to hell, I forgot about that. He’s down there eating sorghum and biscuits with Dolly and clogging the night away. Just laughing and drinking and having a party. Meanwhile, I’ve got an army of experimental skunks about to run me out of town. You’ve got to help me.”

  Penelope had also forgotten about Carl Jr.’s Pigeon Forge vacation with his grandkids. She thought it was likely more go-carts and water parks than a biscuit-eating hoedown with the queen of country music but decided to let it slide.

  “What can I do?” she sa
id. “I’ve got a date tonight.”

  “Don’t worry, I haven’t forgotten about you and Fitzpatrick McGillicuddy. Or his sweater. Personally, I can’t wait to hear about his heirloom tomato garden on Monday. It should be fascinating. But listen, this is an absolute emergency.”

  Penelope wished now she hadn’t shown Missy the LoveSynch photo of Fitzwilliam in his cozy cardigan. She’d mentioned nothing about tomatoes, but this didn’t sound too far afield, unfortunately. What had she gotten herself into?

  “Again,” said Penelope, “what can I do about your skunk problem? Which is one regular Hillsboro skunk, by the way. Nothing more.”

  “You have to know someone in this town that can get rid of varmints. I assumed half the people in Hillsboro did that for a living.”

  Penelope laughed and said, “Just look in the phone book.”

  “I did. No go. Come on, help a sister out. You know everybody in the county. What about your first ex-husband? I like the way that sounds, by the way. Like you’re Liz Taylor or something. First ex-husband. Second ex-husband. Eighth ex-husband. Anyway, surely the HHR knows someone.”

  “I don’t want to call him.”

  “Come on. Pretty please. You agreed to help out with Operation Dimwit.”

  “No I didn’t.”

  “But it was kind of assumed you would.”

  “And why is that?”

  “Because you always help a sister in need.”

  “Not this time.”

  “Okay, whatever. Just make one little call for me.”

  Penelope considered her options. If she said no to contacting the HHR, the calls and texts might continue all night and weekend. If she said yes, it would shut Missy up for a few hours and she could get some painting done.

  “All right,” she said. “I’ll do it. But that’s it. That’s the end of my involvement with this skunk nonsense.”

  “I knew I could count on you,” Missy said. “Operation Dimwit

  is on!”

  Penelope clicked off and paced around her den for a while, inspecting the paint job. At this rate, and with some free time tomorrow, she’d be applying the trim even sooner than she hoped. And it was true. She’d come to her final decision. Daisy White it was and would forever be. Soft Linen simply didn’t have what it took.

  She went to the bedroom, wondering what the HHR had in store—bear cubs he was raising as his own? A new strain of marijuana that gave him X-ray vision? It could be anything. Standing in front of her closet, she thumbed through clothes, trying to decide what to wear for her date. What she saw were the same outfits she’d been looking at for the

  past three years. When was the last time she bought something for herself that wasn’t socks, bras, or panties? Would she always be broke? Yes, she would, if Theo’s monster feet kept growing three inches a day. She’d bought three pairs of shoes for him since the last pair for herself.

  Her eye landed on a nice-looking sundress that she’d had for a decade. So what if it was old? It was pale pink and bright yellow and could pass for summer casual or a tiny bit more if the word fromage was going to be tossed about. It was a good dress and a flattering one too. It would be fine.

  While perusing her clothes, she couldn’t help but notice the empty space on the highest shelf, which struck her as the perfect spot for a complicated gift—an adults-only gift—which was green and orange and christened PENELOPE LEMON. Her dresser was simply too much in play when Theo was on a charger rampage.

  That settled things, and she snatched the item in question and—standing on tiptoes—thrust it to the farthest recesses of the closet. For good measure, she piled three sweaters on top. All but slapping her hands together in the classic job complete gesture, she plopped down on her bed, suddenly libidinous.

  Her new erotic novel beckoned from the bedside table. She’d raced through the climax of Carnal Liaisons and was neither surprised nor disappointed when the young actor with the ska band got the part in the Netflix series he so desperately wanted. Anyone that hot, that good in bed, and yet that true to his Nebraska/ska values deserved all that life—or Esmeralda—had to offer. Penelope had been so pleased with the outcome, and so thrilled that she could stay up as late as she wanted on a Friday night, that she’d started right away on Unchaste Places. It, too, looked promising.

  When she’d left off, Miranda was just about to enter the Turkish bath at that ritzy little resort Henri had taken her to. There were complications waiting in that bath. What kind, neither Miranda nor

  Penelope knew. But you could bet your bottom dollar that Henri had more than caviar and Prosecco on his mind. So why didn’t Miranda heed the warnings of the masseuse at Spa Helvetica, the one who seemed like she was speaking from experience? Was it because some part of Miranda was drawn to the danger? Or was she simply too trusting? One thing was sure: life at tiny Meade College hadn’t prepared her for a man like Henri.

  But would even young, naive Miranda—fresh from grad school—be so skittish about the item on the top shelf? Penelope was alone in her own place in the middle of the day and her son was gone for two weeks. Why was she suddenly so hot and bothered? The sneaking around had something to do with it, the lure of the illicit that called to her from beneath the winter sweaters, which were more and more starting to remind her of Winston Hackler. It definitely wasn’t her pending date with Fitzwilliam. Maybe it was spending the morning with bald, active Brad and the excitement of giving her number to a stranger for the first time in years. She didn’t know, but any kinks that might need to be worked out could wait till after the call to the HHR.

  As always, the phone rang and rang before he picked up. The HHR likely couldn’t hear it over the Mötley Crüe that was blaring on the four-foot floor speakers he’d purchased at Radio Shack the same month their electricity got cut off.

  Finally, he answered, hollering as he did, “Hey Weasel, turn that down. Penelope’s on the line. And Shiflett, you wouldn’t know Area Fifty-One if it bit you on the ass. We’ll see what Penelope says. Well, hello Penelope.”

  “Hey. How are you?”

  “Doing fine, doing fine. Just over here with a couple misinformed locals who wouldn’t know their ass from a hole in the ground when it comes to extraterrestrials.”

  The locals being referenced were classmates of Penelope’s from Hillsboro High and running buddies of the HHR going on thirty years. Weasel acted as first lieutenant on the HHR’s lawn mowing crew and Shiflett worked over at the Hostess plant, making delicious confections for America’s youth.

  Penelope passed on well wishes to her fellow alums, which elicited shouts from the gallery to come join them. These requests were followed by the inevitable flick of a lighter, an audible whoosh of air being pulled violently up a plastic tube, and then an extended coughing session from the HHR.

  “Shiflett and Weasel say you ought to swing by and hang out,” said the HHR, his voice hoarse and scratchy sounding.

  “Can’t do it. I’m painting my den today.”

  “What color?”

  “Turquoise.”

  “Excellent decision. I read an article about the psychology of color last week and turquoise came highly recommended. It’s calming. Very good for intuition. I think you’ll be pleased with it.”

  The HHR was a proud amateur psychologist, specializing in dream analysis as it related to sexual desire and fishing. Despite these limited qualifications, he might be on to something. She had intuitively picked turquoise after only four minutes in Lowe’s.

  “Thanks for that. But listen, I need a favor. We’re having a skunk problem where I work and my boss is wondering if you know anyone who might be able to help us out. Like, this weekend.”

  The HHR took a contemplative puff on something smaller, likely a friendly roach being passed from the couch to the La-Z-Boy, the throne from which he worked the remote control and directed metaphysical discussions. It was an elegant sound, this puff, thoughtful and not without purpose. He was working himself into problem-solving m
ode, Penelope could tell.

  “You’re over at Rolling Acres,” he said, exhaling with Laurence Oliv­ier panache. “Why don’t you get Uncle Carl Junior on it?”

  “He’s at Dollywood and won’t be back for a week. My boss is completely freaking out and can’t wait till then.”

  “Freaking out over skunks?”

  “Tell me about it.”

  “Buford King’s your man, if you can get him. But he’s particular about what cases he takes. He’s an honest-to-God tracker and doesn’t want to mess with getting a possum out of your trash or something. Plus, he’s basically retired. But you might be able to get him, since you used to be family.”

  “Huh?”

  “He’s Momma’s great-uncle by marriage. Carl Senior’s youngest sister Darlene’s husband. You’ve met him. At Thanksgiving or Christmas or something. Darlene’s the one who keeps bees.”

  Penelope racked her brain but couldn’t place Buford King or Darlene, though she did remember the clover honey. The HHR used to pile it an inch thick on his cornbread before basically putting his face in the plate to gobble it up. Lord how the HHR loved honey. Maybe that was what drew the bear cub to him in the first place.

  “You don’t have his number, by chance?” Penelope asked.

  “Nope. But it’s in the phone book. Just look up the Critter Catcher and that’s your man.”

  “All right. And thanks. I really appreciate it. My boss has been driving me crazy worrying about these skunks.”

  The HHR now took another dainty drag off the roach and said in a conspiratorial whisper, “Hey, just play along with what I’m about to say to these jokers. They think you’re smart as hell and this will put our little argument to bed once and for all. Is that cool?”