Operation Dimwit

by Inman Majors

  Penelope realized she was acting like a paranoiac and that she’d been holding her breath during the entirety of this cloak-and-dagger mission. She also realized that she’d flattened all the cardboard boxes the day before and disposed of them. She was SOL in the container department. Her best chance for ditching PENELOPE LEMON without alerting witnesses would be to pop it in the recycling bin for plastics when she heard the truck rumble through the gate later this morning. It was a plan that would require timing, execution, and nerves of steel. She couldn’t have that thing just plop out of the bin where Roy and Steve, the recycling guys, would see it. Talk about embarrassing. Adrenaline was now coursing through her. Subterfuge of this sort would be good practice for the eventual breaching of Dimwit’s lair.

  Satisfied with her plan, she sat down at her desk to write Theo a quick letter before beginning her workday. As she pulled out pen and paper, the Camp Sycamore theme song, specifically the line Where friends I’ll surely make, popped into her head. It was a hopeful line, she guessed, but wasn’t there also a hint of desperation? Friendship was plausible, even likely, but not a surefire guarantee. Then again, James, the know-it-all dinosaur boy of scowling childhood photos, had apparently made enough friends to have fond memories of the place. This thought appeased her and she closed her letter on an upbeat note, taunting her son by signing herself #UndisputedMarioKartDominator.

  If this goading didn’t elicit a speedy reply, then she’d know for sure that he was duct taped to a canoe floating in a forgotten cove of Lake Sycamore.

  She’d just put the stamp on the envelope when Missy dashed into the office and said, “When did Of course become the new You’re welcome?”

  Penelope smiled and shrugged, though she’d recently noted the same trend.

  Flinging her purse ten feet to the couch in the reception area, Missy ran a theatrical hand through her hair and began her laps around Penelope’s desk.

  “Seriously,” she said, “I was just in Kroger’s, getting team snacks for the one millionth time for Damien’s godforsaken baseball team, and when I said thanks to the checkout guy, he said, Of course. I hear it everywhere now. It’s out of control. Did some Kardashian start this or something?”

  Thank you for giving me your kidney.

  Of course.

  Thank you for solving world hunger.

  Of course.

  Thank you for killing Dimwit for me.

  Of course.

  She was standing now in the waiting area and did a backwards swoon onto the couch, her arm draped dramatically over her head like a silent movie heroine fainting away. “This travel baseball is killing me.”

  Penelope laughed and finished her text to Active Brad, suggesting drinks or an early dinner the following night. If he was free, that would be two Saturday nights in a row with a date. Pretty cool.

  “Travel baseball. Give me a break,” Missy said with her arm still covering her eyes. “With their matching bat bags and fourteen different uniforms, most of them white, which are impossible to get clean. Do I look like a charwoman who wants to spend every night of her life Spray and Washing grass stains? And the e-mails. Like five hundred a day. Tomorrow will be hot, be sure and have the boys hydrate. I can’t

  take it.”

  The monologue seemed to have exhausted her. She was breathing heavily, mouth open. Carl Jr. couldn’t get back in town fast enough. He had a calming influence that no one else could replace.

  To cheer her up, Penelope said, “So it looks like I might be stuck doing a mini triathlon.”

  “What?” said Missy, rising up stiffly like Dracula after a long night in the tanning bed coffin. “Are you insane?”

  “Apparently.” She then gave an overview of the previous afternoon at Fitness Plus.

  “Are bicycle seats any softer than they used to be?” Missy asked. “Because my uterus couldn’t stand all that jostling. Anyway, you’ve obviously got to do it. You can’t let this woman get the best of you. Give her an inch and she’ll take a mile, mark my word.”

  “Should I start with swimming or biking or running first?”

  Missy started to respond but, seeing the grin on Penelope’s, face reconsidered. “Did you at least get things going with the sweaty hunk?”

  “Just texted him about a date tomorrow.”

  “So dinner first? Or just straight to the sack?”

  “Maybe you should check your skunk cages.”

  Missy popped up at this suggestion and raced to the window, shouting over her shoulder as she ran, “Did you spot one with the binoculars? Were you saving this for a surprise?”

  Missy was twitching at the window, her binoculars scanning this way and that. “Is that one? I think I see something, but I can’t be sure.”

  “You should go check,” Penelope said, hoping for a little more time to perfectly map out her recycling bin strategy and the disposal of compromising household utensils in her possession before settling down to a scrumptious PB and J.

  Setting the glasses down, Missy raced across the room, seized her purse, and, fairly panting, said, “With the skunks taken care of, we can move on to Dimwit!”

  Then she was gone, slamming the door behind her.

  A little while after viewing Missy through the binoculars as she stomped around looking at empty cages—a most enjoyable five minutes—Penelope received a call from someone in the parking lot about renting one of the empty units. She checked the clock. Missy had gone straight from checking skunk cages to Walmart for yet another pair of socks for her son’s baseball team, but should be back soon. Showings usually lasted about thirty minutes. She could take the personal item down now but might risk running into Mr. Burke with a load of Perrier bottles. Best to stick to the original plan and book ass just when the recycling truck rumbled through the gates. She still had plenty of time. Last week they’d arrived around 11:00 and it was just now 9:45. The only sticking point was that Dimwit had yet to make his appearance. Leaving him alone with her personal item was a high-risk scenario. She texted Missy:

  When are you going to be back? Someone wants to see #4 and Dimwit hasn’t made his visit yet.

  Riffling socks as we speak and wishing I’d brought gloves. FYI, the cages were empty. Marshmallows my ass. We need to put some live bait in there. Like a big pot of grubs. Why don’t you call the local bait shop and see what they have?

  I’ll get right on that. Seriously, when are you back?

  Be there in fifteen.

  Thanks.

  Of course.

  Penelope smiled at this then checked the time. Everything was still on schedule. Even Dimwit couldn’t do all he’d want or need in fifteen minutes and Walmart was like two minutes away. Once she got back to the office, she’d send Missy on another wild skunk chase and dispose of the evidence in peaceful solitude. It would be a snap. She grabbed her purse and—like the true paranoiac she was—checked that her implement had not disappeared into thin air. She tipped her figurative hat to its gently slumbering form and left the office.

  The couple interested in the unit, recent retirees from Minnesota, proved quite the talkers. Penelope had always thought that Midwesterners were taciturn, but not Horace and JoJo. If there was a tidbit about Mankato they failed to share, it was hard to imagine what that might be. They’d miss steak night at the American Legion, karaoke at the Parkers’ house, and the deep-dish pizza at Eduardo’s.

  What they wouldn’t miss were the taxes. That—the tax rate—city, state, and federal—had been the main topic of conversation. Horace had made his money fair and square and thought he should be able to keep it. While inspecting the kitchen, JoJo concurred on all points. It was plain to her that the Mankato city council was bound and determined to bleed every last citizen dry, and also that the dishwasher was noisier than she hoped but not a deal breaker. They’d be back tomorrow to sign the papers.

  Coming up the steps to the office, Penelope thought that she might have a knack for real estate, especially if a large component of that was
just letting people get their yak on.

  Real estate dollar signs were floating before her eyes when it registered that Missy’s car wasn’t in the lot. With apprehension building, she entered the office to find the same unrifled pile of mail she’d left on the desk for her boss. And nary a correspondence had been flung on the floor in anger. It was crystal clear that Missy had not returned in fifteen minutes as promised, and that the Of course was offered on fraudulent terms. Penelope checked the time. 10:45. The office had been unmanned for an hour. She glanced quickly at the bathroom door, which was open.

  She was processing this turn of events when she heard the recycling truck rumble onto the property. Damn it, they were early. Heart thumping but maintaining her cool, she rushed to her bottom drawer. All the contents she expected to see were there, save the one item bearing her name. She went to the bathroom and peered in. There was no sign of Dimwit, and the toilet lid was decorously closed. Now the recycling truck was beeping in reverse. She went to her desk and yanked the drawer all the way out. Still nothing. Maybe she’d hallucinated and put it somewhere else. She checked them all. Nada.

  It was then that Missy burst into the office and said, “I just got a speeding ticket in the Walmart parking lot. How is that even possible? What cop puts up a speed trap at Walmart? Isn’t there a murder at Dollar General to investigate or something? Some vandalism down at the Olive Garden? My God, this is a one-horse town.”

  “Dimwit stole something of mine again,” Penelope said. “I was worried about that, and that’s why I checked to see when you were getting back. That speeding ticket really did me in.”

  Missy pumped her head up and down eagerly, crumpled the citation into a ball, and gave it a resolute kick across the room. Following it while still in flight, she waited impatiently for its landing, then stomped it several times for good measure. It was good and

  dead now.

  “There’s no way I was going forty. They’ve got like three speed bumps. It’s totally bogus. Plus they didn’t have those stupid socks I needed. Why can’t Damien just play the cello or something? You buy one thing and you’re done with it. I swear to God, I’m this close to shoving about forty pairs of socks up that coach’s ass.”

  Outside, Penelope heard the recycling guys getting the first of the bins and glass rattling and breaking as it was dumped into the truck.

  “Anyway, what did that inbred freak nab this time? Your Pixy Stix? Sprees? Reese’s Pieces? Next time you get on me about tanning, let’s have a little chat about dental hygiene.”

  “He didn’t take something small this time. It was more like a personal item.”

  This got Missy’s attention and she abruptly stopped kicking the crumpled ticket and raced back to Penelope’s desk.

  “Personal item? What kind of personal item? When I hear that term, I know where my mind goes, and it’s not toward sugary snacks.”

  “Just something of mine he shouldn’t have taken,” Penelope said, fiddling with her computer mouse to keep from meeting Missy’s cheeky smile.

  Missy sat down at her favorite spot on the desk and said: “How personal?”

  “Well, my name’s inscribed on it.”

  “Really?” Missy said, popping off the desk for one more go at the crumpled ball in the doorway to her office. With one vicious soccer-style kick, she sent it sailing over her own desk and out of sight.

  “This could be the break we’ve been waiting for,” she said. “It would be tough to prove Dimwit stole candy or a pair of socks. But something with your name on it? In his very own crypt? We’d have him dead to rights. So what is it exactly, this monogrammed personal thing of yours?”

  “I’m not saying.”

  “You have to or we can’t file a police report.”

  “There is zero chance I’m telling the cops about this.”

  Missy approached the desk, frowning speculatively as if trying to suss out the nature of the pilfered item.

  “Well,” she said, “if it’s something you’re too embarrassed to confide to the authorities, and you insist on calling it personal, then I’m guessing I can figure it out. Quick game of Twenty Questions?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Is it monogrammed panties from Fitzdilbert?”

  “I said I’m not playing.”

  “Novelty handcuffs? No, that’s not your style. I’m guessing it’s something you’ve recently gotten and then decided to get rid of. But you didn’t want to dispose of it at home so you brought it to the office.”

  Missy was pacing in the waiting area where Penelope couldn’t help but see her, stroking her chin like a detective getting closer and closer to solving the riddle. How she could be so good at this sort of analysis and so hapless about skunks, Dimwit, and everything else was a question for the ages.

  She stopped suddenly, turned on her tiny heel, and said, “Dimwit swiped your dildo.”

  22

  Penelope feigned looking for something in her purse to avoid Missy’s smirk.

  “I told you about your poker face already,” Missy said. “You might as well admit I’m right.”

  “It was a gag gift from Sandy and Rachel. At my housewarming.”

  Missy nodded in what was meant to be an understanding fashion, trying her best not to smile but having little success. “Wrong size?”

  “What? I don’t know. I didn’t even try it. It was green and had my name on it, for God’s sake.”

  Missy continued her inquisition, but Penelope wasn’t listening. All she could hear was the banging rattle of the recycling truck pulling out of Rolling Acres and onto the highway. She was regretting a number of things, but mostly her extended virtual tour of the Land of 10,000 Lakes.

  “We have to get Dimwit,” Penelope said.

  “Oh, I agree, I agree. As soon as we take out the skunk army.”

  Penelope bit her tongue on this, feeling vulnerable after the discovery of her personal apparatus.

  “Listen,” said Missy, “I know you want to bypass phase one of the operation and storm Dimwit’s hovel tonight, but I’m firm on the skunk thing. Our only other option is to call the police, report a burglary, and let them handle it. If they find something with your name on, like a massive green dildo, for instance, then Dimwit gets arrested and the issue is settled. So let’s call the cops and file a report. Easy-peasy.”

  “I’m not calling the cops and letting them find that thing up there. That would be all over town in five minutes.”

  “I could call Gary and ask him to investigate it off the books. He’s still obsessed with me. It’s my own fault. I broke his spirit. Word to the wise: save the professional moves for professionals. Otherwise you ruin a man for other women. It’s sad, really.”

  Missy was nodding somberly, trying not to grin. Penelope had met Gary once earlier in the summer and had to admit he was the lovelorn policeman Missy described.

  “We’re not calling the cops until I get my stuff back,” Penelope said. “Maybe he stole something else we can prove is ours, besides my whatchamacallit.”

  “Please use your big-girl words. We say penis and vagina in this family. Also dildo. Try it. Dil-do.”

  “No thanks.”

  “Pleasure pole? Stiffy in a jiffy?”

  “No.”

  Missy cackled at this exchange then went casually to the back window. Lazily, habitually, she picked up the binoculars to check the skunk cages for the umpteenth time that week.

  “Even if we can get in, and we do see our stuff,” Penelope said, “we still can’t call the police. We’d have to admit breaking and entering.”

  “That sounds like an urban legend, but let’s worry about that when the time comes.”

  So saying, she resumed her halfhearted vigil at the window. Then her head jerked sideways and binoculars banged roughly against glass. This was followed by weird squeaking sounds emanating from her throat. She was on tiptoes, craning her head far to the left and twitching in an unsightly manner.

  “G
et me a chair, quick! I think I see something in the east quadrant!”

  Despite herself, Penelope caught the rapidly spreading skunk fever and dashed to the window with a chair from reception. Missy hopped up, breathing hard, and again banged the binoculars into the window. “Ow! Damn it. I just gave myself two black eyes, but whatever. That’s a skunk if I ever saw one. In fact, it looks like the leader of the horde. It is! I remember that white stripe.”

  “You admitted you didn’t see any skunks. And they all have all stripes.”

  “I did see one, I’m pretty sure. And each skunk has unique patterning. Ask the Whisperer if they don’t. Speaking of which, get his ass on the phone. We’ve made our first dent in Dimwit’s army! Yee-hi!”

  The skunk facts were about to start coming fast and furious, so Penelope sprinted to the phone before Missy could spring any more research on her. She pulled the Critter Catcher’s card from her desk as Missy narrated from across the room:

  “Ooh, he’s mad, just look at him. He’s snarling and pacing like a caged tiger. Now he’s doing something weird with his snout. It is a snout, right? Or is that just pigs? What if he’s signaling the rest of the corps? They could be streaming through Dimwit’s skunk door as we speak. Hurry! I need you to take the walkie-talkie and survey the hill to make sure they don’t surround me again before the Whisperer gets here.”

  The Critter Catcher answered the phone thusly: “Hellllo, Buford King speaking. What can I do for you this bright, lovely day?”

  “We caught one!” Penelope said, giving in to the excitement of the occasion at last. Who was kidding who? She’d never doubted the marshmallows, and now her faith had been rewarded. Live bait? What a city slicker.