Smoothie grabs my left hand and holds it in his right hand while rubbing the top of it with the other, making a hand sandwich. It feels soothing and I sense my breathing calming down enough.
“You ready honey?” Buffy the Vampire Artist asks. I bite my lip, squeeze my eyes and nod. She presses the pedal with her foot and revs up the motor, and FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK. I can’t speak. I’m breathing as hot and heavy as an obscene phone caller.
“See, that’s not so bad, Mary Kate,” Smoothie says, stroking my forehead ever so gently, like how a mother might with a febrile child.
“Not bad? Are you insane? It feels like ten hostile cats sliced their claws into the same wound instantaneously!” I feel my teeth clenching and unclenching between words, but gradually the pain subsides a little to a dull yet continual bee stinging sensation. This totally reminds me of the time I got three fillings with no Novocain.
“Whose stupid idea was this?” I glare at him.
“Just think how cool it’ll be,” Smoothie says with that grin. “Maybe you should have a focal point, get your mind off of it.”
I decide to stare into his eyes, those turquoise bear traps of his that keep snapping me in. I find if I stare, really stare, right at the color, it all swirls together and I don’t know what I’m actually staring at, just that it’s mesmerizing and beautiful and evocative, and I lose myself in the image.
“You’re all done, baby!” I hear Smoothie say.
“I am?”
“Yep. You sort of zoned out there for a little bit and then Buffy finished up.”
“You know the drill for maintenance?” Buffy asks.
“Yep. In two hours, remove the Saran Wrap, wash gently with soap and water. Dry with clean towel. Apply antibiotic ointment regularly, blah blah blah blah blah blah blah.”
“I think this is a sign that our patient is well enough to go home,” Buffy says to Smoothie as she secures the plastic wrap to my hip. I wonder how we’ll cope with our healing wounds, what with having to sit in the car for long stretches.
We return to the car to find that Niagara has chewed part of the upholstery from the passenger side headrest.
“The transformation is complete,” Smoothie cheers. I think Richard would have me arrested if he knew I allowed this to occur. Arrested or burned at the stake.
The dog is so happy to see us—his body shaking and shimmying in time to his tail—we can hardly blame him for his bad behavior. As long as it doesn’t happen again.
“Well, Mr. Cunningham,” I say. “You do realize I have performed all sorts of physical acts of derring-do under your watch. What do you have to say for yourself?”
“You ain’t seen nothin’ yet, Mary Kate. Nothin’.” He winks. Good God, what else could he get me to do? But I do know my transformation, from chrysalis to caterpillar inching along to this butterfly I’m blossoming into, is all thanks to my guardian angel of sorts, Smoothie Cunningham. Who is, by the way, smooth as they come, judging by what all he’s persuaded me into.
“Why is it that I seem to have a lot of physical pain whenever you get a great idea?”
“I don’t know. Guess you’re just lucky.” He points his finger at me like it’s a pistol and “pulls” the trigger.
While part of me can’t believe I have actually gone and gotten a tattoo, another part of me is so pleased with the crazy impulsivity of it all. And I realize something very important about myself. I would no sooner have donated even an ounce of flesh to Richard than I would have sold my soul to the devil. But yet for Smoothie it seems the obvious thing to do: a pound of flesh at the very least. It’s as if he’s really worth sacrificing for.
Chapter 21
“Last order of business,” Smoothie starts to say, “We need a shopping mall. I have my directions right here.” He holds up a sheet of paper, Evidently he got this from Buffy the flesh stabbing artiste back at the Stabbin’ Cabin.
“And what’s at the mall?”
“Never you mind,” he says.
“You are the international man of mystery, aren’t you?”
“Yeah. I’m like James Bond, only better.”
I laugh at that.
We drive for about a half an hour and find the Macy’s he was looking for. Smoothie gives the dog a half a loaf of French bread to keep him from destroying too much more of the interior of the car, leaving the windows cracked enough so he doesn’t get overheated.
We enter through women’s shoes and he beelines right to the cosmetics counter.
He finds a normal-enough looking woman dressed in black but at least not wearing bizarre clown-like colors on her face, and enlists her help in giving me a make-over.
“A make-over? I can’t do that!”
“Sure you can, Eliza Doolittle.”
“Just you wait, ‘Enry ‘Iggins,” I shake my fist at him. I feel like such a pity cause. Like one of those socioeconomically-challenged kids a family takes in just for Christmas or summer vacation so the kid can see what it would have been like to have a normal family instead of a daddy in jail and a mommy who’s a crackhead.
The make-up lady starts working her magic on me and I just close my eyes while she uses my face as her palette. The brushes tickle along my eyelids and I jump a few times just because it’s so startling, the whole process. Up until now the only make-up I’ve worn is a little cover-up for zits every now and then. I hardly even wear lipstick but for special occasions, which aren’t too often for me.
The woman works on me for what seems like hours while Smoothie goes off to the pet store and picks up a few toys and bowls and food for the dog.
The way I know he’s back is when I hear, “Whoo—eeeee! Good golly, Miss Molly. You are lookin’ mighty fine, Mizz Doopreeee. Mighty fine.” He whistles that long, low whistle of appreciation I’m starting to get used to.
I have a look in the mirror and hardly know who’s looking back at me. With the short hair and the beautiful face it’s like I’m a modern-day Audrey Hepburn. Well, not quite so gamine, but still.
“I hardly know what to say,” I tell the lady. I feel like I should tip her. Like what do you tip someone who makes you look so good? A stock tip? I don’t know any of those. Advice to the lovelorn? Nyet. Instead I just thank her profusely, to the point that I’m probably a bit over the top and she’ll think I’m needy. Which I may well be, but still. I satisfy her by buying a small fortune worth of make-up and hope to God I can figure how to use it on my own.
Smoothie and I decide to wander the shopping mall for a little while longer, hoping the dog isn’t wreaking too much havoc on my car.
We walk by a kiosk selling all sorts of beachy-looking jewelry, and I see a shark’s tooth necklace.
“Look, Smoothie, it’s just like yours.”
He looks at it. “Sure enough. Even has the same color leather choker. I’ll be damned.”
He takes out his wallet and hands the necklace to the vendor and pays for it. “Now we match yet again.”
I tell him it’s a good thing he didn’t do the same make-up as me—that would have taken it a little too far with the twinsies stuff.
“What is the story of that necklace, anyhow?” I ask. I know there must be some reason he wears it all the time.
“It’s nothing, really.”
I know that nothing always means something, but I decide to let it die for now.
We wander the mall a few more minutes but it’s closing, so we return to the car where Niagara’s been a good boy sleeping like a baby.
Across the parking lot is a restaurant with an outdoor patio and there are lots of patrons out there chatting and seemingly having a great time of it.
We decide to check into a hotel somewhere for the night and come back for a bite to eat.
We actually find a room that accepts dogs. Tu
rns out it’s what they call a “truckers” room—everything is in Lilliputian size. I expect to find Gulliver nearby. Two teeny beds against each wall, a small sink, a mini toilet, and a teensy shower. It’s like a drive-by bedroom, where I suppose a trucker gets a few hours of shut-eye before making time on the highway again.
We decide not to bother showering and just change our clothes. I put on my skirt and halter top and Smoothie talks me into putting on those high heels that my friend Miranda would have called “fuck me” pumps. The overall look, I must say, is pretty foxy. Far, far more provocative than I’ve ever dressed, but as I am so not the same woman I was, it’s a refreshing change. I’ve transformed from a Tupperware saleslady-type to a hot-to-trot soon-to-be divorcee. Yowza!
Smoothie doesn’t say a word but his eyes speak volumes. I think even he is surprised at my transformation.
We leave Niagara with a fat bone and slip out the door, returning to the scene of all the local action.
As we stroll into the bar, I notice something absolutely uncanny. Men. Staring at me. As if I’m worth staring at. I’m usually only gawked at when I have a piece of parsley stuck to my teeth, so my natural reaction is to pick between my teeth for food, just in case. But I realize that’s not it.
It makes me carry myself just a little bit taller, walk with a hint of pride, maybe finding a suggestion of value to myself. It’s taken a lot of years, but wow, it’s happening.
We wait at the bar outside for a table, and a guy approaches me, asking me if I want a drink. I look at Smoothie very confused. Why would someone offer to buy me a drink when I’m obviously with another man?
“Beat it, dude,” Smoothie says, planting his legs in front of the other guy.
The guy looks a little proprietary toward me but I give him a look that tells him I’m not interested and he wanders off.
“Why Smoothie Cunningham, I do believe you’re jealous!” I tease him.
It’s finally Smoothie’s turn to blush. “I’m not jealous, Mary Kate. I just want to protect you from these apes out here.”
“Gorilla men?”
“Yeah, big knob-headed ape-men. They’re everywhere. You have to watch out for them or next thing you know, they’ll club you over the head, drag you by your hair back to their cave—”
“And have their manly way with me?” I’m laughing now. It’s so funny that anyone would even talk about me in this manner. But I sort of like it.
I reach my finger out to touch Smoothie’s sharks tooth as I touch mine with my other hand.
“Ready to tell me about it yet?”
“Bartender—two more margaritas,” he orders at the bar. I guess this story needs the buffer of liquor to temper it down.
“First off, Mary Kate, I don’t want you to think less of me for this story you’re about to hear.”
I cross my hands across my chest. “Cross my heart and hope to die.” Or plunge into the frigid waters of Niagara Falls.
“So, things weren’t always rosy and perfect in my marriage. Well, I mean before things turned not so rosy, they weren’t so rosy. We had our bumps along the way.”
“Most marriages do.”
“True. But I was the source of one of those bumps. It’s something I’m not proud about. And I have this necklace to always remind me of my indiscretion. Even though it wasn’t entirely my indiscretion.”
“Do tell,” I say. “Sounds juicy.”
“I’d gone to the beach for the weekend with some buddies of mine from college. One of the guys was getting married and we decided to have a bachelor party for him. Surfing, sunbathing, plenty of drinking. It was a weekend of debauchery, all planned out for my buddy Tim’s last hurrah.
“We got in Friday in time for happy hours, and we met a group of women at a bar and spent the night hanging with them. A little flirtation, but all perfectly innocent. One woman in particular kept hanging by me. Amy was her name. She was cute and nice so I talked to her most of the night.”
Smoothie stops to pay the bartender and take a quick swig of his drink. “Next day we spent drinking all day on the beach. That’s where I got my necklace. Some lady was walking up and down the beach selling them. That night was the big bash. We’d rented a large beach house and had hired a couple of strippers to come in.”
“And Amy was one of the strippers.”
“Coincidentally, yes. She was a damn good stripper, too.”
“And the hallmarks of a good stripper are?”
“You gotta have a rack, Mary Kate. You gotta have the moves. And you gotta make these fellas believe you want ‘em. Bad. She had it all. We were mesmerized by her.”
“So you had a lap dance?”
“Shit. I wish it stopped there.”
“You mean you slept with her? Even though you were married?”
“Now you’re jumping to conclusions.”
“Well? Don’t keep me in suspense!”
“So yeah, the lap dance, the teasing, the touching, sure, that went on. Then she moved on to another guy at the party, case closed. It wasn’t much after that that I passed on one of the beds in a back room. By myself, I might add. Some time in the middle of the night I awoke, and I wasn’t alone anymore.”
“She was there?”
“I didn’t know who it was. I only felt her mouth on me.”
“There?” I’m staring at his crotch. Just what I am not supposed to do. Oy.
Gulp. Gulp. Gulp. Gulp. Literally. Oh, God. Stop typing Mary Kate!
He nods, looking a little ashamed.
“Yep. There.”
“So what did you do?”
“Christ, Mary Kate. You don’t know what it’s like to be a guy, waking up at three in the morning, half drunk, with some hot woman’s mouth on you. It was like out of a dream.”
“So you just let her?”
Smoothie groans. “By the time it registered in my head what was going on, I was too far gone to put a halt to things. God, it felt so good. But then it felt so bad. Afterwards. I knew what I allowed to happen was wrong. I felt like a real shit, you know? It wasn’t like me to do something so stupid and so insensitive.”
“But it was a done deal.”
“Signed, sealed and delivered, as it were.”
“So what’s this got to do with the shark’s tooth?”
“I know this sounds ridiculous. But I decided this necklace was going to be my amulet. A charm to ward against any such behavior ever occurring again. To ensure I’d not have a situation where I’d get drunk and allow my stupid-ass behavior to get in the way of the promises I made to be faithful. It’s just my own way of reminding myself not to be a fucking idiot.”
Smoothie looks at me like he thinks I’ve lost all respect in him.
“So do you think I’m a total asshole and I deserve to have my wife dump me?”
Truth is, in a way his acknowledgment makes him all the more accessible—like he’s not any more perfect than anyone else, and he’s willing to take his lumps. I admire him for that, and I need to tell him so.
“Are you crazy? Of course I don’t think you’re a total asshole. I think you’re an amazing man who made a mistake. A mistake that could have been a whole lot worse, too. And no, I don’t think your wife left you for another woman because of this. I’d bet she’d been wrestling with her feelings long before this and not told you about them. You don’t just ‘turn’ gay, or bisexual, or whatever, overnight. Well, er, at least that’s what Dr. Phil says.”
Smoothie starts cracking up. “Well, if Dr. Phil says it, then I know it’s true.” He winks at me.
“Seriously, if you paid attention to Dr. Phil, maybe you’d have never found yourself in that position in the first place. You ever think of that?”
“Yeah, I’ll keep that in mind, Mary Kate. For next time.”
“For next time. But there’s not gonna be a next time, remember?”
“You are so right about that. There will never be a next time. I’m over relationships. From here on out, just friends.”
Which is really all for the best. Because if I were ever to think of something evolving with me and Smoothie, I would just have to remind myself that it’s a ridiculous notion. And this way it’s also beyond even the potential to imagine it.
It takes so long to get a table at this restaurant that we finally decide to leave and get fast food instead. Probably not such a bad idea, budget-wise. Assuming we have a budget. We haven’t ever spoken about our financial set-up; we just tend to take turns ponying up the cash.
Back in our cozy little trucker’s room, Niagara has sprawled across one of the beds, his body stretching from the foot of the bed and curving over the edge so his front paws touch the floor. Funny how dogs find the oddest positions for comfort.
We take turns getting ready for bed. Once again I put on Smoothie’s co-opted t-shirt. Still not ready for that red number in company. I’m half glad we’ve got separate Rob and Laura Petrie-type beds, straight out of a 1960’s sitcom. What with how things seemed to be heating up earlier, I’m just as happy to avoid any decisions that might present themselves. I’m not ready to make big decisions in my life quite yet. Well, except that little detail about ditching my husband.
I end up being graced with the dog sharing my bed. He snores something fierce, and it takes me ages to finally fall asleep. But it’s a cozy sort of feeling, drifting off to sleep with the unconditional affection of a mangy mongrel, and the comfort of the burgeoning bonds of friendship with my nearby guardian angel.
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