by C. D. Payne
Paul chose to ignore the question. “Did you hear?” he asked. “Bernice Lynch is going to be OK. She’s out of the hospital now.”
“Yes, I had heard that.”
“She told the police everything, though. I think her mother’s going to sue Nick’s parents.”
“Well, they’re certainly used to it,” Carlotta sighed.
“Your fortune cookie may have some good news,” he added.
“I could use some,” she replied. “You won’t, uh, mention to anyone you’ve seen me?”
“I didn’t see anything. Nice dress. Very becoming… Carlotta.”
“Thanks, Paul,” she said, impressed as usual by his omniscience.
After he left, Carlotta cracked open the cookie. Her fortune read: “Despair not. An unexpected windfall awaits.”
All right!
11:30 P.M. No windfall yet. Going to bed. Today I dressed as a woman and thoroughly enjoyed it. In fact, I developed a fairly spectacular T.E. just now while Carlotta was disrobing. I wish I could afford psychoanalysis to find out what precisely this means. Do you suppose there’s any cause for concern?
SATURDAY, December 5 — I’M RICH! I’m in the chips. My ship has come in. I’m rolling in it. I have acquired some tall paper. I’m a member of the affluent classes. Bodybuilders could develop powerful muscles hoisting my wallet. In short, I’m loaded.
François was right. Why didn’t I pay more attention to him? Unscrupulous people always know best.
This morning as Carlotta was preparing to go out, she opened Mrs. DeFalco’s underwear drawer. As she was rummaging about for a fresh pair of black hose, she felt a curious lump in a repulsive-looking garment she took to be a girdle. Her curiosity piqued, she overcame her revulsion, reached inside the shriveled spandex, and pulled out an immense roll of U.S. government currency (yes, the genuine green variety, in startlingly large denominations).
All plans were put on hold as she unrolled the giant wad and counted the awesome cash cache.
$2,385!
More actual money than I’d ever seen before. Five lifetimes of my erstwhile meager weekly allowance.
I could buy a near state-of-the-art computer, thought Nick. I could buy a large-caliber revolver, ruminated François. I could buy modern panty hose, speculated Carlotta. Or, pointed out Nick’s practical side, I could buy food. I could actually postpone disagreeable starvation for many months. For a change, all my choices were pleasant ones. Such is the awesome power of money. François is convinced wealth is the ultimate aphrodisiac. That’s why Republicans are so conservative. Sexual satiety naturally stunts the social conscience.
4:30 P.M. I’m back. What a glorious day. Carlotta, I discovered, was born to shop. Money flows from her hands like drool from a toddler. Of course, it helped that all the stores downtown were piping in festive holiday music. Swept up in the spirit of the season, Carlotta indulged her every whim.
She began with a midmorning snack of six maple bars in her favorite donut shop. Then it was on to Flampert’s for lingerie shopping. Disappointed by the thinness of the foam in the padded brassieres (why such deplorable timidity on the part of the undergarment industry?), she had to augment her purchase by stuffing in two large shoulder pads from the notions counter. Then she bought eyeliner, mascara, blusher, lipstick (color: Carmine Swoon), perfume (Writhe by Kevin Clein), six pairs of black panty hose (no more outmoded garter belts), and a nice pair of rhinestone-studded reading glasses.
From Flampert’s, she proceeded on to an electronics store, where she purchased an expensive AM/FM stereo walkabout tape player with inconspicuous bud earphones. Unfortunately, neither her dress nor her shawl was equipped with pockets. After some experimentation, she discovered her personal stereo system would nestle conveniently between the shoulder pads in her bra (although adjusting the controls tended to attract unwelcome stares from fellow shoppers).
Next, at the local record shop, she purchased two Frank Sinatra tapes (the store’s entire meager selection), and cassettes by Artie Shaw, Duke Ellington, Jeri Southern, Karen Akers, Ella Fitzgerald, and Mildred Bailey.
“You’re losing something, lady,” said the clerk listlessly.
I interpreted this remark as a comment on my musical tastes. Apparently this strung-out young woman with purple hair felt I was missing out by not purchasing the newest mind-rotting heavy metal releases.
“They’re for my aunt in Cleveland,” apologized Carlotta. “Her tastes are quite conservative.”
“You’re losing something,” repeated the phlegmatic clerk, pointing casually to her Young Dickheads sweatshirt.
My God, I thought, this woman is completely stoned. They must let them do dope right here at the cash register. I only hope she hands over an extra ten with my change.
Then Carlotta glanced down at her dress. An ear-bud cord had become tangled in a shoulder pad and dislodged it. Several inches of white pad were visible above her heaving bodice. Blushing, Carlotta fumbled to free the cord, then hurriedly stuffed the pad back into place.
“Perfume blotters,” explained Carlotta. “They’re the newest sensation over at Flampert’s.”
“I never shop there,” huffed the clerk, handing me the correct change. “They sell Hustler magazine.”
Damn. I knew I’d forgotten something.
After a pleasant lunch at the Golden Carp, a heavily laden Carlotta crept back up the alley toward home. As she was about to duck behind the garage, a gate opened across the alley and out bounced a large garbage can gripped in the powerful but uncoordinated arms of Bruno Modjaleski, Redwood High’s most celebrated gridiron mediocrity.
“Oh, hello,” guiltily gasped a startled Carlotta. I still suffer qualms of conscience for nearly sending Bruno upriver for car theft.
“’Lo,” he replied shyly, but with evident curiosity. “Need some help with your packages?”
With Frank crooning in both ears, Carlotta missed the question. She turned down her stereo—an operation Bruno observed with much interest. “Beg your pardon?” she asked.
“Your packages,” repeated Bruno. “Need any help carrying them?”
“Oh, uh, no, thank you. I can manage.”
“You’re stayin’ at Mrs. DeFalco’s, huh?” he asked.
“Uh, am I?” I replied uncertainly.
“I seen you goin’ in and out of the bushes there.”
“Uh, yes. It’s a handy shortcut. Well, good day.”
“Bye,” he said with a stare that suggested he could be devoting some of his limited cranial capacity to the act of mentally undressing me.
Carlotta hurried into the house and dumped her packages. Damn. That alley is not as deserted as I had supposed. I just hope Bruno can keep his big fat mouth shut. I wonder if football players are prone to gossip?
2:15 P.M. Four-dozen peanut butter cookies—fresh from the oven. I hope they do the trick.
8:15 P.M. I feel totally paralyzed with a leaden black angst. Why is the exhilaration of sudden wealth so short-lived? Now my wonderful new tape player seems like a needless, frivolous expense.
François reminds me to accentuate the positive. At least I am enjoying my new panty hose. It’s true: I get a curious thrill every time I slip them on.
SUNDAY, December 6 — I JUST SAW SHEENI SAUNDERS! I ACTUALLY SPOKE TO HER!
The good news is she’s even more achingly lovely than I remembered. The bad news is she was on her way to meet loathsome Trent Preston. They are going on a long, intimate walk—just the six of them (Sheeni, Trent, Apurva, Vijay, Albert, and Jean-Paul). If you ask me, it all sounds suspiciously like a double date with dogs.
Carlotta was about to dive into her usual donut assortment, when into the shop walked Sheeni carrying the Sunday New York Times. As Carlotta watched transfixed, Sheeni ordered three orange-glazed cake donuts and a large coffee, then carried them over to THE TABLE NEXT TO MINE. Gripped by a sudden disquietude, Carlotta concealed her tremulous hands under the brown Formica table. Sheeni was on her second donu
t and well into the Book Review section before Carlotta worked up the nerve to speak.
“Miss, could you possibly pass me the cream?” she asked.
Sheeni looked up and focused her beautiful blue eyes on my rouged countenance. She examined Carlotta with some interest. “I’m afraid my cream is curdled,” she replied.
“That’s all right,” said Carlotta. “No matter. I see now I’ve finished my coffee after all. Silly me.”
Sheeni resumed her reading.
Carlotta cleared her throat. “Miss, can you tell me where one obtains The New York Times in this town? I am new here, you see.”
Sheeni marked her place with a lovely finger and looked up. “There’s a news rack in front of Flampert’s. Down the street.”
“Thank you. I want to see if my mother’s new film is reviewed in the entertainment section.”
Sheeni looked at Carlotta with new interest. “Your mother is in films?” she asked.
“Yes, she’s an actress. Bertha Ulansky. Perhaps you’ve heard of her?”
“I don’t think so. What films has she been in?”
“Oh, dozens. Primarily character roles now, of course. She played the mother in After Hours, if you recall that picture.”
“I do, yes. But I don’t remember a mother character.”
“Well, it was a small part. She did it to work with Ridley Scott. The man is a genius.”
“He is gifted,” agreed Sheeni. “But wasn’t After Hours directed by Martin Scorsese?”
“Possibly,” admitted Carlotta. “Mother gets confused at times. It’s all that rich food at Spago. I tell her to go easy at her age. By the way, my name is Carlotta Ulansky.”
“I’m Sheeni Saunders,” she said, extending a lovely hand.
Struggling to hold her tremor in check, Carlotta grasped the familiar hand and squeezed it gently. At least one of the parties felt an electric thrill at the moment of contact.
“Have you lived in Ukiah long, Sheeni?” inquired Carlotta.
“Unfortunately yes, Carlotta. I enjoyed a brief escape to Santa Cruz recently. But now I’m back. Thanks to the treachery of a former friend.”
“How unpleasant for you,” gulped Carlotta. “Is your friend entirely beyond forgiveness?”
“I never want to see him again. He revealed himself to be a liar and a cheat.”
“Surely, Sheeni, there are some small extenuating circumstances. Few of us are entirely evil.”
“I should like to think he did what he did out of some sort of affection for me—twisted as it may have been. But that hardly excuses his behavior.”
“Doesn’t it?” asked Carlotta. “Love compels us to desperate acts. People cannot always act rationally. The greater the love, the stronger the passions, the more reckless the crimes. Love is not an emotion that conduces to sensibility. Especially if your friend possessed a fiery, artistic temperament. Did he?”
“Not so fiery, but possibly artistic,” Sheeni admitted. “He was certainly not your ordinary teen.”
“Where is he now?” Carlotta asked.
“Somewhere in India. The FBI is looking for him.”
“How extraordinarily romantic! He sounds to me like quite an exceptional young man. Rather in the rebellious traditions of Errol Flynn or James Dean or—to cross the pond—Jean-Paul Belmondo.”
Sheeni gave a start. “Whom did you say?”
“Jean-Paul Belmondo,” repeated Carlotta. “He’s a French actor.”
“I know who he is!” she affirmed.
“Mother had a small role in one of his pictures, a film called Breathless. But I don’t suppose you’ve seen it.”
“It’s my favorite film!” declared Sheeni. “What did she play?”
“Er, she played the streetcar conductress.”
Sheeni looked perplexed. “I don’t remember any scenes on a streetcar.”
“Well, it was a small role. They may have cut those scenes from the American prints. Too bad too. Mother was quite a sensation in France.”
Sheeni and Carlotta chatted on happily for another half hour, until the former excused herself to go meet her loathsome friends (excluding from that adjective only the lovely Apurva).
“It was nice meeting you, Carlotta,” said Sheeni, gathering up her newspaper.
“Oh, Sheeni, the pleasure was entirely mine,” replied Carlotta, extending her hand for another thrilling touch. “It’s nice to encounter a person of intelligence and culture in this town.”
“I agree, Carlotta. Well, perhaps we’ll see each other again.”
I have no doubt of that, Sheeni darling. And our reunion will occur much sooner than you imagine.
1:25 P.M. As Carlotta sneaked up the alley toward home, Bruno and garbage can emerged from the gate.
“Hi, Carly,” he said, smilingly indifferent to the deafening din as he cheerfully dropped the can.
“Hello, Bruno.”
“I’m enjoying the cookies, Carly. The season’s over so I can eat as many as I want.”
“Good for you, Bruno. I appreciate a man with a hearty appetite.”
“Candy gets on my case when I pig out,” he complained. Head cheerleader Candy Pringle was Bruno’s alluring inamorata.
“You must stand up to her, Bruno,” said Carlotta. “That’s what women like.”
“I’m no wimp,” he said darkly.
“Good, Bruno. Well, thank you for your continued discretion.”
“Huh?”
“About my presence here,” Carlotta reminded him. “My uncle, Mr. DeFalco, wants me to keep a low profile. For tax reasons.”
“No problem, Carly. You want me, uh, come over sometime?”
“Uh, we’ll see,” she replied, hurrying away.
I don’t care for that peculiar glint in Bruno’s eyes when he checks out Carlotta’s legs. Maybe she should switch to a less provocative shade of lipstick. And go a little easier on the perfume.
3:40 P.M. After prolonged reflection, I decided one source of my lingering malaise is computer deprivation. A writer should not be so long separated from his word processor. I am resolved to rescue my precious PC clone and other important personal effects left behind in Little Caesar, still parked (I hope) behind Dad’s rented modular home. Fuzzy has agreed to defy parental grounding edicts and sneak out tonight to assist Carlotta with the burgle.
11:30 P.M. Disaster! Carlotta and Fuzzy received the full, shocking story when they were surprised in the act of ransacking Little Caesar by Dwayne, the moronic son of Dad’s welfare maid.
“Who’s there?” he demanded, shining the beam of my Cub Scout flashlight into the darkened trailer.
“Dwayne, it’s me,” hissed Fuzzy. “Turn out that damn light.”
Dwayne dutifully complied and introduced his odorous, ungainly bulk through the narrow trailer doorway. “Hi, Fuzzy,” he whispered in the musty darkness. “Whacha doin’? Who’s the zinky chick?”
“This is my friend, uh, Carlotta,” answered Fuzzy. “We’re… we’re…”
“Actually, we were hoping to find some privacy,” volunteered Carlotta sultrily. “Fuzzy mentioned this trailer had a nice double bed.”
“I did?” asked Fuzzy.
“Go on ahead, Fuz,” said Dwayne. “But can I stay and watch? Can I, huh?”
“Certainly not,” replied Carlotta.
“Then how ’bout I join in?” he suggested.
“No, thank you, young man,” replied Carlotta, shuddering. “If you leave us and go into the house, Fuzzy will tell you all about it tomorrow at school. In explicit detail.”
“I will?” asked Fuzzy.
“No way,” stated Dwayne obstinately. “This is my mom’s trailer. If I can’t do it too, I’m gonna tell you’re out here. Mr. Twisp’ll call the cops.”
“Try it, buster,” hissed Carlotta, “and before the week is out your dog will be munching an arsenic burger.”
“Not Kamu the Wonder Dog!” gasped Dwayne.
“The very same,” said Carlotta, poking Fuz
zy in the ribs.
“Er, Dwayne,” said Fuzzy. “What happened to Nick’s computer? We noticed it’s not on the dinette anymore.”
“Mr. Twisp took it. He needs it for his new job.”
“What new job?” demanded Carlotta.
“It’s with a big lumber company,” explained Dwayne. “He does, whachermercallit, public relations.”
My father progresses from pesticide ad writer to strikebreaking scab to paid flack for the despoilers of the forest. Talk about a career track to infamy.
