Mindy Poppago: Blue: Part 1: The Spectacularious Night

by A. J. Hallenger

  She watched me recover from her rather intrusive and stimulating examination and asked, "How do you feel, Mindy? Are you dizzy? Faint?"

  A gasping, “Fuck!” was all I could articulate.

  “Good." Suddenly, she once again fell into her professional persona and said, "You can put your clothes on now, Mindy. We'll bring a wheelchair for you to sit in until your sister comes to get you. She's expected to be here in a few minutes. I hope you'll take care of yourself. We'll have some papers for you to take home with instructions on reaching your full recovery." She smiled, and I watched her walk her shapely hourglass figure and flowing red hair to the door, flip on the light, and close the door as she exited the room. I lay back and closed my eyes. My mind was spinning again, but not from the head injury this time. It was frantically working to make sense of what had just happened, feeling the typically disoriented way it does after I’ve had an astounding orgasm. Fuck, what kind of nurse was that? Holy shit, that was incredible! I thought to myself with a large dose of bewilderment.

  Once I felt I was back on solid ground, I started getting myself ready to leave. My original plan had been to take a shower to wash off the various samples of grunge I had collected on my person these last several hours, but then it occurred to me that the only clothes I had with me were the ones I’d worn in here. Considering what condition they were in, I decided against a shower. I might as well wear my colors and rapturously induced odors with unbridled pride and audacity. I was sure my sister would be disgusted by my slutty appearance and fragrance, but such was I in my happy natural-born state of being. Too bad I’d forgotten to tell her to bring a change of clothes. Of course, she’d be hypocritically begging for details of the story my appearance alone would tell, both for her amusement and a reason to express her stern moral disapproval. In my warped way, I’m entertained by that. Sometimes I think she’s a little envious of the choices I’ve made in life.

  I changed into my little skirt and blouse—the hell with the thong. My pink Converse and purse were in a plastic bag on the floor near where my clothes had been. I picked up the bag and threw my thong in it just when another nice nurse-lady arrived with the wheelchair. She propped the door open and wheeled it in, and it occurred to me that I would be wheeled down sitting in my short skirt with nothing on underneath. I would be giving a beaver-shot all the way down the hall. “Is everything alright, Miss Poppago?” she asked.

  “Yeah, it’s just that I’ve been on my back all day,” I said, stalling.

  “It’s hospital policy that we wheel you down, for your own safety. You haven’t been on your feet for long. We would hate for you to get dizzy and faint.” She stood quietly and remained by the chair, looking expectantly at me. Aw, hell, I don’t give a shit, I told myself and relinquished all propriety as I planted my ass down in the open fucking chair.

  She proceeded to transport me out the door and down the hall while I tried to hold my legs together. The chair's foot supports were spread apart, and I felt exposed, so I put my hands in my lap to keep the skirt down. Just when I thought everything was going to be cool, I noticed several cops talking to the hospital staff in our path. As we approached, one turned and did a double-take when he saw me. Fuck! I bet he just saw my twat! Not that I’m all that bashful; I just didn’t want any problems. Plus, he might have thought I’d given him a peek on purpose. He smiled wide and showed his big teeth. Then I recognized him—he was the cop I’d seen at the rest stop last night! I half-smiled back.

  “Well, well, looky here. It’s you again,” he said. “And what do you know, I can see your, uh… colored hair really is blue,” he quipped.

  “No, you can’t!” I blurted as we rolled past before he even finished his sentence, and then sighed in relief. I thought for sure he was going to say, I can see your, uh… CUNT!

  “It’s orange!” I yelled back, and they laughed.

  Dammit to hell, my head was in a strange place with all the crazy events of my stay and what had gotten me there. I was getting anxious and overwhelmed, and I couldn’t wait to leave. I could see Marla waiting for me near the door. I looked around but didn’t see deep-sea-blue-eyed Dr. Saylor or sexy Nurse Ruby anywhere.

  A goodbye would have been nice but, fuck, who am I kidding? I’m just another face in their endless stream of patients, I thought. I’ll never see them again.

  Little did I know how fucked up that thought was!

  The nurse helped me into the car, then Marla climbed into the driver’s seat thanking her for her help. No sooner after we had buckled up and the car shifted into drive did she begin the inquisition.

  “Mindy, holy god, you look like you’ve been fucked hard and dragged on the street! Are you really okay?”

  Marla is my big sister. Dark auburn hair cut short, only five-foot-three, with extra weight that mostly collected in her ample ass and big boobs. She could improve on her studious-styled, tortoise-shell glasses, but, after all, she is a high school math teacher, so I suppose they fit her job. Marla was at the hospital to pick me up punctually at five, and we were on our way to her house. She had an envelope of instructions from the doctor on how to keep an eye on me and making sure I had recovered satisfactorily. The other option was to babysit me at my garage apartment, which she had no intention of doing, and that was all right with me. I didn’t need her fucking around my place critiquing and commenting on the state of my decor and living conditions, now or ever.

  “Well, maybe I was fucked hard and dragged on the street. I’m fine,” I snidely replied.

  “Shit, Mindy, seriously, you have to take care of yourself. I know you like to have wild fun and god knows what else, but you need to be more careful. This is fucking crazy! You were on the back of someone’s motorcycle and hit a pig? Unbelievable! Without a helmet?! You should have been hurt a lot worse—or killed!”

  “Well, it looks like I’ve lived to tell the masses. What the fuck, why were all the police there? Damn, I hope it wasn’t about me. Where’s my car?”

  “Frank and Dad picked it up and drove it to our house. We’ll give you your keys back in the morning. We don’t want you to go do something ridiculously insane again tonight. I don’t know about the police… Why, did you break the law?”

  I tried to think of what I could have done or, better yet, what they might have seen. Marla paused with an eyebrow raised like she was waiting for me to come up with something. Then she laughed. “No, silly, I think they were there about some commando guy that got shot. Did you call the tattoo shop to let them know you wouldn’t be there?”

  “Not yet. I’ll call Jerry later,” I promised. “Haven’t had a chance. I mean, I’ve had nothing but meetings all day today—meetings, meetings, meetings.”

  “Oh, shut up, smart ass,” Marla cracked back.

  “Shit, I hate to miss working this weekend; that sucks. It’s the best time to score on some good jobs. I really should go in. I feel fine.”

  “No, you’re not, Mindy! I’m not letting you take any chances. You need to rest. That was a bad accident you were in. Who were you with, anyway, on the motorcycle?”

  “Uh, Jake,” I said, hoping for the best.

  “Jake? I’ve never heard you mention anyone named Jake. Have you known him long, or did you just meet him at the—? Wait, you don’t have to tell me—it doesn’t matter. I don’t care! Shit!”

  "Yeah, he was a cool enough guy. He got banged up pretty bad, I hear. Hope he's ok. Maybe I should send him flowers."

  Marla quickly turned to look at me to see if I was serious, and I chuckled.

  “Oh, Mindy, I’m so glad you’re ok. Holy Jesus! When they called me I was so scared.”

  Whew! I thought, I’ve been spared the fire and brimstone. Then I noticed Marla wiping a tear that had dribbled down her cheek.

  “I’ll be fine, Marla. Don’t be so worried,” I said, trying to console her, but she wasn’t saying anything. “Aw, thanks for picking me up—again. Sorry to mess up your Saturday.”

  “Damn it, M
indy, you know I’ll always help you when I can—” she replied in an angry tone.

  Woops, spoke too soon. Here it comes. I braced myself.

  She continued, “—but I’m afraid there will be a day when I’ll be helpless to do anything for you… You’ll be hurt too bad… God, you’re a brat! Fuck it. Just promise me you’ll rest for a few days before you attempt any more daredevil feats!”

  Okay, that wasn’t so bad. I was expecting far worse. Notice, Marla just said, “fuck it.” The only time I ever heard Marla curse was when she was alone with me. I think I serve as a safe outlet for her to let her hair down. Safe, as in nonjudgmental. Her husband, Frank, loves his Savior and his church, and she feels obligated to follow along in support. She gets as much pleasure and comforts out of it as she can, but as far as I can tell, she doesn't particularly enjoy it. Growing up, her parents—my foster parents—saw to it that we went to church regularly, and she was a good player, while I was merely committed only enough to watch the show. I haven’t talked to her in any depth on her cross-bearing. Maybe someday I'll be a good sister and do that. However, at that moment, I felt that my questionable moral integrity, in the context of my present condition and leading circumstances, would be detrimental to my argument and cause.

  As far as rest went, if she only knew the kind of restful therapy Nurse Ruby had just applied on me—inside me. I was dying to tell someone, but Marla and I don’t get into conversations about sex, taboo, or walking on the wicked side… my world. I liked to think that eventually, our relationship would allow that, just as I’m sure she hoped someday we could talk honestly about religion and my living more responsibly. But we weren’t there yet.

  I tried to make another argument for my case to go back to work. “Work’ll be easy, Marla. The clients are feeling good and loose. They just walk in and tell me what they want and are willing to pay the full price for it. I don’t even have to sell. Weekend nights are easy. I just have to put up with some tipsy clients. It’s usually fun.”

  Actually, that was a lie. Weekend nights are the craziest, like last night, but I didn’t expect her to know that. Fridays and Saturdays are usually a steady stream of little tats and piercings that add up to fill the coffers. Any job that looks time-consuming, we try to schedule during the week when we can fit it in. Not only that, but it gives the client some time to think about how serious they are about getting it while they’re sober. It doesn’t always work out that way—the Marine being an excellent example of a few good men that don’t believe in rescheduling.

  “Forget it,” she said, unconvinced. “That doesn’t sound easy to me. Not happening on my watch. You better call Jerry, though. He’ll wonder where you are.”

  “Yes, Mother.”

  “Well, I’m only trying to help you, Mindy. Lord knows how you’d be if I left you to yourself.”

  “Oh fuck, Marla. I get it. I’m not going anywhere. I’ll call him.”

  And Marla can sometimes be a real pain in the ass. Well, it’s hard to blame her. She certainly hadn’t planned to spend her weekend picking up her recalcitrant little sister from the hospital and taking care of her. I was too tired to make any more waves today—at least on purpose—and I gave in.

  When we got to Marla and Frank’s house, the aroma of fried chicken greeted us. Frank had picked up some on his way back from retrieving my car, and it was now on the kitchen table, waiting for us to hurry up and eat it. Despite the protests of my hunger pangs, I consciously headed for the guest room shower for my much-needed body decontamination wash. I couldn’t wait to get out of my clothes, with their array of filth that had collected on them, and who knew whose body fluids I had on me besides mine? But, on the way, the fragrance of deep-fried fat overtook us, and my survival instincts kicked in and ordered a retreat, and I couldn’t help myself from veering toward the bucket of chicken located near where Frank was sitting, and then grabbing a drumstick while saying “hey” to him. He didn’t respond, other than to follow me with his disapproving righteous eyes as I breezed by to the shower. “Love ya, Frankie baby,” I called out going down the hallway.

  “Yeah,” he grumbled.

  After eight years, Frank still hadn’t figured me out. Nor I him, for that matter. We’re such different people he probably wouldn’t give me the time of day if he didn’t know me and saw me on the street, except maybe to throw some barb at me for my harlot appearance or behavior. Instead, I think because of Marla and their church, I’ve become a personal project of his. I’m probably his token pagan to bestow charity and tolerance upon so he will be amply rewarded in heaven. At least, I don’t think it’s because he likes me. Truth be told, I wouldn’t give a fuck for him either if he weren’t married to my beloved foster-sister. He’s overweight with a substantial beer belly, thin red hair, and green eyes. Still, despite his apparent dismal judgment upon me, I have to admit he has done some cool things. For instance, the car that he’d just had to fetch from the bar parking lot was one that he’d helped me get from the dealership where he works as some service guy. Whatever ulterior motives he might have had toward me, he’s pretty harmless and no major pain in the wazzoo.

  After my shower, I put on a robe I found next to Frank’s bowling shirts that he had hanging in the closet. Then my empty gut led me back to the bucket of chicken on the kitchen table, where I chose another leg. “Thanks for the chicken, Frank—and for getting my car!” I yelled toward the living room where he was now parked in his easy-chair for the rest of the evening, watching the news on TV.

  “Yeah, no problem,” he said without much grace.

  “Hi, Aunt Mindy!” little Alissa called from the living room and came running to give me a hug. Her brother, Frank, Jr., the love child, was eight, two years older than her. I heard a “Hi, Aunt Mindy,” from him too, but it was much less enthusiastic. Like, zero. He took after his father in personality, red hair, and pudgy physique. The apple doesn’t fall far…

  “Hi, precious,” I said to Alissa while she hugged my upper legs and looked up at me. She had the most darling dimples. "Hey, Frankie! Wassup?" I yelled back at him toward the living room, though I didn't think it would generate a response, and I was right.

  “Were you in the hospital?” Alissa asked, and before I could answer, she added, “Did you hit a pig?”

  I petted her on top of her curly brunette hair. “I was only in the hospital for a little while. What did your momma tell you?”

  “She said you were driving without a bicycle helmet and you hit a pig.”

  “Yes, well, that’s what happened. You should always wear a helmet. Your mommy’s right.”

  “I want to hit a pig too, but I’ll put my helmet on. Did they give you any suckers?”

  “No, they didn’t. I guess they forgot! I’ll have to go back and get some for us later.”

  She loosened her grip around my legs and held my chicken-free hand.

  “Hey,” Marla called out. She was now in the living room too, but I couldn’t see her. “That special commando guy, or whatever, who got shot that was in the hospital when you were is a pretty big deal on the news.”

  “Yeah?” I acknowledged. “Sorry I missed it.” Then Jaymes came to mind for some reason. Come to think of it, he never messaged me back last night. "Is he black?" I asked.

  “No. Why?”

  “Just wondering.”

  I heard Frank clear his throat, and I could imagine Marla shaking her head. I hoped she wouldn’t probe and make me concoct a subterfuge. I was too tired to try to do any more pseudo-truth explaining. She didn't.

  “Hey, was I in the news?” I asked as if they wouldn't have already told me. I was mainly hoping to redirect the conversation to prevent any further awkwardness. It’s uncomfortable enough merely with Frank being within earshot. I love bustin’ his balls, but I didn’t have it in me that night.

  “No, didn’t see anything. Hey, don’t forget to call Jerry,” Marla called out.

  “I won’t. Shit, don’t worry!” I said, exasperated befo
re I could catch my colorful language. Marla and Frank hate it when I say “bad” words around the kids, but they should be well used to it by now. Try as I may, it flows out of my mouth like Turrets.

  “Oops, sorry, bad word, kids,” I said with no one acknowledging it except for Alissa.

  “Watch your mouth,” she whispered as she playfully shook her finger at me. I made a face and covered my mouth, and she giggled.

  I was still hungry, so I made a plate with a wing and some mashed potatoes, but only after I helped Alissa prepare a bowl of chocolate Krispies. She had decided that she was hungry too and should eat with me at the table. I took about a minute to finish off my plate before I called Jerry to let him know I wasn’t going to be coming in. He was bummed being that it was a Saturday night, but he was cool about it. I just told him I had to recuperate from a little tumble and would fill in the details tomorrow. We would have a good laugh about it.

  I said my goodnights soon after that—sometime around seven or eight o’clock. Alissa wanted to sleep with me, but I tried to discourage it. Marla took charge and told her tonight wasn’t a good night. “Next time, okay?” I said in consolation.

  “Okay,” she said with her cute, sad face.

  Fact is, I sleep better au naturel, and I was looking forward to a quiet night’s sleep to make up for last night. Flailing limbs from a restless child weren’t going to help with that.

  I climbed into bed, and the covers welcomed me with a big hug around my naked and clean body. I lay there awhile reflecting on the last day's events. Would I call it a good day or a bad day? A tough call, since good things had led to bad and bad things to good, when I thought about it. Holy fuck, I murdered a mermaid! There couldn’t be any good in that, and it still haunted me. Despite the wreck and the trip to the emergency room, so far my assessment of the last twenty-four hours was that things probably balanced out, and I might even be a little ahead. I made out much better than Jake, that’s for sure. I noticed my ass was still sore, but that would help me remember this night for the next few days. And what a cast of characters the night introduced me to: Dale the hammered Marine, poor Jake, Dr. Saylor, the pig, the other pig—Dr. Pratt—and then there was Pornstar Ruby. I relaxed by rubbing my clit as I thought about Ruby and her melon tits, imagining them resting on my face and a nipple in my mouth as I fell asleep.