Maureen Birnbaum, Barbarian Swordperson

by George Alec Effinger

  And I could see that this pseudo me had a megahate thing for me 'cause of it. Why, Bitsy, why? Why would anyone despise me, just because I will stay at the peak of my natural beauty and sexuality forever, while they creep on toward the grave, day by day getting all gray and wrinkled and haggard and ugly? Bitsy, if you can explain this to me, I wish you would. It's just like so weird to me, you know?

  Suddenly, Floreen Burns snapped open her attache case, whipped out this big old Clint Eastwoody pistol, and she goes, "Die, you meddlesome bitch!"

  But she pointed the piece not at me, but at kindly, sweet, dear old Ma Barlow.

  So like I didn't even have time to warn her. I had to rely on my finely-honed heroic fighting-woman protector-of-the-weak instincts. I was still holding Old Betsy in one hand, and I jumped for Mrs. B. At like absolutely the same second that I leaped, I heard Floreen's gun go off. Now, what I think happened was my trusty broadsword deflected the bullet and, you know, miraculously saved the little old lady's life. I fell on top of her, and we sort of sprawled all overthe sidewalk. Then I heard this high-pitched scream.

  "My eye! My eye!" It was Floreen. Guess what? Unlikely as it sounds, the bullet had ricocheted off my sword and struck my evil twin in her left eye, partially blinding her. So like she's roaring in pain and rage and everything, but—

  Bitsy, I'm not finished! I haven't even gotten to the part where—

  * * * * *

  MUMS ALWAYS SAID LIFE was like a package of baseball cards: You never know who you're going to get.

  Ain't that the hard truth? I mean, Mums got Daddy, which has worked out pretty well as far as I can see. And I got, urn, Josh Fein, world-famous Celebrity Doctor with an office in a mini-mall right next to an Everything for $1 store. He's also the all-around scumsucker who left me and our infant son for his skanky receptionist, she should only wake up one morning with all her bodily orifices sealed shut with Krazy Glue. Bust her out, if you catch my drift.

  Now it's three in the afternoon at P.S. 154, and I was sitting in this study hall chair—you know, the kind with the little platform on the right side to put your notebook on and everything, which never did me much good because I'm left-handed. Next to me in another study hall chair is Maureen Danielle Birnbaum, fresh from her conquest of America: The Heartland. Like she's so wild and free, I had to stop her from carving her initials in the chair with the tip of Old Betsy.

  This guy with a handful of hairs the color of dust bunnies stuck his head out of the office and goes, "Miz Spiegelman?"

  "That's me," I go, and I followed him inside. He permitted me to take a seat across from his desk, and then he stared down at a stack of papers in front of him. He looked up and gave me this totally dippy smile, patted his papers, and cleared his throat.

  "Your boy presents a bit of a problem, Miz Spiegelman," he goes. "His I.Q.'s 75."

  I knew right off that this feeb could get me crazy mad if I let him. I wasn't going to let him. That wouldn't do Malachi Bret any good at all. "I imagine every child is a bit of a problem, one way or another, Mr. Martinez," I go.

  "MartiNEZ. The accent is on the last syllable."

  "Mr. MartiNEZ" I go, being like ever so accommodating, you know?

  "Now, please take a look at this visual aid, Miz Spiegelman." The goob—Mr. MartiNEZ—held up the paper on the top of his pile. It was some kind of chart or graph or something, divided into three sections which I mentally labeled Top, Middle, and Bottom. I'm a whiz at classifying stuff.

  He pointed to the middle section with a pen. "Now, this is normal," he goes. "Malachi Bret is riigght here." He tapped the bottom section. "The state of New York requires a minimum I.Q. of 80 to attend public school, Miz Spiegelman. He'll be assigned to a special school in accordance with that statute, where he can get all the attention he needs."

  Are you picking up that I was like totally edged? Right about then I wanted to wad up every paper on his goddamn desk and cram them all down his throat until everything between his mouth and his rectal region was P. S. 154's new filing system. Let those clowns hire an office temp to sort all that out, huh?

  I didn't give him the satisfaction. I just smiled a little and I go, "You can't draw a line across a piece of paper and classify my son out of his education! He has a right to the saw opportunities as anyone else. He's not going to some special school to learn how to shake salt on french fries. That rule of yours is like totally arbitrary. There's got be some way to work around it." And I gave him another smile.

  So he said about what I figured he'd say: "I try to be flexible in cases like this. I sure want to see your boy get a chance to prove himself" Wait for it now. "Is there a Mr. Spiegelman . . .Miz Spiegelman?"

  I was about to give him a carefully worded reply that would've scorched every wall as far away as Bayside, when suddenly there was this tremendous whomp! I saw Old Betsy slash down through the air and hack Mr. Martinez's heap of important documents into two roughly equal little heaps. I glanced at Maureen. She was red in the face, and she looked like she was ready to chop the principal into salsa. "Good answer!" I go.

  Maureen leaned across the desk, getting right into Martinez's face, and she's like, "One more slimy suggestion like that and I'll use Old Betsy to split you like a Popsicle from your empty skull to your shriveled cojones. Comprendez?"

  Mr. Martinez was so scared that he could only nod. It was like a totally wonderful thing to see. So many interpersonal conflicts could be efficiently resolved if one party or the other were wielding, you know, an implement of destruction.

  Maureen wasn't finished. She goes, "You gonna give Miz Spiegelman what she wants, or do you want to rush me? I mean, I'm perfectly ready to take you right out of the box."

  Martinez just sat there and shivered. He sort of looked like bad reception on Channel Four after the cable goes out.

  Maureen pressed her advantage. "Little Malachi Bret goes to this school, and there won't be a 'special class' or anything like that." Her voice was low, like radio in another room.

  Martinez bobbed his head again. "That can be worked out," he goes.

  "Fine," Maureen goes, "you may continue living." She turned to me. "Like my mother always says, sweetie, men are only after one thing. Well, it looks like my work here is done, so I'll wait for you in the hall. Put a rush on it, though, Bits. I want to go to the mall and see what Laura Ashley's been up to behind my back."

  That's just about all of it. Malachi Bret was put in a regular class at P.S. 154, and he's doing pretty great, if you ask me. And he's never come home from school again with a note summoning me into Mr. Martinez's presence. In an unlikely change of pace, for once I was actually grateful to Muffy for barging in and throwing her copious weight around. I even told her so. And she's like, "Don't mention. Heroes like me have an unwritten code." In her case, unwritten but not unspoken.

  The last thing she said to me before she whooshed away again was, "It's time for me to battle injustice elsewhere, honey. You should be glad that your life is so simple."

  What I wanted to say—what I really wanted to say to her was, "Just wait. Someday you'll have kids of your own."

  I couldn't even-get the words out of my mouth.