A Perfect Romance

by Layce Gardner

  "No, that's Trudy, she's my best friend. She thought she was supposed to rescue me from you, but our signals were crossed and…Sorry about that."

  "She must be a really good friend."

  "She owed me. I had just rescued her from a guy who smelled like deer urine."

  They chuckled and popped chips in their mouths. They swung their legs and chewed until Ellen asked, "So how'd you get to be here?"

  "I climbed like you."

  Ellen laughed. "I meant this town. Have you lived here your whole life?"

  "Not yet. I'm kidding. Seriously, I've never lived anywhere else. My family's been here for five generations. The town was named after my grandpa."

  "Really?"

  "Mmhmm. He was a real scoundrel, though. That's why there's no statues of him or anything."

  Ellen laughed.

  "What's so funny?"

  "I've never heard anybody call somebody a scoundrel before."

  Dana shrugged. "He was a rascal too."

  Ellen laughed, then said, "So that means your last name is…?"

  "Dooley. Dana Dooley, that's me. Some people call me Double D 'cause of my initials."

  Ellen smirked. "I don't want to make you mad, but there might be another reason they call you Double D."

  Dana laughed. "How kind of you to notice."

  "Are you blushing?"

  "Am I?"

  "I think so."

  Dana popped another chip in her mouth, then finally asked, "So what's your last name?"

  "Fisher. Not nearly as interesting as yours. And, before you ask, they don't call me double B."

  They laughed and bit into their sandwiches.

  ***

  Excerpt from Bad Romance:

  I decided to celebrate my new haircut (which I had come to think of as a metaphor for the new life I was embarking on) by going out on the town. It was Friday night, I was single, I was sober and I was on my way to DeWayne's Bar, hoping to go home later that night neither single nor sober. Or, at the very least, not sober. I was dressed to the nines in my green gypsy skirt with the embroidered flowers and the little bells dangling from the hem. I had chosen my white peasant blouse to go with it because it de-accentuated my ample boobage. I thought I looked Italian and earthy—like I should be stomping grapes in a vat.

  DeWayne's was strategically located on the outside of the county limits. Dooley County was a dry county and this way hard liquor could be served and the sheriff didn't have any say in the matter.

  I was pushing Betty's pedal to the metal and chugging along at fifty miles an hour when I saw a pair of weak headlights in the road up in front of me.

  I had a moment of thinking it was an alien's (the outer space kind of alien) UFO that had crash-landed out in the country. But when I got closer I saw that it was Hank riding his lawnmower down the right-of-way. I downshifted to first and set myself at his pace while I rolled down the passenger window. Hank looked over at me and his face broke into a big grin. I like to see Hank grin. His smile takes up most of his face and divides it into different planes like one of those cubist paintings. He tipped his John Deere ball cap at me and winked. Hank's one of those throwback old-timers who still tips his hat and opens doors for women.

  "Hey, Hank," I yelled.

  "Howdy, Dana Dooley," he yelled back. "You get a new haircut?"

  "No, my butt's smaller. I didn't see you in church this past Sunday."

  "I was there," he yelled.

  "I wasn't. Must be why I didn't see you."

  I know he had heard the old joke a million times before, but he laughed anyway.

  "You tryin' to beat the heat by mowing at night?" I asked. I could tell he wasn't mowing since his deck was in the high position, but this was the only way I could think of to find out what the hell he was doing.

  "Nope," he answered. "Headed down to DeWayne's for a little."

  Then it hit me why he was driving the lawnmower. "The wife confiscate your truck keys again?"

  "Yep," he said, bobbing his head up down and grinning sheepishly like a kid who got caught smoking behind the barn.

  Hank was a big-time drinker. Everybody in town knew to steer clear of Hank's old Ford truck when they saw it out on the road. Rumor had it that he had his own set of jail keys so he could check himself in after the bars closed.

  "The little woman says I cain't kill nobody but myself riding my lawnmower. But I think she's hoping I'll accidentally mow the yard."

  That's when I noticed he was wearing a button-up shirt with cartoon pictures of cars and trucks. I didn't remark on it, though. Good irony is lost on most people.

  "You headed out to DeWayne's?" he asked.

  I nodded. "Going to Trudy's divorce party. I'm the Maid of Dishonor."

  He laughed. "Seems like I was just at her last one."

  "I know it. I think she gets divorced so people'll buy her drinks."

  "Maybe I oughta try that."

  I laughed and rolled my window back up halfway. "Don't run over Miss Pearl's petunias up ahead!"

  He tipped his cap at me and shouted, "Tell your grandma I said hi!"

  I putt-putted back onto the highway and watched Hank turn into a flyspeck in my rear view. I slowed down as I passed a brand-new city limits sign. Since the last time I was out here they had taken down the old sign with the shotgun pellet holes and put up a new one. This one even had a plastic owl nailed to the top of it to warn off roosting pigeons. I guessed Fat Matt had been at it again. Matt was my brother and I called him Fat Matt when I wasn't afraid he'd catch me and sit on me. He was the mayor of our town. His personal mission in life was to turn the town our ancestors founded into a tourist mecca like Branson, Missouri.

  I turned around in my seat and read the front of the sign as I passed. “Welcome to Dooley Springs, Oklahoma! Birthplace of Carrie Underwood! Final resting place of Mr. Ed! Home of Bigfoot!”

  That had Fat Matt written all over it. It was all bullshit, of course. Mr. Ed wouldn't be caught dead in this town, and Carrie was born some sixty miles to the east of here. The only thing that may have been true is the Bigfoot part. According to Sasquatch e-magazine, of which my rotund brother was sole-proprietor, editor and number one reporter, a whole tribe of Bigfoots (Bigfeet?) lived in the Cookson Hills east of here. He claimed to have spent an evening with them sitting around a campfire eating beanie weenies and singing the best of Wham.

  The new city limits sign was a sure sign that Fat Matt was off his meds. The sign was pretty harmless, though, unless you found too many exclamation marks an eyesore. It was beyond my comprehension how Matt got elected mayor. Yes, the town was founded by our great great great great grandpa, but electing Matt as a town official? Being mayor was only the second job he'd ever had. The first job was right out of high school when he worked over in Arkansas at a chicken factory. His job was to run around the fenced coop and catch the chickens, wring their necks and throw them on the conveyor belt. He got pretty good at catching them, but wringing their necks was something he didn't have the heart to do.

  He quit after one day of work and put in for disability claiming he had PTSD from being forced to kill against his will. He didn't get any disability checks, but he did get his first script for meds. After that he earned a little money by opening an eBay business. He went around to the garage sales in town and bought up all the old baby dolls. He would roll the dolls in dirt, tie them up, drag them behind his car and pour lighter fluid on them, then light them on fire and sell them on eBay as demon-possessed dolls. He created biographies for each doll, saying they had murdered entire families in their sleep and their favorite movie was Chucky, stuff like that. He got as much as two hundred dollars for some of the dolls.

  I think he won the race for mayor because he had the only truthful campaign slogan anybody had ever seen: “He's not handsome or popular. He has time to be mayor. Fat Matt Dooley.”

  I guided Betty around the hairpin turn, up the hill and jerked the wheel into the next right. DeWayne's was hoppi
ng and the lot was overflowing. I managed to squeeze into a too-tight spot right in front of the entrance between a bright yellow Mustang with a black racing stripe down the center of the hood and a brand-new patriotic blue Dodge Ram 1500 Quad Cab with hemi. Even before I turned off my engine I could hear Miley Cyrus's dad singing that song I hate that made the entire bar get up and boot scoot across the dance floor.

  I was thinking that maybe I should order two drinks at once. That way I wouldn't have to make a second trip back to the crowded bar and who knows, maybe tonight I would finally meet my dream woman. Or if I had enough drinks, I'd just meet a woman.

  Yeah, right. I'd have better odds of toasting marshmallows with Bigfoot.

  If I ordered two drinks and made them doubles, that'd be like four drinks and tonight was ladies night, two for one drinks, so for the price of one drink I could get four drinks. Who could pass up a deal like that?

  Crap on a shingle. All that mathematical calculating distracted me and I accidentally banged Betty's door into the Mustang.

  I quickly closed my door, rolled down my window and leaned out to inspect the damage. The Mustang's door didn't look too bad. An itty-bitty ding. Hardly noticeable. Served somebody right for buying a fancy-ass car and driving it to a redneck bar in the first place. Everybody knows when you have a car like that you should park out in the back of the lot.

  I lifted myself over to the passenger seat, but I saw right away that there was even less space between that door and the Dodge. I scooted back over behind the wheel (damn near impaling my ass with the gear shift) and decided to crawl through my driver's window. I could drop down into the ten-inch space between it and the Mustang and scooch my way out.

  I climbed out my window head-first, twisted around and, by using my elbows on the Mustang's roof, managed to pull the entire length of my body out. I aimed my flip flops for the space between the Mustang and Betty and let myself drop, hoping gravity would do its part.

  It did its part all right, but my butt got wedged between the two cars with my skirt hiked up over my butt. I don't know what I was thinking. The last time my butt could fit into a ten-inch space I was in kindergarten.

  My feet dangled about half a foot off the ground. I put my palms flat on the roof of the cars and tried to lift myself out.

  Nothing doing.

  I got tired of trying to lift up, so I tried pushing down.

  Nothing doing.

  I was stuck but good.

  I wiggled my feet back and forth but that didn't help either. It made me have to pee and my shoes fell off.

  I noticed the passenger window on the Mustang was rolled down. I came up with an idea. If I could stick my upper body in that car, then I could wedge my butt out, crawl through and let myself out on the other side the Mustang.

  That was the plan anyway.

  I got my head, shoulders and boobage inside the Mustang, but my butt didn't want to cooperate. It wanted to stay where it was. I was stuck worse than Winnie the Pooh going for the honey pot.

  I reached out, grabbed the Mustang's steering wheel and pulled as hard as I could.

  That turned out to be a not-so-bright idea because that made the car alarm go into hoot 'n holler mode.

  Now I was half in-half out of the Mustang, bent over at the waist with my butt in the air and the car alarm was whoop-whoop-whooping.

  I promised myself that if I ever got out of this predicament, I was going to treat myself to eight drinks for the price of two.

  I kept pulling and praying, praying and pulling and working up a pretty good sweat in the process.

  Beep beep.

  The car alarm stopped. I straight-armed myself up high enough to see through the Mustang's front window. It was Kimmy the Hairstylist. She was standing there with her car keys in her hand and wearing another delectable little dress and looking downright delicious.

  My stomach growled.

  Kimmy was staring at my butt, which was hanging out of her car window. She looked confused. I didn't know what to say, so I said the only thing that made any sense. "Help me, please."

  "Did I run over you?" she gasped. She clasped her hand over her mouth like movie actors do to show horror.

  I shook my head, but she was wound up into panic mode. She dropped her hand and said, "Oh my God, I ran right over you! Are you okay? I don't have insurance. Please don't sue me," she said.

  "I won't sue if you can get me out of here," I replied. I wouldn't have sued anyway, of course, but I wasn't going to tell her that.

  She whipped a cell phone out of her tiny purse and stared at the dial pad with a confused look on her face. She looked back to me. "I'm going to call Nine Eleven, okay? I'll get the fire department to bring the jaws of life."

  "You don't have to call anybody," I protested. "I'm stuck."

  She punched in a number, then stopped and squinted at the phone. "Where's the eleven on this thing?"

  "There is no eleven," I said.

  "I can see that," she said like I was the stupid one. "So, how do I dial an eleven? Do I dial a ten and a one or a one and a one? And why would they say to dial Nine Eleven for emergencies if there is no eleven? How stupid are they?"

  "It's Nine One One, not Nine Eleven. You're getting the date mixed up with the emergency number."

  "What date?" she asked.

  "Remind me never to have a heart attack or bleed profusely around you. I'd be dead before you figured out who to call."

  "You don't have to be hateful about it," she said. She edged closer and peered at my face through her front windshield. "Don't I know you?"

  "Yeah. You cut my hair yesterday."

  She looked from my face to my butt. "Your butt does look smaller."

  "I know. Thanks. You did a good job."

  An idea crossed her feeble mind. "Were you trying to steal my car?"

  "No, I was not trying to steal your dang car. I was trying to crawl through your car to get out of my car but I got stuck. I need your help getting unstuck."

  "Okay," she said. "What can I do?"

  "I'm no expert, but I think if you get in your car, grab hold of me and pull, I'll pop free."

  She stuck her phone back in her purse and got in the Mustang from the driver's side. I held my arms out to her and she grabbed me around both wrists and braced one of her high heel shoes on the seat.

  "Give me a tug," I said.

  She tugged.

  "Keep pulling and don't stop," I said.

  She pulled harder. And harder. And harder.

  "Okay, stop," I said. "I think you dislocated my shoulders."

  "I saw this exact same thing once on America's Funniest Home Videos," she said.

  "What happened?"

  "I'm pretty sure he died."

  "That's not funny."

  "I know, right? That's probably why they didn't win the grand prize."

  "We need some leverage. Maybe you could lie on your back kind of under me, brace your feet against the passenger door, grab me under my arms and pull again."

  She laid down on her back, stretching out under my upper body, put both feet flat on the door I was hanging over, grabbed my armpits and pulled.

  I felt my butt give a little.

  "Keep going! You almost got it! Use your legs!"

  She gritted her teeth and pulled with all her might.

  I felt the buttons on my skirt pop loose.

  "Whoopsy doopsy," I said right before I slid out of my skirt and into the Mustang, face-planting myself right between her tits.

  "You're out!" she yelled triumphantly.

  "Yesth, I amth," I replied with a nose-full of her boobs, trying to decide whether I was going to laugh or cry.

  She moved her hands down, brushing them across my underpants. She wrinkled her nose and asked, "Are you in just your panties?"

  "I think so, yeah."

  That was when Hank leaned down and peered inside the driver's window. He took in the sight of my ass with Kimmy lying under me and grinned. "Sorry to interrupt
, Dana. I didn't realize that was you were in here with your girlfriend. I thought somebody was being coerced against their will."

  "No, no coercion going on," I said.

  "You going to introduce me?"

  "Oh, sorry. Hank, this is Kimmy. Kimmy this is Hank. She's a really good hairstylist if you or the wife are in need of a haircut. She's working over at Wanda's place."

  Kimmy smiled up at him. "Nice to meet you."

  Hank smiled and tipped his hat. "You too." He stood smiling and made no move to leave.

  "Can you go now?" I asked.

  "Oh, sure thing. See ya inside," he said. I watched him mosey toward the front door. I looked back at Kimmy. I mumbled, "Sorry about that, but..."

  She wrapped her hand around the back of my neck, pulled my lips to hers and kissed me. A real honest-to-God kiss too. She didn't use her tongue or anything, but she sure made good use of her lips.

  She ended the kiss about the time I was getting good at it. She wormed out from under me, started the car, backed us out of the tight spot and watched me get out and fetch my skirt. I slid it on and hopped my way into my flip flops while she tooted her horn and sped out of the parking lot.

  I stood there for a moment with my lips tingling, then I walked inside DeWayne's like I had springs on the bottoms of my feet. I felt the stupid grin lighting up my face but was powerless to do anything about it.

  Trudy walked up to the bar and looked me up and down. "Did you just get lucky?" she asked.

  "What makes you ask that?"

  "Your skirt is on backwards."

  ***

  After Dana and Ellen finished their sandwiches they moved to one of the wooden picnic tables. The table tops were scarred and pockmarked from the pocketknives of every teenage boy in Dooley Springs. Dana kept finding herself staring at one carving in particular. There were only two words: “tittie biscuits.” She finally figured out what about the two words bothered her. She had always thought the word was spelled “titty,” not “tittie.”

  "So tell me something about yourself," Ellen said.

  "By yourself, I'm assuming you mean past relationships?"

  "That too."

  Dana traced her fingertip over “tittie biscuits,” then said, "I've had six relationships. All with women named Lisa. Except this current one."