A Perfect Romance

by Layce Gardner

  That was exactly what Dana didn't want to hear. "Will you go in there?" she asked. "Can you at least help me out that much? Go peek inside and see who she's in there with. I can't bear to look."

  "She inside?"

  Dana nodded.

  "I got no good reason to go in there," he said. "I'm not in the habit of stopping two consenting adults from doing whatever they want to do as long as it ain't hurting nobody."

  "It's hurting me," she said. Two tears leaked out of her eyes. She didn't plan for that to happen. Her bottom lip quivered for real, and she swiped at her tears with the hem of her bathrobe-cape.

  "Karma's a real bitch, ain't she?" he said.

  Why did he say "she?" Why is it men think everything bad like karma and tornadoes are she?

  A bell jingled. Dana recognized it as the bell to the front door of the beauty shop. She panicked.

  She's getting away!

  Dana sprinted for the front of the building and rounded the corner in time to see the back of somebody disappearing around the far corner. The bells jangled again when the front door closed on its own.

  "Hold it right there! I'll shoot, Dana Dooley, you know I will!"

  Dana looked over her shoulder and saw Puddinhead aiming his gun at her and looking like a B-film version of Robocop. This time his gun was pointed at her chest.

  Dana decided to call his bluff. See what he was made of. "You gonna shoot me?" she asked.

  "Run away again, you'll find out."

  "This isn't about tonight, is it?"

  The questions seemed to confuse him. His gun wavered.

  "It's about you. It's about me and you."

  "I don't know what you're getting at," he said.

  "It's about graduation night. It's about trying to get in my pants and ending up with your pants on backwards."

  "And wrong side out," he added.

  "You going to shoot me 'cause of what happened years ago?" Her nose itched. It must be because of that English Leather smell he emitted. She rubbed at her nose with the back of her hand and sniffed twice. "You going to shoot me dead 'cause your pride got hurt?"

  "No," he said, grinning. His tiny, rabbit teeth gleamed in the dark. "I'm going to arrest you first. I won't shoot unless you resist arrest."

  He looked for all the world like he meant what he said. Dana rubbed harder at the itch in her nose and wiped at it with the sleeve of her bathrobe-cape. She knew that Puddinhead had been spoiling for a fight with her since they were seven years old. "Okay, then," she said. "Let's get this over with. Cuff me." She held her wrists out in front of her.

  He reached around behind him for his cuffs, letting his aim drop and that was all the opening Dana needed. She twirled and ran.

  Pop!

  He was shooting at her! The gravel in front of her jumped like popcorn in a microwave.

  Pop! Pop!

  A brick in the wall in front of her exploded. A second later gravel jumped and bit her in the ass. Instinctually, she lifted her feet one after the other, quickly, like she was doing her own version of Riverdance.

  Dana knew her choices were to either be a sitting duck or she could run, so she chose to run. She darted back and forth, zigging and zagging like in the old Westerns.

  Pop! Pop! Pop!

  Dana rounded three corners of the building until she was back where she began. She needed to get back to her car. She quickly changed directions and ran into the alley.

  Honk! Honk!

  Dana flung herself headfirst out of the oncoming car's way. She ended up doing a forward diving roll that would have made an Olympic gymnast proud. When she got back to her feet, she saw the rear end of Kimmy's Mustang tear around the corner.

  Dana sneezed.

  Next, she spun on her heels and...

  Puddinhead tore around the side of the building, gun drawn and ready, and ran smack dab into her. They tumbled to the ground and rolled over several times before Puddinhead came out on top.

  Dana was actually a little relieved to be caught. After all the running, whizzing, twirling, spinning, zigging and zagging, almost getting mowed down by Kimmy's car, not to mention shot at, she felt like she had been the star of an elaborately choreographed bullet ballet. And she was plumb tuckered.

  Puddinhead straightened up and aimed his gun right between her eyes.

  "I give up," Dana said. "Calf-rope and uncle. I'll go peacefully. Just don't shoot me in the head."

  He holstered his gun and pulled out his cuffs. Dana sneezed again, spraying his face.

  "Sorry, I'm allergic to men," she said. She would have wiped her nose, but he was pinning her arms to the ground with his knees. Instead, she snuffled.

  The snuffling had the reverse desired effect and Dana reared back and let loose with a monster of a sneeze. She felt something shoot through her nasal cavity and explode out her right nostril. She had no idea what it was until she saw it embedded in his forehead. It was her temporary crown. Her second molar crown had come unglued again and she had sneezed it through her nose. It bullseyed Puddinhead in the middle of his forehead.

  He looked surprised for a split-second, then he rolled his eyes back and keeled over.

  She panicked and—

  Holy Mother of Crapola, I killed him.

  —bucked his limp body to the side, clambered to her feet and hopped into his police cruiser, which was still running with its lights flashing. She burned rubber swerving onto the street and followed the direction that Kimmy's Mustang had disappeared.

  Her breath came in short bursts and echoed in her ears. She was hyperventilating.

  I'm a wanted woman now. Wanted for murder. Not any old murder either, but the murder of a police officer.

  Dana made a couple of turns, the gas pedal pressed all the way to the floorboard, tires squealing, when she saw Kimmy's Mustang sitting at a red light.

  She was filled with a cold rage that froze the blood in her veins.

  If it wasn't for her, I wouldn't be in this mess.

  Holding on to that one thought, she pulled the police cruiser up behind the Mustang. She picked up the handheld microphone, flipped the toggle switch, and shouted over the cruiser's speaker, "Kimmy, pull over!" Her voice reverberated through the roof. She liked how authoritative she sounded when her voice was amplified.

  Kimmy floored the Mustang, shooting through the red light. Dana pursued her, yelling into the mike, "Kimmy, pull your car over! We need to talk!"

  Kimmy looked over her shoulder and flipped Dana the bird. Dana mashed the accelerator all the way to the floor, yelling, "I saw you back there! I saw you porking somebody in The Best Little Hairhouse!"

  Kimmy made a right turn without signaling. Dana followed, taking the turn on two wheels. A group of trick-or-treaters jumped back on the sidewalk as she whipped around the corner, screaming into the mike, "Kimmy Barnes is a two-timing slut!"

  Dana caught up to the Mustang and tapped its back fender with her front fender. She shouted into the mike, "Pull over, you slut!"

  Kimmy swerved into the next alley and raced to the end. Dana squealed her tires behind her. "Kimmy is a whore!" she announced. "She's a harlot. A hussy, a strumpet!"

  Kimmy made a left turn. A kid on a bicycle darted into the alley, forcing Dana to slam on her brakes, narrowly missing the bike's back tire and spinning the police car into a donut of rubber and smoke. The kid fell over and quickly crab crawled to the sidewalk.

  Dana yelled at the kid over the mike, "Didn't your mother ever tell you to look before you cross?"

  She straightened the cruiser out and looked left. No sign of Kimmy. She turned right onto Main Street. The street was filled with costumed looky-loos wondering what all the noise and excitement was about. Seeing all the people staring at her gave Dana an idea. If she couldn't catch Kimmy, she'd do the next best thing. She would broadcast Kimmy's whoredom to the entire town.

  Dana guided the cruiser, lights flashing, slowly down the street as if she were grand marshall in a parade. She spoke calmly and
enunciated, "Kimmy Barnes is a slut! She screws anything that moves. Lock up your husbands! Lock up your wives! She is a tramp, a vamp and a floozy! Kimmy Barnes has crabs and diseases and her hoo-ha is bald. It's from the mange. If you see her bald hoo-ha, don't touch it. Step away from the bald hoo-ha. Kimmy Barnes is a walking contagion of sexually transmitted diseases. She is patient zero of STDs. Kimmy Barnes is a sex addict, a nymphomaniac, and she's not a nice person!"

  Dana heard a police siren. She twisted in her seat and looked out the back window.

  Crapola, it's a police car. They're going to lock me up and put me on the chain gang cutting down weeds beside the road.

  She debated trying to outrun the police car, but that turned out to be a moot point when she saw two more police cars headed straight for her.

  They have me cornered. I'm going to have to shoot my way out. Wait. I don't have a gun.

  She slammed on the brakes and threw the car in park. She might go down, but she wouldn't go down without a fight. She spoke over the microphone, "Why don't you all go arrest Kimmy Barnes? She's the one who should be put away. Put her behind bars!"

  The door was thrown open and a gun kissed her nose. Dana dropped the microphone. Puddinhead was holding her at gunpoint. He looked alive and no worse for wear unless you counted the temporary crown that was embedded in the middle of his forehead.

  He grabbed Dana by the arm and roughly pulled her out of the cruiser. He threw her up against the hood, frisking her like he expected to find a concealed weapon in her tights.

  The other cops were out of their cars and circled around Dana with their guns drawn.

  Stupid hick cops are standing in a circle. All I have to do is duck and they'll shoot each other.

  She laughed. She knew that maniacal laughter was making her seem more insane and out of control, so she choked back her hysterics and said, "I think you guys are overreacting. Any of you would've done the same thing if you'd caught your girlfriend cheating on you."

  A burst of white light caused Dana to flinch. She blinked and caught a glimpse of CeCe White with her camera aimed right at her, snapping away.

  Puddinhead pushed her nose into the car's hood, pulled her wrists behind her back and snapped on the cuffs. He grabbed her by the elbow and pulled her to the car's back door. He opened the door, put his hand on top of her head and pushed her into the back seat.

  She waited until Puddinhead was settled behind the wheel before she asked, "Can I have my crown back now?"

  "Nope," he said. "It's evidence."

  ***

  Excerpt from Bad Romance:

  I was in love/lust with Lisa Number Four for about half a day, if that long. I met her in the parking lot at the hospital. I had gone there to stick my Slave Labor flyers under all the car windshields.

  I found her sitting in her car bawling her eyes out. This was one of those situations where I didn't know whether to offer comfort or ignore her and tend to my own business.

  My nurturing instincts won out and I rapped on her car window. She looked up at me through a river of tears and our gazes locked for a brief moment before her eyes rolled back in her head. She made a weird hiccupping, shrill noise down deep in her throat like a dog's squeaky toy when you step on it. She shivered, sighed, then rolled her window down halfway.

  Even with the puffy eyes and the tears and snot dripping onto her upper lip, she was stunning. Black hair, blue eyes, porcelain complexion. One of my very first crushes was on Snow White and that's exactly who she looked like. Without the bluebirds flying around her head, of course.

  "Are you okay?" I asked.

  She nodded, but fresh tears started dripping, so I said, "I was dropping off some flyers, but...I saw you crying and...do you need any help?"

  "I was diagnosed with PGAD," she sputtered. "There's no cure. There's no hope." She wah-wah'ed loudly and then snorted, "It's hopeless."

  I'd never heard of that disease, but any illness with an acronym had to be bad. I had no idea how long she was expected to live and asking a question like that might be construed as rude under the circumstances.

  "How can I help?" I asked. I was hoping she would say that I couldn't help and she had it all under control, but instead she smiled with those bright red bow-shaped lips and answered, "You probably don't have time to babysit me." She swiped at her face with her jacket sleeve and looked pitiful. If she were a puppy, I'd take her home and rub her belly.

  I knew a cry for help when I heard one, so I put on my Good Sam hat and offered, "Well, I can always do these flyers tomorrow. And you look like you could use a friend. You want to follow me in your car and we can go back to my house? I'm sure we can figure something out and deal with this."

  I was thinking I'd give her some hot tea and maybe make a few phone calls to her relatives. Maybe I'd even call over at the Baptist church and see if somebody wanted to start a prayer circle or hold a bean supper or whatever those people do when somebody's dying. Lisa Four and I were barely inside my front door before she grabbed my hand and stuck it down the front of her pants. She shivered, eye-rolled and made that squeak-squeak noise again...this time it sounded like a hamster wheel spinning. It took me a while to realize that was the sound she made when she came.

  She ripped my pants off, threw me down onto the stairs and rubbed herself against me like she was sanding the varnish off an old table with her crotch. This time she squeaked a little then let loose with a bullroar of an orgasm.

  She did that five more times before we could even get upstairs to my bedroom.

  For the next twenty-seven hours we rolled around the room like two cats trapped in a paper sack. I had ten, maybe twelve orgasms until I was completely gazzed out. Lisa Four had, I don't know, I lost count when I blacked out, but I know she had somewhere in the vicinity of three hundred orgasms.

  We had sex every way possible and some ways not so possible. By the next morning, my chin and lips were chapped and bleeding. My thighs were rubbed raw. My hoo-ha was swollen and throbbing and I think my clitoris had defected and gone AWOL.

  I was done. I knew without a doubt she was going to kill me if I didn't make her stop. I pushed her away and gasped, "What's PGAD?"

  "Persistent Genital Arousal Disorder."

  That explained it.

  "I don't think I ever want to have sex again," I said.

  "Me either," she said, humping my pillow. Her eyes rolled back in her head and her eyelids twitched. "Eek eek eek eek," she squeaked, followed by a long "Aaaahhhhhh."

  She collapsed on top of the pillow. Ten seconds later her hips were thrusting again.

  I jumped out of bed and ran to the bathroom. I closed the door and turned the thumb lock. I cowered in the tub in a fetal position and listened to the squeaking from my bedroom. After a few moments, Asscat scratched on the bathroom door and meowed plaintively for me to let him in.

  "No," I hissed at the closed door. "Every man for himself."

  A couple of hours later, Lisa Four left. I slathered Udder Balm all over my privates and face and slept for forty-eight straight hours.

  To this very day, whenever I hear a squeaky noise, I panic, my mouth goes dry and my clitoris retracts.

  Twelve

  Dana found out that the worst part about being arrested wasn't the handcuffs biting into her wrists. It wasn't the embarrassment of being pushed into the back of a police car by her arch-nemesis, Puddinhead, and being paraded into the city jail. It wasn't even the mug shots. It was the mocks and jeers of the policemen.

  As she was being fingerprinted, two policemen who obviously thought they were a modern day Laurel and Hardy kept up the comic patter.

  "Hey, look what Wilson caught. It's Wonder Woman!"

  "Hey, Wonder Woman, where's your invisible plane?"

  "It must be parked right outside, we just can't see it!"

  "Hey, Wonder Woman, know what I wonder?"

  "What?"

  "I wonder where your pal Cat Woman is!"

  Dana ignored their taunts a
s she wiped the ink off her fingers on a coarse paper towel.

  "What'sa matter? Cat Woman got your tongue?"

  Dana kept her lips buttoned and shunned the two like they were Amish outcasts. As Puddinhead was leading her to her jail cell, Laurel and Hardy called after him. "So, Wilson, who you bringing in next?"

  "Bat Girl?"

  They guffawed.

  ***

  In Dana's humble opinion, the city jail cell was actually kind of nice. She'd paid to stay in motels that were much worse and this room was free. The cot was clean and halfway comfortable and there were even two pillows that smelled faintly of Lysol. They had cross-stitched pillows cases. One pillowcase had an embroidered bouquet of flowers on it and the other had the cross-stitched slogan: “Jesus is watching you.”

  That was the part about Jesus and Santa Claus that had always bothered her.

  Do they watch me on the toilet? While I'm in the shower? Masturbating? While I'm doing the dirty deed? Santa looked like the type that would, that dirty old letch.

  She rummaged under the mattress and found a couple of old People magazines to while away the time. She read the magazines cover to cover, even though they were written in Spanish and her Spanish was limited to Ricky Martin's "Livin' La Vida Loca." She was surprised how much of it she understood. Popular culture must transcend language barriers.

  After she was all caught up on Brangelina and their latest adoption, she uncovered an old Glamour magazine from under the cot. She didn't usually read fashion magazines (the skinny models made her feel like crap), but she wasn't usually in jail either. She flipped through the pages. Surprisingly, she found that she was right in style. She looked at the cover. It was dated November of 1983.

  Note to self: Stop wearing boxers as outerwear.

  She closed her eyes, flipped some pages and pointed. It must have been fate because the pages fell open to a quiz titled “How to Know if Your Relationship is on the Rocks.” One of those perfume sampler things fell out from between the pages. She rubbed it under her arms, then decided to take the quiz. What could it hurt? But when she looked closer, she found that somebody had already taken the quiz and circled the answers. Looking at their answers made her realize she wasn't the only victim of a cheating spouse.