Last Time I Saw Old What’s-Her-Name

Dietrich Kalteis

 

She was smoking, then she married that schmuck, Lester. That was a few dress sizes ago, but she was far from being Old Maid Sin, still had that same something she had the day she posed for the wedding photos lining her dresser.

Now, mine wasn’t the face of the groom in the photos, that belonged to the schmuck, Lester, but I bet it looked every bit as eager after the stiff shots of bourbon. The mood was set and the candles were lit. She was peeling off her blouse. I laid back on the pillows, watching, the room all decked out in animal prints.

Giving me the it’s-time-to-throw-the-Christian-to-the-lions look, she said, “Better hurry, Arnie.” Her lids fluttered, the onset of a glassy-eyed gale brought on by the booze. No time to remind her my name’s Ernie, not Arnie. I missed my chance once, and I’d be damned if I missed it again.

Finger sausages fumbled at my Windsor knot till she slapped my hands away, going at the tie. That touch of the crazies in her eyes was alive and well, and every fiber of my being knew this would be epic.

* * *

A twist of fate, running into her in the Piggly Wiggly, right in the cookie aisle. Recognition hit me like Iron Mike, and I nearly dropped the granola bars. The straining hip huggers, the low-cut top, got my heart beating like double fists inside an oil drum. The queen of my salad days bopping to some tune on her iPod, her hips rocking and her pumps clanking on the floor.

Casing the place had me on edge, and I couldn’t come up with her name: Linda, Lana, Lenore. Fuck. How do you forget something like that?

Snapping up a bag of Dad’s, she read the label, puffing air past those full lips. Catching me staring, she yanked off the ear buds, about to give me hell. Then she eased like she recognized me, eyes going back to the bag, saying, “Eighty calories, just for one fuckin’ cookie? You believe that?”

“You only go round once,” I said, adjusting the new tie, the thing choking me.

“That the best you can do, slick?” She started popping the ear buds back in.

“Oshkosh High, right?”

She considered me.

“Eighty-five, eighty-six.” Damn. What was her name? Lana, Lea, Lacey.

Dropping the ear buds, she stared, pointing a painted nail. “You’re that, uh, Turnip guy.”

“Just go by Ernie these days,” I said. The full handle’s Rudolph Ernesto Vegas, shortened to Rudy Vegas back when I read too much Elmore Leonard. Some genius at school twisted it into Rutabaga, which ended up Turnip.

“Yeah, you’re the guy …” She poked a forefinger through her circled thumb. “Oh, we almost did … yeah.”

I felt myself go red, her cheap Yuzu assailing my head.

“Yeah, oh.” She was grinning, memories rushing in. “When he came home … man, the way you shot under my bed.” Giggling.

“Yeah, good times, all right.” Dark thoughts in a pink room with a couple of sixteen-year-olds putting on a show for her Barbies lining the shelves. Peeling her down to her sensible undies, I was ready to go to town, first time in my life, when her old Dad dashed home from some business luncheon, sicker than a dog, taking the stairs two at a time, barely making it to the throne. Pinned under the bed, I had to hear him tossing chunks of Frontenac salmon with hollandaise left and right.

I mean, a man’s home is his castle, but come on, a grown man retching and praying for mercy at the porcelain pulpit. Tending to her über-puking dad, L fetched glasses of water and Pepto, finally getting around to me going psst psst under the bed, flicking the bathroom door closed with her foot so I could tiptoe the hell out of there.

“He would have killed you, you know that?” She laughed, freckled breasts jiggling like jelly on a plate. “Killed you on the spot, sick as he was.”

Through the fog of memory, I recalled he was some kind of security guard, crew-cut, thick neck, always packed a piece, the kind of guy with eyes in the back of his head. “The old boy retired now?”

“Naw, cancer got him, ate his lungs.”

“Ah, sorry. Really, wow.”

“Camels, no filters …” She gave a shrug. “Got diagnosed not long after he came home puking.”

“So it wasn’t the salmon,” I said, glancing up at the security camera. “He seemed like a nice guy.”

”The shits for a father.” Tossing the cookies into her basket, she forced the smile. “So what about you, Arnie?”

“Ernie. Between gigs right now.”

“You doing all right then?”

“Yeah, I guess.”

“Married?”

“Me? No,” I said.

“Don’t know why the hell not; I mean, a girl could do worse.”

Not much, I thought, jingling what was left of the twelve-fifty the county gave me when I maxed out.

L’s cell toned from her bag, making me jump. Man, I needed to get used to those things going off all over the place, people walking and talking. I hardly ever saw a cell phone before I was sent up. My own was stuffed into my pocket, part of the cell-phones-for-parolees program. Some asshole named Hudson was supposed to call, keep tabs on me, see if I found a job.

Digging hers from her bag, she flipped it open and frowned at the display. Signaling for me to call her some time, she got into hostilities with someone on the other end called Honey. That explained the rock on her finger. Wondering what it would fetch, I watched her shove her buggy along, her pumps clanking up the aisle. Eyes riveted to her caboose, I remembered, Shit, I didn’t have her number. I blew my chance once; I sure as hell wasn’t going to again. Honey or no Honey, I went after her, tossing the granola bars at the shelf, walking under the camera.

Eyeing her from behind the dairy rack, my unpracticed discretion had me feigning a choice dilemma between the soy and rice yogurt. Ranting herself red-faced over in produce, she disconnected and flung the phone into her handbag, sidestepping some flame-headed clerk pushing a mop of dreadlocks.

Catching me looming like an idiot holding the yogurt tubs, she grabbed a zucchini and aimed it, calling me Turnip again, her red lips telling me I better call.

“Zucchini, actually, miss,” the clerk said.

“What?”

“Zucchini, it’s …” Her iciness put him on the defensive; up came the dreadlock mop.

“What, yours is bigger?” Eyes narrowed to slits like she might ray him into combustion.

It was about to get ugly, white-haired shoppers watching her stick the veg in his face, this kid about to catch the rebound hellfire she felt for whoever Honey was.

“No, no, zucchini, see, it’s …” trying to show it’s shape and size with his hands.

“I know what the fuck it is.” She smacked it in her palm like a billy.

“Look, lady, I’m learning the veggies, just want you to get your money’s worth.”

Hands on hips, breasts jutting like bumper bullets on a bygone Caddie, the old madness alive and well and living just behind her eyes. “Saying I should pay you?”

“What? No, no, you pay at …” Pointing to the front, the poor fool’s eyes touch her cleavage.

“Think I’m some cougar out stalking grocery twerps?”

The kid’s eyes crossed on the green missile an inch from his nose.

“Know what I do to little tossfucks like you?” She snapped it in two, flinging the pieces as he backpedaled.

“I was only trying to …” Dropping the mop, he ducked a grapefruit. An Empire apple grazed his ear.

“Sick son of a bitch.”

Pursuing, she snapped up a fistful of lemons. Pushing my cart, I forgot all about the security camera, couldn’t miss a second of this, watching her gain, sailing lemons at the kid.

Running forward, looking back, he rounded aisle four and plowed into the wienie woman sticking decorative toothpicks into cocktail franks, taking her down like a tackle. Clerk, wienie woman and the food cart, resembling an old-time chuck wagon, ended up ass-over-tea-kettle. What’s-her-name hovered over him, her stilettos about to tattoo hell on him.

Shoppers of the Geritol persuasion poked their heads around corners of cans and loaves, witnessing the hoo-ha. Sure beat an afternoon of Young and the Restless.

“What in Heaven’s name …” Peebles, the store manager, followed his gut from his upstairs office, the mass of flesh bouncing ahead of him.

“Horny Lorny here tried to slip me the veg.” She dropped the lemons, the clerk groggily rolling off the wienie woman.

“Now he’s trying to slip it to her, fornicating, little bastard.” What’s-her-name looked around, everyone staying well back.

Rising, favoring his leg, the clerk shook his head, telling Peebles, “I was just mopping.”

Tugging the wienie woman to her feet, Peebles plucked squished meat and a toothpick from her backside, looking from clerk to wienie woman to irate customer, trying to make sense of the calamity.

The kid swore he was just mopping. “I didn’t foliate anyone, Uncle Ron, honest.”

Like a shot, L drew a can of mace from her purse and sprayed wildly; and if she hadn’t stepped on that squished wienie, she would have finished the kid. The floor shot out from under her. Down she went, her skull smacking the polished concrete.

The can bounced and rolled; I stopped it with my shoe. The clerk saw his break and fled, tearing off his apron, shouting his resignation as the automatic doors closed behind him. What’s-her-name grimaced, clutching her ankle. It didn’t look good.

Squatting next to her, I tucked the can into her purse, asking if she was okay.

“Never better.” She looked at me like I was the idiot.

First the Frontenac salmon, now the wienies, my carnal plans dashed again by spoiled food. Patting her nutty arm, I told her she should sue these Piggly Wiggler fuckers. I glared up at Peebles. “You can’t treat customers like this.”

He assisted the wienie woman to her feet, the woman cursing L in some eastern-block lingo when the old-boy security guard hobbled up, assessing things.

“Better rope this area off, put up some of those goddamn, orange pile-on thingies,” I told him, pointing to the scattered wienies.

Letting go of the wienie woman, Peebles hovered with his gut in my face, saying, “It’s not a crime scene, pal, for crying out loud.”

“It is from where I’m standing,” I rose up, giving him my deadpan look.

“You some kinda … one of them bottom-feeding ambulance chasers?” His kielbasa breath could have stopped a subway train, but Peebles knew to back up a step.

“Just the guy who knows right from wrong,” I said, calling him a douchebag, watching him retreat to his office. He said over his shoulder, “Just my luck. What’s the matter, nobody spill hot coffee at McDonald’s today?”

I helped what’s-her-name up. Limping, she leaned on me, the Yuzu cloud around us.

“I’m never shopping here again. I don’t give a shit what they got on special,” she told the gathered white heads.

Helping her past the security camera and out to the parking lot, I told her I was a qualified masseuse, didn’t mention where I learned it, promising I’d have her ankle back in shape in no time.

“I’ll be okay.” She pointed to her car, saying she should have taken her meds, thanking me again.

“Let me drive you. With these hands I can have you–”

“You’ve done enough.” Climbing into her car, one of those Mini Coopers, she rolled down the window, looking up, saying, “Good seeing you again, Arnie.”

Arnie, Ernie, who gives a shit. Mouth hanging open, I stood, watching her drive off.

“You let her get away again, loser fuckhead,” I stood there hurling obscenities at myself. Didn’t case the place or take advantage of the stupid sale on granola bars that brought me in the first place.

Shredding the coupon I fished from my pocket, I jerked up at the squeal of brakes.

Pulling up, she rolled down the window, looking at the fluttering coupon. “On second thought …” Grinning, she wagged her finger, the big rock flashing. “You’re right. Drive me home.”

* * *

A dream. A time machine. A second chance. She crawled across the bed, her hair wild and her eyes glazed, freckled breasts begging to me.

The sensible undies and Barbies were a thing of the past. She flopped back, spread-eagle across the bed. Animal prints everywhere. “Least Dad won’t bust us.”

Too caught in the moment to dwell in the past, I reached for the bedside lamp, one of those three-way deals.

CLICK.

For a split-second, I thought it was the lamp, then the metallic scrape of a key in a lock had me jumping. Déjà vu. The pink bedroom scene all over, her dad dashing up the stairs, puking his guts out.

“Hey babe, I’m home,” a voice called.

As if cattle-prodded, she leaped. “Shit. My husband.”

“You didn’t tell—”

“You didn’t ask.”

Everything became a blur, footsteps sounding up the stairs.

“Oh, God. He’s got a—” She made the universal finger sign for gun. Sweeping my clothes into my arms, she pointed under the bed. Darting into the hall, her buns jiggling, she smacked the door shut behind her.

Pressed sardine-tight, I cowered behind my balled clothes, hearing voices getting closer, the faces in the wedding photos staring at me, ready to give me up. I looked at the window, weighing the odds of escape when the door flew back, a polished pair of size tens walking into the room. Cop shoes, followed by her bare feet, nails painted red.

“Told me you were working late, hon,” she said, her voice relaxed now.

“Got Hoffman to fill the reports, brownie points, you know how she is. So, I figured I’d come home and … uh …”

“Fill me in.” The way she said it sent chills, the painted toes stroking the top of his cop shoe.

Chuckling as he undressed, he said, “And here you are, my little Lonnie.”

That was it: Lonnie. I would have scribbled it on my hand if I had a pen.

Laying his watch on the dresser, he slipped off his holstered pistol and stuck it in a drawer.

“All ready for you, babe,” she said, lying back on the bed.

Cop shoes stepped closer. He got on board, and I heard the smack of a kiss.

“You were right to be pissed, I’m sorry, hon. I do spend too much time down there, but there’s nothing going on between me and Hoffman, I swear.”

“Oh, pffft,” she said. “Never crossed my mind.”

“You been drinking, hon?”

“What?”

“Drinking?”

“Just a nip. I get … You know how I get. Want me to fix you one?”

“Two glasses?”

“Huh?”

“You used two glasses.”

“Uh huh, guess I had two nips. You want to screw me, Les, or you want to count glassware?”

Picking her up, he tossed her akimbo, the bed sagging into my spine.

“Whoa. Well, now …”

Sagging and bouncing, the springs bit into me.

“Want me to get the …”

“Just do it normal,” she said.

A zipper zipped, and he started moaning. Her arm dropped over the side, her thumb jerking, signaling me to make a crawl for it. “How’s that, hon?”

I couldn’t bear any more, was about to make my break.

“Hey, what’s with the tie? That one of my oldies?”

My heart jumped into my throat. The saleslady had called it the perfect tie, the thing lying halfway across the floor.

“Tie me with it.” Lonnie came off the bed, walking on her hands and knees, clamping the tie between her teeth. Her eyes met mine. She winked, not a spark of fear, just that glazed craziness. The bitch was enjoying this, getting laid with a spare under the bed.

His big hands hauled her up, his pants sailing into the corner, a Bates Uniform Oxford clomped to the floor, followed by leopard panties. Pinching myself as punishment, I swore that if I had a brain I would have left her writhing on the Piggly Wiggly floor. God, help me.

The mattress slammed down like a stamping machine. Up, down, up, down, up, down. Groans of pleasure from up on the bed, pain from underneath.

That’s when that asshole, Hudson, from the parole office called. Terror-struck, I fumbled for the double-crossing device, shutting off the Bonanza theme.

“What was that?” Lester came up like a shot.

“A new vibra thingie. Hums, blinks,” she told him, pulling him back down. “Humping probably sets it off. Come on, Lester, focus, will ya?”

His feet swung to the floor, one sock on, one sock off; then his face—not the happy face of the man in the wedding photos, but the face of Hannibal Lechter on a bad day—peered under the bed. “Let me guess, vibra thingie vassal?” His eyes locked on mine hiding behind the ball of clothes.

“It ain’t what it looks—”

Grabbing a fistful of my hair, Lester yanked, strong for a schmuck, likely that adrenaline thing, like the mother who rescued her two-year-old from under an overturned car.

“Warned you what I’d do the next one,” he said to her.

Fingers poking through the mattress fabric, I clung to the bed springs for dear life, but Lester had leverage going for him.

“Don’t,” she shouted, Lester looping my own tie around my neck, pulling me naked out from under, choking the life out of me.

Air cut off, my pleading sounded like it came from a Mel Blanc character.

“Dead meat,” Lester was hissing, twisting the poly tie, bringing me back down to the ground.

As things dimmed, I caught sight of Lonnie’s feet fleeing the room. Getting hold of a cop shoe, I decked him. Reeling back, he got up and slammed the door, and we squared off, two naked guys balling their fists. He threw a punch and went for his piece, and I kicked the drawer on his fingers, flicking the tie in his eyes. Coming at me, pawing and clawing, I popped him with a jab as he cleared the holster, the .38 cocked and coming up.

“Look.” I pointed at the window and dove past him for the door just as it sprang open.

Wham.

I dropped like a stone, neon squiggles before my eyes, my head swirling like a carousel. A thousand years later, my eyes opened to the faces in the photos looking down at me with cold accusation. A humorless jury.

Lying there tasting blood, I put it together. It wasn’t the schmuck’s bullet, but the corner of the door that caught me flush. Lonnie stood over me, the can of mace in one hand, the door knob still in the other. She looked sadly down at me, the craziness gone from her eyes; then Lester came into view, naked, cupping his bleeding nose, asking her if she had a towel or something, blood splashing on my face, mixing with my own.

“Told you what I’d do,” he said, kicking a bare foot into my ribs.

That’s when she went ape-shit on him, leaping and getting a handful of hair and macing his face, emptying the can. Stumbling off, he screamed into the hall. I heard him tumble down the stairs.

Crouching beside me, she said something I couldn’t understand, pity in her eyes. Then the room went round like water in a toilet, drawing me down into the darkness, and I said her name.

 

 

Dietrich Kalteis is a writer living in West Vancouver, Canada. Over forty of his short stories have been published, and his screenplay MILKIN’ DILLARD has been optioned to Bella Fe Films/Los Angeles.