trapeze_swinger

Disclaimer:

This story involves adult themes and language.

A brief synopsis, if I may: A young sales clerk has a strange encounter with an overweight sex-addict who believes that she is Christ, reincarnated.




I’ll look for a new job tomorrow. One where I don’t have to deal with returns. Maybe one where I can get tips.

The intercom crackles. The first syllable of my name squeaks out. Then nothing.

“Dave? I think you were just trying to call me on the speaker, but you got cut off.”

Crackle. “Jamie Lynne?” Long crackle. “…complaint about the ladies’ room, could you…” Crackle. I’ll look for a new job tomorrow.

I grab Lysol, paper towels, a broom. I wonder how many times I’ve cleaned this bathroom. I have to wait for someone in the first stall so I wipe down the sink first. There’s some stray pieces of toilet paper on the floor, but no reason for a complaint. A public restroom isn’t going to look like your home, lady. I put the supplies back in the janitor’s closet, which is right next to the lingerie aisle. There are several bras on the floor. I pick them up. One is silver, metallic, with white stars across the cups. Who buys these things? Another one is lacey, yellow, with light pink ribbon woven around the rims. Pretty, I think. I wonder what it’s like to buy underwear thinking about the person who is going to see it. What it’s going to look like in the dark, what kind of reaction it’s going to get. I’ve only ever bought the underwear that comes in packs of 6.

“Excuse me? Hi there.” An enormous woman with a pink skirt and darker pink poncho approaches me.

“Hello, can I help you find something?”

“Yeah. Do you guys have any decorative throw pillows?”

“Uh yeah, they should be over in the houseware aisle – right over there by the women’s shoes.”

I watch her waddle away in the direction of my extended finger. A smaller black man with sunglasses holds onto her fat arm. He must be blind. If you dated a blind man, you would never have to buy matching bra and panty sets. I suppose you would focus on texture – you would have to imagine another person feeling your underwear instead of seeing you in them. That might even be harder.

I make my way over to the women’s clothing because women’s clothing always has to be re-organized, refolded, restocked. There are two ways to fold shirts. The long way or the quick way, which doesn’t look as nice but works if you’re in a rush. I always do the short way because I’ve worked here for two years and I’m still making minimum wage.

My mom still does my laundry at home. When we were little, she’d fold our clothes and leave them in neat piles on the couch. No one ever taught her that there were two ways to gold shirts, so I bet she alternated a lot between the two. Now she leaves the laundry in one big pile on the couch, and we have to sort through it and take what’s ours. My sister still folds her clothes. Usually, I toss the bundle on the end of my bed.

Something metallic clatters on the ground. I look up and see the fat lady with the pink poncho hunched over a shiny serving dish. The kind you put salads in. She looks around with wide-opened eyes, scoops up the bowl and sets it on top of the blind man’s head. She laughs. He flutters his arms about his head, trying to figure out what’s up there. When he takes the bowl off his head, she puts it back on the shelf and gives him a disgusting wet kiss. I’m about 15 or 20 feet away, but I can still tell that her hair is really greasy. Long, brown, stringy and greasy. Held back by a brown headband. She yanks at the black man’s shirt and disappears into the dishware aisle right when I see my manager coming over.

“Hey Jamie Lynne, could you cover Sam’s break on register? Thanks.”

When I look for my new job, I’m going to look for one that doesn’t involve a cash register. Maybe I could be a dog-walker. Except that I’d have to carry around little plastic baggies filled with dog poop. How does that work, anyways? Do people just carry those baggies around in their other hand for the rest of the walk? I mean, what if you ran into someone you knew and they want to start a conversation until they realize that you have a steaming bag of dog shit in your left hand? What if you’re walking like four dogs and you don’t even have any free hands to carry around poop-baggies? Fuck that – If I get a job as a dog-walker I’ll never pick up their shit. Unless there’s a police officer around, or something.

My thoughts are interrupted when a 30-something-year old woman with wide hips and tired skin tosses some cheap photo albums and a case of bottled water on the counter. Looks like she just popped out a baby, tugging at her sweatpants like she’s not used to her new mom figure yet. Pregnant women look so beautiful. They glow. Once they get that sucker out, then they just look lumpy and haggard. It’s kinda sad.

The new mom forgets to say thank you, but I don’t care this time. Since I still make minimum wage, I unwrinkle a crossword puzzle I had crumpled in my pocket and start to fill it out. I can never finish them, but I do them anyways. Maybe I find crossword puzzles comforting because they remind me of my own life: trivial time-wasters that are full of insignificant information. Who gives half a rat’s ass who the “epic muse of poetry” is? Absolutely no one. The same applies to yours truly. Ultimately, when Jamie Lynne kicks the bucket and tries to cash her check for lifetime achievements, she’s gonna be going into the afterlife empty-handed. It’s ok though – I’m used to being broke.

The fat pink poncho lady pushes her cart up to my register. Up close, I can see that she has dark pink blush on her cheeks and blue eyeshadow, like the stuff you wear at dance recitals when you’re six. She tucks her greasy hair behind her ears before she starts piling up her shit on my counter. 2 gaudy beaded lamps, 3 red feather pillows, 1 purple, some plastic red roses.

She winks at me. “I’m redecorating my bedroom to make it more hot because it’s a love palace.” She looks at the blind man when she says those last two words: love palace. I nod my head not saying anything, but she keeps going.

“My husband and I are in what you’d call an ‘open-marriage.’ This guy here…” She points to the black man and lowers her voice. “He’s blind, but he’s the best pussy-lapper I’ve ever had.”

I look around the store to see if anyone’s within hearing distance.

“You know what I’m really into is the group-stuff. I’ve got a whole bunch of orgies lined up at a hotel for the next month.”

I look at the black man for help, but he’s just smiling into space.

“Hey, you know if you give me your address I could come pick you up if you’d like to join us. There’s always room for one more.”

“Oh, that’s ok. I don’t get down and dirty like that.”

I shove her tacky pillows into a bag as fast as I can, and she shuffles out of the store with her boyfriend on her arm. What a fucking lunatic. I reach for my crossword puzzle. I hope I don’t have to share a shack with someone like her in the afterlife. Maybe I better join some sort of volunteer organization, rack up some points with whoever’s in charge of that life after death insurance business. Then I see it: she left her credit card. Damn it.

I have no idea where Dave is, and it’s not worth trying to use the shitty intercom, so I punch in her number. Don’t pick up, don’t pick up, don’t pick up. “Hello?” I explain the situation to her husband. His voice sounds like it belongs to a man who wears ties and goes to the gym regularly. Not the kind of man who would enjoy weekly orgies with ugly lunatics. What kind of underwear would you wear to a gang-bang at a sleazy hotel? Definitely not the kind of bras we sell in the lingerie aisle. My packaged fruit-of-the-loom assortments are out of the question. Lucky for me.

I’m about to give up on the “epic muse of poetry” when someone huffs through the glass door.

“Think I left something here, sweetie.”

“Oh yeah – your credit card. Right here. There you go.”


I slide the card across the counter. She holds it, eyeing it suspiciously.

“Those lamps are going to look so kinky in our new love palace, right baby? And those pillows, mmmmm…thanks for helping us pick them out, by the way.”

“I didn’t.”

“Hmmmm? Oh honey, you pointed us in the right direction, remember. They’re perfect, just what the room needed to spice things up.” Her facial muscles twist into a revolting grin. Maybe the bathroom needed to be checked again. Maybe someone needed CPR in aisle 4. Maybe the world was about to explode and we should all run for the hills.

The muscles pull downward. She bends her upper body across the register, getting as close to me as the counter will allow. Her breath is Marlboro Reds. I know because I used to smoke.

“I’m going to tell you something Jamie Lynne.” For the first time ever, I wish we weren’t required to wear nametags. “I’m going to tell you the most important something of your entire life.”

Register clock says 3:12. Where the hell is Sam? Crazy sex lady bends closer. Whispers.

“I’m the Christ.”


”Excuse me?”


”That’s right, Jamie Lynne. Don’t be afraid, dear. You mustn’t be afraid.”

The black man leans against the counter. He looks bored. She sucks air through her nostrils, eyes closed.

“It’s not easy being the Son of God, reincarnated into this pitiful 51-year-old female body. Oh, it’s not easy.” Her eyes start to mist over. No, no, no – for the love of God, please do not cry. But she does, just a little. The tears make her face even uglier. “I weep, Jamie Lynne. I weep for mankind.”

Two teenage blondes are sifting through the 1-dollar bins. One looks up, hits the other to get her attention. Great, now we have an audience.

The fat woman holds out her arms, her head flips back, eyes intent on the ceiling. Her throat makes a gurgling sound and a string of incoherent babbling gushes out like vomit. “humina, humina, malika, kishna-kov…humina, humina…” One of the blondes laughs out loud. The other stands with raised eyebrows.

Fat Lady’s head lowers. “If you don’t believe in me, Jamie Lynne, who will?” She taps her hand against her head, over and over. “You. You’re one of my faithful disciples. I know you.”

“Um, I think you’ve got the wrong girl. I don’t even think I believe in God.”

It’s obvious by now that Fat Lady does not hear a word I’m saying. Or at least that my words are not registering in whatever language she’s fluent in. She just looks past me, like my flesh is transparent.

“My whole life, I’ve been pissed on. Do you know what that’s like?”

I don’t. I’ll bet the Son of God does, though.

“Because when a man pees on me and I pee on him and we’re in love, then it’s hot. It’s erotic. But when someone pees on me because they’re mad at me, it hurts. No more.”

I reach for the intercom, my finger hovering over the speak button.

“It’s true what they say about the end times.”


I put the intercom back. “What do they say?”

Her eyes narrow. “That there will come a day when it’s too late to turn things around. The Father will come riding with fire and hail and you won’t be able to hide in your basements. He will come, and he will judge, and no one will be able fix the things they’ve done or undone. You, Jamie Lynne, will be judged with the rest of them.”

The blind guy is unwrapping a piece of gum. He picks at his ear. The two blondes aren’t even pretending to be interested in one-dollar soap bars. Cross-armed, they watch.
Sam emerges from the break room. He heads to punch back in.

“Just remember that a day will come for you just like one will come for me, for this man here. Someday, you’ll up and die and there will be judgment waiting there for you. Ready or not.”

Another tug at the blind man’s shirt and the pink poncho is just a dot in the parking lot. A dot in the universe.

“Hey, Jamie Lynne – Dave said you can go home ‘cause someone’s coming in at 4. Have a good one.”

I take the long way home so I can get that ugly face out of my head before I sit down to dinner. It kinda makes sense, in a fucked up sort of way – the 51-year old female Jesus bit, I mean. All that stuff in the Old Testament is pretty out there. Bears mauling disrespectful children for pissing off bald dudes and people living for 900 years. I dunno, maybe Jesus would come back as a fat, sex-addicted woman. I wouldn’t put it past him.

Since I don’t think I believe in God, I’m not too worried about the whole judgment thing. And if Fat Lady was so concerned about the state of my immortal soul, she probably shouldn’t have been inviting me to her hoppin’ hotel orgies. How many people, do you think, do stuff like that? And what about the ones who never get to do that stuff? The ones who die young and unexpectedly before they ever got to have sex. The ones who never got to strut in a black thong or a sheer bra. And worse – what if I became one of them? What if I died tomorrow and when they came to clean out my belongings they found a drawer filled with only striped cotton underwear. No black thongs. Not a sheer article of clothing in sight. That day will come for you…remember. I may be going into the afterlife piss-broke, but I sure as hell don’t want to go without a decent pair of underwear. I will not allow myself to become one of those dead innocents, lying in their graves like sleeping babies. I turn the car around.

There’s a store. Down Main Street. There’s got to be. I remember a lavender sign with curlie-cue lettering: Kitty Kat Accessories, or something. I never paid any attention to it before, but right now, it was going to save my life. That crazy old bat was saving my life. I don’t know from what. I just know she had rescued me. Maybe from becoming her.

SevenWritez

Ahaha. This had quite a few gems in it that I liked. And holy fuck, a first post that doesn't involved the writer going in that fucking introduction forum -- I love it.

As for the story, the stream of conscience style hooked me in immediately, and I loved your protagonist, be her purely fiction or purely you. There are a few nitpicks here and there, and some needless words that could be cut, but I'll get to them tomorrow after work.

And welcome to the forums, yada yada blah. Avoid that shit.

The Backward OX

__________________
Originally Posted by Wildcard
I view with distaste the excretions polluting this site, suffering when I read another by-product of the boredom of one with access to a computer and the internet. As I read I feel I am being defecated on, and cling to an idea that one day I may find solace in the words of one who takes pride in their work.

SevenWritez

No, not really. It's three in the morning and I'm typing without thinkin. That said, I'm sorry, I suppose Ulysses is the only contender for this title. My bad, Ox. You're the genius, I'm the fool. La de hum blah, time to go play at writing!

writeforfun

I thought your writing was good and smart, kind of breezy and you captured the character pretty well -- kind of young, female, a tad innocent and maybe a tad cynical...

your setting was well brought to life. I suspect you worked in a dept. store as a clerk at some point and encourntered some weird people.

However, for me, it got a little too weird when the fat lady started claiming to be Jesus. I know, I know. There are nuts who do that. And they can't be taken seriously. But something about it was off putting, like it was going too far when you didn't need to go that far, perhaps just to say something about religion and the Bible that bothers you.

Your character is ultimately dismissive of the claim but takes to heart the need to "live" life, which is a good character development to make. But honestly, to have your character realize it thorugh such a bizarre and brief encounter, seems a bit too easy and maybe a tad dishonest.

You could achieve this by other means. But you show promise, I must say.

trapeze_swinger

sevenwritez - thank you for reading - this is definitely a first draft, so yes, there is a lot of shit I can probably chop off this piece. As Stephen King put it: "one's second draft should = one's first draft - 10%." I think that's a pretty good formula to go by, for the most part. As for the introduction forum - it seemed a bit hokey for my taste. I've frequented writing forums like this in the past, and stuff like that always turned me off. But that's just me.

p. s. - Don't forget Virginia Woolf when it comes to stream of consciousness technique. (and no, haha, I would NOT identify this story as such)


Writeforfun - Again, thank you for reading - I've never actually worked in retail, but I've dealt with the public in other jobs; and yes, I've dealt with my fair share of wackos. You know, I wasn't sure how the second half of this story might work. I heard this story from someone who actually had this happen to her, so I just ran with the idea. But it could be stretching it. The fact that you as an outside reader felt it was almost "too weird" and possibly "dishonest" (the last thing any good writer wants) might be a good indication that it doesn't work for a short story. I'll take a closer look when I get a chance. Thank you so much for spending the time to read and critique this! It is always appreciated