Lunch Hour Karma

Marcella cracked open the door to the bar, but the smell of stale beer and body order stung her nose.  It was her week to watch Kate, the manager of the bar.  Ever since Kate’s blind boyfriend drove off in her car, Kate has hunkered down in the dark, dank dingy joint, trading sob stories with her customers.  The girls were taking turns checking on her so Marcella bravely plopped down on the bar stool knowing the cooties were crawling all over her.

            If women could only recognize when they’re in bad relationships, she thought.  It’s not that they have low IQ’s, what they need is guy-Q.

She knew men let women know who they are, and usually right away.  Women just don’t see the early warning signals.

“Hey Marcella, glad you’re here.  There are some really cool men here today. You should get to know them,” Kate said in her perky voice.

            Marcella wondered if people were victims of their own Karma, doomed to have bad relationships because they were addicted to behaviors that kept them repeating the same relationships over and over.

            Marcella looked around the bar at the regulars.  Stevie sat next to her with the death grip on a beer.   He recently retired from the Air Force.  As a reaction to staunch military rules, he now wears his red curly hair down his back in a pony-tail.  He’s gained 30 pounds and starts his day drinking lunch at Kate’s.

            Looking at his red bloated face, Marcella asked him if he had ever been married.

            “I was married for a few years.  That was over 16 years ago,” said Stevie.  “But she divorced me.”

            “Why?” she asked.

            He picked up his bottle of beer and stared at it as if he was looking into the past.

            “Because of this,” he sighed.

            Moving down the bar she saw Jim who always sits in the same chair.  He’s a tall, lanky gaunt fellow.  His scruffy beard coverers the pocked face and a ball cap sits over his long scraggily hair.  He orders his beer and as he grasps it, she can see years of dirt piled under his fingernails.  He lives in a one-room dump walking distance from the bar.  He works as a mechanic and his greasy clothes tell his tale.

            “How’s your day going?” Marcella asked.

            In his slow witted manner, he replied.

            “Well, it’s better than yesterday.  Ya know I don’t drive much.  I tried to take a lady friend for a drive to Kansas City yesterday.  She kept nagging me about askin’ for directions.  Musta’ took a wrong turn ‘cause I ended up in Holton.  I’m just glad I made it back.  I don’t think I’ll see that nag again.”

            Marcella didn’t know Cowboy’s real name.  That’s just what everybody called him because he always wears an enormous cowboy hat.  He’s a tall rotund man with long frizzy gray hair and a long frizzy gray beard.  Without encouragement he begins to rant in his big blustery voice, as if everyone wants to hear what he has to say.

            “My girlfriend is constantly bitching,” he complains. “She says that I don’t spend enough time with her.”

            “So, what do you think about that?”  Marcella asked.

            “I ain’t the kinda man you can corral.  I just gotta do what I wanna. Aint no woman gonna tell me when to go home.”

            Ben sits with what teeth he has clinched, grasping his beer as if someone might take it from him.

 He must be the prototype for beer bellies.    

            “Damn women, they just take all your money,” he scowls.

 Marcella is sure he just got up because he had bed-head with a spiral of hair on his crown. His clothes were rumpled and looked slept in.

“Why do you think that,” she asked.     

“My ex ol’ lady thinks I’m going to go to work just to pay her child support.”

Marcella wondered if these men were what happens when they give-up and give-in to bad habits.  Maybe their Karma was to end up on a bar stool pontificating about why women are to blame.  She knew some of her friends would think they could change these men. She thought some had tried before. They would continue to award the tiara to each other.

Kate leaned across the bar and invites Marcella to return tomorrow.

“Tomorrow the lunch special is fish sandwiches.”

             

Hysterical Blindness

Kate was blurry-eyed when she sat down for weekly lunch with the girls.  She had been up late at the Blues bar she managed, drinking with her new boyfriend. 

            “Michael such a nice person, even if he is blind;” Kate rubbed her sleepy eyes.

            All girls sat silently looking at each other rolling their eyes.  Bonita who was the optimist just asked if he was good in bed.

            “Well, we really haven’t….you know….done it yet.”

            Bonita saw no problem with that. “He must respect you.” She quickly ordered her shrimp cocktail.

            Desireé was a yoga master and believed there ware no coincidences in the universe.  He was brought to her for some reason.  

            “How did you meet?”  asked Desireé as she ordered her Tofu salad.

            “He came into the bar,” she said proudly.  “We had an instant connection.”

            Marcella was the pragmatist. 

            “How was there a connection?” Marcella said ordering soup and bread.

            “Most men that come to the bar just want to tell me their problems, but he asked me questions about myself?” Kate ordered a cheeseburger with gravy fires.

            As Kate stuffed her face her eyes began to twinkle. “And, guess what?  I’m buying a new car.”

            Marcella choked on her soup.

            “How on earth are you going to afford that?”

            “Michael said I needed a new car, so he agreed to help with the payments.”

            Marcella looked a Bonita who had her eyes closed, savoring her shrimp, and Desireé who was computing the information Kate was communicating.

            Marcella jumped in. “You mean he won’t sleep with you, but he’ll help you buy a car?”

            Kate dipped her French fry in the thick gravy. “Can’t you see Marcella?  He loves me.”

 Maybe it was Kate who couldn’t see, Marcella thought. 

She worried Kate was settling for Michael because she thought he couldn’t see her.  Maybe Kate thought he could see the real person inside.

The lunch buddies didn’t see Kate for weeks, she was so lost in the relationship.

One dreary morning Kate called the girls for lunch.  Bonita suggested the restaurant with the great shrimp, Desireé looked forward to hearing about the relationship but Marcella felt something was up.

Kate was late and eyes were red from crying.

“Let’s order,” Bonita said cheerfully.

Desiree knew the cosmos had handed Kate a challenge, but Marcella just had to ask.  “What’s wrong?”

“This morning I was in the kitchen making breakfast.  Michael just walked through the kitchen, out the door, got in my car and drove away.

The situation begged the obvious question, but no one could speak, except Bonita.  “Maybe he’ll bring it back.”

No one asked how a blind man could steel a car.  Marcella handed Kate the tiara and they ate in silence.

Homeland Security

It was a crisp cool summer evening when Marcella and her mother JoJo set out to drive to the Kansas City airport to pick up Marcella’s sister Desireé.  Marcella had thought that they would stop in Lawrence and have some dinner because she had been too busy to eat anything all day.  But, JoJo was running late and had already eaten so Marcella thought she’d just forget eating.

            “Maybe there will be something open at the airport,” said Marcella.

            “You know that airport food is terrible,” said JoJo.  “We can pick something up if you’re really hungry.”

            But they were running late, they hurried so they wouldn’t miss Desireé’s flight.

            Of course when they arrived at Kansas City International airport they discovered the flight was running 30 minutes late and Marcella was getting light headed and queasy from hunger.

            “Mother, I don’t care what I eat, I’m starved,” said Marcella.

            The only restaurant open was Burger King.  The dreaded “fast food” garbage her mother had always warned her about.  The poison she had attempted to avoid her whole adult life. It no longer mattered; if Marcella was going to drive home from the airport she needed sustenance.

            Marcella ordered a hamburger and orange juice from the mentally challenged cashier and gladly paid her five bucks for the treat of eating the slop.

            As she paid the dim-witted slug behind the counter, she noticed a haze lofting near the kitchen and suddenly realized it was smoke.

            Another highly intelligent goof-ball came out of the kitchen with his backpack on.  Lights overhead began to flicker.

            “Uh…I think the alarm is going to go off,” said the goof-ball.

            Sure enough, the terminal was alive with a sirens screeching.

            “What about my food?” cried Marcella over the sound of the blaring siren.

            “We have to leave the building,” said the dim-wit. And he did, along with the goof-ball.

Marcella and JoJo weren’t about to leave.  They had $5 invested and Marcella was starving. 

            A security guard ran up to them panting and yelling, “Evacuate the building.”

            “Good God,” said JoJo.  “It’s just a grease fire.”

            Marcella and JoJo stood outside the terminal anxiously waiting for the grease fire to be extinguished when they saw goof-ball and dim-wit racing past them with their back packs.    “They are not coming back,” said Marcella.  “I want my burger.”

            When the all clear sounded, Marcella and JoJo returned inside the terminal to Burger King, hoping against hope that the goof-ball and dim-wit would come back and fry a hamburger.  Only a rotund security guard with a walkie-talkie remained in the kitchen.  JoJo took matters into her own hands, marched up to the security guard and told him she would fry the hamburger because her daughter was hungry.

            “And, I think we should get a free piece of pie for all our trouble,” said JoJo.

            It was against airport security rules to allow customers to fry their own burgers so the security guard fried the burger and gave them a piece of pie, just to shut them up.

            It was the worst meal they ever ate.

             

 

 

             

           

You Gatta Know when it's Time to Bail

Marcella gave her best parade wave to the crowd as she and her friends perched themselves on the Saint Patrick’s Day float.  She had been so clever when she borrowed her ex-boyfriend’s trailer so she and her friends could build the perfect float. Of course, he didn’t know she had borrowed it yet, but he would be proud when he sees her and her friends in their matching green ensembles with their fabulous hats. 

The resident artist, Lola, painted a bulging pot of gold with a colorful rainbow, cut from plywood and strapped it to the trailer. The girls sat on hay bales and waved to the cheering crowd.

Juliet sat proudly on the back on a hay bale, “They love us.  We’ll probably win the prize for the best float this year.”

Suddenly, Juliet screeched as the crowd began to laugh.  “Do you think they’re laughing at our hats?”

A leprechaun in the crowd yelled out, “There’s a rainbow penis on that float.”

Marcella snapped her head and looked again at Lola’s creation.  Lola grinned sheepishly.

 Crap!  Marcella thought to herself, What if he sees us on a float with a rainbow penis?

Before panic could overcome her she was distracted by the smell of smoke.

Juliet’s eyes peered out from under her brig brimmed hat.  “I think the brakes caught fire.”

With one wisp of wind, the hay bale Juliet was sitting on caught fire, climbing up and over the hay.

Juliet screamed, “We have to bail.” By then all the others had leaped off into the crowd. 

The fire whipped up and grabbed onto the plywood sculpture.

A voice in the crowed yelled out, “The rainbow penis is on fire.”

Juliet took a flying leap off the borrowed trailer and was caught by the shocked crowd.

Marcella made her decision, she had to jump.  As she looked up at the terrorized faces, there he was.

“Your stupid trailer caught fire,” she spit at him.

He held out his arms, imploring her to jump.  Marcella threw off her big green hat with the pink roses and in slow motion squatted to launch herself.

She could hear the clicks of cameras and a sound of humans sucking air in the crowd.

Marcella described her landing later to her friends at the local bar.  Sporting the tiara she sipped her green beer.

“I must have hit him hard, because I took out about 10 people in the crowd.  They went down like dominos.  I landed face down on the street, but my fall was broken by his lap.  There I was my nose in his crotch.  I was parade road kill.”

Lola looked at Marcella and rolled her eyes.  “You should have jumped earlier with us.  A girl has gotta know when to bail.”

           

           

Going Cellular

Desireé set her phone on vibrate, slipped it into her purse and tried to focus her attention to the biology lecture.

“Perception is computation,” the professor said.  “When we get messages, our brain decides what the reality is.”

Her purse began to vibrate. BZZZ   BZZZ.  It was taunting her. BZZZ BZZZ

The sound was distracting her like Edgar Allen Poe’s, “Tale Tell Heart.”

I hope it goes to my voice mail, she thought.

She peered into her purse. New Message.

It was him, she just knew it. 

Unable to stand the pressure, she grabbed her purse and ran in to the hall.

Who needs to understand perception, he’s calling me.

            Desireé listened to his message. He wanted her to call him, so she dialed his number.

            “Hello Clarise,” he laughed as he answered.   “Why don’t you ever call me?” he said.

“I did.  I called you Saturday night.”

“No you didn’t, Desireé.  I didn’t get a message.”

She knew he was lying, but she could control herself.

“I thought I’d come by Wednesday or Thursday,” he said.

“Which day?”

“I don’t know. Call me and let me know.”

“You call me,” she answered.

“No, if you want me to come by, call me.”

She agreed but as soon as she hung-up she called Marcella.

“Should I call him?”  She asked Marcella. 

“No, it’s a game,” said Marcella.

“But if I don’t call, he won’t come by. And, what if I call and he doesn’t answer? How will I know he got the message?  And, what if he’s calling me at the same time I’m calling him; does his call go to my voice mail?  What if I don’t get the message and I don’t call him back and he doesn’t think I called him, so he doesn’t call me, and I won’t know that, so I don’t call him.”

Marcella listened patiently to Desireé’s ramblings and it made her wonder.

Are cell phones distorting perceptions of reality?

“Desireé get a grip, the fact is that if he wants to talk to you, he will find you.”  

            She knew Marcella was right, that she would be awarded the tiara if she called. Cell phones are just the latest toys for men who like games.  They can say they called when they didn’t, they can say they didn’t get a message when they did.  It’s about the power over women.  It was her false perception of reality that kept her in the game.

            She dialed his number and to her horror, he did not answer.  So, she left a message.

“Hi, honey, just wanted to let you know I’ll be home Thursday if you want to come by.

He did not call her back so made one last call.  He answered, so Desireé took a deep breath.

“I just want you to know this is my last phone call to you.”

“I know,” he laughed. “I could tell by the way the phone rang.”

            “Are you coming by tonight?”

“No, I can’t make it tonight.”

“How about tomorrow?”

“That might work, I’ll call you.”

Don’t hold you breath, buster, she thought.

Desireé turned off her phone, dropped it into her purse and entered her biology class with a new perception of relationships.

It's all About the Hunt

Marcella’s feet were killing her. She hadn’t worn three inch open-toed sling backs since that doofus tripped her in the biker bar and broke her foot. Marcella’s temporary disillusionment with men sparked her interest in the theatre, where there was a more refined class of men. She convinced her sister, Desireé to accompany her to the opening of “Rent.” 

            During intermission, Marcella snaked her hand through tight shoulders at the bar to order a Merlot when a sudden waft of Aqua Di Gio drifted past her nose.   Her head instinctively turned toward the scent and there before her stood a Kansas cross-breed -- half cowboy, half rock’n roller. Her eyes slowly scanned his image. His straight shoulder length hair hung down near his eyes.  Snake-skin boots, silver belt buckle, sport coat and big lips.   It was then he gave her a broad smile.  

            Don’t even think about it, she thought to herself.

            Marcella was not easily impressed by men as she’d been burnt too many times.

            Desireé sensing the train wreck happening right in front of her eyes leaned into Marcella’s ear, “He’s awfully cute, he must be stupid.”

            Marcella gave an opened mouthed laugh to show she was having the time of her life.

            The handsome cowboy-rocker stepped right in front of her.

            “Are you a poet?” slipped from Marcella’s lips.

            “Why yes I am,” his eyes twinkled.  “I’m a song writer,”

            “Sing me something you’ve written.”

            “Let’s step out side for some fresh air and I’ll sing a song.”

            His voice was like a siren lulling her into a forbidden place.  The full moon taunted them, peering over the theater like a spot light on Marcella and…..

            What’s his name?

            “I’m Marcella,” she smiled sweetly.

            “Miles.”

            “Miles, and miles to go before we sleep?”  Marcella said with her keen wit.

            “Oh, really?”

            Miles knew then she was negotiable and the game began.  He sang her a song under the moon light.      

            He waited the appropriate three days to call Marcella.  Just enough time to make her apprehensive. Then he called her every night, and they talked for hours about life.   He seemed to hang on her every word, asking questions and listening to her answers.

            After a week of phone-play, Miles suggested he cook dinner.  Marcella stocked up on Corona and bought a new top (just slightly see through). 

 Miles arrived on time, sporting his half-breed attire with his hair tied back.

They toasted the evening ahead with Corona as he chopped vegetables and sang her a song.

            Marcella thought, This must be what it’s like in Heaven.

            She was too excited to eat, but she munched politely on the feast before her.

            After dinner Miles took her hand and they climbed the spiral staircase to Marcella’s loft bedroom.

            Marcella giggled.  “This is the love nest.”

            Miles pulled her close, and with his full smiling lips kissed her.

            This is the test….he passed.

            What happened next was pretty much a mystery to Marcella.

            When Miles left, he whispered softly into her ear, “I’ll call you.”

            After the three day grace period had passed Marcella knew she’d probably never hear from him again. She would be wearing Whitney’s tiara for this slip-up. She began to evaluate her feelings about the sex haze she was in.

            A month passed and Marcella got a tip Miles’ favorite band was playing at the local blues joint, so Marcella pulled herself together for a revenge appearance.

            This is a technique Marcella has exacted to show men just what they are missing.

            She reviewed the rules with Desireé.

            “First you make a movie star entrance, speak to everyone you know as you enter, and pretend he’s not there, even though you know exactly where he’s standing,” Desireé reminded her.  “And, under no circumstances ever let him kiss you.”

            Marcella understood completely and when she lit up the room with her entrance, Miles couldn’t help but race to her.  She was irresistible to him, but she turned her head when he tried to kiss her.

            Pulling away, she said flatly, “Miles, I just don’t think you’re the right man for me.”  Game over!

The Beauty Queens

            Sisters Marcella and Desireé were beauty queens. Whenever there was a beauty pageant, no matter how remote the title, Desireé and Marcella entered to win money, scholarships, prizes, it really didn’t matter. As they grew older they believed their vast experience competing in pageants offered them an opportunity to put their experience to some use for profit running their own pageant and giving younger women a chance to wear a crown.

            It was Desireé’s idea to try to get the contract for the Miss Topeka Pageant.

            “It’s been poorly run,” said Desireé.  “We could sell advertising, sign up sponsors and make a lot of money.”

            But first they had to impress the Kansas State Board of Pageants in Pratt.  They decided they would attend the Miss Kansas Pageant and meet the directors to woo them with their magnificent business prowess.   Of course wardrobe was a must.  Marcella bought a pink chiffon gown glittering with rhinestones.

            “I think I’ll call it my Princess Di dress.  The cowboys in Pratt will love it,” Marcella bragged.

            “They’re liable to try to take a bite out of you,” Desireé laughed.

            With confidence and exuberating they engaged two of their best beauty queen friends Bonita and Kate to travel with them to “OZ” to find themselves a pageant of their own. 

            Armed with a glittering wardrobe, a suitcase full of cosmetics and overflowing confidence they drove to Pratt where the end of the rainbow awaited.

            The citizens of Pratt knew how to put on a pageant.  There was a parade in the morning after brunch, luncheon at noon and a formal dinner before the curtains were drawn to a packed auditorium.  But, the beauty queens were not prepared for the cocktails served          at every event and the sisters could not tolerate drinking.  They tried, they really did, but by the time the new Miss Kansas was crowned they had become intoxicated.  There was nothing left to do but continue with the revelry.            The state pageant directors decided to take the beauty queens out on the town and show them the highlights of Pratt.

Of course they couldn’t reject their offer, after all the beauty queens were going to impress them with their business knowledge.

            Although somewhat out of place in their gowns, Marcella was pleased with herself in her Lady Di gown.  The cowboys loved her, especially when they realized she could speak French.

            “J’adore la fete,” Marcella slurred as the evening progressed into the morning hours. (She was prolific in French by 3 a.m.)

            With somewhat less decorum than when they arrived in Pratt, the sisters said goodbye to the state pageant directors and returned home, with throbbing heads and nausea.

            “Au revior, a demain mes Monsieur’s,” Marcella waved her royal wave goodbye.

            The sisters had agreed to call the state pageant directors the next morning to find out their decision.

            “I’m sure we got the Miss Topeka Pageant contract,” Desireé said with confidence.  “I think they were impressed.”