Slatternly Sluts and Bodacious Bimbos, Barry Rachin [brene brown rising strong TXT] 📗

purse.

When they were gone, Gabe turned to Helen. "I live a couple of miles down the road and need to run home and grab some extra buns. Would you mind babysitting the cart?"

"What about customers?"

"Tell them we're temporarily closed."

"Wouldn't it be a whole lot easier if I went?"

“Well yes, if you didn’t mind.” Gabe gave Helen the directions. "There's a carton of fresh buns on the kitchen counter. Six twelve-packs should do nicely."

Helen drove eight blocks out of town, took a right on Prince Street and her second left. The Carmody place was a modest cape nestled at the end of a cul-de-sac. The front lawn was freshly mowed and a profusion of flowers - apple blossom amaryllis, lilies, raspberry peonies and moss-colored allium - rimming the mailbox. Helen let herself into the living room which was sparsely furnished but surprisingly tidy. After locating the buns she sat down at the kitchen table. The floor was swept clean. A plate and several eating utensils were drying in a wire rack. A freshly-watered coleus plant with a profusion of crimson-veined leaves rested on the window sill.

Before leaving Helen toured the house. It didn't appear that Gabe owned either a television or computer. In the bedroom, the bed was made; a pair of men's slacks, neatly pressed, hung over the footboard. A bookcase contained a scattering of Audubon Society Magazines plus a hardbound collection, the complete works of the western writer, Louis L'Amour.

Helen tentatively sniffed the air. What was that musky-sweet smell? On the dresser an open flask of Jade East men's cologne stood next to a hairbrush and clock radio. She located the cap, which had fallen on the rug and sealed the container. As she bent down, Helen noticed a girlie magazine sticking out from under the bed. Slatternly Sluts & Bodacious Bimbos - on the cover was a flabby, freckly-faced redhead, who reminded Helen, frighteningly so, of her sister-in-law, Olivia. The woman's enormous chest hung halfway to her bellybutton, and her gelatinous thighs were streaked with purplish, sclerotic veins, the stomach rippled with cellulite and stretch marks. "Hell, I got better boobs than that old hag!" Down on her hands and knees, Helen peered under the bed, noting a pair of bed slippers and nothing more.

Backing the car out of the driveway, a nagging thought prompted her to throw the shift into park and kill the ignition. Back in the bedroom the former reference librarian fished the girlie magazine out from under the bed and checked the publication notes on the inside cover. Two thousand and six - the well-thumbed magazine was five years old. "A momentary lapse of good taste," Helen muttered under her breath. Letting herself out a second time, she locked the door behind her.

*****

"There was another run of late afternoon customers and I’m down to my last bag of buns," Gabe said when she returned. He stored the packages away in the cart, and then pointed toward the courthouse where Mr. Tavares was lounging against a granite column. "Our friend is taking a sabbatical from the legal profession."

"How's that?"

"I've known him for a while now. His brother just opened a carpet cleaning business in Mansfield and needs help."

"The lawyer's gonna walk away from a six-figure salary to steam people's smelly rugs?"
Gabe shrugged. "He's sick to death of cheap punks and welfare cheats."

"A carpet cleaning business?" Helen took a hard look at the gaunt man lingering just outside the entrance to the building.
What was it Gabe said at the coffee shop? Once you realize you don't really want what you thought was so goddamn essential, things fall into place of their own accord. Maybe ‘nothing’ is the sublime achievement.

"I had an epiphany," she muttered.

"Is that so?"

"I decided, short term, what I want to do with my pathetic life."

A small Hispanic boy on a dirt bike with absurdly high handlebars raced up the street, popped a wheelie and skidded to an abrupt stop in front of the hotdog stand. "Gimme a salted pretzel and Coke."

"As you were saying," Gabe picked up the thread of their previous conversation once the boy frenetically careened off down the street.

"I want to be a slatternly slut… a bodacious bimbo." When there was no immediate response, she added, "What are you doing tonight after work?"

"Same as always." Gabe eyed her uncomfortably. "Nothing."

She was getting used to the man's cropped speech and brutish mannerisms. The pebbly teeth weren't nearly as offensive. The unruly hair - it seemed to manifest everywhere without any coherent game plan, was just what it was. "Maybe we could spend some quality time together."
He repositioned a couple of glistening, Hebrew National, kosher all-beef hotdogs away from the intense heat. "Yeah, I'd like that just fine."

Five minutes later a criminal trial ended and a flood of jurors, witnesses and court personnel streamed out of the building. The hotdog vendor had all he could do to accommodate the onslaught of customers, replenish inventory and make change. When the bedlam finally subsided Gabe suggested, "I could close up and we could head back to my place now."

"There's no rush." She patted him playfully on the arm. "At some point though, I'll need to call my brother and tell him not to wait up."
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Publication Date: 06-16-2011

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