Penni returns from the Back-to-School Mallwars exhausted, anticipating a nice glass of wine and some witty and educated conversation with her brilliant, worldly threadmates. But what's this? She can't get to the DAR driveway. The entire yard is full of junk cars-most with parts missing, the rusting pieces strewn throughout the flower beds, old hound dawgs scratching in the fronts of 69 Ford Fairlanes, spare tires being used as planters, wilted daisy heads weaving drunkenly in the breeze from the black exhaust of a truck left running nearby. She slips on an oilslick, nearly dropping the case of Moet et Chandon she
was hoping to consume in an attempt to forget the TPRO debacle from this week. The little box of fresh escargots goes spinning off under a white Corvair convertible-why -surely that's the one her brother wrecked in 1964? And where did the guys all get the greasy sleeveless t-shirts. And those beer guts? Were they there this morning when she
left?
"Hey-Jeffy! Ummm--Nice overalls--So you wanna be called Bubba now?" she politely refuses the offer of a Bud Lite, hoping to get to the house before she has to admire the gleaming innards of a restored Avanti.
Crawling over the carcass of a 57 Studebaker she arrives at the front porch where Janice, wearing an attractive baseball cap and tight(really, J-how did you get into those?)cutoffs, is demonstrating the proper technique with a stick shift to Paul, who appears to be mesmerized by her actions.
Kicking aside a stack of hubcaps, she manages to get into the house. With a sigh of relief, she sees Thomas relaxing on the couch.
"Thank God!" she gasps, placing the box of champagne on the table. "If you'd been out there too, I'd have given up and run away to Poets for the night, even if it meant sleeping with those damn nymphomaniacal dogs. What's that?"
Thomas hastily thrusts his hands behind his back. "Well-um- it was all so fascinating that I decided to have a go at changing the oil in the Rolls and I got a little dirty. I was just cleaning up a bit."
With a scream, penni lunges.
"Those were 100% silk and that was real Venetian lace!" she sobs, holding aloft the tattered, oily remains of her newest lingerie. Gazing out the window at the happy little horde of greasy men, and then back at Thomas , who is looking longingly at the door, she grabs a bottle from the box, rips the wire off with her teeth and pops the cork, mopping up the resulting fountain with the torn undergarments and taking a large swig from the bottle. She belches indelicately and hands the bottle over to Thomas, nodding toward the door. "Ok, TC, let's go check that carburetor."
Hell, if you can't lick `em.... |
