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Message-ID: <53736asstr$1146327002@assm.asstr-mirror.org>
From: PleaseCain@aol.com
Subject: {ASSM} [deirdre Fest] Type by PleaseCain (2 of 2) (ff humil -- deirdre style)
Lines: 271
Date: Sat, 29 Apr 2006 12:10:02 -0400
Path: assm.asstr-mirror.org!not-for-mail
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Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.moderated,alt.sex.stories
Followup-To: alt.sex.stories.d


A tribute to a great writer, DEIRDRE, who penned scores of queer, suspenseful 
and beautiful stories, and in 1995 vanished, leaving inspired dozens of 
writers like me: members.aol.com/deirARCHIV

MATURE MATERIAL, NOT FOR MINORS.

Copyright 2006 pleasecain@aol.com.


Type (part 2 of 2) 
by PleaseCain@aol.com



(Continued from part 1)

I was so excited that I could just erupt and melt underneath the smock.

"You OK, sweetie?" Venus said.  She was the stylist.

Could she tell?  Was I shaking?

I nodded.

"Almost there," she said.

I nodded again.

What was I to make of a girl named Venus?  Big nails, big hair, a little 
rough but well-meaning.

Wait till Dee Dee sees this.  I imagined the look on her face.

Wait till LaMere's bunch sees this.  Will they bristle with admiration?  Even 
envy?

Wait till I see this!

"All right, beautiful."  Venus unfurled the frock as if from a sculpture.  
"Say hello."

She offered a hand mirror.

My heart quivered.

I took it.

I . . . I didn't know what to think.

It was a medium-length razor cut, with choppy layers that she had curled 
under.  It looked . . . sexy.  And it was on my head.  

Blond!  Me?

There were murmurs.  I swallowed hard. 

I looked up.

They turned in their chairs.  Looking at me.  My gaze swept over the faces.

They were smiling.  Tilting their heads with something like adoration.  A few 
of them clapped.

Oh, I don't think I had ever been as embarrassed.  I felt my skin flushing 
hot.

I was beaming.

Venus squeezed my shoulders.

I hurried out the salon to my car.

At the boutique, I made straight for the swimsuits.  

I slapped the yellow string bikini on the sales counter.

By the time I left, I had a pair of high-heeled sandals to match.

On the way home, I took a detour.  Only to see if Dee Dee was home.  I 
couldn't wait to see her reaction.  And to give her the gift I made.

It lay on the seat next to me, tied in its box with a string, like a cake 
from the bakery.  It was weighty, substantial, like my heart felt at the moment.  
What was inside the box belonged to Dee Dee; no one else knew about it, or 
ever would.  I ran my palm over it as I turned into her subdivision.

But as far away as the stop sign, I could tell something was amiss.  The 
Mustard Jar was parked in the street.  

Dee Dee never parks the Mustard Jar in the street.

I neared, and saw the reason why.

A moving truck sat backwards in the drive.  Movers in white coveralls 
scurried around it like bees.  

Dee Dee stood nearby, hair-up, in shorts and a T-shirt.  Wringing her hands, 
pacing, directing, cajoling.  Until she saw me parked across the street, and 
she crossed the lawn.

I stepped from the car, but no closer.  "What is this?"

"Look at you!"  She covered her mouth and hopped over.  "That is *so* cute."

"What is this?"  I jerked away.

"Scott got a transfer.  It's immediate, to Baghdad."  She turned down her 
eyes.  "I was by your house earlier to tell you."

"I thought we already took over that country."  I planted my hands on my 
hips.  

"It's an inspection job.  So there won't be another war."  Her voice was 
gentle and pleading.  "It's what he does."

What he does!  What was I going to do with her?

"But aren't we invited to Patricia LaMere's?"

For once, Dee Dee was at a loss for words.  She took me in her arms and that 
did it: I broke down crying on her shoulder.  She stroked my new hair, which I 
hated now.

She helped me into the car.  "You all right to drive?"

I nodded.

She shut the door.  Through the window she smiled and snapped a goodbye 
version of her Puerto Rican girl.

I snapped back, and pulled away.

My eyes filled before I reached the stop sign.  I let the other cars go, so I 
could find a tissue.

I turned onto the main street.  The Mustard Jar vanished from my mirror.

I drove and drove.  My chest felt empty, but I couldn't go home.  Not with 
that thing beside me.

Past the mills.  Past the gorge.

On the bridge, I parked.  There was nowhere to pull over.  I waited for the 
cars to pass, honking, then I flung open the door.  I had to do this, fast.

I stumbled, then kicked off my new heels.  Instantly they were smashed by 
traffic in the other lane.  Rolling down the road beneath the speeding tires.

I clambered to the side of the bridge.  Crawled up the great iron beams.  
When I was atop them, I looked down.  There it was, the river.

Cars were stopping behind me.  I didn't care.  

I stood.

I lifted the box.  Holding the end of its string, I let it go.

It twisted as the string unraveled.  The bottom fell out.  Then the white 
fluttering.  A few pages, floating.  Then dozens and scores more.  Hundreds of 
pages, like a flutter of awakened moths, their failing wings etched with my 
written words, each one of my stories, falling to the earth.  

They landed on the murky waters 200 feet below.  Collecting on the grime, 
churning under and bubbling forth and splattering on the small dam.  Some 
fighting and swirling circles in the gurgling brown whirlpools.  Some shredding and 
shooting through to the standing sludge on the other side.  

All one with the filth below.


 * * *

It was almost one in the afternoon.  It must have been another bright day out 
there, judging by the light around the blinds.

I slept too much.  The Zoloft does that.  Not that I had to be anywhere, with 
the kids away to college.  I couldn't think of stories anymore.

I rubbed my eyes and trudged to the shower.

For once, I felt hungry, but didn't feel like preparing anything.  I stepped 
over the mess to my closet.  When I found something decent to slip on, I 
scrunched what was left of my layers and got in the car.

I sat at the outdoor bistro, but nothing appealed.  I left after a club soda.

I drove aimlessly, turning here and there.  I noticed no street signs, no 
landmarks.  I simply drove.

The afternoon sun glared in my eyes.  I turned out of it, onto a side street. 
 I flipped up the sun visor, and there I saw it.

The LaMere mansion.

I don't know what possessed me, because normally I'd hesitate, but it seemed 
fortuitous to happen upon the mansion like that, and I drove right up, past a 
couple of parked limousines.  I parked right in front.  I fished through the 
wrappers in my purse for lipstick, checked in the mirror and took a deep 
breath.

I had to ring twice at the large door.  I'd decided against a third time, and 
turned to leave.

The door opened behind me.  I spun.

"I'm Audra.  My name is Audra Hall.  I visited a while back, recently.  For 
the candle party.  With a Ms. Ritter?  Dee Dee?"  

The Middle Eastern man only stared.

"Ms. LaMere invited me.  Not today, I mean, but a few months ago.  Although 
at the grocery store--"

The door opened further.  It was Patricia!

"Oh look."  She stood one foot forward while eyeing me up and down, looking 
all of a model even when answering the door.

"Patricia.  Ms. LaMere, you remember me, don't you?  At the candle party.  
And last--"

"Tricia."  She took my hand.  "We've been waiting for you."

"Really?"  I smiled my vindication at the man.

We passed through the airy rooms.  Drawing nearer the patio door, I saw her 
glamorous friends reclining around the magnificent pool.  I hadn't meant to 
interrupt a function, and wanted to apologize.  But Tricia led me so easily and 
readily, like, yes, they had been expecting me!

We stepped into the sunshine and Tricia announced in a monotone, "Look."

None of them stood or removed their sunglasses, but turned for a few moments 
in my direction.  I smiled all around while Tricia stretched in her chair.

I stood at her side, craning to talk to her.  Her nose twitched when I 
stepped on her shoes.

"I really didn't know you were hosting a function.  But thank you for having 
me.  I had such a good time . . ."

She tugged the strings of her peppermint-striped bikini bottoms and tossed 
them over her feet to the patio.  She held out her hand.  "Come, darling."

She guided me to kneel at her feet.  Then she lay back and spread her long 
slender legs.

I gaped, motionless.  She reeled me in.

Just before, I glanced over my shoulder.  Going around the pool, varicolored 
bikini bottoms floated to the patio, and beautiful legs opened like spring 
flowers. 

I leaned forward, wondering if I'd ever type again.



End

pleasecain@aol.com
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