TWINKIE By: Amy Corbin
Thursday, May 21st, 2009“What makes you think I want a gin and tonic?” I asked. I always drank gin and tonic I was just trying to be funny.
“What makes you think I care if you drink it?” she said sarcastically.
Everyone at the bar laughed. She thought she was so clever. I should have thrown it right in her plastic-looking face. I never think of these things until later.
She thought she was so cute with her mini-skirts and bleached blonde hair. Her cold eyes and cynical comments made me ill. I don’t care that her body made my mind think illicit thoughts or that her voice had that raspy sound I found irresistible. Her inner person was repulsive; I knew this, even if those other idiots around the bar didn’t.
When Bob came to pick her up she always sat with him and had a drink before they left. She was constantly all over him. That sort of effusive behavior made my stomach turn. It was obviously a show. Michelle wouldn’t even be with that loser if he didn’t have cash. I didn’t make a lot of money at the nursing home, but there was dignity in caring for the elderly. I had chosen not to sell myself for a job I didn’t believe in. Unlike Bob, who’d sell his own mother for the right price. Plastic-girl and phony-boy deserved each other.
She smeared on lipstick like she was the Queen of Maybelline, yet her mouth continued to spit out scorn. No amount of makeup could cover up her wickedness. When I asked her out it was as a friend. She should not have laughed. I heard her talking about me to the waitresses.
“No wonder his wife left him.”
“He’s such a pathetic loser.”
Karen did not want to leave. She had to. I told her to stop dressing like that; there was no need for her to expose her cleavage at work. And then there was the clown’s makeup she insisted on wearing—I found it in her purse even though she told me she’d thrown it all out. She should not have lied. It was the last straw when I heard her cackling on the phone to her work friend, Rob. I told her Rob wasn’t her friend. I told her what Rob really wanted.
“Rob’s not like that,” she’d said.
She was so naïve. Karen did have a kind heart though. Not like Michelle. Michelle was the worst kind of woman—all Twinkie on the outside, but on the inside instead of white fluffy cream she was filled with hard crust.
It was a cold night and I was surprised Bob didn’t pick her up. Maybe they were in a fight. I should’ve let her freeze out there waiting to hail a taxi. What kind of idiot wears a short skirt and high heels in February?
“Do you want a ride?” I asked.
“Uh, yeah okay.”
Was she actually thinking about it? Did she think she was too good for my car? I should’ve sped away, and let my tires spray her with slushy snow and muck up her sleazy fishnet stockings. Why did she always have to dress like that? She was a bartender, but she dressed like a cheap hooker on the streets. She didn’t deserve my hospitality. She stared out the passenger window the whole ride answering my questions with one word replies.
“Do you wanna come in for a drink?” she asked.
“Yeah. Sure.”
This was the first time I’d been inside her home as an invited guest. It felt different. The last time I was here I put on her thong panties and used her eyeliner to make cat’s eyes on myself. It made me feel seedy and sordid. Why did she insist on being this way? Men just wanted to sleep with her, they didn’t care about her.
The date was going well. She poured me a glass of red wine and sat across from me in the living room. I could tell that without all the other losers around she was finally seeing the real me. I told her I was writing a novel and she told me she was impressed with my dedication. But then just like that she flip-flopped.
“It’s been a long night. I’m really whipped,” she said.
What a load of crap. I knew she never went to bed when she got home from work. She always watched T.V. for at least an hour and then read in her bed for a while. She should not have lied.
“Oh, I guess I should leave, let you get your beauty rest. Not that you need it.”
“Thanks. And thanks for the ride.”
She could not have shoved me out the door any quicker. When I threw the rock at her basement window it wasn’t to be a vandal. I can’t stand senseless acts of destruction. I did it to give her a scare. She needed to stop feeling so superior. No person is better than another.
After she went into the cellar I let myself in through the back window. Bob should’ve fixed the broken latch. If I were her boyfriend I would’ve repaired it by now. He never worried about her like I did.
When she saw me she was happy to see me.
“Oh…um…I ‘m so glad you came back,” she said.
But then I saw her red-nail-polished hands shaking. I was sick of her pretending. I took the baby oil and washcloth out of my gym bag.
“Sit still,” I said. “I told you not to wear all this makeup.”
I needed to see her real face. She kept crying and saying sorry. There was no more mockery coming from her fake-red-lips. I couldn’t stand the bawling any longer.
“Shut up, Karen.” I screamed. “Shut up.”
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©2009 Amy Corbin
