c. 2024 Rod Ice
All rights reserved
(1-24)
Mitzi Fontaine had been bored in her marriage for several years. The sense of emotional abandonment she carried was like an albatross around her neck. Or perhaps, a scarlet letter that marked her, not as a breaker of marriage vows, but instead someone who had proved to be unworthy of love. A dangerous condition in their small circle of friends at Evergreen Estates. Her husband had little interest in their physical cohabitation. He was identified with the nickname of ‘Flabby’ by most residents. A balding, hulk of a man. He had a fetish for professional athletes and political icons that nearly bordered on homosexuality. Yet the sight of other, younger members of their rural community immediately revived his adventurous spirit. He would wolf-whistle and growl with obvious lust, when any of these curvaceous dames passed their trailer. Being ignored in the flesh made her drink incessantly. She often tipped glasses of Tito’s Handmade Vodka, and fruit juice, until oblivion took over.
When she would end up snoring on the couch, Phil never seemed to notice. Maybe he simply did not care if she shared his bed.
When the late days of January brought a welcome thaw in winter temperatures, she decided to take a walk up their street. Predictably, her spouse barely noticed when the front door had swung open. He was too busy sorting through baseball cards and assorted trinkets. The statuesque, middle-aged woman sheathed herself in a shiny running suit. With a bit of imagination, she guessed that the stretchy garment actually made her look appealing. Her hair was long and dyed blonde, and pulled back with a gold clasp. She strutted through lingering drifts of snow, while basking in the sun.
A few lots from the corner, Rand Reskewicz had opened his storage barn, and moved a lawn chair into place between the front doors. He felt invigorated by the gleam of solar rays, despite a thermometer on the interior wall indicating that its sealed course of mercury had only reached about 38 degrees. His mood was one of emotional restoration. It caused him to jones for a Camel cigarette, something he hadn’t enjoyed in decades. But instead of surrendering to that seedy temptation, he twisted off the cap of a Miller High Life, from the cooler by his seat. He tilted the bottle upward, with a cheer of victory over his seasonal confinement.
“Hot damn! This feels like a summer day, after sittin’ on my ass inside fer so long!”
He heard a pitter-patter of stylish, orange flats coming up the driveway. Then, a bubbly sound of feminine amusement tickled his ears.
“I see you wanted to be outside today, neighbor! That was my idea as well. I needed some fresh air for a change. Do you mind if I visit for a minute or two?”
The reclusive biker scanned his yard, and the street beyond.
“Y’all don’t have yer dude taggin’ along? I’ve never seen ya runnin’ solo before...”
Mitzi shook her head and giggled playfully.
“Nah, he’s at the kitchen table sorting through sports collectibles. Some guy on eBay offered him a trade. I decided to get away while things were starting to melt. He didn’t even look up from his ring binder of cards!”
Rand considered her tall, leggy frame for a moment. She was truly a ‘MILF’ in the modern vernacular. Pleasant and puffy in all the right places. Skilled with a saucepan, and a queen at making game-day nachos. But he stilled the rising pulse in his chest, with moralistic deference. He was an old-fashioned sort, a cowboy at heart. Staying away from devilish inducements kept him out of trouble. He liked remaining somewhat anonymous, and invisible.
“It ain’t warm enough to start a spring project just yet. But I reckoned that a couple of brews would hit the spot. Do ya like beer, Mrs. Fontaine?”
Mitzi shuddered and wrinkled her nose.
“I don’t know how you boys drink that piss! I need a sweeter flavor on my lips. Something like vodka and a mixer. Or on a good day, a kiss to show me that I’m still able to look attractive. Do you think I’m pretty, neighbor?”
The quiet loner stiffened and lowered his eyes.
“In a court of law, I’d plead the fifth on that one. It’s enough to say I keep my opinions where they belong. Undercover and out of sight. Hope ya enjoy yer walk, lady!”
The melancholy wife reddened with embarrassment. She was being given a polite brush-off. The feel of rejection had a sting of familiarity. Yet it hurt more coming from an impartial observer, away from her own prefabricated longbox.
“You sound like a ‘made man’ in the mob, being interrogated! What kind of answer is that, buddy? Tell me the truth, am I worth a second look? C’mon, don’t be so shy!”
She lunged forward unexpectedly, and caught him between the legs. A pinch of wandering fingers had him jumping to his feet, and spouting curses with disbelief.
“WHATDA HECK? Y’ALL MUST’VE BEEN DRINKIN’ TODAY I FIGURE! THAT’S NO SIN WITH THE SUN SHININ’ BRIGHT. BUT ANYTHING MORE IS A GAMBLE I WON’T ABIDE. YA DIG MY VIBE? I’M LONELY BY CHOICE, MA’AM. IT AIN’T AN ACCIDENT. IN THE MORNING, Y’ALL WILL BE HUNGOVER, AND COUNTING YER REGRETS. DON’T MAKE A MISTAKE THAT CAN’T BE ERASED. YER A GOOD WOMAN. FINISH YER HIKE AROUND THE PARK, AND GET ON HOME!”
Mitzi felt her throat tightening. She didn’t want to go back to that vinyl-sided jail. Or the overweight warden that called her his spouse. Yet the tide of alcoholic courage had run out at last. She relented and stepped backwards. Her female glow dimmed as a cloudy sky took hold, overhead.
“Damn you! You’re really a gentleman, after all! What kind of luck do I have, picking the last of those good men? I thought you had all disappeared into a world of online porn sites, and burner phones calling out tricks! You won’t take a squeeze on the sly? That doesn’t interest you in the least? Quit lying, asshole! There are no Boy Scouts left anymore. No true-blue heroes. No sons of John Wayne! No keepers of the faith!”
She had started to cry. Rand tossed the beer bottle aside, and took off his hat in an antiquated gesture of respect. He did not want to say too much.
“Maybe there ain’t many of us out there, but there’s still a few. That’s how I was raised. I hope y’all will understand. Have a good day, Mrs. Fontaine. I hope ya find peace...”
The walk home to her corner lot was a silent interlude. She had already begun to feel sober again. By now, her life partner would have passed out in a food coma, on the couch. She had left a full plate of spaghetti with meat sauce, in the refrigerator. Irony lingered in the air, like errant flakes of snow. The one she respected was at his barn, up the street. And the one she loathed, the one wearing a wedding band, was likely to be burping up macro swill and pasta, on their davenport.
She couldn’t help wishing that those fates had been reversed.
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