… the story of a girl without a clue
(photo from picturesofengland.com)
“You’re telling me,” Claire said.
Exec Prefecture watched her speak, then shook his head and looked out the leaded-glass windows of his family’s 37-room country château homestead bungalow, in Upper Really near the falls. He knew they had a common bond when he first saw Claire, sitting on a window stool at The Total Perk.
It was a Tuesday in early June. A slim, female-type member of the spec, she was eating a half-pound cranberry muffin, washed down with a 24-ounce Total La-Tay-Dah. Exec — pronounced “Ex-‘ek” like the abbreviation — had switched from half-pound cran-muffs just a month before, when Dr. Fensterdiggin’ told him he had the cholesterol of a sedentary 95-year-old living off of pork rinds and rum-spiked eggnog — “which is an Easter Clot Parade just a tad bit lacking in a storyline, for a boy of 25.”
“Whatever,” Exec replied, getting the Judy Garland ref and standing, about to turn and leave the doctor’s plush, book-lined mahogany forest of a study.
“Okay.” Doc continued. “Then I’d advise you to get your affairs in order, possibly within the next six months.”
“What affairs? I’m not seeing anyone?” Exec said defensively, forgetting for a moment that just because the doctor had his blood results, didn’t mean the corpuscles had necessarily given up his sex life.
CORPUSCLE OSCAR-EDGAR-BIG-BOY: Oh, man. I’ve been waiting to tell someone about this dog. Thanks for caring. For purely selfish reasons, the patient has created an extremely unhealthy work environment. So please — help us — FUCK-ING NOW!!!
CORPUSCLE BETTY-INGRID-PARTY-GIRL: Oh, go soak your lub-dub, FuckenDorker. Don’t listen to him, Doc. He’s such a pussy blood.
“Sorry,” Exec quickly added, realizing he was breaking trad. “You’re right. I’ll try to do, a better job — of watching what goes down the Pie-R-Squared hole.”
“Okay.” Doc smiled, then paused. “Going home, E.P.?”
“Funny. I’m in a different movie, Doc,” he said, turning to the door. “Though I do feel like a total alien most of the time.”
“Of course. Is it the money you have a problem with?”
He stopped at the doorway, turning back. “No. In America, money would make you feel like an alien only if you had none. As Great-Aunt Gerwig liked to say: “If you have it and could give a shit, then you’d just be an ineffectual, martyr without a cause.”
“Brando on a Harley,” Doc said, using movie ref’s as often as possible.
“James Dean’s sister, in the film about a sausage and a girl named Casing. You really don’t know shit, do you, Doc?” He then turned and continued through the doorway.
Claire Voyant, the only child of Celeste Bestgirl Ringle and Richard An’Hangron Voyant, could not believe — at the age of seven when she first understood the wordplay in her name — that anyone would name a kid like that.
“Maybe it was an ironic challenge,” Exec offered, standing by the windows of the family, country château bungalow above.
Claire walked up to the window to his left. “I love this view.”
In the distance a long wing of Canada Geese was flying a hundred feet above the trees on the far side of the apple trees planted 50 years ago by immigrants from Pennsylvania. “Yeah. Too bad it’s so polluted by the money.”
“Ironic challenge, how?” she asked.
“A challenge to your sense of irony. So that it would not just lie down, roll over and become a habit of perception that said ‘Oh, please scratch my tummy, great and pretty godly gods of the fantasy of a permanent and lasting arrangement of cause and effect.'”
She breath laughed. “Just don’t scratch, below a certain point.”
“Right. Like the great and pretty godly gods of the fantasy of a permanent and lasting arrangement of cause and effect, are really good at following instructions.”
She looked at him, then back out the window. “I can’t really remember, the last time my stomach wanted scratching.”
They were quiet for a few beats, before she added: “Above a certain point.”
20180721 12:37 Sat (710 words)
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