I’VE GOT A BOTTLE of Mexican diet pills shaped like pink hearts gripped firmly in my right hand, quivering, like I was jerking off and…I guess I am really.
There must be a hundred of these little heart shaped pills picked up by my flaxen haired roommate from one of the most “reputable” pharmaceutical storefronts down Tijuana way. She told me I could take a pill or two whenever I wanted and since I’m always home many hours before she gets off swing shift at the Olive Garden, I don’t see anything wrong with several consecutive whenevers. I swallow three; take a swig of Jolt cola…and decide another two is what’s needed to get things just right. Another Jolt chaser and I light a clove cigarette and lean back trying to look innocuous in the front seat of my innocuous Nissan Sentra from my innocuous parking stall, staring innocuously into the storefront of the Al Phillips Dry Cleaners, only all too conspicuous in my innocuousness.
Oh, that’s her for sure at the window. There’s no mistaking the freckles, the all-American girl next door pony tail. Kimberly Drummond, the sweet little silver spoon girl from the hit NBC sitcom “Diff’rent Strokes”: convicted of robbing a Captain Video franchise with a BB gun six months ago. But I fell in love with her years before all that; endless masturbatory sessions in my poor unsuspecting grandmother’s outhouse shitter with the image of her bobbing red hair driving the whole sordid spectacle.
It’s not like I don’t have business on this side of town. My theatrical agent on a shoestring budget got me an audition down the street forty five minutes from now and I have uniforms that need to be pressed and creased. It’s not easy holding down a bohemian lifestyle while trying to pass as a government employee.
The tell tale heartbeat and adrenal flow begin their all too familiar buildup from my toenails all the way up until they hit the top of my teeth which then begin sliding across the surface of my bottom teeth with a grinding vigor known by a long standing tradition of Hell’s Angels and many a pathetic alienated man since the advent of the industrial age.
Am I proud?
I feel dirty
Would I rather be doing anything else?
I’d found out she works at this particular Al Phillips Dry Cleaners when a co-worker told me that washed up druggie actress they busted for armed robbery a few months ago pressed his uniforms.
I hold my uniforms under my left arm, the clove in my right as I make my way through the front door.
How to break the ice? “Hey, I’m an actor too.”
Dana doesn’t work the counter though. I’m stuck with the frump woman who in turn looks longingly at the broken slot machines being serviced by a tech guy wearing a baseball cap on the far side of the waiting room.
Girls, Guns & Hot Rods:
by Jami Beck
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