MELLOWDRAMA IN PHOENIX
by
S. Pound
Kate Stewart’s love life was torpid at best.
She was an innocent enough girl, with wide Gidget-eyes and a melodic
sway in her voice, but she had problems. Boy, did she have problems.
When I first saw Kate, she was sweating heavily
from the hundred-yard sprint, a b-line from her car to our modest
folding table. It didn’t bother me that she was wearing a
bikini (typical garb for Phoenix), or that she was physically flawless,
or that she was flanked by two cheerleader friends. She had tears
streaming down her face, and I was immediately moved with concern.
I threw her poor, hairy companions aside to make room for her.
“Make way, let this girl breathe,” I said,
pushing her friends aside. Did I mention they were hairy? One of
them had a happy trail, I swear. It was so thick, I could see clumps
of hair pushing out against her shirt. Kate wasn’t hairy, but she
was sweaty.
Although we had never met before, Kate knew
I was the kind of person that could read a relationship crisis like
a Danielle Steele plot line--in just a surface glance.
“I-I-Evan-and” Kate began, her words breaking
apart with sobs. “Evan-- likes Rachel’s-- t-shirts-- A lot—I-- think
he might like her t-shirts-- more than mine!”
Ah, t-shirts, I thought. I knew this Evan kid
already. I put my finger over her lips, hushing the words she didn’t
need to say: Evan was undoubtedly a prostitute, a boy-for-hire,
probably the hottest bargain in Tempe. Any explanation would’ve
been too severe a violation of Kate’s delicate constitution. I had
to act fast.
I lifted Kate’s quivering, sweaty body to a
nearby portico and sponge-dried her until she managed to stop
crying. Here’s a girl, I thought, a brave girl, her heart entwined
with a gigolo’s, and she’s lost and confused. Before week’s end,
she would probably be selling crack to the Goths on Mill and pimping
Evan for a few lousy bucks on the side.
Fortunately, I had just the cure.
It isn’t everyday I give away a magic t-shirt.
Kate was in a hopeless situation, and it was the only course of
action I knew to take. Also, it was all I had, and there were a
few extras anyway.
The moment Kate put it on, a dove descended
on her shoulder. Or maybe it was a pigeon roosting. Either way,
it was an omen indicating the the remainder of her days would be
lived out in bliss, or something like bliss but a little more ordinary.
The rest of the trip went nicely, with visits
from the rap group Creative Mischief, drag queen Josh Meindertsma,
theologian/ASE certified mechanic Jose Gonzalez, Carcass the Eagle
Scout, and other very good people. They paid dearly for their t-shirts,
but nowhere near the history of suffering Kate endured for hers.
The picture above is of Rachel,
a girl much-admired by male prostitutes the world over.
