Monday, March 17, 2014

Fifty Shades of Satire (Chapter 6a)

Christian closes the passenger-side door to "the best damn Yugo money can buy."
     And what a magnificent beast it is! It has four tires, all black. The front windshield is transparent so you can see through it. It also has a rear-view mirror and two doors, with front seats that can be moved forward to allow access to the rear seat where he has me laying face-down with my wrists lovingly tied to my ankles behind my back, shaping me into a human triangle. My mouth is duct-taped "for safety."
     Is that Paul's muffled voice I hear coming from the trunk. No, that would be silly.
     The duct-tape eventually comes loose, another benefit of having an oily complexion, and I'm able to speak through it, half on and half off.
     "Nice song," I sputter through the tape as it playfully flutters in and out of my mouth like a lover. I'm rocking gently forward and backward with every press of the gas pedal or brake.
     "You like it?" Christian smiles, liking that I like it. "It's the band Southern Culture On The Skids." He thoughtfully checks on me in that conveniently located rear-view mirror I mentioned before. "Don't try to get up," he says. "We're still playing Don't-Let-The-Public-See-You-In-My-Car."
     I listen to the words of the song. They're like poetry. Poetry written just for me.
 
Well, she ain't good-looking
but I ain't that smart,
but that ol' woman
done stole my heart.
   
     Is he trying to send me a message?
 

Yes, we ain't got much,
but we got one another,
and when she pulls out them choppers,
she reminds me of mother.
 
     Uh... maybe not.
 
So put your teeth up on that window sill.
Tell the neighbors to let us be.
Oh, can't they see, that we're in love.
That we're in love.
 
     Dang that Christian Grey, I think to myself, only I don't think "dang." He drives me crazy constantly sending me these mixed signals.
     "Do you enjoy the classics?" he asks, interrupting my revery. Reverie. Um... thoughtful contemplation.
     "The classics?" The classics?
     "Yes, the classics."
     "I don't know," I admit, embarrassed by my lack of class and worldliness.
     "If you're good, I'll introduce you to a great singer I'll never forget. Johnny, no, make that Jimmy Soul. You should listen to 'Happy for The Rest Of Your Life'."
     "Really? Why?"
     "You just should."
     We're interrupted by the sound of his cell phone ringing through the car's speakers. He presses a button on the steering wheel, and a voice speaks. I guess when you're a billionaire your life is a constant stream of interrupting phone calls.
     "No, thank you," he tells the caller, "I'm quite happy with my cell phone service," and hangs up.
     He looks back at me apologetically.
     "I'm sorry," he says. "when you're a billionaire, your life is a constant stream of interrupting phone calls."
     He drives, and I'm just enjoying our opportunity for small talk.
     "Yes," he tells me, "it's a dog-eat-dog world, and I love the taste of dog. It's like the old saying: 'The enema of my enemy is my friend.' "
     "Enemy," I tell him.
     "What?"
     "The enemy of my enemy is my friend."
     He chuckles to himself, and lifts one sarcastic eyebrow in a John Belushi impersonation.
     "If you say so," he says. "If you say so."
     He grows quiet, thinking. What might be going through that beautiful head of his I'll never know.
     "So, you're telling me and everybody else who can read that you've never been kissed?" he says.
     "That's right," I tell him. "Never."
     "And no one's ever held your hand?"
     "Once, when I was a little girl, I tried to hold my mother's hand, but she wanted to wait until we got to know each other better."
     He's shaking his head. I look at my subconscious. She's shaking her head, too. No, wait. That's just an epileptic attack. My subconscious will do anything for a little bit of attention.
     What the heck... so will I.
     "Like George Washington, I cannot tell a lie... I'm a virginian."
     "WHAT THE ...!" Mr. Grey says, only he doesn't say "...!"
     He slams on the brake--hard! The car lurches to a stop. I jerk forward, bounce off the front seats, and land back in my original position.
     "You're a virginian?"
     "Yes," I admit, sheepishly. I've just learned, honesty is overrated.
     "You haven't done the oingo-boingo?"
     "No."
     "Made the beast-with-two-backs?"
     "No."
     "Been given the ol' slippity-slip?"
     "No."
     "Served anybody the poor-man's-caviar?"
     "No, no, No, NO, NO!"
     I'm on the verge of tears.
     Mr. Grey tries to stifle his laughter, but it comes out in a spray of spit and goobers.
     "Ana, sweet Ana," he comforts me. "I'm not laughing at you, I'm laughing with you. Okay, I am laughing at you, but I'm also laughing because it reminds me of something that happened when I was on Spring Break in Pensacola."
     "Florida?"
     "No, the soft drink. Anyway, as I was walking along the beach I came across a beautiful young girl, all alone, without even any arms or legs to keep her company."
     "She didn't have any arms or legs?"
     "That's correct. And the poor dear was crying. All by herself.
     " 'What's the matter, miss?' I asked her. 'Why are you crying?'
     "She sobbed even harder.
     " 'I'm crying because, since I have no arms or legs, I've never been hugged,' she told me.
     "So I kneeled close to her and hugged her tightly.
     " 'Now you've been hugged,' I told her.
     "But she was still crying.
     " 'Why are you still crying?' I asked her.
     " 'Because,' she said, 'since I don't have any arms or legs, I've never been kissed.'
     "So I scooped her up in my arms and gave her a long, lingering kiss.
     " 'Now you've been kissed," I told her.
     "But this only made her cry harder.
     " 'Jeez!' I said. 'Didn't I just hug you and kiss you? What is it now?'
     "Between sobs, she admitted her deepest, darkest secret.
     " 'Because I have no arms or legs, I've never been screwed.'
     "I'll always remember her blue, no, make that brown eyes. I was still holding her in my arms, so, in an act of compassion...  I threw her into the ocean!
     " 'Now you're screwed!' I called after her.
     "I like to think that, as she went under, she was grateful."
     His eyes grew distant, lost somewhere in his memories of the past, and again he grew quiet and thoughtful.
 
     He pulls up outside my duplex. And walks me to the front door. We make plans to go out later. And he leaves.
     I'm sure it's just by accident that he forgets to untie me.
 
 
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