Locked Out

“Pretzel, Neeko?”

Neeko eyed the plastic wicker-look basket on the bar, full of nothing but miniature pretzels. “No ChexMix?”

“Nope.” Lamar smiled more with his eyes than his mouth, raised his chin a little toward the bartender who stepped to her left, reached under the counter and held up a small bag of miniature pretzels with a chip-clip on top. “Low sodium. She likes me, I can tell.”

“Like she likes her grampa. You always have been able to talk to women, Lamar, I’ll give you that. What’d you say?”

“She came down, stood right in front of me after you left last time. I was startin’ to get up, thought I’d mine the last of the pretzels from the ChexMix before I followed you out. She puts her hand with the towel in it on her hip, puts her other hand on top of mine, locks it in the bowl, cocks her head a little and says, ‘That’s not really playing fair. You know that, right?’ I was trying to dust off my talk to a strange woman chops when she smiled, like to have knocked me off the stool forty years ago. ‘You don’t like my ChexMix, or what? It insults a girl when you dis her snack baskets.’ And now it’s worse because she’s got a deep, movie star voice to go with the rest of her. So I say ‘It’s got nothing to do with you. You’re a lovely, attractive woman and I’m sure your heart is in the right place, but I’m a pretzel man, always have been. I’m not gonna sell-out now for a potpourri of crunch and flavor all goin’ off in my mouth.’”

“Jesus, Lamar. You can still spread more shit than a whole crew of landscapers. So that ‘lovely, attractive woman’ business netted you your own bag of pretzels?”

“Nope. She snort laughed some, said I must have been a real pain in ‘attractive women’s asses’ when I was young. She did that quotes thing with her fingers when she said ‘attractive women’s asses.’ I denied that and she called bullshit. Said she could see it in my eyes I was lyin’, so I told her that it never goes away, all that pretty girl shit. The only thing that happens is the box it’s in gets beat up like something fragile for your wife in a UPS truck at Christmas time. She laughed then, told me all she wanted last Christmas was one of those big-assed Vitamix blender things like the one here at work and she cussed a streak because it showed up in about forty pieces. See she free-lance bartends and caters some not-too-big weddings and graduations, business receptions. Charges a small fortune, and I can see people payin’ it because she wears a nice, tastefully sexed up evening gown and a push up bra, looks like a million bucks, and knows just what kind of music to have playin’ on this Bluetooth thing from her phone. Got a complete little set-up. Showed me the pictures, has a website and everything. She’s a single mom, her kids come along and help. That Vitamix and some more work blouses like she’s wearin’ is all she wanted for Christmas and had hell gettin’ either one.”

“She told you all this over a plastic basket with a disproportionate amount of missing pretzels?”

“She did.”

“She’s not old enough to have helpful sized kids, is she?”

“Thirty-one. Kids are fourteen and twelve. Boy and a girl. Got knocked up as a junior in high school. Boy’s parents were dicks about it, she said screw him, she shouldn’t have fallen for the tall, shallow blonde with sideburns thing in the first place and kept the baby. She had three sisters who didn’t shun her for having sex and they all pitched in and got her through high school. She got pregnant again first guy out of high school, married and divorced before the baby got there. Went histrionic for about six months then took the kids off to New Mexico, sat on a rock for almost a year while she worked at a hospital with free daycare and pulled her shit together. Been around some, no men because of the kids. Here she is.”

“You tell her your life story, too? I guess not, you’d have been here three days just for the Reader’s Digest version.”

“Nah. The funny thing is that all came out because of some sexist trash Fontaine and I threw back and forth about high school.”

“Not more Jaclyn Werther nonsense. Neither one of you went there unless going there was sacred and God froze your tongues after, because both of you jokers would have let that out.”

“No, none of that. Watch your bartender down there bend over.”

“Shit, Lamar, I’m too old for –”

“No, I don’t mean check for camel toe or groove on thoughts of her ass, watch her as a person, check out her clothes.”

Lamar watched Neeko get that serious look he got about everything when he thought it might be against some moral code while the bartender reached for glasses, bent over the ice bin, squatted, reached way over the bar to drop an extra cherry or olive or take a credit card handoff.

“So? Come on, Lamar, this has to do with Fontaine how?”

“Gettin’ there. Bend over, pull up your socks. Not like an old fart, Neeko, bend over, all the way.”

“Goddam, Lamar. Ow. What is this? Stupid stunt Tuesday?”

“Look at your shirt tail, brother.”

“Shit…I might need to unbuckle to fix this. Lamar, Jesus…”

Lamar drank some lemonade in his nonchalant way that always got to Neeko. “Hers didn’t do that. You missed it?”

“No, I didn’t know I what I was supposed to be looking for.”

“When you look at a woman, Neeko, you look at all of her. Taking nothing away from the memory of your late wife, but it’s no wonder you’re still single ten years on. I see your daughter at the bank all the time and she says you told her I was a player in the land that time forgot and she asked me would I please teach you some things sometime so you didn’t die droolin’, horny and alone. That was lesson one. Women are a whole thing. That’s how you talk to a woman, about all of her, you don’t just make some shit up and hope she buys in. We got to talkin’ because I asked her where she got locked out 2the body shirt. She gave me one of those ‘why was I looking so close’ looks like they get these days and asked how did I know. I said what was a real pain in the ass back then wasn’t me, it was going out with girls in those damn body shirts. I told her I thought they had to have been designed by some girl’s mother who was a ‘you’ll be a virgin till you’re out of my house’ Nazi.”

“How’d that go over, her getting pregnant in high school and all?”

“Didn’t know that yet. That’s when she said she wished they had them when she was in high school, she might be two kids lighter and a maybe psychologist, but that’s how it had played. That’s when her story started to come out. She said body shirts were hard as hell to find these days, mostly they were sexed up see-through things with matching underwear, useless as a steakhouse in a vegan commune to her right now, that she’d tried a couple of vintage ones from resale shops and the thought of where those snaps had been, well, she donated them all back. The other option was leotards but skin tight with her figure wasn’t where she was at. She found a specialty place online that had body shirts, kind of utilitarian looking, but they were okay. Notice she dolls them up with a scarf she stitches down. Thought she might find out where they were importing them from and design some for lady bartenders, casino dealers and other women who had to move when they worked. I told her like tuxedo shirts maybe, with those little skinny bow-ties gamblers always wore in westerns. She laughed and sketched a couple out on napkins. Place was dead, she was supposed to be restocking, but we talked about it for a while, let her work it out on me. That’s why the pretzels.”

“Fontaine was in this somewhere and now I’m lost thinking about body shirts and you shooting the shit with my bartender all afternoon about it, trying to get my head around how you watch women way beyond tits and ass which we all thought that’s what you were, you know, a tits and ass bullshit artist.”

Lamar smiled a little, kind of tight. “Fontaine writes to me about how we were back then. How the biggest problems we had were new-fangled front closure bras, stupid body shirts that snapped in you-know-where and zits. ‘Wash your face with shampoo’ he told me back then, I was on my own with the other two. I bought my girlfriend some matching sets of that sheer, stretchy lingerie that hooked in back and I wonder to this day what her mother thought ‘cause my wife would have lit up like downtown if she’d found that shit in my daughter’s laundry basket. Anyway, I didn’t encounter front closure until my wife. But that body shirt business? I promise you, those things cut me out of a lot of loose change because a girl could say ‘no,’ and you could try again, and no matter how hard you pulled all you were doing was giving her a front door wedgie and pissin’ her off because the shirt tail wasn’t coming out.” Lamar got a quick, faraway look and a grin like he’d just replayed that very scene on the big screen in his head, date complaint and all.

“So you know Fontaine, he’s like you, Neeko. Give him a puzzle, he has to work on it. We went back and forth with all these different scenarios, even found some old body shirts we sort of recognized on the internet. What we discovered, after a number of tries, was that there is no answer to the ultimate body shirt mystery. After all that obvious and impossible and what’s left over Sherlock Holmes junk and spreadsheets with countless possibilities, we had ourselves an unsolvable conundrum, and how all we could ever quantify was how much fun those damn things cost us.”

“Now I’m really lost.” Neeko had absent mindedly loosened his belt and was stuffing his shirt tail back in. “What’s the big damn mystery to body shirts?”

“Neeko, look here. You’re seventeen. Our bartender down there who is wondering why your pants are unzipped and who also has no real need for the push-up bra is seventeen, too, and she likes you. Not super likes you, but she’ll make out seriously with you, fog the windows. You roll up somewhere, maybe even the drive-in, you get friendly and she’s all about how nice you are to her twins, and you’d like to get to know them better. No buttons. Shirt tail isn’t giving it up. She likes you, you like her boobs, she’s willing to give you some northern exposure, but you’re not southern material, so how do you get to what you can get to if you can’t get to the lock that will let you in? You can’t. For as long as you’ve got that evenin’ you warm her up through the shirt, you can for sure tell how much better it would be without it and you are locked out like a dog that shit on the carpet. I hated those shirts.”

“This kind of thing keeps you and Fontaine up nights, doesn’t it?”

 

 

 

 

 

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Published by

Phil Huston

https://philh52.wordpress.com/

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