(Reprinted from Short Street, Zumaya Publications, 2004)
There is a certain illusion about open doors; they don’t stay open for very long. Often they are spring-loaded, forcing you to hustle outside without thought as you see the opening and have to race through it before it slams shut.
When I was a child I ran through a glass slider. It had every appearance of being open, but it hurt more than anything I’d ever experienced and left me scarred forever. Relationships are like that.
At age twenty-one Shelly Rouse changed her name to Shelly Real, and she danced and she danced and she danced. Punk Rock. She was one that liked to hook the musicians, getting as many as she could. She would sleep with them and come back for more. Once she was cutting the hair of Benny Guerrero, a guitar player. Benny was drunk and wanted her to cut his hair “like a Converse hightop.” Benny passed out halfway through and received a lousy haircut—half-shaved and half-mangy.
Shelly’s best friend Betty Blister developed cancer six months ago. She had to barrette her hair across the top of her head to cover some of the bald areas. Even if punk was in its heyday, the chemo-look was not punk. It was the sad reminder of someone barely hanging on to life.
When Betty died, Shelly became despondent. Despondent and desperate for men, and for alcohol. Benny appeared one night on her doorstep, intoxicated and pretending to jerk off on a bottle of Rolling Rock. She invited him inside, needing the company, ignoring the humiliation. She knew it was all she could get, but it would make her feel better, if only temporarily.
Goddamn slut! she thought.
As it turned out, he was too drunk to be of any use for her.
* * *
Shelly Real was becoming known, whether she liked it or not. She would dance in front of the bands, fishing for musicians, as they rolled their eyes about her. If their prospects for the evening disappeared, she would still be available as an option.
Benny called her one evening.
“I think I have the clams,” he said.
“The what?”
“The clams…the clams…I’m itching all over.”
“You have the crabs?”
“Yes, that’s what I said.”
Shelly immediately felt the need to itch. She pulled up her sleeves and combed through the hair under her arms with her fingers until she found one of the rascally bastards.
“You dickhead! There’s one on me.”
“If there’s one there’re more.”
She felt her pubic hair moving around. “What the hell do I do?” she yelled.
“Let me come over and Qwell you.”
“What?”
“Qwell…Qwell—the shampoo. It has a little comb.”
“I can imagine.”
“I’ll Qwell you and help you wash all of your bedding and your clothes.”
“I’ll fucking do it myself.”
“Well, I just wanted to tell you about the clams.”
“Crabs! You have crabs not clams, asshole!” She hung up, packed all her clothes in six garbage bags and ran to Harvey’s Drug Store on Main Street. There were two types of pubic lice shampoo in stock, Qwell and Rid. She picked the Rid along with a package of disposable razors and shave cream. Fuck Benny.
Next stop was the coin laundry, and she filled six washers. She drove home to shave her arms and legs. To make things easier in the de-crabbing project, she shaved her pubes, too. It’s going to itch when it grows back; but what the hell, it itches anyway.
Shelly generously applied Rid to the affected areas. She continued reading the instructions on the bottle. ALLOW PRODUCT TO REMAIN ON AREA FOR TEN MINUTES, NO LONGER. She was starting to feel grossed out.
“Goddamn it! What am I going to do about my clothes!” She called Benny. “Dude! You need to pick up my clothes at the laundromat!”
“Why can’t you get them? I’m pretty wasted.”
“I’m covered in Rid.”
“I told you to buy Qwell.”
“Look, I don’t want to leave the house right now, and you’re the one that gave these critters to me.”
“Where are your clothes?”
“They’re at the place near Harvey’s. Stuff’s in six washers next to each other. All my sheets and shit are in it. Toss it all in the dryer and get it here!”
“That’s going to be expensive.”
“Just do it!”
“Will you pay me back?”
“Goodbye!”
* * *
Benny brought a quart of Colt 45 into the laundry. The first machine he opened had blue sheets in it. He removed these and some other clothes and threw them into an available dryer. Man, she has a lot of boyfriends, he thought as he tossed some men’s boxers, pants and shirts in.
Benny picked up a News-Journal, reading it all the way through before finishing his malt liquor. He stared into one of the dryers, mesmerized by a spinning sock as it floated weightless in the center. This is better than TV. All I need is a remote.
When the buzzer sounded on the first dryer he started emptying and folding Shelly’s finished laundry. He got a little more than halfway through the first load when two of the other dryers started going off. Benny stopped folding and threw the clothes, some of them damp, into the garbage bags. Shelly is going to have to deal with this herself. I’m not a maid service for all her men.
He filled his mouth with Colt 45, some of it dripping down his chin and onto the clothes. I christen you in the name of Budweiser, the suds, and The Holy Grail, he laughed to himself.
He carried the bags out over his shoulder one-by-one, tossing them into the trunk of his Dodge Dart. The Slant-6 engine turned over immediately, and he cruised up Main Street to Route 273, turning right into Fox Trot Apartments.
“You shithead! This stuff is wet!” Shelly yelled as she dumped the first bag on the floor. Her breasts were hanging out of her robe. “These are not my sheets!”
“You smell like petroleum,” he said.
“And whose shirt is this? This is one of yours?”
“No, I emptied the six washers like you said. I thought it was your stuff.”
“Well, you got some of my stuff and some of someone else’s. You’re fucking useless.”
“You get what you pay for.”
“The only thing I get is the clams!” She put on the first dry item she touched, a man’s button-down shirt, and headed back to the laundry. She found a parking space as well as the rest of her clothes. They were still in two of the washers; and she piled—or rather, threw—them on one of the laundry tables.
A man stood across from her, folding his clothing, placing them into a duffel bag. He suddenly stopped.
“Excuse me, I believe you have the wrong laundry.”
“No, this time it’s right. Benny is such an idiot.”
“I don’t think—”
“I do! What an ass he is.”
“But you’re wearing one of my shirts.”
Shelly looked down, embarrassed. “Jesus, I’m having a bad day. I guess it’s your stuff that’s at my house, then,” she said. “Can you wait twenty minutes for your shirt, until I dry something?”
“Well, I’m all finished. Can I come by later to pick everything up?”
“Sure, I live at Fox Trot Apartments, number 303.”
“Okay.”
“My name is Shelly, by the way.”
“Ted,” he replied. “Will your boyfriend Benny be—”
“He’s not my boyfriend. He’s just some jerk.”
“Even better. Will you be home at eight?”
“Sure.”
“See you then.”
Ted threw the duffel bag over his shoulder and left with a grin.
Shelly raced home to clean. She needed to pick up debris, which was scattered everywhere, so she could vacuum. She wanted to fold, maybe press Ted’s clothes, to iron them dry.
The very first thing she had to do was to throw out the bottle of Rid sitting on the bathroom counter. If I fly I’ll have time for a shower before Ted arrives. She was mentally preparing herself as if it were a real date.
She threw open the door and found Benny standing there in Ted’s button-down shirt and boxer shorts.
“This guy has some pretty nice things,” he said.
“Get out, asshole!” she yelled at him.
“I’m not finished trying on this stuff.” Ted’s clothes were strewn in a small pile on the living room floor.
“Take it off. Take all those things off.”
“I love a domineering woman…why?”
“He’s coming here. The owner…”
“Of these clothes? How did he find out?”
“He was at the laundromat, and I was wearing his shirt. You will not be wearing his stuff when he comes over. You won’t even be here, right?”
“Okay, okay, seńorita. Jesus.” Benny unbuttoned and peeled back the Arrow shirt.
“And you are clean, right?” she asked.
“Huh?”
“Rid of the crabs.”
“Don’t worry, I Qwelled those clams.”
“Good.” Shelly pushed him toward the door by the small of his back.
“Hang on, I’m not dressed yet.”
“Never bothered the neighbors before,” she said as she pushed harder. “One more thing. Don’t call me!”
She shut the door.
* * *
At 7:50 the door buzzer sounded.
“Just a minute,” Shelly called into the intercom as she slipped a pair of black stretch pants over her hips. She pressed the button, unlocking the foyer door and smoothed the front of her shirt with her hand, waiting for him to walk upstairs. She opened the door before he could knock.
“Your things are ready,” she said, pointing to the kitchen table at a neatly folded and ironed pile.
“Wow, you shouldn’t have done all that. I’m impressed,” he said.
“I’m just trying to make up for our little accident.”
“Well, that was very nice of you.”
“It wasn’t anything, really.”
“It—”
“Do you want a drink or something?”
“I should be heading home. I have to work early tomorrow.”
“Do you have someone…?”
“No, I live by myself. I appreciate the offer. Can we do it some other time? Maybe later this week?”
“Sure, I have no plans this week.”
“Give me your number.”
* * *
Shelly hurried into the back bedroom, where every item of clothing and all of her linen filled the floor space. It also covered her mattress, the top of her bureau and the nightstand.
“Shit,” she said, almost tripping as she scurried around, looking for a scrap of paper. She quickly wrote her number and scrambled back into the living room. “Here.”
“I’ll call you,” he said.
“I’ve heard that before” was the first thing that came to mind and spat out of her mouth.
Later, in the middle of the night, the phone rang. It was Benny.
“Do you want to go to a party?”
“I was hoping it wasn’t you,” she groaned. “Whose house?”
“Tommy’s. There’s a band there and a bunch of kegs.”
“Sorry. I meant I was hoping you were someone else.”
“I’ll be by to pick you up in five minutes.”
“I’m still asleep. I’m lying on a pile of clothes. Give me twenty.”
“Okay.”
“I don’t want to be out too late. I want to do some shopping for new clothes tomorrow.”
“I’ll bring you back before you turn into a pumpkin.”
“That’s what I’m trying to avoid. I’m trying for a new me.”
“Good. Is that guy still there?”
“No! Urrrgh. Just shut up and get here!”
“Adios, chica.”
Shelly got up, trying to clear the cobwebs. She wanted to rid herself of herself and begin living a moral, upstanding life. No more drinking, drugging, sucking and fucking.
She reached back into the perfect world of her mind. There would be plenty of wining and dining, dancing and movies. There was a house with ivy and a flower garden. Ironing and housecleaning were in, experimental relationships and casual sex were out.
Normalcy was beginning to set in when Benny rang the lobby buzzer. It would have to begin tomorrow.
There is a certain illusion about open doors; they don’t stay open for very long. Often they are spring-loaded, forcing you to hustle outside without thought as you see the opening and have to race through it before it slams shut.
When I was a child I ran through a glass slider. It had every appearance of being open, but it hurt more than anything I’d ever experienced and left me scarred forever. Relationships are like that.
—Shelly Real, 1981
At age twenty-one Shelly Rouse changed her name to Shelly Real, and she danced and she danced and she danced. Punk Rock. She was one that liked to hook the musicians, getting as many as she could. She would sleep with them and come back for more. Once she was cutting the hair of Benny Guerrero, a guitar player. Benny was drunk and wanted her to cut his hair “like a Converse hightop.” Benny passed out halfway through and received a lousy haircut—half-shaved and half-mangy.
Shelly’s best friend Betty Blister developed cancer six months ago. She had to barrette her hair across the top of her head to cover some of the bald areas. Even if punk was in its heyday, the chemo-look was not punk. It was the sad reminder of someone barely hanging on to life.
When Betty died, Shelly became despondent. Despondent and desperate for men, and for alcohol. Benny appeared one night on her doorstep, intoxicated and pretending to jerk off on a bottle of Rolling Rock. She invited him inside, needing the company, ignoring the humiliation. She knew it was all she could get, but it would make her feel better, if only temporarily.
Goddamn slut! she thought.
As it turned out, he was too drunk to be of any use for her.
* * *
Shelly Real was becoming known, whether she liked it or not. She would dance in front of the bands, fishing for musicians, as they rolled their eyes about her. If their prospects for the evening disappeared, she would still be available as an option.
Benny called her one evening.
“I think I have the clams,” he said.
“The what?”
“The clams…the clams…I’m itching all over.”
“You have the crabs?”
“Yes, that’s what I said.”
Shelly immediately felt the need to itch. She pulled up her sleeves and combed through the hair under her arms with her fingers until she found one of the rascally bastards.
“You dickhead! There’s one on me.”
“If there’s one there’re more.”
She felt her pubic hair moving around. “What the hell do I do?” she yelled.
“Let me come over and Qwell you.”
“What?”
“Qwell…Qwell—the shampoo. It has a little comb.”
“I can imagine.”
“I’ll Qwell you and help you wash all of your bedding and your clothes.”
“I’ll fucking do it myself.”
“Well, I just wanted to tell you about the clams.”
“Crabs! You have crabs not clams, asshole!” She hung up, packed all her clothes in six garbage bags and ran to Harvey’s Drug Store on Main Street. There were two types of pubic lice shampoo in stock, Qwell and Rid. She picked the Rid along with a package of disposable razors and shave cream. Fuck Benny.
Next stop was the coin laundry, and she filled six washers. She drove home to shave her arms and legs. To make things easier in the de-crabbing project, she shaved her pubes, too. It’s going to itch when it grows back; but what the hell, it itches anyway.
Shelly generously applied Rid to the affected areas. She continued reading the instructions on the bottle. ALLOW PRODUCT TO REMAIN ON AREA FOR TEN MINUTES, NO LONGER. She was starting to feel grossed out.
“Goddamn it! What am I going to do about my clothes!” She called Benny. “Dude! You need to pick up my clothes at the laundromat!”
“Why can’t you get them? I’m pretty wasted.”
“I’m covered in Rid.”
“I told you to buy Qwell.”
“Look, I don’t want to leave the house right now, and you’re the one that gave these critters to me.”
“Where are your clothes?”
“They’re at the place near Harvey’s. Stuff’s in six washers next to each other. All my sheets and shit are in it. Toss it all in the dryer and get it here!”
“That’s going to be expensive.”
“Just do it!”
“Will you pay me back?”
“Goodbye!”
* * *
Benny brought a quart of Colt 45 into the laundry. The first machine he opened had blue sheets in it. He removed these and some other clothes and threw them into an available dryer. Man, she has a lot of boyfriends, he thought as he tossed some men’s boxers, pants and shirts in.
Benny picked up a News-Journal, reading it all the way through before finishing his malt liquor. He stared into one of the dryers, mesmerized by a spinning sock as it floated weightless in the center. This is better than TV. All I need is a remote.
When the buzzer sounded on the first dryer he started emptying and folding Shelly’s finished laundry. He got a little more than halfway through the first load when two of the other dryers started going off. Benny stopped folding and threw the clothes, some of them damp, into the garbage bags. Shelly is going to have to deal with this herself. I’m not a maid service for all her men.
He filled his mouth with Colt 45, some of it dripping down his chin and onto the clothes. I christen you in the name of Budweiser, the suds, and The Holy Grail, he laughed to himself.
He carried the bags out over his shoulder one-by-one, tossing them into the trunk of his Dodge Dart. The Slant-6 engine turned over immediately, and he cruised up Main Street to Route 273, turning right into Fox Trot Apartments.
“You shithead! This stuff is wet!” Shelly yelled as she dumped the first bag on the floor. Her breasts were hanging out of her robe. “These are not my sheets!”
“You smell like petroleum,” he said.
“And whose shirt is this? This is one of yours?”
“No, I emptied the six washers like you said. I thought it was your stuff.”
“Well, you got some of my stuff and some of someone else’s. You’re fucking useless.”
“You get what you pay for.”
“The only thing I get is the clams!” She put on the first dry item she touched, a man’s button-down shirt, and headed back to the laundry. She found a parking space as well as the rest of her clothes. They were still in two of the washers; and she piled—or rather, threw—them on one of the laundry tables.
A man stood across from her, folding his clothing, placing them into a duffel bag. He suddenly stopped.
“Excuse me, I believe you have the wrong laundry.”
“No, this time it’s right. Benny is such an idiot.”
“I don’t think—”
“I do! What an ass he is.”
“But you’re wearing one of my shirts.”
Shelly looked down, embarrassed. “Jesus, I’m having a bad day. I guess it’s your stuff that’s at my house, then,” she said. “Can you wait twenty minutes for your shirt, until I dry something?”
“Well, I’m all finished. Can I come by later to pick everything up?”
“Sure, I live at Fox Trot Apartments, number 303.”
“Okay.”
“My name is Shelly, by the way.”
“Ted,” he replied. “Will your boyfriend Benny be—”
“He’s not my boyfriend. He’s just some jerk.”
“Even better. Will you be home at eight?”
“Sure.”
“See you then.”
Ted threw the duffel bag over his shoulder and left with a grin.
Shelly raced home to clean. She needed to pick up debris, which was scattered everywhere, so she could vacuum. She wanted to fold, maybe press Ted’s clothes, to iron them dry.
The very first thing she had to do was to throw out the bottle of Rid sitting on the bathroom counter. If I fly I’ll have time for a shower before Ted arrives. She was mentally preparing herself as if it were a real date.
She threw open the door and found Benny standing there in Ted’s button-down shirt and boxer shorts.
“This guy has some pretty nice things,” he said.
“Get out, asshole!” she yelled at him.
“I’m not finished trying on this stuff.” Ted’s clothes were strewn in a small pile on the living room floor.
“Take it off. Take all those things off.”
“I love a domineering woman…why?”
“He’s coming here. The owner…”
“Of these clothes? How did he find out?”
“He was at the laundromat, and I was wearing his shirt. You will not be wearing his stuff when he comes over. You won’t even be here, right?”
“Okay, okay, seńorita. Jesus.” Benny unbuttoned and peeled back the Arrow shirt.
“And you are clean, right?” she asked.
“Huh?”
“Rid of the crabs.”
“Don’t worry, I Qwelled those clams.”
“Good.” Shelly pushed him toward the door by the small of his back.
“Hang on, I’m not dressed yet.”
“Never bothered the neighbors before,” she said as she pushed harder. “One more thing. Don’t call me!”
She shut the door.
* * *
At 7:50 the door buzzer sounded.
“Just a minute,” Shelly called into the intercom as she slipped a pair of black stretch pants over her hips. She pressed the button, unlocking the foyer door and smoothed the front of her shirt with her hand, waiting for him to walk upstairs. She opened the door before he could knock.
“Your things are ready,” she said, pointing to the kitchen table at a neatly folded and ironed pile.
“Wow, you shouldn’t have done all that. I’m impressed,” he said.
“I’m just trying to make up for our little accident.”
“Well, that was very nice of you.”
“It wasn’t anything, really.”
“It—”
“Do you want a drink or something?”
“I should be heading home. I have to work early tomorrow.”
“Do you have someone…?”
“No, I live by myself. I appreciate the offer. Can we do it some other time? Maybe later this week?”
“Sure, I have no plans this week.”
“Give me your number.”
* * *
Shelly hurried into the back bedroom, where every item of clothing and all of her linen filled the floor space. It also covered her mattress, the top of her bureau and the nightstand.
“Shit,” she said, almost tripping as she scurried around, looking for a scrap of paper. She quickly wrote her number and scrambled back into the living room. “Here.”
“I’ll call you,” he said.
“I’ve heard that before” was the first thing that came to mind and spat out of her mouth.
Later, in the middle of the night, the phone rang. It was Benny.
“Do you want to go to a party?”
“I was hoping it wasn’t you,” she groaned. “Whose house?”
“Tommy’s. There’s a band there and a bunch of kegs.”
“Sorry. I meant I was hoping you were someone else.”
“I’ll be by to pick you up in five minutes.”
“I’m still asleep. I’m lying on a pile of clothes. Give me twenty.”
“Okay.”
“I don’t want to be out too late. I want to do some shopping for new clothes tomorrow.”
“I’ll bring you back before you turn into a pumpkin.”
“That’s what I’m trying to avoid. I’m trying for a new me.”
“Good. Is that guy still there?”
“No! Urrrgh. Just shut up and get here!”
“Adios, chica.”
Shelly got up, trying to clear the cobwebs. She wanted to rid herself of herself and begin living a moral, upstanding life. No more drinking, drugging, sucking and fucking.
She reached back into the perfect world of her mind. There would be plenty of wining and dining, dancing and movies. There was a house with ivy and a flower garden. Ironing and housecleaning were in, experimental relationships and casual sex were out.
Normalcy was beginning to set in when Benny rang the lobby buzzer. It would have to begin tomorrow.
About the Author
