Party of the First Part
By
Fred L. Taulbee Jr.
Copyright 2011 Fred L. Taulbee Jr.
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***
I turned the knob, cringed from the pain in my forearm and opened the door. The first thing I thought when I saw her in the doorway was, ”Wow, my first groupie.” I had no idea whether Pulitzer Prize winners in Literature had groupies, but I guess in the back of my writing mind I had flirted with the possibility.
The second thing I thought was, “She’s not that good looking.” Her dark brown nearly black hair was drawn back in a ponytail low at the neck with a simple brown barrette. She was shorter than I liked, maybe 5’6’’. I didn’t necessarily like taller women, but I sure was thrilled by an Amazonian woman when I saw one. This shorter one though, wore a business suit, a jacket and skirt, dark gray with actual pinstripes, a white blouse with a black tie that was more like a bow or even an ascot. And she wore black framed glasses of the modern narrow kind that I detest.
I think there may have been some gray roots even, and at least one gray strand. It had probably just turned gray that very day because she looked like the details-oriented, penny-pinching, just-the-facts-ma’am kind of person. So I was sure she checked for grays nightly and dyed accordingly. In fact, she didn’t look like a groupie at all.
I mean, I didn’t expect the world to knock on my door, but I expected someone from my modest apartment complex to come by and congratulate me at least. It had already been two weeks since the announcement, and besides my agent, mom, sisters, my writing friends and a few bitter old girlfriends, it was like nobody had noticed.
“I’m Cindy Weir.”
“Hi.”
I must’ve had a blank stare or maybe her name was supposed to have rung a bell, but no bell rang.
“John Bellcamp sent me.”
“Oh?” Then I didn’t know what to think. Had my publisher with whom I had already had a three book deal prior to my winning the award—had he sent me a high class hooker or something? I just smiled, and I don’t think she liked that at all.
“I’m with the insurance company.”
I still didn’t know what to say or think. I know as a writer people think we always have something to say, but that’s just not the case. Oftentimes, it’s the opposite in fact. I was starting to think less hooker more stripper, so after she confessed that she was an insurance agent, what I thought was, “I’m not really aware of that stripper fantasy.” I’ve heard of maid, cheerleader and ménage-a-trois fantasies, but never an insurance agent fantasy, although it’d be nice to do to them what they often do to us. Even if she were just a stripper, it still didn’t make much sense. There were a dozen other roles John Bellcamp should have thought of before an insurance-agent-role-playing-stripper.
I got my head together, invited the poor woman in, cracked my knuckles and then I called my editor.
***
“What?
He explained again, “We’ve insured your hands.”
“Yes, I understood that part John, but what about the part that says she’ll be with me all the time?"
“It’s only her. When she’s not with you, she’ll be in an apartment just a few blocks away.”
I thought the first few weeks were the worst. She made me stop popping my knuckles and hired a massage therapist for my arms, hands and fingers. After seeing signs of me biting my nails—or maybe she saw me actually biting them, I can’t be sure—she hired a manicurist to file my nails and keep the cuticles from peeling.
She helped me replant my plants that summer. She opened cans, bottles, and especially the old fashioned Coke bottles made of glass or beer bottles with the twist off caps, which always tore the skin on my fingers.
She started typing all my longhand notes, telling me about the high percentage of Repetitive Action Disorder among writers and typists.
During the week I usually eat light, and on Saturdays I cook a meal of about four servings to eat throughout the week. I’m a bit health conscious and like to cook as much as I can for myself. I was making vegetarian tostados with Mexican seasoned fake meat, with garlic and cilantro, topped with tomatoes and cheese. The cheese was real. I can never commit to anything completely, especially vegetarianism. When she saw me cutting the garlic, and she saw the bag of cilantro, which was next to be cut, she took the knife right out of my hand.
She started cutting the garlic into thick slices.
“No. Thinner,” I told her. “If you’re going to do it, then you’re going to do it my way.”
After some arguing, some poor attempts at her cutting and me telling her she was doing it wrong, she finally said, “Show me how.”
I went for the knife and she said, “I don’t think so. Just show me."
So I wrapped my arms around her and put her hands in mine. I made her hold the garlic hard to the cutting board with her thumb and forefinger, almost like she was squeezing it. Then I made her cut the tiniest sliver we could manage in that hot uncomfortable position. She wore a very musky perfume, the type that smells like spices or herbs almost like cloves, but not that pungent. We thin cut the slivers into columns and minced those.
While she cut some more cloves, I started on other things, trying to keep my hands safe but with her nonetheless eyeing me through the kitchen as she sliced.
When I gave her the cilantro to chop, I had to show her how to cut it in the same fashion, with my arms around her and my nose practically in her hair. I put my hands over hers. It wasn’t really necessary but I kept them there just to reassure her, as I explained what to do and as she did it.
“Bunch it up under one hand. Now squeeze it out slowly like it’s toothpaste and your hand the tube. And chop as you go along.”
After we had a pile of cut cilantro I told her to cut it even finer by holding a large knife with one hand and pushing down on the blade with the other hand, and then rock the knife over it till it’s cut fine enough.
I usually went out to the bar after cooking on those nights, but I was afraid to go out. I mean, I don’t get into fights at the bar, but what if one of my crazy old army buddies came by. What would she do? Fight for me? I could see her just taking a beer bottle, smashing it and going for someone’s jugular. I’m all for strong empowered women, but that would make me look like a pussycat.
Next she hired a maid because the scouring pads and cleansers might ruin my hands. She hired a man to rake and dig because she found blisters on my hands when I did it. She even wanted to find someone to floss for me but she gave up on that.
About a month into the arrangement I was lying in bed masturbating before I went to sleep. About ten minutes into it, I heard the tumbler in my front door lock. I ran out, ready to do battle even in my birthday suit. I don’t own a gun but I have a baseball bat by the front door, which I realized would be useless since I probably couldn’t get at it before the door opened. But it was no burglar. It was her. She wore shorts and a t-shirt with Snoopy on it and Snoopy never looked so perky. She had her hair down and was looking very nice, but it probably had more to do with my current activity.
“Who gave you a key”?
“Your editor and I decided it was in your best interest so we got a spare key from the landlord.”
“That’s some kind of invasion of privacy. I’ll sue him.”
“You can’t.”
“Why not?”
“It’s in your contact.”
“There is nothing about you getting a key to my apartment in my contract.”
“Of course not, but our lawyer agreed that the wording of the contract did include having complete access to you, and a judge even deemed it okay.”
“Why are you here anyway?”
“R-A-D.”
“What?”
“R-A-D.”
“I know what it is. You told me twenty-three times in the first week we started--Repetitive Action Disorder. But why are you talking about R-A-D now?”
She motioned with her hands as if she were masturbating--masturbating a man that is.
During the whole conversation she never looked down until now and it was just a brief glance. I had forgotten I was naked. She looked down again.
“It might cause carpel tunnel syndrome.”
“And you expect me just not to do this?” I pointed my flat hands palm up and in the general area I was talking about, when it dawned on me, “Wait. How do you know?”
“How do I know what?”
Man, was she acting guilty now.
“Cameras.”
“Cameras?” I asked. “You can’t have cameras in my home.”
“The judge said we could.”
“Oh, great. You’re taking over my life.”
“It’s for your own good.”
“Can this get any worse? I can’t even masturbate? How are you going to stop me?”
Time stopped for a few minutes until she said, “I’m not here to stop you from doing anything. Repetitive action disorder is a serious problem for any writer or typist and we just want to reduce the chances of your getting it. I’ll just have to do it for you.”
All of a sudden she looked radiant. I finally saw that her eyes were the most emerald green eyes I had ever seen.
***
It wasn’t so bad that she found someone to rake and dig for me because now I had more time to plant. A maid gave me more time to write. Cindy typed up my notes and my longhand first drafts, which also gave me more time to write. As a matter of fact, she may have been just kidding about finding someone to floss for me. She was one of those types whose humor is too subtle to notice until you’ve spent some time with her. Besides, it’s nice to have someone to cook with and to cook for.
The End
Thank You for Reading
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