Barbara would not regain her
flawless figure once the baby was born. She attempted to file paternity suits
against the DeMolde men, but the blood tests said that it was anybody’s guess
who the father really was. The case was laughed out of court. She knew darn well
who the father was and the baby was relinquished to him within a year of having
been born. Barbara despised her own mother and never really wanted to be one.
Dora was her name and she was well taken
care of. Her natural father loved her, took great care of her and put her
through Christian school, where she would learn that people like Barbara,
Harvey, and Nigel did not exist in the world thanks to the fulfilled prophecy
of a flood that took place so many thousands of years ago.
The butcher’s counter at a local
grocery store was Barbara’s final destination. She never had to deal with
people before, the way she did at the market. Answering ‘thank you’ with ‘thank
you’ and taking orders from people who were younger and dimmer than even
herself. Quickly she grew bitter and would handle the meat grinder zealously
pretending all who passed by were screaming for their pointless little lives,
being processed into burger patties or sausage.
Ambling drearily into Gerald’s bar
at happy hour, she would size up all the patrons in disgust. They would have
opened the door for her – when she was young. They would have bought her drinks
– when she was beautiful. Men and women alike would have given double takes,
glancing at reflections in mirrors and glass doorways in order to catch an
indirect glimpse at the curves of her body, much like looking into the sun.
Her shape was now that of a teapot
with breasts resting lazily upon it. Lipstick was worn heavily to
overcompensate for the shapelessness of the rest of her body. Almost as though
her lips if painted emphatically enough could draw all focus away from her now
disheveled carcass.
She barked at people instead of
talking to them. “Hey,” she would call, rather than learning their names.
Showering and brushing of the teeth were done strictly on an ‘as needed’ basis,
which caused Barbara to stink of rotten milk with a hint of sardines. As a
result, a social perimeter equivalent to three feet in every direction kept her
further isolated. Especially at the bar, those with sufficient experience did
not care for her to waft over in their general direction.
Terror overcame the staff and
clientele alike when her car cruised into the parking lot.
They would call her, “Oh shit.”
They would call he, “There goes the
neighborhood.”
“Moldy Barbara” was a popular
favorite.
The only shred of memorabilia stolen
from her glory days would serve to personify Barbara’s living state of
decomposition. A shred she stole for reasons unknown even to her and clutched
with a rigor mortis grip. Other pseudonyms were not as forgiving.
Of all people, Gerald could not once
get her to crack a smile. The man with the shiny attitude and heart as pure as
diamond was prone to receive sideline comments, such as, “You really like
yourself, don’t you?” and, “Do you smile because you’re stupid or because they
pay you?”
“Both, I suppose.”
There was little else to answer,
lest he risk his cozy job. Gerald loved his boss. He loved his bar guests, and
his coworkers even more so. It was for these reasons that it troubled Gerald
all the more to be powerless, absolutely powerless to the shadow cast on his
all-but-utopian work environment for three hours a day on weekdays.
Happy hour.
Now with his thriving sex life,
Gerald was more baffled than ever as to how people could find it within
themselves to be ugly to one another.
They called him G.G. again. The
girls did anyhow, and he liked it.
“It’s cause you’re a faggot,”
Barbara called out. Gerald had had enough from Barbara.
“I think I’m allowed to ask you to
leave for saying something like that, sweetie.” Gerry only said ‘sweetie’ when
he was upset. It was a nice way of saying bitch, and it was reserved for only
the most extreme circumstances, of which there were few in his uncomplicated
life.
“It’s why you smile so much. I heard
the girls calling you Gigi. That’s a girl’s name, isn’t it?”
“It’s not G-I-G-I. They’re
initials.”
“Huh?”
“Initials, they stand for something
else.”
“What’s it mean?” she asked,
uninterested.
“It doesn’t matter. I’m just a
stupid faggot.”
Gerald said this with as big and
sarcastic a smile as he ever wore. He busied himself by cleaning some dirty
cocktail glasses so as to not continue feeding the flames of anger now
crackling in the pit of his stomach.
Now it became crystal clear. Gerald
was going to banish the shrew. Forever. Could he kill her with kindness? The
feat had been attempted before, at their first acquaintance, against fair
warning from the resident staff.
It
wasn’t what she said, but how she said it.
“Just
pour the drinks, wise guy. Everybody know I don’t tip good.”
The
words hissed out of her mouth with as much disgust and contempt as one human
being can have for another. And it was true. For all the stress and stepping on
eggshells, Barbara typically left a dollar. Sometimes two, counting any excess
change she didn’t care to keep in her purse.
G.G.
had been dumbstruck by her venomous energy and generally took big steps to
avoid her ever since. This included allowing her to pour her own wine and
initiating new employees by having them tend to her in his stead. He wasn’t
going to make the same mistake again.
Being
utterly kind to Barbara would be a game. He was going to go all in. Balls deep.
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