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Robert Bazzo
Dress Patterns
I'm standing in line at the market, doing my weekly grocery shopping. The checkout woman is busily scanning my various purchases. Pasta, light beer, hot Italian sausage (my dad always said mild was for pussies), Ragu, a pound of ham, Wonderbread, peanut M&M's, Cap'n Crunch cereal, whole milk, half a gallon of Rocky Road ice cream, decaf coffee, Rolaids, and an economy size package of generic toilet paper. I hate buying toilet paper; it's such a personal item. I feel like everyone in line is looking at it and putting two and two together... Anyway, I'm standing silently, leaning against the chromed poles that divide the lanes, one knee bent, one foot on the lower pipe, watching these items being scanned. "Beep!" $1.59. "Beep!" $13.99 + CRV. "Beep!" $5.98. I do this every week; always on Thursday night, and I always buy the same items (minus the toilet paper of course). "Beep!" $1.65. "Beep!" $4.99. This is my life...
On Monday nights, I watch football with the guys. The "guys" consists of me, my best friend Carlos, who I've known since second grade, the guy who sprays my house for bugs, and my seventy-four year old father. Tuesday nights are date night. I usually escort Ms. Harris from next door to the local church where we play bingo (two cards each). On Wednesday nights, I play in a "D" level softball league with some of the guys from work. We suck! We're like 0-8-1. The tie came last month when we had those high winds, remember? The lights went out in the first inning, so the game had to be called off. Each team was awarded half a win. On Friday nights, I head down to the "OZ" for a beer or two. It's a dreary bar about a block from my house. It's OK. The beer is cheap and the people are friendly. Saturdays I do my laundry, then I go to the library and check out a new book on tape. This week I am listening to "The power of positive thinking". I don't think it's helping. On Sundays, I watch football over at the All-Star sports grill, with the guys. We eat too much and drink too much. My dad always gets drunk and raises hell if the Bears lose. And on Thursday nights, I go grocery shopping.
...The checkout woman looks up from her business and offers me the obligatory, "how are you?" "She doesn't really care," I think to myself. "Fine," I reply. I give her a half-assed smile. She returns the favor, then continues scanning my groceries, "Beep!" $2.35. "Beep!" $1.89.
As she scans my eclectic assortment of items, the boxboy (actually it is a boxgirl. She might even be cute too if she'd stop wearing all that make up) asks me if I'd prefer paper or plastic. "Pape-," I begin to say without even thinking; answering her question from some well-practiced subconscious level. Then suddenly, I remember a conversation that I had with a woman I'd met last Friday night down at Oz....
It started simple enough. I saw her across the bar. She smiled at me. I smiled back. She lit a cigarette, took a long drag and let the smoke out slowly, never breaking eye contact with me while she did this. Then an hour passed, during which I downed five or six cold ones, and she smoked a half pack of cigarettes. Aside from that, nothing happened.
I ordered another beer. She got up and walked to the restroom. Halfway there, she peeked to see if I was watching her. I quickly turned my eyes to the TV. My face flashed red and hot. A few minutes later she returned and sat back down across the bar. Another hour vanished, as did another five or six cold ones, and the other half of her smokes. Still nothing. We'd met eyes maybe two-dozen times, during that period. That was all. She kept staring at me. I always averted my eyes first. But, when I'd return them, there were her's waiting for me.
Finally she stood up, grabbed her purse, took a long drag on her cigarette and snuffed it out in an ashtray. As she walked toward me, she blew the smoke out of each nostril, like a bull. She sat one seat over. She put her purse on the bar and ordered a whiskey, "neat". Then she slowly crossed her legs. Her skirt was tremendously short. I could see the beginning of her panties. They were white and satiny. She lit another cigarette, uncrossed and crossed her legs - I saw them again – then turned to me and smiled.
My heart began to race, and sweat began to form on my forehead and fill my palms. I couldn't take it. I glanced at the front door. I was just about to leave, when she spoke. "Hi," she said. Her voice was deep and gravelly. I turned back toward her and said, "hello." She smiled back, that was all. Then she turned, reached for her whiskey and sipped at it. I felt compelled to say something more. "I'm Clay," was all that I could think of. Then I added, "what's your name?" She giggled, coughed, and took a long pull of the brown liquid in her glass. She said nothing – she didn’t have to – her actions spoke for her. "I can tell that you don’t do this very often. You’re bad at it." They seemed to say. I turned back to my own drink and nursed it a bit. I thought about the front door again. A long silence loomed. Then, out of nowhere she spoke again. "On top, or on bottom?"
I looked over toward her to make sure she was talking to me. She was. "Beg your pardon?" I said. She slowly outlined the rim of her glass with her middle finger, crossed one leg over the other again and looked me directly in the eyes. She took her middle finger from the rim of her glass and brought it to her lips. "You heard me." She said. I stared at her finger as it painted the corner of her mouth. I glanced down and saw more of the white satin. She saw me peek and smiled knowingly. "I'm afraid that I don't follow." I said. A look of frustration overtook her face. "Do you like to be on top, or on the bottom?" she repeated, sternly. Then, she drew a new cigarette from her clutch and lit it. "What? Do you mean like during sex?" I asked. With this, she let out a loud laugh, followed by a series of hacking coughs. "During sex?" she repeated mockingly, then coughed once more. I just looked at her, confused. I wanted to get up and walk out. "Fucking!" she blurted, in her raspy smoker's voice. I jumped in my seat. "Let's you and I call it fucking, shall we?" I said nothing. "If you were to fuck me," she continued, "would you prefer to be on top, or underneath?" I couldn't believe the nerve of this woman. "Top, I guess," was all that I could muster. I was shocked. "Well," she smiled, "that's a start, hun."
For the next half-hour, our conversation consisted of nothing but more of the same. "Light's on, or off?" "Anal, or oral?" "Twice a day, or once a week?" Etc. No dialogue, just questions - all sexual in nature - until... "paper, or plastic?" "Excuse me?" I begged. "Paper, or plastic?" She repeated. I didn't know what to say. Did she mean like at the supermarket? What does that have to do with sex? I tried to figure out where she was going with this. I couldn't. "Well?" she demanded. "Uh, plastic," I said, then I added, "I hardly ever carry cash." It wasn't funny. A second passed, then another and another. She sat quietly for a lifetime. Then she let lose with a bellowing laugh, followed by another fit of coughing. "I meant when you're at the grocery store, you fool!" She yelped. She drew out another cigarette. "Ok then, paper!" I shouted, "always paper!" She stopped laughing almost immediately and blew out the match before lighting her cigarette. "What?!?" she asked. I shifted in my seat. "Uh... paper?" I repeated, weakly. Anger leapt to her face. She grabbed her glass and swallowed the remaining whiskey in one gulp, grabbed her purse, and left. That was it.
I just sat there puzzled, and watched her walk through the door. I had no idea what I did, or how it had offended her. A large part of me was relieved to see her go, but a smaller, less substantial part, was hurt. "Paper,or plastic," I thought, "Who makes a big deal over that?." I finished my drink and went home. I hadn't given it another thought, until now.
..."Sir, paper or plastic?" asked the boxgirl again. From the tone of her voice she had already asked me a few times. "Sorry, I must have drifted off for a moment," I said. I quickly surveyed the area and found that the checkout woman, the boxgirl (she was cute, too much make up or not) and my fellow shoppers behind me in line, were all waiting for my answer. The pressure was enormous. It was OZ all over again. I could see that woman laughing at me; coughing at me. I thought about asking the boxgirl to repeat the question; maybe I could buy myself some extra time. "No, that's no good." I thought. "She'll laugh at you. She'll just laugh and cough at you. And call you a fool!"
"Well?" asked the boxgirl. "Uh,.... Um,...." I had to say something, and paper was obviously the wrong response the last time, so I said, "Pla-..." (but, then my subconscious took over), "per?" I finally mumbled. A momentary pause followed - well more of hush really. No one said a word. Somewhere, far off in frozen foods a baby cried. "Excuse me?" said the cute boxgirl. Her cute face twisted into a tiny, confused knot. "Too much eyeliner," I thought, "that's your problem." "Huh?" I asked. "You said plaper." "No I didn't." "Yes you did, sir." Both the checkout woman and my fellow shoppers agreed with her. They were ganging up on me. They were staging a coup at check stand 7! I was beginning to panic. "Uh, what I meant by that was..... I'll take.... Ummmm.... Both?" "You mean, half plastic and half paper?" She asked. I looked into the boxgirl's raccoon-like eyes and found the confirmation I was hoping for; the confirmation the woman at OZ never gave. I nodded. "OK, sir," she said with a smile, "half and half it is." The checkout woman nodded her approval. And my fellow shoppers added theirs as well. I did it! Success!
The shopper closest to me (a kindly old lady wearing knee-high support hose that fell a good two inches below the bottom of her muumuu) leaned over to me. "I always get paper too, sonny," she confessed. "I use them to make dress patterns for my daughter." I only smiled back. "The skirts she wears are always too short," she continued. Then she confided in a whispered voice, "they make her look cheap." I just nodded and continued smiling at her. "She smokes too much too," I thought to myself.
The cute boxgirl asked if I needed help out. I couldn't decide whether she was coming on to me, or insulting me, so I just shook my head no on both accounts, and left...
...When I got home, I grabbed the bags and carried them from my truck to my kitchen in one enormous effort. The image of the woman in OZ, with too short a skirt, and too long a cigarette, danced before my eyes. One of the paper bags gave way mid-trip. It was the one filled with the hot Italian sausage, (mild's for pussies). "I use the paper bags to make dress patterns," echoed throughout my brain. "They make her look cheap," I said aloud. I shook my head, giggled and thought, "Plaper." Then I bent to retrieve the spilled contents of my bag. "Next time plastic," I thought to myself. "All plastic."
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