Author's Note: Sorry, out of town for Memorial Day weekend. Taking finals.
Trying to get back into the swing of things.
Carver and I sat at a small plastic table in the Bahia Bay Mall, idly slurping at Chug-A-Freezes. We'd both adopted the slumped-over, legs- splayed, slack-jawed posture of any guy who was bored, tired, bummed that the weekend was almost over, and reasonably certain that one or more of his best friends had gone completely around the bend. I was just starting to wonder whether I'd ever see Lor or Tish again when the former came sprinting up, seemingly oblivious to innocent bystanders, lightweight plastic furniture, and the squished and stinking chili-fry carcasses scattered hither and thither. She left quite a path of destruction in her wake.
"You guys," she hissed at us, the knuckles of her bent fingers glowing white as she pressed them against the table, "are so in for it."
As we sat up to defend ourselves, Tish somehow made her presence felt behind us. Exchanging a wary glance, Carver and I turned slowly around.
Oh no.
Her head was shaved. Her smooth, tanned skin had been scrubbed until it was streaky and scratched. The flattering clothes of yesterday had been forsaken in favor of an austere black dress. She looked, in short, like a Gregorian monk who had been rolling around in iodine.
Her delicate lips quivered. "Why?" she demanded. "Why must men be such pigs?"
Oh, not good. Not good at all.
"'You looked hot from far away,'" she mimicked. "Women are not artwork for your personal viewing pleasure. We are not here to boost your ego. We are not here to boost your ego. We are not here to be housewives and secretaries and schoolteachers and prostitutes. Whether one wears horizontal stripes should not matter, because it should not matter whether one looks like a sausage. And furthermore," she continued, leaning close in to Carver's face, "remember this: ugliness is not a sin, but lust is."
Carver made the very bad mistake of attempting to defend himself. "I didn't- -I never--" he sputtered.
She pounced, sneering. "You didn't what? You never what? Say that ugliness was a sin? You did. You do. All the time. Every time you hold a girl to your outrageously impossible standards, and dismiss her with a disdainful wave of your hand, every time you make fun of Janet Reno, every time you disparage women's athletics, every time you stare openly at Cheri Montgomery's derriere, you imply it."
"I do not stare openly at Cheri Montgomery's butt."
"You know what they say about that river in Egypt?"
"Ha."
"Get your mind out of the gutter, you filthy lecher."
I decided to break up this happy little exchange of words and ideas. "What exactly is it that you want from us, Tish?"
"We want," Lor broke in, "to be loved for who we are and wanted because we're pretty."
"I'm done with pretty. Look where trying to achieve it gets you. It gets you complete strangers at a bookstore telling you that you look hot from far away."
What would Mom say, what would Mom say? "It's what's on the inside that really counts."
This earned me an eye-roll. "Tino, my ignorant and naïve young lecher-in- training, that's a load of utter crap and you know it."
It was, and I did. But I didn't know what else to say.
Carver and I sat at a small plastic table in the Bahia Bay Mall, idly slurping at Chug-A-Freezes. We'd both adopted the slumped-over, legs- splayed, slack-jawed posture of any guy who was bored, tired, bummed that the weekend was almost over, and reasonably certain that one or more of his best friends had gone completely around the bend. I was just starting to wonder whether I'd ever see Lor or Tish again when the former came sprinting up, seemingly oblivious to innocent bystanders, lightweight plastic furniture, and the squished and stinking chili-fry carcasses scattered hither and thither. She left quite a path of destruction in her wake.
"You guys," she hissed at us, the knuckles of her bent fingers glowing white as she pressed them against the table, "are so in for it."
As we sat up to defend ourselves, Tish somehow made her presence felt behind us. Exchanging a wary glance, Carver and I turned slowly around.
Oh no.
Her head was shaved. Her smooth, tanned skin had been scrubbed until it was streaky and scratched. The flattering clothes of yesterday had been forsaken in favor of an austere black dress. She looked, in short, like a Gregorian monk who had been rolling around in iodine.
Her delicate lips quivered. "Why?" she demanded. "Why must men be such pigs?"
Oh, not good. Not good at all.
"'You looked hot from far away,'" she mimicked. "Women are not artwork for your personal viewing pleasure. We are not here to boost your ego. We are not here to boost your ego. We are not here to be housewives and secretaries and schoolteachers and prostitutes. Whether one wears horizontal stripes should not matter, because it should not matter whether one looks like a sausage. And furthermore," she continued, leaning close in to Carver's face, "remember this: ugliness is not a sin, but lust is."
Carver made the very bad mistake of attempting to defend himself. "I didn't- -I never--" he sputtered.
She pounced, sneering. "You didn't what? You never what? Say that ugliness was a sin? You did. You do. All the time. Every time you hold a girl to your outrageously impossible standards, and dismiss her with a disdainful wave of your hand, every time you make fun of Janet Reno, every time you disparage women's athletics, every time you stare openly at Cheri Montgomery's derriere, you imply it."
"I do not stare openly at Cheri Montgomery's butt."
"You know what they say about that river in Egypt?"
"Ha."
"Get your mind out of the gutter, you filthy lecher."
I decided to break up this happy little exchange of words and ideas. "What exactly is it that you want from us, Tish?"
"We want," Lor broke in, "to be loved for who we are and wanted because we're pretty."
"I'm done with pretty. Look where trying to achieve it gets you. It gets you complete strangers at a bookstore telling you that you look hot from far away."
What would Mom say, what would Mom say? "It's what's on the inside that really counts."
This earned me an eye-roll. "Tino, my ignorant and naïve young lecher-in- training, that's a load of utter crap and you know it."
It was, and I did. But I didn't know what else to say.
