The Dumpster Gods Must Be Crazy, Parts 4&5

(a story about finding a woman in a Westwood dumpster)

The young lady I was holding up by the back of her blouse collar was a beautiful, 5’2″ blond: a heart-shaped face, Janet (not Michael) Jackson nose, tight, youthful skin, eye color to be determined if she ever opened her eyes. And lips. My God, what beautiful, full, pouty, Mediteranean lips. Succulent lips. Lips that should do lipstick commercials.

She had dried puke running from the side of her mouth down the front of her gray/pink blouse. She had that old mayonnaise smell that Ecstasy abusers exude, or maybe it was just the dumpster detritus in her skewed-to-one-side perm. The dumpster had skewed her coiffed blond hair to one side of her head, I reasoned. No one would PAY for a do this hideous.

I was struck by the contrast between her beautiful young face and the trashy condition of her haute couture wardrobe. I pulled back the little collar label on her blouse, holding the mostly motionless little blond up as if she were a shirt I was thinking about purchasing in the men’s section of a J.C. Penny’s, and sure enough, the label was Christian Dior.

“We certify that this article has been manufactured according to the most rigorous quality standards, and in conformity with the image of our brand name,” the label read.

I was feeling much more at ease with the situation now that I had a firm hand on it, now that I could touch it and feel it and see that it was real and tangible instead of ethereal and spooky. Anything I can put my hands on, I can control, one way or another.

I read the label again and thought, “In conformity with the image of our brand name” : wouldn’t they be proud to see their product in it’s current usage?! I do that sometimes: think in stilted language. It’s a defense mechanism, I think.

“Ma’am, are you all right?” I asked as I gently shook the pukey cadaver.

She was way too young for me to be calling her ‘ma’am’, but when I’m in uniform I call everyone ‘sir’, ‘ma’am’ or, if I’m about to thump them, thefuck’ (as in ‘thefuck you want? or ‘thefuck you say’ or ‘ thefuck I will’).

Streaked mascara webbed out of this young woman’s closed eyes like the black tears of a dead clown. I grabbed her bare shoulders and shook gently.

“Ma’am, are you all right?”

She looked angelic, in an evil sort of way.

“Ma’am, are you all right?”

I started having My-Big-Fat-Greek-Wedding romantic fantasies about this cute little blond as I was shaking her, getting flashcard pictures of her cooking dinner for me while I typed stories on my laptop, pictures of her and I sitting out on the porch swing on balmy nights looking at the stars and not having to say anything to communicate, pictures of us spooning and unloading groceries out of the back of the pickup truck and . . .

“Ma’am, are you all right?”

I chuckled. This is, sort of, the way I met my second wife, my true wife, roles reversed. My second wife first lay eyes on me when I was recovering, in public, from some all night binge and debauchery. What a coincedence. Was this a sign? Is this the best way to meet a prospective spouse? Tables turned, it had worked for me before.

“Ma’am, are you all right?”

I chuckled, thinking, only a desperately lonely schmuck, only a man, would be having fantasies about a passed out stranger with puke running down her blouse.

“Ma’am, are you all right?”

Suddenly, the woman’s eyes popped open and she fell forward. Still in mid chuckle, I reflexively caught the woman’s forward movement with my left hand, palm up. Her first impression of her surroundings, and of me, were not so good. I was chuckling, my left palm on her breast.

She screamed and hit me.


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