Drama Dolls: A Novel: [Dark, Suspenseful, Fast-paced, Exhilarating] (7 page)

Pumped up, her adrenaline rushing, Lena did the low clasp, opposite the high “V” but with her hands clasped together pointing down toward the ground. Instead of the high “V” above her head, the position was mirrored, lowered below the waist.

Twisting her hips, Lena groaned from the sudden movement. Bending slightly, knees were soft. Lena’s one arm still in low clasp position, the opposite arm shot up high into the air. Lena, she said, “This is referred to the ‘K’ pose.”

In the store’s window behind her, the clerk pointed out toward Lena. His other hand was covering his mouth. He jumped up and down in excitement, his body recoiling inward at the same time.

Returning to low clasp position, instead of the low “V” to the concrete, she crossed her arms together. Breathing heavily, Lena said to the cop, “Do you know what this pose is called?”

Shrugging his shoulders, his mouth curling down into a frown, the police officer said, “It looks like you’re making an ‘X.’”

Lena jumped up into a scissor kick, her arms punching into the air. At the top of her leap, she said, “Ya-a-a-ay copper!” Landing, she returned to the low “X” position. The quick motion caused her to wince in pain. Even though she had practiced the cheerleader moves, doing them in rapid succession was a different animal.

The overaged cheerleader finished her demonstration with daggers, her two arms in ninety degree angles in front of her chest; and then touchdown, her arms straight up in the air like a football referee signaling a score.

She then went into a low inverted “V,” and then ended with the bucket pose, her legs spread out and straight, her one arm bent at the elbow as high as her chest and parallel to her shoulders, and her remaining arm extended out sideways, in line with her bent arm.

Statue-still, catching her breath, Lena stood tall, stiff as could be.

The cop, eying the laughing clerk and then turning his head back toward Lena, tucked the flashlight under his armpit and slow clapped.

A faint scream coming from the inside of the gas station filtered out into the parking lot. The clerk pushed a button, turning on the speaker above the gas pumps. He said, “That was awesome!” After the police officer’s slow clapping died to a halt, the clerk said, “But, please, there is no loitering.”

Before her legs could cramp, Lena softened her knees and slowly bowed to the officer.

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Trading in the Toyota Corolla for a Chevy Corvette was a long time coming. Even though the winters consisted of sub-zero weather and knee-high snow drifts, the sports car removed wrinkles from Jeffrey’s age. Gone were the perceptions of predictability, middle-age, and being safe.

Trading miles per gallon for speed wasn’t practical. It was a true sign of aging. Dying your hair when it turned white, shaving the gray out of your beard, there were always ways to look youthful.

The decision to unload the Corolla was challenging for Jeffrey. The gas-saving vehicle had always been reliable throughout the ever changing weather patterns that hit his area.

It had, after all, two rows of seats, the ability to seat five comfortably - six if there were children involved – and safety ratings and cost savings over the lifespan of the car. These were factors that Jeffrey couldn’t ignore. The reasons he opted for a Corolla to begin with.

The Corvette, though, had power and intense fast speed. With great cornering ability, the ‘Vette tested high on road tests. The luxury features and entertainment system were icing on Jeffrey’s proverbial cake.

The voice of cool reasoning said, “No. Brainer.”

Overall, the decision had nothing to do with features; rather, it had everything to do with Jeffrey working through the pain caused by his wife’s death. At least, this was how he justified the purchase.

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Looking out the window, the silver sports car was partially covered by shingles. Parked in front of the house for a random passerby to admire, the status gave Jeffrey strength. He felt on top of the world with the speedster, oftentimes driving the scenic route to and from work just to get more eyeballs on him.

For the inner voice, the status gave it a disembodied boner.

Jeffrey leaned in to see the glowing top of the automobile, a spotlight circle caused by the street light nearby. Sleep deprivation mocking him, his balance teetering back and forth, Jeffrey closed his eyes and dozed off in a standing position. His heart rate increased, and before he could fall into a deep coma sleep, Jeffrey jolted his eyes open. The burning of his eyes caused him to blink. Strained to the point they became itchy.

He slid into bed next to Emily, who had transitioned from her “passed out” stage to a “sleeping peacefully” phase. Since Her death, sleep was a limited resource waiting to be discovered. Hoping to capitalize on the short period of sleeping while standing, Jeffrey closed his eyes and attempted to clear his mind.

The problem was Jeffrey’s brain kept him awake. Every “what if?” scenario racing through his thoughts, he puzzled together situations that sometimes existed and sometimes were random figments of his imagination. Piecing together a logical explanation of why his wife could have died, Jeffrey often came up empty as the facts and fictions never became actual facts but instead stayed a conjoining mix of practical and make-believe ideas.

Tossing, turning, kicking the blanket off his legs, nights were spent staring at the ceiling. Hating Emily because she could sleep. Counting down each minute until sunrise.

Unable to go under, Jeffrey walked to the “his” of the “his & her” closets. With every inch of wood already swept, Jeffrey assessed the next situation. Drooping on one side of the walk-in was a row of button-down shirts organized by color. Hangers facing the same way, the front of the shirts closed, garments were held together by the top button. Whites, yellows, blues, and then greens, each dress shirt ironed straight; ready to be worn.

Opposite the shirts were slacks pinched by pant hanger clips. Dangling down the length of the inseams, the colors coordinated with their counterparts across the walk-in.

Over top of the rods, shelves spanned the closet. Shoes were in pairs, from dress to casual. Facing away from Jeffrey when he walked in, the heels were at his eye level. Also used as mini-storage, boxes stacked against the back wall. Jeffrey tapped the stack of boxes with his foot, forgetting momentarily what was inside them. When they slid away from him, he observed that they were empty.

Evaluating the apparel, sliding each shirt individually to the end of the rod, Jeffrey pulled down the articles considered outdated. Yanking shirts off the hangers, pulling pants from the clips, he tossed them behind. The rods now three quarters bare, the discarded attire was shaped like a volcano on the wood surface.

Feeling accomplished, Jeffrey stood above the pile of the throwaways. Beating his chest, one closed fist at a time as if he was a gorilla, he circled his lips around an invisible cigar and grunted out loud.

The noise apparently did not bother Emily, as her body remained in the same position that Jeffrey had dumped her in. The thumps on his chest getting louder, his grunts echoing off the walls, Jeffrey started to hop on one foot, alternating his legs until he developed a rhythm. Every other jump, his foot slid on rejected shirts from the closet. The stinging in his ankle reemerging, the childish cheerleader stopped the unnecessary bouncing.

Collecting the heap of fabric and depositing the clothing into the garbage can, excitement faded from the heist and impersonating a hairy beast. Tiredness became prevalent.

Jeffrey sighed deeply, sleep finally in his future. Climbing into bed, the morning coming soon, a car door slammed, startling him back alive.

His lower body underneath the covers, almost positioned in a resting position, Jeffrey mouthed the word, “Nooooo.” Dropping his head to his chest, closing his eyes sharply, he said, “I just want to sleep.”

Giving in to his curiosity, Jeffrey walked over to the window. Peeling back the curtain, his face half covered, Jeffrey stared through the tree, onto the lighted pavement.

Jeffrey saw the neighbor kid light a cigarette. The boy was standing around a rusted Pontiac Grand-Am. Laughing with a shorter boy, silhouetted by the lone street light, the neighbor’s shadow inhaled a drag and then released.

Their voices were low. Every third word was audible.

Watching from afar, Jeffrey saw the shorter boy fire up a bowl. Manmade from a crushed aluminum pop can, holes poked in the crushed portion of the can, a stash of pot burning over the holes, the pipe was made in a relatively short period of time.

The shorter boy sucked out the drug from the drinking spout. Deep into his lungs, the marijuana fried his insides. The drug sizzling on the can, he passed the Mountain Dew pipe to the neighbor kid.

The aroma of marijuana floated through Jeffrey’s bedroom windows. His eyes tightening, the pot gave Jeffrey a contact high. Closing his eyes, the teenagers’ voices were getting louder, clearer.

“Sweet ride!” the shorter boy said. The neighbor and friend walked over to the Corvette and stood around it, admiring the car’s splendor. “Check out the rims, Alex.” The shorter boy was kneeling before the rear wheel when Alex made the turn. Pot getting stronger, the shorter boy inhaled and then passed the bowl to Alex.

Flicking his cigarette out into the street, the neighbor pursed his lips and sucked in the drug. Alex, with a sarcastic tone, he said, “Just bought this. His wife died so apparently you trade in your car for a ‘Vette.” He slowly exhaled the smoke and then shrugged. “He’s fucking weird.”

Peeking into the car’s window, the shorter boy scanned the entire inside in one turn.

Walking up to the boys, their backs toward him as the teenaged pair appreciated the automobile, Jeffrey said, “What’re you two doing?”

The neighbor turned to address Jeffrey. “Hey, dude. Just checkin’ out your ride.”

“Nice car, man!” the shorter boy said, reaching for a hit.

The pot making him dizzy, Jeffrey thanked them. His eyes turning red, constricting inside his eye sockets, Jeffrey’s eyes rolled back into his head.

“You’re up kinda late,” Alex said.

Eyes coming back into view, vision going in and out, the lack of sleep fucking with him, Jeffrey closed his eyes for a second. Holding up his finger, Jeffrey zoned out.

Alex cocked his head to his buddy.

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The first time Jeffrey smoked pot was at Paul’s house. The group had acquired a bag from a janitor who worked at the high school. The janitor, attempting to make money from his side business, cracked a joke with Paul, asking what the point of being in high school was if you weren’t actually getting high.

“Get it?” he said. “High school.”

The two hit it off, and within a week, Paul was a regular buyer. Introducing the marijuana was easy. Wait until his buddies were drunk off Milwaukee’s Best and then slip them a joint while jamming out to the Doors and Steve Miller. Adding in, “What’s the point of being in high school if you aren’t actually getting high?” in the process.

Paul, his nickname became Space Cowboy. And Jeffrey, he became a space cadet after his first hit. Addicted to the high, the space cadet indulging the most out of his pals, Jeffrey found himself either drunk or stoned the majority of his time in high school.

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Alex, clearing his throat, projecting his voice outward, repeated, “I said, ‘You’re up kinda late.’”

His finger still in mid-air, Jeffrey blinked his eyes until his head cleared. Noticing the looks on the boys’ faces, their eyes shifting complemented by empty expressions, Jeffrey pulled down his hand.

Craning his head toward the bedroom, Jeffrey said, “The old lady is passed out.” Shrugging, a smirk on his face, he said, “Chicks!’

The boys, they lowered their eyebrows in unison, turning toward each other. Concerned looks on their mugs, they returned to lock gazes with Jeffrey. The marijuana smoke disappearing into the air, the shorter boy took another hit.

Alex said, “Didn’t your wife just die?”

Eyes enlarging, Jeffrey tapped his foot in a nervous fashion. “I, uh, mean, a friend is passed out,” he said. Jeffrey’s head was a sprinkler on a dry lawn. Swiveling back and forth from the neighbor to his buddy, his eyes a branched out veiny red, Jeffrey said, “She’s just checking up on me.”

The shorter boy blew out the smoke toward Jeffrey’s face. Jeffrey closed his eyes and inhaled the drug. He could feel his eyes compressing, cracking inside their sockets. In his brain, “The Joker” played,
“Some people call me the space cowboy, yeah, Some call me the gangster of love; Some people call me Maurice, Cause I speak of the pompitous of love.”

Nodding his head, up and down in a slow motion, Alex the neighbor said, “Well, I guess we’ll be—”

Cutting him off, shaking his head, Jeffrey said, “Wanna go for a ride?”

The two young men looked at each other, then to Jeffrey.

Pointing to the homemade bowl, motioning with his fingers in a smoking gesture, lips circled, Jeffrey said, “May I?” The boys did nothing. In fact, they did not know how to react. “C’mon,” Jeffrey said. “I can be cool.”

Hesitating, Alex was cautious. The only other contact the two had had was during Jeffrey’s marriage.

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Loud music late into the night from the garage, the elder knew the neighbor boy’s parents were out for the evening. Classic rock echoing out of the boom box speakers, the music mixed with a chattering of voices. Kansas sang “Carry On Wayward Son,” as Alex and his friends joined in on the lyrics.