Dora: A Headcase (9 page)

I scan the room. Half-smoked stogie in the ashtray on his desk. Busted fucking cuckoo clock doing its nothing.

He finally has the wrapping off.

“It’s a clock,” he says.

Braniac.

“Yep. Cuz of your busted cuckoo.” I grab the clock out of his hands and take it to the big man desk and position it. “You like?”

Really, it’s not handsome. It’s this weird painted crap gold color and kind of the shape of a boil. I mean it sorta rises up in the middle and slopes down on the sides with these bizzaro ornate carvings of lions. I got it at a vintage shop … who knows if the fucker will even work beyond today. Inside is a covert camera with built in video recorder that can use any USB storage device – an iPod, a Sony PlayStation, Memory cards, PCs, external hard drives, you name it. You’d be amazed how all the tricky old school cold war spy crap has been transformed into modern-day techno gadgetry available online for $49.99.

Sig makes some incredibly awkward attempt to thank me from across the room. I make my way over toward the credenza with all the tea making crap on it. A tea pot. Mugs. A variety of bullshit bouge teabags. Sugar. Milk. A spoon. Pretty much everything I need.

“Lemme make it this time,” I offer. “What’ll it be?” I finger his tea bags.

With my back to him, I pull a vial of booger sugar out from my Dora reticule. “Earl Grey? Jasmine? Lemon ginger? Passionfruit? What say we go with Passionfruit. Get a little wild. Sugar?” I go, looking back at him over my shoulder. He nods appreciatively. God, old man balls are easy to snow. It’s actually quite sad.

Next I pull out the Viagra of Hakizamana Ojo. Marlena’s pills. “I got a bitchin’ dream to lay on you, Sig,” I say, crushing the pills – one, two, three of’em – with the back of a spoon, carefully recollecting it, and putting it into his tea. I go slowly and I take extra care. I rim the mugs with the spoon. The porcelain circle sound is something between mesmerizing and shoot yourself. I tap the cup with the spoon. This soundscape is going to be
awesome
.

“SO,” I go, “Lemme tell you about my dream.” I walk over
to him, bend over, and serve him tea. “Trust me Siggy. You are going to LOVE this shit.”

He sips. He smiles the smile of a man who is being served.

I smile and cock my head, try to look like the niece he blathers on about so much. Gag me. “You ready for the dream junk?”

“Proceed.” Look at that smug fuck. You want it? You got it.

“So check it out. A house was on fire. My father was standing beside my bed and woke me up. I dressed myself quickly. Mother wanted to stop and save her jewel case, but father said: ‘I refuse to let myself and my child be burnt for the sake of your jewel case.’ We hurried downstairs, and as soon as I was outside I woke up.” I sit bolt upright and stare at him with the biggest eyes I can muster. “Isn’t it cool as shit?”

He thinks it’s remarkable. He rubs his hands together. He’s way into it. God. I can see him revving up his interpretation jazzy jizz. And yep, just like I think he will, he goes straight for the jewel case. And just like I knew he would, he says it’s a vag. I can’t help it. I start laughing. But when I look over at him, he’s all serious and shit. He thinks laughter is a defensive mechanism. “Sorry,” I say. And bite the inside of my cheek.

“Ida, what is it about the jewel case that your mother wanted to save?” He continues all Dr. Big-head-y.

I go, “My dad gave it to her. She has buttloads of bling, trust me. Which is retarded, since they rarely go out or do anything together. I think he piles up the bling to ease his guilt about balling Mrs. K. It just sits there piling up in the case getting dusty. Sometimes she pets the pile, though.”

His cheeks flush. He drinks his tea. His pupils – dang I think his pupils are dilating! He says, “And do you find any other associations with a jewel case?”

I look up at the ceiling. “Hey, you know you have a crack in your ceiling that looks like a big huge wang?” I point.

“Might you answer the question?”

“Might you?” I go, smiling. Then I give him more of what
he wants. “Yeah. Mr. fucking tardoid K. gave me a jewelry box once. A really gross expensive one. From Vienna. I put weed in it. Hey! Want some more tea?”

I jump up. I run over like a dutiful niece. I refill his cup. I take my time. I can feel his eyes on my back when he theorizes that a return present was subconsciously due to Mr. K. No shit, Sherlock.

“Really.” I go, stirring, stirring.

“Perhaps you do not know that ‘jewel case’ is a favorite expression for the same thing that you wear daily – the … reticule.”

I turn to deliver more tea to him. “What the fuck’s a reticule?”

He laughs all sly and adult. He says, “In chiefly historical terms, a reticule is a woman’s small handbag. In other words, the jewel case and the reticule are both symbols of female genitalia.”

I roll my eyes and snort laugh. “Siggy! Dude! You
always
say shit like that! So you are saying Mr. K. gave me a pussy box for pussy? And it showed up all weird in my dream? And my Dora bag is a VAG, too?”

Mind bogglingly, he grins and keeps going. “In the dream you chose a situation which expresses a danger from which your father is saving you.”

Holy shit. He thinks he’s … what do old guys like him think? He looks like he thinks he’s solved a really, really hard crossword puzzle. Dude. Are you for real? Is in my head. But “Wow …” is all I say.

To this he leans in real stern like and flourishes with, “The dream confirms once more that you are summoning up your old love for your father in order to protect yourself against your repressed love for Mr. K.”

I stare at him.

He drinks his tea.

I consider applauding. Or just barfing. I’m pretty good at barfing on command.

Instead, I lean in toward him. “Sig,” I say all serioso, “Do
people really buy this crap you feed them? That purses and jewelry boxes are
vagz
?” I ask him.

Uh oh. Soft crotch alert for the Sig. He flicks invisible lint off of his shoulder. “I didn’t say the actual objects are genitals. I said they represent them in the subconscious. In dreams.”

Come to mamma. I have him now. I stand up. I walk around the room in a circle. I can feel his stare. On my boots. On my calves. My ass covered only with teen plaid punk skirt. Then I walk across the room near his desk. I turn toward him. I put my hand on my Dora the Explorer purse hanging at my twat and pat it hard. “Reticule …” I murmur. “I see.” I smile. Then I pick up what is left of his manky ass cigar in his little ashtray and suck it. “Sssssshhhhhhhttttttt-O-gie,” I go, and pantomime a Groucho Marx. “What’s that make your cigar, Herr Doktor?”

He stands up. He sits down and flaps his hands around in the air. “Ida, we are not in the process of discussing random objects in a room . . .” he babbles, but I cut him off. I’m moving in for the kill. Watch it. I’m not your niece, old man. I’m your worst teen nightmare. And I know a thing or two about the art of interpretation.

“No? Why not? I’d wager a fatty that the objects in this room – the porn cracks in the ceiling, the half-smoked stub of a cigar –

I mean who smokes cigars anymore – just crusty old farts, Siggy, are you a crusty old fart? C’mon! You and what’s in your pants are very much part of this discussion. You old dog you. You really want to talk about reticules and jewel cases with young girls. I bet talking about it gets you all hot. I bet you own the complete works of Aubrey Beardsley. Wanna know what I think of your theory here Sig? I think it’s all about dick.”

Then a sound cracks the air between us. Cough. Über loud cough from Sig. “Ida,” he tries, but his cough cuts him off. Cough. Coughing. Coughity cough can’t stop.

I rush over. I slap his back a high hard one. “You OK, Sig?” I slam pat his back. His face reddens. He bends over with coughing. “More tea!” I go – and shuttle him over another cup.
He gulps and gulps. After a sputtering coupla minutes, he manages to breathe and collect himself.

Me? I’m sitting calmly on the black leather couch like the most polite and normal girl on the entire fucking planet. Legs crossed, hands folded over knees. Churchlike.

As if on cue, the spy clock chimes. It sounds something like birds shitting tin.

“Well,” I offer, “that was quite an interpretation. You really do have the synaptic wizardry, Herr Doktor, that’s for damn sure.” I put my chin on top of my fist. “I’ll have to go think about all that. No, don’t get up … I can let myself out. You have a seat. Man alive. You sure got the big head.”

I rise.

I turn.

My parting words: “Keep it up, Doc. That’s what you’re good at.”

WHEN I EXIT SIG’S, I WALK EXACTLY ONE BLOCK TO where Ave Maria’s mom’s Jag is parked and waiting for me. I can see Little Teena in the driver’s seat as I approach. I can see Ave Maria in the back seat. And I can see both of the wigs they are wearing.

Uh huh, it occurs to me what I’m doing is over the line. Uh huh, I think about the possible consequences of my actions. For a moment I fear for the Sigster. What would a lethal overdose of Viagra look like? I earlier read on the Internet some dangerous side effects … he could pass out. Go into a coma. He could go blind. A few guys have actually died. My throat gets a little tight and my chest feels like someone is pushing on it. I think about Sig going coronary.

But you know what I think about more? I think about all the times in my life I didn’t understand what the fuck was happening and no one bothered to explain it to me. Like when I got my period. I thought I was dying of cancer. My gym teacher took me into his office and explained it to me. Yeah. That’s what you want. You want some balding old creep explaining your bleeding vag back to you while some middle school lunch lady comes in shoving a giant cotton pad in your face and telling you to put it between your legs, dear. Awesome.

I think about Mr. K trying to stick his Altoid tongue down my throat on a lakeside picnic – no one rescuing me from the lakeside letch. I mean I had to pop that guy right in the nose hard
enough to make his eyes water. I was fourteen. There are no superheroes.

I keep walking toward the car and the posse. Family is a word you can make your own.

I can hear the purr of the Jag’s engine.

I think about all the shit that goes wrong in the world today that teens have to endure.

Like how Ave Maria’s stepdad used to give her a bath – wash her real good – when she was like four. Five. Six. And film it. Home movies.

How when Little Teena told his über Christian parents he was gay all the way, they told him the devil had him and sent him to some weird military school compound. Then they went away for the summer on a wine tour in Germany and spread some word of god seed. While Little Teena took three bottles of pharmaceuticals and had his stomach pumped. Enjoy that case of Gewürztraminer, Mr. and Mrs. Jesus Fuck?

Remember the Joseph Fritzl case? The Austrian daddy who made a prison in his basement for his daughter? Yeah. He fathered her good. Seven children and one miscarriage. I keep wondering. What’s it like to be a forty-two-year old woman who comes out of the basement and tells that story? And who were the fucktards living next door who
didn’t … see … a … thing
?

Boo-hoo, right? Life’s not fair. Well life’s not supposed to be a fucking Disney gone bad horror ride where you are trapped in a car called “family” with creepola psycho adults popping out at you at every turn either now, is it? Look at the world ride you’ve made for your children. No wonder we want your drugs. It’s the least you can do.

So yeah, I think about what I’m doing. What I’m doing is opening the door of Ave Maria’s mom’s Jag and getting in. It’s like I told you. We stage art attacks. It’s not like we’re terrorists. At least not the way you think.

I climb into the Jag. My Farrah wig and clothes are on the back seat, waiting for me.

“We locked and loaded?” Little Teena asks from the driver’s seat.

“Ready!” Ave Maria pitches a high note at me. There’s a compact suitcase on the seat between us. She pats the top of it.

I look at my comrades for a long minute. God. I love them so.

Ave Maria wears the Molly Ringwald wig from Marlena’s, offset with wire-rimmed glasses.

Up front is what can only be described as the head of Julia Child. It’s some weird, tall, big-curled tower of a wig that makes Little Teena look like somebody’s grandmother. Somebody’s very scary man in drag grandmother. He’s driving one-handed, arm extended. Somehow he’s fit his girth into a sharp navy blue women’s business suit. Complete with hose and pumps. Oh and he’s got a false police detective badge. Nice touch.

“Oh yeah,” I go, “we’re locked and loaded.” And begin my transformation.

Inside the Jag I strip. Little Teena hums the striptease song from the driver’s seat. The windows immediately fog up. I stretch my legs down and my hips up until I can see my own underwear – leopard print. I pull on a pair of white denims. Bell bottoms. Which to be honest, I didn’t think still existed. Then I dive into a pink angora sweater and shoot my head out, a little fuzz in my mouth. I strap on a pair of Candy wedgie sandals. Then I don the sacred Farrah wig. Head down, wig on, flip up.

Ave Maria opens up the little suitcase between us, rummages around, then hands me a pair of owl-eyed brown sunglasses and some cherry lip gloss. I put the sunglasses on and butter up my smacker.

Next she hands me my Bluetooth. We’ve all got matching Bluetooths like little ear tumors. Communication is essential when you’re on a mobile shoot.

I look at myself in the rearview from the backseat. If I was any more 1970s I’d be whoever my mother was.

Obsidian’s not in the car. She’s on the way. Obsidian’s talking to us through our Bluetooths. Sometimes her voice in my
ear makes my breath jack-knife. When she says the word “Ida,” I get dizzy.