Ｍａｓｃｏｔ░ｏｆ░ｔｈｅ░Ｙｅａｒ

Aurora Bodenhamer

The Anna Nicole Smith poster crinkling underneath my body woke me up again. I lay in bed trying to rekindle any memory of my perverted fugue state. Every morning this week, I had to lift myself off her massive blonde curls. The black and white photo featured her in a more modest pose. Her little finger was in her mouth as she looked away from the camera. Her cleavage was one movement away from a reveal. I’ve never had a thing for blondes while awake, but my unconscious self is infatuated by the centerfold.

After Heather and I broke up, she took every piece of furniture we bought together. This made me more receptive to hand me downs. My new apartment looked like a collage of everything offered to me. The only purchase I made was the Anna Nicole Smith poster and it was for the frame, I swear. I bought it at a garage sale and dismantled it thoroughly to clean the glass. Now that I live alone, I was able to display my theatrical Blade Runner poster. Heather had once bestowed it as dorm-room memorabilia, so it remained rolled up and paired with a box of everything else I enjoyed. The poster, frame, and glass, stayed in the corner of my bedroom until I was able to drag myself to the store for cleaning supplies. Upon moving in, my mom gifted me a copy of Chicken Soup for the Young Man’s Soul. The book only increased my anxiety, due to me lying about reading it every time I saw her. Instinctually, I knew my first step to self-improvement was going to the store in a clean shirt to buy Windex. My eyeglasses are so smudged that it's starting to impair my vision. I didn’t realize how often Heather cleaned my glasses for me until she left and took all the glass cleaner with her. Nightly she would wipe them with a travel-sized bottle of Windex she kept on her bed side table. I thought she was Obsessive Compulsive, but now when I‘m lying alone on top of my poster, I recall it more tenderly.

The household cleaner section at Albertsons has never seen an alternative to Windex-blue. To this date, there has never been any additional scent in the lineup that made a consumer trust that it still held the cleaning power of a name brand. I uncap each spray and smell. Every liquid smelled like her fingers removing my glasses before bed. I breathe too much of it in and cough.

“Can I help you sir?” A young black girl with a faint mustache in Albertson’s blue stands close to me as I uncapped the window cleaner.

“Do you have an alternative to Windex - anything that smells different?”

“Nah.” She reaches for the bottle and I hand it over in defeat. “I think we only got the blue stuff.” I leave without buying anything and stop at an AM/PM for another errand.

I grab a copy of Playboy from the shelf and flip through it. I don’t recognize any of the girls.

“This ain't a library boss.” The clerk shouts from behind the register. I lazily acknowledge him, knowing he has the phrase loaded into the chamber at all times. I reach for an issue in the back of the rack, has to be at least a few months old. I move down a few aisles to grab pork rinds, a couple of hot roller dogs, and a pint of half and half. I feel a mental release when the clerk counts out the change and drops each coin from almost an absurd height into my hand. I accept it as a sign from god telling me to get over myself.

At home, I pour myself a glass of half and half and flip through the magazine. If I immerse myself in the semi-gloss, it should work like exposure therapy. I can’t find Anna in this issue. Towards the back half of the magazine are the winners of “Playboy Magazine’s Hottest College Girls of 2001” contest and feature a yellowed-bottle-blonde from Portland State University. Posing topless with a Viking helmet and her legs crossed. Her hands are up in the air as if she had just called a field goal. The next page features another sports-themed scenario, the same playmate, trying to put a mascot helmet on completely naked. I haven't been to a football game since high school. My buddy Luke had been known for running onto the field during the third quarter nude, with the exception of a pair of Nikes. It was no surprise to us all when he became an exhibitionist later in life. Today, it seems that streaking has been in turmoil since the dawn of digital cameras. Luckily, we still have Mardi Gras, Girls Gone Wild, and synonymously the next wave in the feminist movement for women to continue being publicly topless. Her name is listed under the photograph in 7-point font, Molly Parson. These photos could be a couple of years old by now, I doubt she is still going to Portland State. I imagine her purchasing the magazine and showing the clerk, exclaiming to him that she had “made it.” Or maybe Molly is dead, thrown into the wind over the Pacific. The thought is too morbid for me to entertain. I need to know if she still likes touchdowns and long walks down the 50-yard line.

The internet cafe is about a half mile from my apartment. I was banned for a week last month because I punched a monitor while playing “Last Stop in Milwaukie,” a game that allowed me to role play as a man who operated various forms of public transportation. My character, Manny Julio Rodriguez, operated a bus route in the Greenfield neighborhood of Milwaukie, Wisconsin. I had to navigate the dangers of the midwest inner-city with only the tools, training, and love of my virtual wife and children. My character did not have enough money to purchase pepper spray before his shift. This was due to his child needing a sudden emergency operation on his eye. This resulted in Manny being brutally beaten and left to die while nearing the last few stops on Route 1. I was immediately enraged and punched the monitor, causing the screen to crack. All of the hardware at the Cafe is insured, so I did not need to pay. When I enter the cafe now, my bag gets checked due to my history of technology violence and alcohol smuggling. I hand my bag to Jian and politely ask how he’s doing.

“Good. We close early, so don’t play long.”

“You got it.” I grab my bag from him.

I sit down at a computer that is furthest away from the only other guy there. I haven’t seen him before and the customer base at the cafe has begun to dwindle. I search for her name. Her images on www.playboy.com required a credit card to view. Financially, I’m not in a position to pay right now. I peer through the initial search more and discover she grew up in Hillsboro. I can't find her on the Portland State alumni page. I discover her dad had a plumbing business. I call his business’ number and leave a voicemail.

“I think I want to go platinum.” I choke down the orange chicken. Samantha is in my kitchen using the microwave as a mirror.

“Yeah that would be good,” I say. I find it hard to be alone. Within a month, I had managed to exit a 3-year relationship and enter into a new one. Every time I hang out with Samantha, I find myself staring right into her forehead, hoping that my eyes burn a hole into her skull. The root of my annoyance with her is her infinite patience with me. I need her to show some sign of derangement, but I receive none of that. She seems to always know when to say something nice to me. I like how you organize your DVDS, or You always know the right Glade plug-in to use. I haven't tried even remotely as hard in this relationship and it seems like she likes me more than Heather did. I guess that’s why I can’t break it off, it's nice when someone likes you. The phone rings. “It might be Molly’s dad.” I realize I said that out loud. I answer the phone.

“Hey, this is Bill calling back from Parson’s plumbing.”

“Great - yeah - hi. My toilet’s been having issues and I need to make an appointment.”

I give him a general diagnosis, and explain how clogged it is and how nothing seems to help. He agrees to stop by on Wednesday.

Before hanging up, I realize I was smiling the entire time.

“Who is Molly?”

“What?”

I tilt my head to the side and narrow my eyes a bit. Making eye contact with her head for the first time all day. “You know, platinum would look great on you.”

Molly’s dad looks just like her. It's unsettling seeing the attractive features of a woman in the man that they had originated from. His blue eyes are tucked behind monstrous grey eyebrows. He opens the top of the toilet and manually flushes. I hover between the doorway and the hall. Stare off into the white wall for a few moments until he shouts, “I think I found the problem.”

He pulls out a pink and orange beach towel. “I’ve pulled out underwear and watches, but never an entire beach towel before.”

“Crazy.” I feel like I have to come up with a story as the silence lingered between us.

“Must be my roommate - she sleepwalks.”

“Seems like buying a lock for her door would save you money on the next plumber.”

“Heh - yeah. How much do I owe you?”

He stands up taller and stretches out.

“Don't worry about it. I was here for less than 5 minutes.”

“Well - you drove all the way here - can I get you a beer? Plenty in the fridge.”

“No thanks - just don't call me again.” He is good at staggering the line between professional and asshole. His expressionless eyebrows make it hard for me to tell if he’s serious. He begins packing up his kit. This is my only chance to ask him.

“Are you Molly’s dad?” From the look on his face, this is not the first time he had been asked a question regarding his daughter. What comes out of my mouth next will dictate whether or not I get a black eye.

“I went to middle school with her.” He looks right through me. “We used to play tetherball during lunch and talk about movies. Went to a couple of her birthday parties -” I cough as a nervous tick, “anyway, a group of us are planning a middle school reunion and I tried to look her up in the phone book, but wasn’t able to find her.” I move my body onto the couch to appear small and non-threatening.

“Yeah, I can let her know you said hi.” He walks all the way to the doorknob with his hand already in a position to turn and leave. He doesn’t look back at me.

I wake up again with my finger jammed through the eye hole of the Anna Nicole Smith poster. The white paper is now showing through the ink of the poster. I stash the poster under my bed, worried that Samantha might see what I had done to Anna’s eye.

I’ve already waited a week for a phone call from Molly or her Dad and received none. I dial Molly’s father up again.

He picks up, “Parson’s plumbing”

“Hi - uh you fixed my toilet last week and I went to school with your daughter Molly.”

“Mm…” is all that comes from his mouth.

“I was wondering if you could pass along my number to her. I mentioned that we are having a reunion this Friday at the bowling alley around 7 pm.” Samantha starts to use the blender, I move into another room sending a glare before departing. “We’ll be wearing our school colors blue and yellow. So just let her know to look out for that.”

“Ok,” he hangs up.

“I feel like it's more gray than platinum. She said it would fade.” Samantha has learned to talk to herself out loud. She casts these words out hoping I respond. I lay down on the couch and close my eyes. I act like I am asleep before accidentally falling asleep.

I’m not in contact with anyone from my grade school years. That portion of my life felt like a countdown, waiting for it to be over. I fell into the empty promise that everything would be better after high school. Life after high school was aimless for me. Reality fell flat and everything for me stayed the same. Sure, life could be worse, I could be completely alone, cripplingly disabled, homeless or all of the above. Some people don’t even have a Samantha to call at one in the morning to ask if they’ll come over and watch Starship Troopers. I somehow had that and I didn’t even want it. The limerence of this relationship had worn down as soon as we made it official. We met while working at a call center, I was laid off a couple of weeks ago. She smoked Virginia slims because she had recently discovered her estranged grandmother smoked them before shepassed. I smoked whatever I could bum off people. I liked how she felt guilty for not knowing her grandmother. She cared about something other than the remedial job that everyone surrounding us clung to so tightly.

To be honest, I didn't think much of Samantha until my relationship with Heather was falling apart. Heather had come home one morning and told me we were at our expiration. She monologued about how every relationship had an ending and that ours was now. I couldn't protest. I was already late for work that morning and she smelled like a stranger’s liquor cabinet. While at work, I told my boss and he graciously granted me, “As many breaks as I needed.” I watched Samantha all day, waiting for her to leave her desk and walk outside so I could bum a Slim off of her. She was so kind to me. She rubbed the upper part of my arm while I told her about Heather’s cruelty. She even let me smoke the rest of the pack.

I’m unsure if Molly is going to show up. My left shoe never stays tied, so I walk over to rent a pair of bowling shoes. I sit down at the bar and throw back another shot. I haven’t been here in years. All I can smell is the remnants of the smoking section that the HVAC system hasn’t filtered. My face in the silver tap handle has the patriotic glow of unemployment checks.

“Can I get a SKYY and vodka?”

The bartender looks at the woman and winces, “SKYY and soda coming right up.”

It’s Molly. I can’t believe it worked. She is standing next to me clutching her purse. I keep my gaze towards the game on TV. I can't tell which jerseys match the acronyms.

“Do you know if there is a reunion here?” I act like she broke me out of a trance. “I was told my Junior high was having a reunion here.”

“Not that I know of,” I say and look around the bowling alley.

Between the birthday balloons and the wrist-braced groups of men, I don't see any group that would even fit that description. “Looks like you must've just missed them,” I tell her, hoping she would buy into my act.

She looks at the pint glass in my hands then back up at my face.

“Yeah - I must've gotten the wrong information.”

“Who has a junior high school reunion nowadays?”

She grips her glass. “Guess that's a good point - I should have asked myself that. Just thought maybe it was a normal thing they do here.”

“I’ve never heard of sucha thing,”

She starts to tear up. I make her cry.

“Sorry, let me buy you a drink.” Her drink is still full and her mascara is now caught below her eyes.

“I don't want another drink. Thanks though.” She put on a bit of weight since her editorial. When she sits her belly pooches over her rounded gold and brown belt. She purses her lips and stares at the food menu written in neon expo marker.

“Want like a burger or something?”

She was quick to answer, “Yes. Well done please.”

Her crying stops when the burger is placed in front of her. As soon as she finishes she starts crying again. I look around to see if anyone was worried about her mental condition. The last thing I want to be seen with is a crying fat chick at the bowling alley bar. I try to take her mind off of everything by asking her where she moved from and she vaguely mentions Southern California.

“What were you doing there?”

“I was just waiting tables- just wanted to see what was going on there.” She wipes the rest of the crumbs off her mouth. Ketchup etches her lips like overworn lipstick.

“What was going on there?”

“Not much” She begins excavating her way through the fries.

“You look like you could be in the movies.” I phrase it the same way a parent would say to look on the bright side. She glares pretty.

“Thanks.”

There is no getting through to this bitch. She is dismissive of anything I say. It’s apparent her entire world is filtered through the abusive indulgence of alcohol and food.

“Well, ever think of pursuing movies when you were out there? “

“I modeled a bit but it didn't work out. I didn't get along with a lot of the other girls in the industry.”

“Did you fight them all or something?”

“Nothing physical - I think I just didn't fit in.” She pushes her empty plate towards the bartender.

“What are you doing here?” She asks me.

I realize now would be a good time to come clean about the internet stalking and the luring of her to the Bowling Alley. I want to continue looking at her and if I tell the truth, the night will end.

“I’ve always liked it here. I never felt like I needed anything else.” I tell her the truth.

She opens up her bag and pops two pills into her mouth.

“What are those?” I ask.

“Herbal supplement.” It doesn’t seem like an herbal supplement from the way she is acting. I order another drink. She is a shitty liar. I ask her if she wants another drink and she declines but eyes the menu again.

Within that same moment, I realize that the magazine mystique is gone. She isn’t spry, perky, or a good time. She has the presence of a third-string concession hawker. She is a bleach-blonde tumor on a barstool. I pull out my wallet and leave cash for our bill on the bar. She finally smiles.

“Do you want to bowl?” I ask her as she waves down the bartender. “Sure, but I will just watch.”

She refuses to change out of her dirty white Converse. I find a couple of balls and put them in our lane. I make an extra profile in the score system in case she changes her mind.

“How do you know my last name?”

“What?” I had put her exact initials into the game screen.

“Complete guess.” That response is good enough for her.

She helps herself to my pitcher of Bud Light. I bowl a split, and she’s unable to clap because she’s chewing on her nails.

“Come and throw a ball,” I shout at her while I walk back.

She picks up the ball with both hands and Granny lobs it down the center. I say nothing and pour myself another beer. A smile is plastered on her face.

“Did you see that?”

“No - what happened?”

“I knocked down all the pins!”

“Don't lie. It’s not attractive.” I finish my drink. She grabs a larger size ball and chucks it with all her might down the lane and it hits the pinsetter causing a noise louder than the normal knock of pins.

“We should probably go,” I tell her and drink the rest of the pitcher and put my shoes back on.

“Where did you park?” I ask as she stuffs herself into her coat.

“Ahh, I need a ride. I'm going to see if the bartender can call me a cab.”

“I can give you a ride.”

She shrugs and follows me to my car.

Immediately my vehicle fills with fruity perfume and bowling alley food. As I drive she rustles around in her purse and pops another pill.

“Are you doing okay? Need anything before I drop you off?”

The street lights hit the dark puddles, causing her to wince into the windshield.

“Can I get a snack before you drop me off? I don't think I have any food at home.” She gestures over to Taco Bell, hitting her hand on the passenger window on accident. She orders 5 hard shell tacos in the drive-thru and leans over me to hand the cashier a $20 bill. Her massive blonde curls enter my mouth. She digs into the bag while I drive, unwraps one of the tacos, and proceeds to eat it over the bag.

“Sorry - do you mind if you wait until you get home? I just detailed the interior.”

She takes another bite and sighs before wrapping it up.

“I am so tired of being told what to do by scumbags like you.” I laugh thinking she’s joking and realize she has completely turned on me. Her eyes look like they have a gravitational pull, forcing the empty Mt. Dew cans of my Honda to disappear. I find it hard to take her seriously with sour cream on her nose. She is completely blacked out. The traffic light is yellowing, I speed up. The next light is red. I speed up. Red and blue show up in my rearview mirror.

“Fuck,” I move over to the shoulder.

“License and registration?” The cop looks close in age to me. He is tall which allows his frame to carry a gut. I hand it over and try my best to breathe through my nose and not talk too much. Molly continues to stare off into the distance. The officer puts his light over Molly and within seconds, she vomits all over the windshield.

“Jesus, miss - everything okay?” Molly tilts her head back up and flashes a thumbs up to the officer. The intense acidic smell now inhabits the car, making the officer take a step back.

“Sorry, can you step outside the vehicle, to speak with me?”

My eyes are fixed on Molly until I finally realize the officer is staring directly at me.

“Sorry, me?”

“Yes, you.”

“Uh sorry sir can you tell me why I got pulled over tonight at least?” I try my best to remember what my rights are.

“You ran through that stop light. You even know that, you hit your brakes in the middle of the road and then sped forward.”

The vomit starts to burn my eyes. I step out of my vehicle and rest my ass on the trunk of the officer’s car.

“Stay here for a minute while I talk with the girl.”

Every car that drives by creates a spotlight, displaying my miserable face and shitty car. My entire life could be told through the make, model, and year. The missed key marks on my driver’s side door are just a tally of all my wasteful nights.

I hear the officer and Molly giggling in between the swift whoosh of vehicles driving by. I turn to see what was going on. The officer’s head is in the puke-filled car.

“Turn your goddamn head around!”

I do as I’m told, aware that this guy would love a reason to slam my face into the pavement. The giggling wavers for the next 5 minutes. Eventually I hear the crackle of asphalt as his boots slick over to me. “Wow you have yourself playmate of the year. Lucky man.”

Fuck. I refrain from rolling my eyes back into my head.

“Anyway. Sorry for ruining your night. You should probably take her home and get her washed up. She smells like a drunk bulimic.”

I lift myself off the bumper and don’t say anything. If it wasn't for her throwing up all over herself, he would have smelled the alcohol on my breath.

The Taco Bell bag is lying outside of the car door covered in vomit.

“Did you know that guy?”

“No, but he knew me.”

“What does that mean?” I poke to see if she will finally concede.

“When I was in college, I posed for a magazine.” The vomit leaving her body makes her finally let down her guard.

“What magazine? Penthouse?”

“Close, Playboy.”

I already know that. I finally have my moment to ask, “Is Anna as beautiful in real life as she is on the posters in the mall?”

“Of course.”

Aurora Bodenhamer resides in Washington state. She is currently working on her first short story collection and publishes interactive stories on her website ilovejumbotrons.com

@jumbotronjock