Miss O. Jenny

Miss O. Jenny
By Angela Rasch

I wiped a bit of dust off its imposing left fender before entering the coffee shop. My truck’s body had to be twenty-five degrees hotter than the air around it. On a day like today, a truck like mine could inflict a certain amount of pain on the unsuspecting.

The black paint on my Chevy Avalanche LTZ 4x4 gleamed through several layers of Rainshield Total Body Protectant. I purchased my carwashes by the month and ran my wheels through about once every three days. A clean ride was essential parked outside my Title Insurance office where I spent my days protecting my clients from liens, defects and other scary things that could ruin a creditor’s day.

My business, Aegis Home Titles, operated under the motto, “I minimize your risk.” I slapped my corporate logo, a gold rampant griffin with red claws on an azure field, on everything my trinkets-and-trash guy could find.

The other cars in the small lot that serviced the Starbucks all looked to be the kind of cars that woman drive. Perhaps Rook hadn’t showed yet. He normally was punctual on-line. . .but this was RL.

I hesitated wondering if I should wait in my truck until he arrived. The whole let’s-have-coffee thing felt uncomfortable. If Rook and I hadn’t become such good friends online I never would have considered it. Months ago, we had met in a chatroom for people who read and write TG fiction. Had he been one of those who tries to pass himself off as a woman, I would have never agreed to a meeting. After all, I’m a happily married man with four kids.

I opened the door and was jolted by the sickening sweet smell of heated sugar and ground coffee. He wasn’t hard to spot amongst the six customers in his poly/cotton woodland BDU jacket. I wore my blue blazer with the Aegis shield on my pocket. I’d left my red tie hanging from the rearview mirror in my truck and loosened the top button on my shirt.

“Chuck,” he called out. “Beard and blazer,” he added, obviously recognizing me from the description I’d given him, and toasting me with his coffee.

“I’ll get some java -- and be right over,” I said, trying to keep the excitement out of my voice. It isn’t every day you meet someone like Rook, possibly one of the best-loved TG fiction writers on the web. I write a little, but my stuff can’t rival his . . . on my best day, even though Rook said I had real potential.

I scoured the Starbucks menu looking for something that would make the right statement. Caffe Americano seemed to suggest the right spirit -- nothing frou-frou about it. After paying more than enough for a cup of Joe, I made my way through the chairs and tables to join Rook.

“Good to see you, Chuck.” He stuck out his hand, which I immediately grasped. “I’m Buster.”

“I know,” I said, showing off my equally firm grip. “I recognized you from the police-blotter sketch you gave me.” He had said he was average height, a little overweight, with a red Van Dyke.

When he released my hand I noticed a tingling as the blood ran back into my fingers.

He pointed to the tattoo on my right forearm and grinned. “Semper Fi.”

“Always faithful, Mac,” I responded. “I should’ve known.”

He chuckled. “I expect there are quite a few other things we have in common. You could’ve knocked me over with a feather when the mighty Fishburne told me he lived in the Twin Cities. Can you imagine — Rook and Fishburne both living in the same city? That’s one for the book.”

Any fear I harbored had been resolved. A Marine isn’t about to rape you in the parking lot, not unless you’re prime, cock-teasing poontang. I nodded toward his ink, which simply stated “MOM” — “I got me a tattoo a lot like that one, but only my wife and the guy that needled me have ever seen it.”

“Uh huh,” he said sadly, “Ma passed on a few years back. If all women were like her, and knew what’s what, about ninety percent of what’s wrong with this man’s world, wouldn’t be.”

“Sure enough,” I agreed, while thinking of the saint I called Ma. “Hey, we should have done this long ago.”

“Yeah, I don’t know what we were afraid of.” He shook his head. “Hey girly-girl,” he yelled toward the woman running the counter. “You got any decent bottled water, Honey. Or, is it all that Dasani horseshit?”

“Do you want a bottle?” She held up something in a container that clearly hadn’t been made by Dasani.

“What do you think?” He sneered, and then turned to me and dropped his voice. “Fucking cunt. If I didn’t want it, why would I ask? She’s about as out-to-lunch as those cross-dressing stories that foul our sites. I can’t imagine what people see in them.”

I nodded. The image I had of the average cross-dresser made my stomach roil.

After Buster settled-up for the bottle of water, he leered at the woman, who appeared to be five or ten years older than our mid-fifties. “Maybe you and I should find someplace fun to go after you get off.”

She smiled. “The only fun I’m having this afternoon is a foot massage and some warmed over, creamed vegetables. And, when I’m looking for the kind of ‘fun’ you might be suggesting, I reach into the pre-Viagra generation.”

“Whore,” he sputtered to her departing back, so that only I heard him. Then he raised his voice so that everyone in the place could hear. “Women are less than shallow.”

I quickly scanned the room and counted eight “shallow” beings and the two of us. “Where were we? Oh — you were saying how you were scared to meet up with me.”

His face turned a bit red. “Ain’t nothin’ that scares me.”

For the first time I realized Rook weighed about thirty more pounds than me. I had been a scraper in the service, but he’d gotten the same man-to-man combat training and probably was mean as hell when he was pissed. “I know what you mean, Rook. My Gunny once told me I was dumb to know proper fear.” I laughed, hoping he’d join me.

He managed a small snort. “There’s only one damn thing in the whole world that makes my heart palpitate. . . .” He waited several moments to build the tension. He was as good a conversationalist as he was a writer. “The only thing that causes me to sweat blood is the idea of waking up in the morning with a beaver.” He poked me with his elbow and sniggered.

I nodded. “Imagine walking around with a rack like that.” I nodded toward an attractive young business woman with a pair nearly popping out of her jacket. “She probably can only count to two, with help, but who the fuck cares?”

“Or. . .,” Buster noted, with a side-long glance toward another patron, “think about how long it took that one to do her face this morning. Michale-fucking-angelo could have done a whole damn church ceiling with that amount of paint.”

“You cannot believe how often I have to go to the whip to get the nags who work for me to actually get something done.” I sucked on my lip a bit as I considered how many messes the women in my office would make without my constant and immediate supervision. I would spend all afternoon cleaning up their female fuck-ups.

“Geez, Fishburne. Even my priest can’t stand women. He’s always quoting St. Paul to me. He was really hacked off when Paul II issued an apology for sins against the dignity of women. Dignity of women. . .what a laugh!”

I smiled. I thought about some of Rook’s classic stories, and some of mine, and how horrible they would be if they could ever happen in real life. “Women serve their best purpose as contrast to make men look good.”

We both laughed.

“If only they would all realize their natural function in life is to obey.”

“You’re expecting them to act rationally,” I stated feeling quite close to Rook. It isn’t every day you meet someone whose philosophy of life is identical to yours.

“These are compliments of the house,” the bitch from behind the counter said, rudely breaking in on us, as she set down two lattes.

“Fishburne and I don’t drink vaginal crap like that.” Rook smirked.

The woman smiled devilishly. “Did you gentlemen notice my necklace when you came in?” She held the chain of her necklace away from her body so that the large gold medallion she wore around her neck swung slowly from side to side.

I stared at her pendant and found it like nothing else I’d ever seen. It easily was the most interesting piece of jewelry. . .hmmmm, silly me, I had forgotten to wear any jewelry this morning. No --- I hadn’t. My lovely golden hoops bounced against my neck, while several matching bracelets jingled mockingly as I bent my wrist.

I took another large sip of my drink at the same time as Rook dabbed at her lips to remove a bit of whipped cream. “Mmmmmm,” I sighed. “Rook–ky,” I simpered, feeling rather languorous in my Ann Taylor’s basketweave jacket over a cute little T I had found on sale just last weekend. “Isn’t this latte divine?”

“I’m afraid,” she answered, “I’m afraid it’s given me a bit of a hot flash.” She waved a perfumed handkerchief she had taken from her purse over her ample breasts, which threatened to burst out of her silk poppy print dress. “Or, maybe it’s because my clitty needs your attention.” Her front was tented in a most inviting way.

We strolled out arm and arm, not concerned at all that our skirts were flipping in the breeze about us. I searched my gigantic purse until I found the keys to my cute, salsa red VW Bug. They were on a keychain with that horrendous shield logo my stupid boss Larry put on everything. At least he had given one free to all us office girls.

I looked into my mirror before starting the Bug’s engine and freshened my lipstick, frowning at the amount of laser hair removal I still had in front of me. Rooky was so lucky to have had all of her face done. It was such a bitch working that asshole Larry to give me time off. He always wanted a little “quim” pro quo.

I’d kill to have her glorious red hair framing my surgically reshaped face, which now resembles a sweet little apple.

“I’m afraid you have something that needs me,” Rooky breathed as she rubbed the front of my dress, which had an unladylike bulge -- somewhat like hers.

“Be afraid,” I giggled. “Be very afraid.”

The End



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