Summary Report


Concepts:

Lotty, Sheila, car, door, Charlene, heads, arms, glass, friends, Vince, dress, eyes, sisters, Roger, smile.

(The fun thing here is trying to figure out which of the two characters is talking. I used two POVs, Chester's and Lotty's.)

Summary:

The best man is nearly finished with his toast, and I'm getting ready to pelt him with Jordan almonds.

It's been a long speech, a boring one, and has included every cliche from every wedding reception, ever.

I know that Charlene, my sister, will be upset by my introducing a food fight into her carefully planned wedding, but her concerns aren't mine, not any more.

Charlene looks pleased, but she always looks that way when people are talking about her.

The couple to my left look as bored as I feel, and the guy looks as if he really wants that drink.

I grab a handful of festively colored almonds and feel a hand on my wrist, restraining me.

I recognize the voice at once: it's my sister Lotty, Charlene's identical twin.

Probably the biggest day in Charlene's life and here Lotty shows up late, wearing dirty white pants and a thin cotton top, clothes it looks like she's been wearing for a week.

I watch as Charlene starts when she sees her sister approaching, regarding her with the look usually reserved for discovering gum on the bottom of your shoe.

Not only does it seem normal to me to have twin sisters, any novelty value curled up and died over twenty years ago.

He's one of Vince's friends, one of the ushers, and that explains both his stupidity as well as his rented tuxedo.

That's typical of him, I think, and a fairly traditional thing to do at weddings, but I can't help thinking that you really shouldn't be flirting with the bridal party at your own wedding.

Mom is wearing a shiny, satin gown colored pale green -- the color Charlene has chosen -- and she's busy comforting and minding my father.

He's found, somewhere, a dress Army blouse and has decorated it with a pair of general's stars.

When they're past us and nearing the car, I reach into another pocket, extract a few Jordan almonds, and manage to hit the best man square in the nose.

She doesn't stir, and by the time the cigarette is done, I can make out how she looks sleeping, which is angelic.

My days are filled with leading pets from the fancy front office to the cages in the rear.

We don't deal with "exotics," so its mostly dogs and cats, and none of my attacks have been exciting, like it would be if I could point to a bobcat's clawing or where some horse kicked me.

I shuffle through the mail and, except for the envelope that was taped to my door, it's nothing but junk.

I waste some time boring myself with that but eventually the contents of the mystery envelope refuse to be ignored any longer.

It's from the company that manages my apartment and my rent is being raised the maximum allowed by law.

I had one of those miserable dreams where no one understands me.

I dry my hair and put on my makeup while eating a bagel and it's still dark when I leave my apartment to go to work.

I leave my coat in the car and my tummy is cooled during my short work into the small building in the front of the wrecking yard where I work.

"The cops want to make sure that nobody can get their car back until they pay."

Nobody else drives a Crown Victoria with plain hubcaps, nothing looks more like two plain clothes cops than two plain clothes cops.

It's about an hour before my party and everything is ready.

By "everything" I mean I've made up two dozen hamburger patties and filled the refrigerator with beer and stuff.

According to my costume they wrapped themselves in sheets, kind of like togas, that had stars and moons and leaves drawn on them with marker pens.

I'm guessing that none of the other people showing up, whether or not they're in costume, have any more of an idea than I do what a Druid looks like.

We may look pretty strange standing around the barbecue dressed like this, but I hope it's fun.

But some of Lotty's friends are coming over, and some other girls, too, and she's just letting me know I did a pretty crappy job of cleaning.

Sheila arrives, wearing an elf costume like Lotty's, and bringing two of her girl friends who have great little flowery headbands on.

For the first time today she doesn't need to change clothes and I get her out onto my slender balcony to look at the parking lot of the mini golf place next door.

"This is nice," she says and I wonder why.

She's been here about a dozen times and this view has never changed, though the cars in the lot do.

I realize that I want to throw my arm over her shoulders, pull her to me, and kiss her.

Lotty would be happy as hell if I hooked up with her friend, I'm sure, but if it got ugly it could be a disaster.

Also, perhaps because of the cold, she's been edging closer to me and it would be easier than ever for me to slip my arm around her now.

She's going to do a load of laundry at Lotty's tomorrow and the two of them will be spying on the laundry room to catch the guy.

Lotty is busy in the kitchen, fixing up some salad or something, and mumbles something about eating dinner.

It didn't matter if the subject was ice cream or video games, all Lotty and Sheila cared about was getting paid to stand around and look pretty.

Sheila begins putting her laundry in the basket, a bit more carefully than I've ever handled dirty laundry.

I think Stipple likes me because I'm good at my job, and I know the guys who work there like having me around, even if it's just to look at.

I don't mind bikini modeling or wearing sexy clothes, but I'm not going to take everything off.

Obfuscated Videos is on the second floor of a glass and stucco building that I could have designed.

The owner kid is waiting for me and I can tell by the way his face lights up that everything I'm doing, which is limited to wearing the dress, is better than wonderful.

I carefully cross my legs when he asks me to sit back down and his eyes stay on my legs while he tells me about the job.

I produce, as usual, a worse-looking shirt after ironing and nick my chin shaving.

It's not typical for me to do that, to cut myself, but I rarely shave twice the same day.

Sadly, it is typical for me to make a shirt look worse after ironing it.

Before, they're simply wrinkled, but after attacking them with an iron my shirts find the gentle folds of wrinkles replaced with sharp, hardened creases, unexpected and unwelcome.

They've either unpacked or hidden the mound of wedding gifts I'd seen at the reception and the condo is neat and tidy and has less personality than the examination rooms at the vet's office.

The happy couple lead me to the couch and a silver tray filled with sparkling glassware sits next to a crystal ice bucket and an assortment of bottles.

His best man is sitting on the couch, holding a glass of clear liquid and munching on some nuts.

She makes eyes at Roger and sits near him on a chair, but I'm warmed by seeing that Sheila noticed me immediately and made a beeline for a spot next to me on the couch.

We watched the video, which was all about some UFO crash landing in Roswell, New Mexico.

Judging from the tape, there were some aliens that died when their ship crashed, but this wasn't a cause for mourning.

Instead of grieving the loss, those who produced the video were outraged that the bodies were secreted away and hidden from the public.

The closeups all look like third generation Xerox copies of poorly lit scenes shot through a layer of gauze and the distant shots are worse.

While everyone else is busy stretching their brains, I've gone back to thinking about Sheila in that dress.

I don't know if the cops demanded it or if it was Stipple's idea, but they're doing some remodeling at the yard and building me a bullet-proof cage at the end of the parts counter.

Stipple says it will cost a small fortune, but tells me that I'm worth it.

I didn't like the metal cage at all, but I think I'll like being "blonde under glass" even worse.

The three day UFO show starts in two hours, and I've been scurrying around in my spandex dress stacking videos and unpacking the keychains and things we'll be handing out.

Sheila's been busy with the decorating part, twisting long ribbons of crepe paper and making sure our posters are level and secure.

The young owner of Obfuscated Videos, Iggy Oswalcz, is setting up TVs and VCRs and arranging the lighting.

There's a big PA announcement at ten that they're opening the doors, and we all take a last look around.

We're near the back of the floor, far away from the doors, and it takes a few minutes before any of the show's attendees make it back to our booth.

I'm getting enough attention from the rest of the crowd that I don't mind four guys not staring at my chest or trying to look at my butt.

Sheila's one of my oldest friends, and Chester's never hit on her or any of my other friends ever before.

We've never really talked about it, but none of us, not Chester, not Charlene, not me, has ever gone after any of the others' friends.

I touch up my makeup and think about calling them all and telling them to fuck off, but I just blot my lipstick and run a brush through my hair.

I wipe down the sink and toss the towel into the fucking laundry, and then I have to find a new towel and hang it up.

I think everyone's looking at it as I drive to the bar and I feel like a total loser driving a car with a big scrape.

I can feel her heart beating, my hand moves with her shallow, nighttime breathing, and by the glow of the cigarette I can just make out her head lying next to mine on the pillow.

I reach over her, run my hand over her chest, and kiss her again, this time between her shoulder blades.

This wakes her up, and she looks about in a panic before seeing my face and remembering where she is.

"You're wonderful to sleep with," I say, and kiss her forehead.

There are crusts of sleep in the corners of her eyes, which she wipes away.

I figure I have them, too, and dig my own out.

I first think of her body underneath the blankets and how much pleasure it gave me last night, then how sweet she was, how fragile and awkward at first.

I rush Sheila out to my car, apologizing like a madman about the time, and we hurry to her home.

I sit there and enjoy the post-coital, post breakfast, post being with Sheila daze I'm in, replaying last night's activities.

Part of me is hoping she is, that she's feeling as satisfied and spent as I am, but that part is continually being shouted down by the worrisome voice of Lotty and reason.

I loved holding Sheila, discovering her breasts and what makes her tremble and how she looked with her hair plastered to her forehead and her upper lip dotted with tiny woman sweat.

The bed's still tossled, mocking me with its rude display of the recent past and carrying the scent of Sheila and of sex.

I check my hem and everything in the full lenghth mirror behind my bedroom door, and the dress looks as good on me as it did yesterday.

I present the pass Lotty gave me at the ticket window and the woman behind the glass barely looks up as she slides my visitor badge into the trough under the glass that keeps her safe from people like me.

I spy the banner and see a pair of women in shiny silver dresses and immediately stare down at my peace offering of liquid refreshment.

I look up, hoping to look sheepish, and see Sheila waving at me over the heads of the people all around me.

Lotty comes over, places her hands on her hips, arms akimbo, and glares at me before breaking into a bright and welcoming smile.

I'm really glad she's teasing me, too, since I fully expected to be met by a block of ice.

I slink to a corner of the booth, nod again at Iggy, and watch everyone talk to his silver attractions.

They're working the crowd, instilling and dashing hopes and fantasies, and tossing Iggy the occasional sale when I see Charlene turning heads in the distance.

Walking just behind Charlene is Roger, who I could have pleasantly spent a few more days withhout seeing.

I don't pay him very much attention because walking next to him is a smiling and bouncing Nelva.

The last time I saw her she was naked in my arms and while she doesn't look quite that available right now, she strikes me as being every bit as tempting.

We find the food court, which is even more crowded than the eight most popular UFO booths combined.

I hand her a beer and smile, which makes me the only one showing teeth.

"This is Tonino," she says, pointing at the swarthy, tattooed display of muscles that's glaring down at me.

I've seen more of Tonino this past week than I have Sheila, and I haven't talked with Chester at all.

It's nearly a two hour drive, so it's not real close, and this will be our first little trip together.

He walks directly past the noisy slots, ignoring the people sitting there pumping in coins, and heads directly for a 21 table.

I haven't seen or heard from Lotty in a week but everyone tells me she's fine.

It hasn't been bad, though, since I've been spending most of my spare time with Sheila, and that's quite a bit more pleasant than being with my sister, anyway.

I'd hoped the three of us could get together this weekend but when I mentioned it to Sheila she looked at me as if I were trying to buy tickets for a Concorde flight.

"She and Tonino are going to Temecula to one of those Indian casinos."

Tonight we're heading back to the Beanery.

I pick her up and she has a little overnight bag, so I'm guessing the Beanery is already working its magic.

When Charlene and Vince arrive they've brought Roger with them, which makes my night complete.

They order some fancy-ass beers nobody's ever heard of, but the Beanery is famous for having several hundred different brands.

"I heard the guy on the grassy knoll used an ice bullet," Charlene says.

Roger comes back, towing with him a short woman who made the mistake of wearing the clothes that fit when she was thinner.

I don't recall her ever looking better even though she's dressed in a pair of sloppy jeans and an oversized sweater and has no makeup on.

She gets in and drives off and she never looks at me, not even a wave.

I'm sitting on the edge of my bed in the dark nursing the last of my drink when my phone rings.

I look okay, but my left front tooth is loose and washing my face with water does nothing to firm it up.

I think of calling Charlene but am afraid of getting lectured, so I call mom.

It's not that there's anything freaky going on between my sisters and me, but I've always talked to them a lot, always knew what was going on.

I park poorly on the street, nowhere near the curb, and hurry up to Lotty's door.

Lotty says she didn't tell Sheila anything, didn't tell her what to do.

"But remember," she says, "I told you it could get ugly."

"I don't remember that," I say, and I don't.

The last one I had died, and I hate going to new dentists.

I could have gone today, but I can't really call my tooth an emergency: it doesn't hurt that much and I know it has to be yanked.

I'm not drinking for taste, I'm not drinking for appearance, I want to get drunk, plastered, shitfaced, and not have to worry about anything ever again.

They say you have a problem if you drink alone, and I have lots of problems.

If I compare this to being bitten by a dog, the dog bite wins.

I think of each of those fillings as a personal failing, and when the dentist or his helpers stare into my mouth, I'm ashamed.

There's a pharmacy downstairs, which doesn't surprise me, and I drop the slip on the counter, nursing my swollen mouth.

They look a few things up, or do whatever the hell it is that pharmacists do to make you think it takes fifteen minutes to put some pills in a bottle, and I wander around the tiny store with a mouth full of bloody cotton.

I'm still numb, so I drink a little water for the fun of dribbling, and smile in the mirror.

I was always the one she needed, the one she depended on, and it hurts that she's now going about her business, handling her bumps, with other people's help and not mine.

For nearly thirty years I've been the savior, the protector, shielding the popular twins from the unpleasantness of life.

They're not a bad bunch of guys, most of them, but they are guys and every one of them has talked about my sisters.

I hope to find out more today when we head down to Temecula for my wardrobe check with Treeson Productions, those fight people.

She's luck to have one of those male bosses who don't want to get involved with cramps and periods, and who just take "woman problems" as a valid excuse for a day off.

This is the first time Sheila and I have been alone together for close to a month, and it's a little uncomfortable at first because she's so different.

I have no idea how I'm supposed to eat Charlene's dinner without my tooth and even less of one about why I let myself be talked into accepting the invitation.

I'm thinking of Vince while I attack another shirt with my iron.

I remove one crease only by creating two others and resign myself to only looking presentable from the left rear.

I still haven't brushed my teeth, and the thought of the stiff bristles getting anywhere near the socket gives me the willies.

I've been good about following the diet, have been sadly distant from any potential sucking situations, and never had much use for straws, anyway.

If Vince and Charlene can bring a friend, I want to bring Sheila.

The second trouble I have with Roger is that he's slowly stealing everyone away from me.

After Charlene talked me into showing up with the promise of lots of soup, she mentioned she'd talked to Lotty and had changed her mind about missing the affair, too.

I kiss Charlene on the cheek, tell her she looks good in her little suede dress, and hand her the flowers.

Behind her, in a simple white cotton shirt and a lime green skirt, is Sheila.

I can see Sheila squirming in her chair, trying to get comfortable, and get a momentary glimpse up her legs.

I turn my chair toward the TV, away from that tempting and agonizing sight that draws my eyes like my tongue to the empty socket of my missing tooth.

"Chester never notices anything except himself," Lotty says.

"If it wasn't for the international food conglomerates, we'd never have to buy seed."

There's some new giraffe or antelope or something and thousands of people are fulfilling a lifetime longing by coming to the zoo to see it.

Sheila and I have been busy in the reptile cage, of all places, looking at lizards and snakes.

I, myself, have no desire to walk snakes, or do whatever you have to do to keep them in shape.

We wander out of the reptile enclosure and avoid the crowds by looking at birds.

They're like having a monkey with wings.

I'm not sure if I'm more attracted to the idea of a bird that kills or if I just like the little leather hood they wear.

"I want to go to Lotty's fight tonight," I say.

"It's her first night and I want to be there."

It's the first time I've mentioned my sister, the one I think is very pissed at me.

She's been under the skin of a number of our conversations, but neither Sheila nor I have brought the subject of Lotty up.

I go up to the counter and sound like a total idiot asking for the seats closest to where the ring girls are.

That's five hundred dollars to see my sister walk around in a bathing suit holding a sign.

I'm not trying to show her off, not to anyone except the crowd, but I want Lotty to see that the three of us can co-exist, just like us three triplets did.

They're dressed in flashy outfits that I guess will match their boxer's colors and they're busy with things needed to keep a man standing up after being socked for half an hour.

We're looking up the aisle that leads to the back, where the boxers will come out, when I see Lotty wearing a dressing robe and walking with a shorter Mexican woman.

They fight, and when they're done the Mexican girl slips off her robe and shows a might fine ass.

"She's my sister," I tell him. I look back and Lotty's smiling down on the cheering crowd, her real smile, not the hostess one. She's looking glamorous and sexy as all get out. "She's my triplet."

Summarized by Copernic Summarizer