Works by
Mike Fowler
"A Brief History of Machismo, with Attention to the Male Mystique."
"Last Dance."
"The Nouveau Shelter for the Rich."
"An Exhibition of the Instruments of Some Famous Musicians, Except the Musicians Are Ordinary Workers."
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Why I Won’t Go Out With You, Betty Stamper
By Mike Fowler
Betty, I knew you were a phony even before you asked me to go out with you. Something about that framed picture of Brad Pitt you set up on your desk. Yeah, that he allegedly signed “To Betty, Love Bradd,” when the photo was obviously downloaded from the web and signed by you. I mean, I’d already been working with you for a month and easily recognized your illiterate scrawl on the picture. Besides, Brad only has one “d.” I looked it up. What a pathetic deceit. Or should I say “ddeceit?” Nice frame, though.
Remember the day we left work and went to your place so I could check out the stereo system you had up for sale? That was the day my alarm bells really started to ring. You drove me over at noon in your 1993 Escort, and what a surprise when I climbed inside. Your instrument panel was way too high tech, containing a tachometer, oil pressure gauge, some kind of voltmeter, a few temperature gizmos, and what looked like an altimeter. For a minute I didn’t know if we were driving or flying. Then it hit me. The instruments were made out of cardboard with black Sharpee calibrations. I kept staring at needles that didn’t budge, and then I looked out the front window at the circular hood ornament you’d attached with glue. Catching on, I had to comment.
“I plan to own a Mercedes myself someday, maybe a Mercedes airplane like yours. This brand new?”
Smiling, you replied that you liked to get a new car every year, and that you were upgrading to an Italian model maybe next week. So I guessed you were cutting out new dials at home based on Alfa Romeo panels, and that in a few days you would have them taped up in the Escort to take away the shame of cracked plastic seats and a taped-up garbage bag in lieu of one window in the back. I was tempted to ask if you were importing some Italian rust to replace the Detroit decay, but I didn’t.
We arrived at your place, and before we went inside you had to show me your magnificent vegetable garden out back. It was the source of much pride, you said. I agree, it was impressive at first glance, the large succulent melons on the ground, some split right down the center and showing their red ripeness, and the lemons hanging from your oak tree. But it was obvious by the stickers still on the fruit, and the strings supporting the citrus on the oak, that you had simply visited the produce department at Kroger and laid it all out on your lawn with fallen twigs and other trash to resemble vines, evidently with idea of impressing people, especially Green Acres types like me who love the earth. It nearly worked. I had to stare hard at those fruits and veggies, but I finally put two and two together, and you know what, Betty? You’re a fake.
“You’re almost a farmer,” I replied with mock appreciation. “And look how the melons grow already sliced for eating. Do you use chemical fertilizer or real manure on your grape bushes?”
With a shrug you said it didn’t matter what you did, everything grew perfectly with the least attention or encouragement from you. You didn’t even water the damn plants, you said. You were that good. Uh huh.
We then went inside where you showed me a display case full of trophies that you supposedly won for high school, collegiate, and in some cases brief professional careers in volleyball, basketball, golf, bowling, tennis and debate. At first I gasped, I was so impressed, but then I put on my thinking cap. These had to be department store or pawnshop trophies, since they either had no name engraved on them or someone else’s name. I mean, whoever Becky Thompson is, she’s one heck of an athlete, but she isn’t you. You’re Betty Stamper, remember?
Having been forewarned by the Pitt picture, I wasn’t too surprised to find the wall beside the trophy case lined with autographed photos of such world-historical figures as Hemingway, Ruth, Lincoln, Twain and Einstein, all with personal inscriptions to 20-year-old Betty Stamper in red Sharpee. For maybe one second, I bit, and stopped breathing. But then it was, “Now hold on…”
”Girl, you get around,” I pretended to marvel, getting wise.
You told me I was in luck, you were a gourmet cook and we could lunch on leftovers from last night’s authentic French feast that you had prepared for our boss and his family. We went into the kitchen and you quickly laid out what you termed foie gras and chateaubriand, but I figured out it was KFC wings and slaw. Know how? What gave away the game was when you opened the door to your fridge and I glimpsed the paper buckets with the Colonel’s portrait all over them. Caught you! And like the boss would eat at your place when all you do is file and answer the phone. I was right on top of that little lie.
“Delicious.” I dripped scorn, chewing a rubbery but no doubt once crispy wing. “I adore genuine French cuisine. You should have your own show on the Food Network.”
Eating some cold mashed potatoes with a plastic fork, you nodded your head and smiled. I was waiting for you to pour me a coke from a can labeled Rothschild in blue crayon or something, but I did appreciate the pop. Your smile at my common taste in beverages was a bit condescending, especially when you said the goblet you served my drink in was fine Waterford crystal. Something clicked when you said that, though, and I soon enough realized it was a mayonnaise jar. I’m not stupid.
After this repast, you had me admire the Elvis-on-velvet portrait in the hall on which you had inscribed “Picasso,” in green Sharpee for a change. After I solved that one, you told me to admire the Phoenician lamp and Etruscan sofa in your living room. I was still scratching my head over those when you demonstrated the stereo I had come to look at. You showed me a child’s boom box with missing knobs that you had stuck a Bose label on. Was I fooled? Only for a minute. I was about to write you a check for $500 when I realized Bose didn’t manufacture anything this low-end. But I have to admit you know your brand names.
When I said the stereo seemed a tad overpriced and suggested you auction it on eBay as a Mesopotamian tape deck pre-owned by Hammurabi, I didn’t expect you to come back with an offer of dinner out that night. But it won’t do, Betty, not for this man. What I demand in a woman above all is honesty. So the answer must be no, forever no, and please stop sending me e-mails at work addressed to “Tadd.”
Not yours,
Tad (one “d”)
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