Sunday, March 30, 2008

The Dumpster Gods Must Be Crazy, Part 4 of 8

The young lady I was holding up by the back of her blouse collar was a beautiful, 5'2" blond: a heart-shaped face, Janet (not Michael) Jackson nose, tight, youthful skin, eye color to be determined if she ever opened her eyes. And lips. My God, what beautiful, full, pouty, Mediteranean lips. Succulent lips. Lips that should do lipstick commercials.

She had dried puke running from the side of her mouth down the front of her gray/pink blouse. She had that old mayonnaise smell that Ecstasy abusers exude, or maybe it was just the dumpster detritus in her skewed-to-one-side perm. The dumpster had skewed her coiffed blond hair to one side of her head, I reasoned. No one would PAY for a do this hideous.

I was struck by the contrast between her beautiful young face and the trashy condition of her haute couture wardrobe. I pulled back the little collar label on her blouse, holding the mostly motionless little blond up as if she were a shirt I was thinking about purchasing in the men's section of a J.C. Penny's, and sure enough, the label was Christian Dior.

"We certify that this article has been manufactured according to the most rigorous quality standards, and in conformity with the image of our brand name," the label read.

I was feeling much more at ease with the situation now that I had a firm hand on it, now that I could touch it and feel it and see that it was real and tangible instead of ethereal and spooky. Anything I can put my hands on, I can control, one way or another.

I read the label again and thought, "In conformity with the image of our brand name" : wouldn't they be proud to see their product in it's current usage?! I do that sometimes: think in stilted language. It's a defense mechanism, I think.

"Ma'am, are you all right?" I asked as I gently shook the pukey cadaver.

She was way too young for me to be calling her 'ma'am', but when I'm in uniform I call everyone 'sir', 'ma'am' or, if I'm about to thump them, 'thefuck' (as in 'thefuck you want?' or 'thefuck you say' or ' thefuck I will').

Streaked mascara webbed out of this young woman's closed eyes like the black tears of a dead clown. I grabbed her bare shoulders and shook gently.

"Ma'am, are you all right?"
She looked angelic, in an evil sort of way. "Ma'am, are you all right?"

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