In which Citizen Jim arrives with his feelings hurt over Chicken Sheets's "book deal"...
R.I.P. Wally Amos
"Are you going to answer the doors?" Miss Mabel said, lifting a throw pillow and getting it ready to launch it at me. "Or do I have to do everything around here?"
We'd been watching TV and fighting—as usual—over whether we would watch "Antiques Road Show" or the E! "True Hollywood Story" about Charo.
A "Road Show" fan for a long time, Miss Mabel seems to think that anyone who's lived in America as long as Charo has should know more of our language than the words "hoochie," "koochie," and "koo." I, on the other hand, get tired of seeing all the faggots on that antiques show every week.
We did agree that she would answer the side door and I would answer the front door of the duplex we rented, which, in retrospect, was the wrong decision for many reasons.
I opened the door to find our 650-pound neighbor, Vera, decked out in her nightgown. She was holding a piece of pizza aloft and flaring her nostrils. "Do you know whose Hummer that is parked out there?"
I looked off to the side and shrugged.
"Because they're blocking the alleyway."
"I don't know who it is," I said, and slammed the door in her face.
"And I've got tax return customers who'll need to stop in front of the house!" she shouted.
Miss Mabel and I came into the room at the same time, and said in unison, "Who was it?"
I just cocked my thumb at the wall that separated our half of the duplex from Vera's.
"Well, when I answered the door it was Citizen Jim wanting to know where he could park. I told him he could use the Rite Aid parking lot since it's always empty," she said.
The Rite Aid was about six blocks up the street. By the time Citizen Jim made it back, he'd be frozen stiff and ready to knock my block off. I was thinking about this as another knock sounded on the front door, echoed by a pounding on the side door. "I'll take care of Vera," Miss Mabel said, and headed for the front door.
By the time I got to the kitchen door, I could hear the POW!, WHAP!, and ZONK! sounds of Vera's getting her ass thumped by Miss Mabel. They rolled out into the yard and across the alleyway.
"That catfight better not put any scratches on my new car!" Citizen Jim said when I opened the door. "And I'm not leaving it anywhere out of my sight. A hybrid Hummer is a hard vehicle to find, you know, and it cost me a fucking fortune! People are always trying to steal mine, mainly because it's worth a $100,000 tax deduction. God bless President Bush!"
"I'm glad to see you," I said, opening my arms to embrace him.
"Yeah yeah. Likewise, I'm sure," he muttered. "My feelings are very hurt, just in case you give a shit about things like that, which I know you don't, never have, and never will."
"But why?"
"Because you're a cold-blooded BITCH, that's why!"
"No, no. Why are your feelings hurt?"
"You didn't even tell me about that book deal you got from Lulu.com," he said. "After all we've been through together, I had to find out by Googling your stupid name!"
"Oh, Precious Lamb, I didn't get a book deal," I said, then laughed. "You know I'm not a good enough writer for that. I've had every manuscript I've ever written rejected multiple times by so many agents I can't even remember all their names."
From inside his Arctic windbreaker, Citizen Jim produced a slim, trade paperback-sized tome and waved it in front of me. "Well, then, what the hell is this, Missy? Is that not your name on the cover? Is that not the stupid title you gave your manuscript two years ago?"
"Yes, but—"
He opened the book and pointed to a random spot on the page. "And are these not all the same stupid names for characters I told you were so annoying?"
I shrugged. "Yes, yes, all of the above. But I didn't get a book deal," I insisted.
He brought the spine of the book crashing down on the top of my head. "This is a book! What's the deal?"
"On a lark, I self-published my manuscript with that print-on-demand outfit. Nobody paid me. In fact, what you just hit me with must be the second of only two copies of the book ever sold," I said. "I'll buy it from you for two dollars."
"I'll sell it to you for $3.50. But then you need to be buying up thousands of copies from that publisher and taking it around to bookstores and radio stations and the local news channels."
"Thanks for the advice, but I don't think so," I said, shaking my head. "Why don't you come in and have a cup of hot cocoa?"
"Hot cocoa, my ASS! You need to do the Vanity Press Shuffle, sister, and get moving on trying to sell this book. You could be a great self-published success story, just like Famous Amos!" he said, slugging my arm and hitting me again with the spine of Big Trouble in Little Cudgel.
"Yeah, okay," I said. "If you want to come in and watch the Charo 'True Hollywood Story' on E!, you're welcome to. Otherwise—"
"Fuck Charo! I can paint my Hummer with the stupid title of that book and we'll go out on a tour! Come on!"
I shut the door in his face and returned to the living room. Miss Mabel was sitting on the couch eating from a Papa John's pizza box. I noticed that a huge clump of hair was missing from the left side of her head, but she was smiling. "I took care of Vera," she said.
"Well, I sent Jim on his way," I said, sitting back down on the couch. "Where'd you get that pizza?"
"I tied Vera up with clothesline and stuffed her in the back of that tank Jim's driving around."
"Good," I said, staring at the TV.
"Yeah," Miss Mabel said.
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