I’ve been seeing Dolly lately. Almost daily, down at ‘The New Deli’. She seemed to have plenty of time to dally with the customers. So a couple days ago I asked her what her job was exactly, as she spread out the crocheted tablecloth on my favorite table.
“I’m their duly-appointed doily-hander-outer.” she sighed, dully. “Used to mend socks, did a good
business you know, but folks now-a-days be jus’ throwin’ ’em away.”
Dolly looked hauntingly wistful.
“Well, topologically, a sock is just a warped doily, Dolly, and so…um..” I mumbled, wondering myself what the relevance could be, but hoping it would cheer her up. And it must’ve, ’cause she SMS-ed me that very night:
“Darn sox. XOXO/ Dolly” on my clunky 1st-generation cell-phone.
I took my time pondering how to answer. Finally:
“Yes, they never stay together in the washer. Whassup?”
“I’m done here. Last straw.” she messaged me right back.
Ok, I didn’t want to feel responsible for her decision; I mean, I hardly knew her…at the time. Last Thursday. Jeez, that seems like ages ago now that we’re ‘itemized’.
“Mebbe they’ll buy more straws?” I asked, flubbing the question-mark three times on the stupid key-pad.
“Meet me across the street Ok.” she sent back.
No question mark, so I took it as an imperative, found two socks that kinda matched ,and ran the three blocks just so I’d be impressively breathless. Girls with die-for breasts like that, unless I’m wrong.
I wasn’t. She spoke conspiratorily close to my ear:
“Some guy calls, says ‘New Deli, huh,’? you-uns serve Indian?” she half-whispered into my cochlea.
“So?” I wanted more.
“So I’m like, ‘Sure, whatever.’ but he goes ‘Is that Indian or, you know, indian Indian?‘”
“Oy. So whadya tell him?” I wanted her, if only for the incense.
“I put him on hold and walked out!” Dolly bragged, tickling my ear.
“That was like, two hours ago?” I felt a need to time-stamp the events.
“Yeah, and I bet he’s hungry.” Dolly said, this time with her tongue in my ear. I got the message.
I’ll leave out chapter two. Lots of clever banter, innuendo, the usual routine, not too much fun to read as an ‘observer’. Inspires jealousy actually. So thank me for excising it.And fast forward to our ‘falling out’.
Chapter Four: ‘Falling Out’
Yes, sometime near the end of the ensuing four hours of horizontal calisthentics my rickety bed-frame collapsed under the strain of our relationship. We wound up laughing in a pile of mismatched socks on the carpet, a project I’d been putting off for several months.
Oh, and by that time I knew she wasn’t a Jewess, although she’d given me the distinct impression… Here in Israel that’s 18 months in the slammer. Luckily it was only after I’d turned her on her tummy for ‘Act III’ that I’d seen the tattoo. A beautifully-drawn ‘Z’ on her lower back. Aha, a Zoroastrian. Zarathustrian? Zebra? Doesn’t matter, Jews don’t get tattoos. Says so right there in Leviticus. So I knew I had something on her. Which leads into the next chapter.
“We can either ‘mend’ the bed or mend our evil ways.” I said with a tired, spent, but
richly-invested smile, whatever that means…
“The bed” she cooed without thinking twice. “First things first.”
And so we took Elmer’s glue, ‘borrowed Dr. Neuman’s wood-filler, and after an hour of intensive sweat-equity, conscripted Ben and Jerry’s Ice Cream. Thieves like us. The point I was most interested in making, over ‘Chocolate Chip Madness’ was to nail down who was the ‘mender’ and who, the ‘co-mender’. I gave in easily. Commendably
“Dolly, I owe you one.” were my exact words. Hands between her legs, she smiled: ‘Tomorrow’.
But dear reader, I had not for naught introduced the root-word ‘MEND’. No, as a long-time student of women’s issues, I’d cunningly placed my ducks in a row. Ready for the following dialogue:
“So, we’ll call our venture ‘D’ and ‘Y’ Socks 4 Success’ “she stated the ‘obvious’... to her.
To wit: we were now, as DNA-co-donors, committed to a joint enterprise, a reprise of her fabled sock-darning bizness. But with a gay name? I was ready:
“‘DANDY SOCKS’? Meh, sounds like ‘pantaloons’.” What, there are enough ‘feigele’s in this town to make a living off of?” I was just warming up.
“I’m in, but only if we call it “Me ‘n ‘D’ Socks” Nobody has to know that you’re the chief ‘mender’, and I’m just your boy-toy ‘co-mender’.” Hell, all the local natives want is stockings without holes, in the end. It’s simple topology. And anyway, we can guarantee our work. A free ‘Re-co-mend’ if for any reason the hole returns within three months…”
“Three months is a long time.” Dolly said, doing her best to look business-like naked. All I could think of was three months of carefully or carelessly-knitted climaxes. ‘No head for business’, they always said about me. Mea Culpa.
“Darn socks.” I chanted, as Dolly inventoried my ‘Fall collection’ on the floor. A job, I somehow never guessed, best done nekkid.
Wu: So what’s the difference between a fantasy and a reminisce?
Me: Oh, pretty much the same as the difference between a duck.
Wu: This happened?
Me: Well, her name wasn’t Dolly. So nix the part about the deli and the doilies
Wu: Among other details?
Me: Ok, mebbe, but the socks. Yes, there were socks on the floor, I recall.
Wu: Wow, what a storied life you have!