Always a bridesmaid…but that’s okay.
She wakes up and throws on a football femodified football jersey and some Dickey’s painter pants. She slides her slender feet into some wedges, ties her hair back, and looks in the mirror. She doesn’t see herself, only a flash of ephemeral emerald as her bright eyes turn away before the self-snapshot can register. Her shiny dark brown hair contained in its elastic, she flips it to the side, flicking her emerald eyes so that she is forced to rub them.
Having always been shy, she sneaks into her hard-earned Saturn as if she were a guest there. Though the seat hugs her body like a loyal linebacker, she turns the key, takes a breath, and curls her purple painted toes as she presses on the gas pedal.
The streets in The Valley are unusually moist. North Hollywood attracts porn shoots like black suits attract cat hair. Alison thinks of Fluffy. Her white longhair has eyes like hers. She should be in a kitty commercial. Ally smiles to herself, her own eye whiskers whipping up mini tornadoes as she bats them happily, like Fluffy’s twitching moustache in a sardine store.
Allison reaches the rented house on Hatteras Street. The crew was already in place. They had been shooting for an hour, calling Allison in at the last minute. She parks and walks through the door.
The lights are hot. She spies her purpose. Anna Bananal is rolling in mica flakes to make her personality sparkle more. Her plastic bubbles are straining gill slits along the sides of her chest. Ally likes Anna, but only because she has the power to accept people exactly as they are, a talent that has brought her to her purpose at the Hatteras house. Lassiter Vegasi is flaccid.
Lassiter is oiled, primed and buff to boulders. His wet arms slide along his ribcage like a Lincoln Continental driving over a wingless fuselage. He looks at her with pleading eyes.
“The consternation accumulated by the constant regurgitation of seemingly dissimilar values causes the aggregate masses to coalesce in an uncomfortable stockpile of freeform nihilism, including the acceptance of a deity only as a reconciliation of misanthropic anthropomorphism,” Allison whispers into Lassiter’s ear.
“Oh,” he groans, his baby greens floating to the back of his head while the rest of him hardens like resin.
Allison touches him, her words floating around Lassiter’s head like acid birds as she feels him back to life with her wetsoft hands. She dumps more non-sequitur piles of verbosity in his ear cups. He can almost see out of the back of his head.
Anna looks on, jealous of the green-eyed goddess with no make-up, purple toes, and tomboy clothes. Lassiter shoots an adversarial look at Anna. You can’t do this, he thinks at her. He bends down and licks Ally’s arches with Lancelot-like reverence, baiting Anna for angry sex in the next scene with his fiery eyeballs. Ally pats him on the head and kisses his bowed braincase like an Elizabeth.
Lass returns his head to the job at hand, bending Anna over for the next scene’s backdoor action. Cameras roll. A people person, Ally sneaks over where Anna can see and blows her a genuine kiss. She whispers in her ear, “Antidisestablishmentarianism.” Anna lets out a gushy “Oh!” as Lassiter thoughtlessly impales her.
Allison collects her check, smiling at herself in the hall mirror as she leaves. Her name would never appear in lights, but she got palpable satisfaction from her work. She would wash her hands and relive the entire encounter in the privacy of her own home, knowing her lovers were still sweating out their difficulties on satin sheets, mica flakes finding their way into dark places, too.
Other than her phone number, Allison’s business card read only, “Fluffer”. She was good and sweet, like marshmallow cream.