Week 2 – Fancy Me
| The Potato Head Principle by Bernard Heise
Revlon’s development of the Mr. Potato Head principle for human applications had revolutionized the beauty industry, and kits were now available from a number of manufacturers. They could be bought cheaply at Costco and Sam’s Club, but you had to be wary of ones that were made in Pakistan and the Szechwan province of China, for they reportedly caused gangrene. In the mornings, Jerry would shuffle down the stairs and take his place in the greasy diner below his apartment run by the Polish lady. And carrying his breakfast, she would greet him with a different face each time – one day with eyes that were big, round and accentuated by heavy lashes, the next with glistening star-shaped pupils and no irises at all. Her nose might be flat and broad or long and thin, and sometimes it would dangle. Some mornings her ears would be pinned flat to her head, but other times she would accessorize with auricles that fanned the air. “Do you fancy me today?” she’d ask him with a smile, sometimes toothy, sometimes not. “It’s not quite right,” he’d inevitably respond, though her look quite often turned him on. They’d laugh, their flirting done with for the day. And he would polish off his eggs, sausages and toast, read the comics in the Vancouver Sun, and leave a fistful of dollars on the table. Then he’d shuffle off to work at the pickle factory, wondering whether he would recognize any of his friends.
Our Kind of Cheese by Martin Brick “I don’t like that one either,” pronounces the boy, as his father holds a plain, crewneck sweater. “Are you going to like anything?” He’d vetoed twenty. “Sweaters are for fancy boys.” “Okay, I understand with the argyle ones, but this is hunter green. Hunter. Nothing fancy-boy about that.” “Why can’t I just wear my hoodie?” “Because sometimes in life you have to be fancy. Meeting daddy’s friend Lorraine is one of those times. She’s taking us to a fancy restaurant. Isn’t that cool?” “I’d rather go to a place we like.” “Lorraine wants it to be special. She wants you to like her.” “Well, I don’t like Lorraine.” “Now, how do you know that without meeting her?” He plays at the carpeting with the toe of his sneaker. “Daniel. What makes you think you won’t like Lorraine?” He looks at everything around him except his dad, even checks out a sweater. Finally, “Does she make you eat things you don’t wanna eat?” “Huh? No. Why?” “She likes to eat smelly cheese.” “How do you know what kind of cheese she likes?” “I find wrappers in the trash, and little scraps. Always after I have a sitter. So I know you see Lorraine and then bring her back after I’m asleep and she makes you eat fancy cheese, not the orange stuff we like.” Now the father is quiet. “She changes you, makes you fancy. Mom liked our kind of cheese. I don’t want to change. Or you.”
The Microseconds by Christian Bell Do you fancy me is what she asked me. Now, in the intervening microseconds, I ponder my answer, as I’ve asked another woman the same question who hasn’t yet answered me (though, being a schmuck, I was willing to give her time); perhaps she’s also asked a different man and so on, an infinite chain of unrequited fancying. She’s asked me this and, only now, I realize it wasn’t wise to date multiple women simultaneously, as this is the typical conundrum in which you inevitably find yourself. Yes, I fancy her, would be my answer, but not like I do the other woman who if she fancied me would make my world perfect. Of course, I’m here in this moment, this woman before me, and based on her tilted head and raised eyebrows, she’s expecting an immediate answer, so I can’t stop, make a call and ask, well? If I say, no, I don’t fancy you, then I risk losing her and, if the other woman says the same to me, I have nobody. My mother always said, don’t settle for second best. But she and dad met in high school, lived happily ever after. The world then was infinite interlocking couples, not this infinite chain of incompletion I imagine circles the globe. Microseconds are accumulating into uncomfortable pause. Her head is moving the other direction. Her lips are closing tight. A bead of sweat, an eye blink, just answer the question.
Fancy Me by R. G. MacLeod Yes she does. They all do. I glanced up when Mona came in. “I’ll be with you shortly,” I say, “just stuffing Mrs. Pennywhistle’s loins.” Mrs. Pennywhistle turned to her and remarked: “Mr. Johnson has a way with my loins, they’re always so moist and tender. And just last week Mr. Pennywhistle came home as I was laying my breasts out on the counter and he remarked on how big and plump and firm they were, so much nicer than before I started coming to Mr. Johnson for my needs. I then told Mr. Pennywhistle that if he liked my breasts, he should see my rump and thighs.” Mona smiled at Mrs. Pennywhistle then turned to me. “I hope you’ll be able to satisfy me as well as you do Mrs. Pennywhistle.” “I keep all of the women in this town quite happy, makes their husbands as well.” So many men bought pints to thank me for servicing their wives. Only yesterday Jimmy Theakston bought me four rounds raving about how his wife loves my big juicy sausage. “Oh, and your balls are exquisite,” he said, “so moist and tender, almost too big to fit in my mouth.” Mrs. Pennywhistle left, Mona said “I need a big bone for my schnauzer.” As I got my bone near the back door I looked at the “A” and “T” that had fallen from my sign and wondered when I’d have the time to re-hang them. |
Forward to Wk #3 – Little Worlds
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