nothing and everything
by Sharon Bippus
It’s a Friday after work and we’re hanging out at Wally’s, waiting for the lingerie show to start. We’re two guys past our prime looking for a thrill. Women walk around Wally’s wearing teddies, see-through-crotchless things. They wear pantyhose underneath, so they aren’t exactly naked. They sit on your lap, flirt a little, get you to buy a raffle ticket to win the piece of lace they’re wearing.
We’d been working on a gutted-out rehab on Cornelia. I did trim and Smitty hammered. He had a place on Beacon, a third floor walk-up that I had only heard about. No furniture. No dishes or silverware. A mattress left by a squatter. The door didn’t lock but that was okay because Smitty said he didn’t have anything to steal.
After our second beer, Smitty says, “Well, Mac, I got to tell you something. Denise is back.”
“Denise? Your ex-wife?” I say. That can’t be right. I’d known Smitty over a year now and all he’d never done was rant on about how she’s the devil’s bitch. Which I must say, has always been a bit entertaining.
“She says she ain’t got no place to live.” He turns his head from side to side as he talks, trying to mimic her. “She hurt her back and can’t work. She got mugged and her purse got took.” He looks at me. “I told her right out, ‘No luxuries.’ I turned off the hot water. Put the fucking toilet paper under the kitchen sink. That bitch ain’t getting comfortable. She ain’t staying.”
The bell above the door rings and two of the girls, Donna and Sandy, come in. They’re wearing down parkas and carrying Jewel shopping bags. They nod to Louie, the bartender, and then head into the women’s bathroom.
“I thought you two weren’t talking.”
Smitty stares into empty space. “We don’t talk. She comes around at night. We do the thing, and then I push her off.”
Tickets for the girls are a buck a piece and the jukebox takes quarters. There’s maybe ten, twelve, guys here, mostly regulars. I get some change from Louie. Donna comes out of the bathroom, wearing a red teddy. She starts strolling around the tables. Somebody’s put Prince on the jukebox and the girls start to dance to “Raspberry Beret” and another one joins them that I don’t know. She’s got her hair on top of her head and her nipples show through the blue mesh covering them. Sandy’s wearing a pink corset thing with garters. And a g-string. Her ass looks pretty fine.
“That bitch brought home chocolate cake and just left it there on the kitchen counter. A whole fucking cake. White tray, plastic lid, taped shut. Three layers. Dark chocolate ganache with truffles on top. Jesus.” He points his index finger at me. “And I’m not eating it. I’m not falling for her shit.”
Sandy dances my way and stands with her boob about a half inch from my face. “You want to buy a few tickets, Mac?” I’m finishing up my third beer and feeling generous. Sandy’s been here off and on for about six months. I kind of like her smile. I stare at her chest and then into her eyes and give her a smile back. She puts her hand on my shoulder and I can smell her hair, flowery like herbal shampoo. I pull out my wallet. “Give me a five and I’ll give you a little hip action.” I hand Sandy a ten and she shimmies in front of me. “Ten tickets. Ten chances to win.” She finishes her shimmy and dances over to the next guy.
Somebody’s quarter buys “Welcome to the Jungle” and a guy in the back stands up and plays air guitar. There’s four girls here now and each of them has cornered a dude. The new girl starts to undo a guy’s pants, which is definitely a no-no. Louie calls out over Axl’s raspy hollering and shakes his finger her way, and she steps back. I head over to the jukebox and pick out a couple rock classics with a heavy beat. It’s that kind of night.
Back at the barstool, Smitty doesn’t seem to even notice I’ve left and goes on babbling about Denise. “I come home and what is she doing? She’s sitting on the floor with the damn cake in front of her. And she starts eating it with her hands. Mother fucker. And she’s looking at me and licking her fingers. Damn that bitch. And then she says to me, ‘You want a piece, Smitty boy?’ And damn, that witch is smooth and the smell of chocolate cake is all over, crawling up my nostrils, climbing into my eye sockets. And then shit, I’m down on the floor with her. Mac, I can’t take it no more. She’s pushing cake into my mouth and I’m pushing cake back into her face just the same. And it’s like we’re drunk on cake.”
He’s in a trance now with his eyes all glassy. “We’re naked on the floor and spreading frosting and filling all over our faces, shit, all over, and Denise ain’t moving anymore, she’s just staring at the ceiling and cooing. She’s in a fucking cake coma.” And then he turns to me. “You getting this, Mac? You following me?” He stops talking.
Nobody can step over the edge like Smitty. I give him a serious look, then take another swig of my beer. “Keep going, don’t stop.” He starts to laugh, a hard laugh, almost a roar. I let out my own kind of cackle. Louie yells out that it’s last call for tickets. I call the new girl over, thinking I’ll help her out tonight. She heads my way with her nipples all high and tight. “One last chance,” she says, and I reach for my wallet.
Photo of Sharon Bippus
BIO: Sharon Bippus’ stories have been published in many journals including The Jelly Fish Review, The Dunes Review, Pinch, The Bear River Review and most recently, Making Waves, which nominated her piece, “Pinkie Said,” for a Pushcart Prize. In 2023, Sharon’s short story collection, This Blue Earth, won the Michigan Writers Chapbook prize for fiction.