Must Love Otters

2. Nacho Fun Time

2

Nacho Fun Time

The evening’s saving grace: upon opening the apartment door, it smells a little like food. Keith made dinner. I am so grateful.

“Hey,” I say, dumping my backpack on the floor. His black jump kit takes up the entire space on the ornately carved foyer bench. The bench I bought to someday grace the grand foyer of my amazing house that I will somehow manage to buy on my pathetic salary. Which is why it’s still sitting against the wall in my shitty two-bedroom, rent-controlled apartment.

Why we need a jump kit inside the apartment at all times—“You never know when the Big One might hit, Hol, and people will need my help”—ergo, a 40 lb. bag of gloves, surgical tubing, IV bags, gauze, tape, water purifying salts, and silver emergency blankets sits in my hallway and takes up all the space on my pretty bench.

I sort of hope an earthquake does hit. And when it does, I hope it opens a chasm below this apartment and swallows the jump kit whole. I’ll miss my bench, though.

The Yorkies go apeshit. I live here. This is my abode. And every single night, these stupid little ass-licking, ankle-biting s**t machines bark like I’m the Creature from the Black Lagoon. Assholes. I hate Yorkies. And by hate, I mean I want to drown them. Or magically turn them into clouds so they will float away on a breeze of my own making.

“Your dad called,” Keith says from the kitchen. “Again.”

“Mmm-hmm. What’s for dinner?”

“Wait! Don’t come in here.”

“What?” I freeze. The Yorkies are yipping at me. I make my meanest face at them. They bark louder. Why can’t we have a cat? Cats are so much cuter than Yorkies. Plus cats look like otters. Otters are the bestest creatures in the whole wild world. Thus, because it is not legal or practical for me to have an otter, we should have a cat. To balance out all the doggish hormones and slobber and ball-licking.

Keith leans around the corner, baggy flannel pants doing nothing for his ass, stethoscope around his neck as per usual. Why he does this, I don’t know. I have zero fantasies about humping a doctor. Or an EMT. Because Keith is not a doctor. He’s the guy who drives the ambulance and jams the IV in your arm until he can take you to the hospital where a real doctor will help you. “I have a surprise for you. Go in the bedroom. Get comfy.”

“Oooookay …”

“And by comfy, I mean naked.”

He leans close for a kiss but I push him away. He smells like dogs. And Cheetos. Have I mentioned how much I hate Cheetos? Well, I am telling you now: I hate Cheetos. On a dare, I ate an entire bag at Charlotte Smith’s ninth birthday slumber party because I wanted the little ceramic rainbow pin she was offering the winner, and I puked orange for four straight hours.

For the record, I won the pin. I still have it. But I don’t eat Cheetos anymore.

God, I am a crabby cow tonight. I might need a chocolaty intervention to balance out the meanness.

He wants me naked. Now? “I need a shower. And you need to brush your teeth. You smell like Cheetos,” I say.

Keith honks my boob. “Fine, fine. But hurry. You’re gonna love this.”

I squint at him. Do I hear adventure coming from that boy’s mouth? Is this real life? “What’s going on?” I ask cautiously. I’m tired of Naughty Nurse. And Doctor and Nurse. And Doctor and Patient. And I Saved You From a Burning Building So You Should Have s*x With Me Even Though You’re Unconscious and Could Be Dying from Smoke Inhalation. Shall I continue? All the games either end with me mummified in gauze and anchored to the bed, or with me pushing his stethoscope out of my face while he’s pumping away. The romance is overwhelming. I know. Here’s a cloth to wipe your fevered brow.

“Go get more comfortable. I mean it—no clothes. Find something to blindfold yourself.”

I smile at him. “Really? Is this going to hurt?”

“Hollie …”

“No stethoscope. No medical dramas. I don’t want to play Grey’s Anatomy anymore.”

“This is something different.”

“Okayyyyy.”

“Do you trust me, Hols?”

Does he want a real answer to that? “I’ll … get changed.” I slide into the bathroom to shave so he doesn’t complain about my prickly legs again (if he doesn’t like the legs, he certainly won’t like my panty tarantula). It’s been a while since we did anything that involved being naked. Maybe a good toe-curler is just what I need, even if it involves something battery powered. And a warm shower does sound lovely. Wash the stink of death from my brain and body.

Once the tub tap is turned off, I hear him shuffling in the kitchen on the other side of the wall. Hmmm, maybe he’s bought strawberries and whipped cream, or chocolate body glaze, or honey … that would be something we’ve never tried before.

I throw some lotion on all the newly excoriated body parts and sneak out naked into the bedroom. I catch my reflection in the closet mirror. Turn sideways. Suck it in. I’ve only got a few years left with this body. I’d better take up yoga. Troll Lady keeps telling me how big my ass is going to get from my job once I turn thirty or pop out a pup, whichever comes first. She’s also told me that at forty, white hairs start growing from your chin and the sides of your face, and your body odor becomes unnatural. Which is why there’s a huge cupboard of scented baby wipes in the bathroom at work.

These are not sexy thoughts. These are gross thoughts. Must have sexy thoughts.

I pose my sexiest in the mirror. Push out my boobs. Tough because they’re a B cup. Okay, A cup. Whatever. The tarantula is under control. It’s no Brazilian, but it’ll do. I can’t imagine having my pubes waxed completely off. First, the screaming. I would definitely scream. Second, doesn’t it say something about a guy who wants a totally bare playground? It seems a little … disturbing. Worrisome. Little girls are hairless. Women are not. Third, the ungodly itching. I cannot even imagine how bad that s**t would itch when it grows back in—

“Babe, you’re not blindfolded.”

I throw my arms over my nakedness, embarrassed that I’ve been caught ogling myself in the mirror.

“Eyes are closed. I swear I’m not looking.”

“Okay. Get on the bed. Don’t peek,” Keith instructs.

“Should I light some candles?”

“Probably not. Fire hazard.” The bedroom door clicks closed. We’re alone—without Yorkies! Cause for celebration.

I hear him setting up a TV tray. My stomach quivers in anticipation of the coming treats. I’ve seen porn with this. Food and stuff. Culinary naughtiness. Granted, it involved eating fruit salad out of …

“Lie flat, Hols. And don’t move.” I do so. He shuffles something around. “Get ready. It’s going to be—”

“COLD! Holy s**t, Keith, is that ice cream?”

“No,” he laughs. “Just hold still. This will take a second.”

I try to steady myself, but he’s just smeared something, a lot of cold something, all over my stomach. Goosebumps break out on my arms. “Must be cold,” he says, flicking my n****e. I smack at him. “Don’t move! You’ll ruin the surprise.”

I’m thinking this must be whipped topping of some sort. It feels like that. Or maybe ice cream because it’s really holding the cold. He’s layering something else on top of it. I hear a jar opening. And a can. Then something plopping into the mix on my belly. Cherries, maybe? God, it’s been forever since I’ve had a good chemical-infused maraschino cherry.

He opens a plastic bag and I almost open my eyes.

“Tell me those aren’t Cheetos.”

“Not Cheetos. Almost done. Hold still. This is awesome. I should take a pic—”

“If you so much as finish that sentence, this party is over.”

He laughs. “Final touches. You ready?”

“Go.”

It’s a squirt bottle. Has to be chocolate or caramel sauce. He’s drizzled some over my boobs. That will be fun to lick …

Wait a second. Why is it burning?

“Keith …”

“Almost done, babe. This is classic.”

“Keith, what did you just squirt on my boobs?”

That’s it. I’m opening my eyes.

I do, expecting to be greeted by a belly covered in ice cream, whipped cream, cherries, the works.

“You—you made nachos? On my stomach?”

“Yeah! Isn’t it awesome? I saw this the other night on Food Porn.”

“Is that a show?”

“It’s these two guys who mix food and porn, but the food they make is porn all by itself. They said that this is a fun way to spice things up in the bedroom.”

“Keith, my boobs—they’re burning.”

He leans in for a kiss. “That’s so hot, baby …”

“No, I mean like my n****e is on fire.”

He sits back, reaches over to the TV tray, and grabs the squirt bottle. “Oh. Shit.”

“Oh s**t what?”

“Babe, I’m so sorry …” He can’t finish his sentence because he’s laughing like a goddamned fool. He hands me the bottle.

“Extra hot Sriracha. Excellent. That’s brilliant. My n*****s are going to melt off and you’re laughing.”

“I’m … so … sorry.” He stumbles into the bathroom and gets a wet washcloth. When he tries to wipe it off, I smack him again and take the cloth, careful not to spill the entrée onto the bed. Because, of course, we’re on my side of the bed.

As I’m wiping the sizzling rooster sauce off my boobs, Keith sneaks over to the dresser for his iPhone.

“I’m not kidding. You will never get another piece of this ass ever again in your life if you take that photo.”

“Come on, Hols. I promise not to get your coochie or any boobage. Just one shot?”

I glare at him, blowing alternately on one n****e, then the next. “I think I need ice. Oh my god, I think you blistered me!”

“I did not …”

“LOOK, KEITH.”

He flicks on the bedside lamp. “Wow. s**t. I think you’re right. Oh, baby, I am so sorry. Let me get some ice. I have WaterGel in the jump kit, but we should maybe eat first, don’t you think?”

I don’t know if I should cry or scream.

“Here. Just try this.” He reaches into the bag of chips and scoops sour cream, guacamole, refried beans, and an olive onto a chip. “Here comes the airplane!”

Instead of opening my mouth, I grab a handful of his culinary masterpiece and smear it all over his face. Ahhhh, that feels better.

“What the—geeze, Hollie, you’re going to get this all over the bedding now.”

I respond with another handful, this time across both cheeks. Now I’m laughing. He’s not sure what to do. I lick my fingers. Mmmm, that guac is good.

“Pass me the chips.” He swipes his finger down one cheek and pops it into his mouth. Hands me the bag.

“Damn. Not bad.”

The Yorkies are onto us. They can smell the food. Now they’re whining outside the door. Keith, for once, tells them to quiet down. They do. He kneels next to the bed and removes the washcloth from my left n****e. Stares at it closely, then looks back up to me. I think he’s asking for permission.

He pops it in his mouth and gives it a little twirl of the tongue. Feels decent enough. Until he suddenly releases and runs to the bathroom. “Still hot. Still hot!”

The bedroom door thrusts open and I’m a goner. Three Yorkies are on the bed like, well, like Yorkies on an open buffet.

“Keith! The DOGS!” As much as I want this to be erotic, it is exactly the opposite. I don’t mind a little kink, but b********y is not on my list.

“Trixie! Pixie! No! Moxie, get down!” he yells, shooing them away. As soon as he drops one dog on the floor, another takes its place.

“Get them out of here, dude! Jesus!”

“I’m trying!”

The nachos—what’s left of them—are completely inedible. “Hand me a towel, please. Now.”

With two dogs under one arm and me holding the third one back from eating through to my navel piercing, Keith tosses me a towel. I scoop and dump the remaining Mexican feast onto it.

“I’m taking a shower.”

“So … are we not going to …”

“No, Einstein. We’re not.”

The Yorkies bark at me, pissed that they can’t have the rest of the nachos. “Come to Daddy. Mommy’s not mad at you, babies, don’t you worry. Come here, mwuah, mwuah, mwuah.” He’s kissing them again. Those dogs get more action than I do. Which is disgusting. And pathetic.

I’m sensing a trend here.

“Not their mommy,” I mumble, moving in for my second shower in under thirty minutes.

Once cleansed of nachos—n*****s still on fire—I dress in clothing decent enough to leave the house. Throw on my coat, grab my keys.

“Where you goin’?”

“I need food, Keith. Unless you have some kibble in the pantry that the Yorkies haven’t eaten.”

“I don’t feed them kibble.”

“Leaving now.”

“Wait, I’ll come with.” He dresses and turns the monster TV in the living room to kids’ programming.

“I don’t think the dogs like Thomas the Tank Engine.”

“They like the songs on this channel. Keeps them calm.” Duh, Hollie.

Keith throws on his ginormous parka with, you guessed it, huge pockets filled with medical supplies. Just in case. He’s a caricature of himself.

“Leave the steth, Keith.”

“What? No way.”

“You look like a tool. Leave it.”

He stares at me for a second, that hurt look I’m sure he gave his mother when she told him to stop operating on the neighbor with her kitchen utensils, and pulls the stethoscope from around his neck. He kisses the Yorkies again, three little bastards licking his face and ears, and moves away from the couch.

“If someone dies at the restaurant, it’s on you.”

“Wouldn’t be the first time today.”

My phone chimes in my pocket en route to the car. Text from Dad. “Call me. Have a surprise for you.” I hate surprises. The last one involved me wearing a ridiculous pink taffeta gown and a cupcake hat—seriously, a silk and taffeta hat sewn and stuffed into the shape of a cupcake—for my non-sister’s wedding to a creepy guy who smells like other women’s perfume most of the time.

As we’re in the drive-through for Noodle Yu, another buzz from my phone. An email. I should never have introduced my father to technology. I open it to find a registration confirmation from a resort. Dad, what are you up to?

It reads “Revelation Cove, British Columbia, Canada. Gift registration, four days, three nights, Sweethearts’ Spa & Stay Package for two. Love, Dad.”

“What the hell?”

“What is it?”

“Umm … my dad … you know that resort we were talking about?”

“The one up north?”

“Yeah.”

“What about it?” Keith shoves a fortune cookie into his mouth before his debit transaction has finished. He chews with his lips open. The young girl working the drive-through window looks unimpressed.

“He bought us a gift certificate. For four days, three nights.”

Keith finishes chewing. “What will we do about the dogs?”

I stare at him. Seriously? The dogs? How about, “Thanks, Mr. Porter, for spending a grand on a weekend that will undoubtedly provide many opportunities for me to practice impregnating your daughter.”

“Well, uh, I don’t think the dogs are invited.”

“Does it say when we have to go?”

“You don’t have to go anywhere, Keith. If you’d rather stay home with your dogs.”

He stabs a straw into his soda cup, driving with his knee. “You know what I mean.”

“I’m sure you can get your sister to dogsit. It’s only four days.”

Keith stares at me, as if I’ve just asked him to donate a kidney to a walrus. “Uh, I don’t know if that’s possible. I don’t trust her to take proper care of them.”

“We’re not taking them with, if that’s what you’re getting at.”

He pauses too long at a green light. Someone honks behind us and he flips them off. But the vacancy in his eyes confirms that I’ve clearly just delivered terrible news. “Why not?”

“On a floatplane? And Yorkies on a romantic getaway for two is way not romantic and very much not a getaway. We might as well stay home.”

“I’m not comfortable leaving them behind, Hollie.”

“With your sister?”

“Yes, even with my sister. She kills things. You should see her plants. Nothing but stems and dirt.” So this plan is better than I thought. We leave your three Yorkies with Yvette and come home to no Yorkies. I like this plan. So much. Must resist cackling and witchy wringing of hands.

“Well, then find a plan B. I don’t want to take the dogs with us.”

“But I wuvs them … what will they do without their daddy and mommy to tuck them in at night for a four whole days?”

“If you wuvs me, Keify, then you’ll stop talking like you’ve spent your childhood eating lead paint and find a dogsitter.” I quickly email my dad back and tell him I’ll call tomorrow, and thank you but you didn’t have to do this. I’m out of the car before Keith has it in park. My appetite has been replaced with annoyance.

Time to give this body some narcotic sleeping aids and put it to bed.

But before that, before I can sneak upstairs and sedate my frustration, I have to get past The Door.

Her door.

A finger against my lips, I motion to Keith to shut up. At all costs, do not speak.

Squeeeeeak, mutters the first step. s**t.

“Hollie? Is that you?” Keith shoves past me and bolts up the stairs. I throw my Chinese takeout box at him, hoping it will explode against his back. It does not. Merely bounces and flies over the railing, splaying open on the grass. Asshole actually laughs at me.

“Yes, Mrs. Hubert. It’s Hollie.”

A tiny wrinkled body that I think was at some point human shuffles to her screen door. She’s wearing the same housecoat as usual—snaps up the front, pockets bulging with spent Kleenex, her lucky, fifty-year-old Avon perfume pin clipped limply over where her left boob should be, if it weren’t dangling down around her belly button. Suntan knee-high stockings crumple around bony, knotted anklebones, her feet stuffed in slippers that were pink in their former lives. Behind her, a sickly meow echoes through the kitchen.

“Hollie, I need half-and-half and some frozen peas. And Mr. Boots needs wet food. Go get it.”

“Mrs. Hubert, I’m exhausted.”

“And I’m a lonely, dying woman who spends her days and nights praying that Jesus will come for her. Have you seen my hands?” She thrusts her hands through the gap in the screen door. Her skin is so translucent, it’s easy to trace the bulbous veins snaking up her arms and disappearing under yellowed sleeves. “Hurry up. Jeopardy is on soon and I don’t want to have to get up again.”

I lock eyes with this—this—creature, wishing the apocalypse would happen right this second and I would be saved from her terrible wrath. A look up the stairs proves that Keith is nowhere in sight.

Lifting my purse strap back over my shoulder, I do the only thing I know how to do.

I turn around and slither back to my car so I can go to the market to do Mrs. Hubert’s relentless bidding, hoping that while I’m gone, Satan will come and claim the prize that's been missing all these years from his wicked collection.

“Take Mr. Boots too,” I mumble.