Like Warm Sun on Nekkid Bottoms - Charles Austen [58]
She stopped me with a look. You know the look. The sort of look that says, ‘You’re wearing your underwear on the outside, and they have skid marks.’
I glanced down at the pastor, who still sat in the passenger seat of Mindie’s car pretending the buttons on his jacket were the most fascinating mechanical invention ever.
“What am I going to do with you, Corky?” Mindie asked. Not me. God, perhaps. “Tell him you can’t go, then get into the car with Pastor Winterly,” she said, turning to walk into the house. “You ride in back. I’ve decided I’ll drive.”
“But Mindie…”
She stopped and turned to me, letting me know in the gentlest of all possible ways that I was stupid and ugly. She pointed quickly to a breast and made a ‘cutting’ motion as if to indicate: ‘not in your lifetime’. Of course, she might have been saying, ‘I’m going to the kitchen for a knife to slice them off so you can’t even look at them.’ But the former seemed somehow more likely.
“I’m going to use the ladies room,” she said, settling the kitchen/knife question. “Be in the car when I get back.”
She turned to walk into the house and ran straight into Ms. Waboombas. Fortunately they were both well cushioned, and bounced harmlessly off one another.
“Oh. Hey,” Ms. Waboombas said, looking down at the much shorter Mindie. “How’s it goin’?”
Waboombas had obviously finished her shower and—now dressed—looked far more naked than when she had actually been naked. Her hair was wet and wild, and she had on a pair of filmy shorts and matching tank top that were sheer enough, and small enough, that they looked, not so much like clothes, as free-floating electrons.
Mindie goggled at her like a fish being reeled in by a bass master. For a moment, my fiancée looked frightened, then with a sudden inrush of breath, valiantly regrouped as anger rose within her and rejuvenated her like Popeye swallowing spinach.
“Who are you?” she demanded.
“Wendy,” Ms. Waboombas said. “Who are you?”
“Mindie Butterwycke. Mister Wopplesdown’s fiancée.”
“Ooooh, riiiiiight. Morgan mentioned you.”
Ms. Waboombas studied Mindie up and down, then tsked. “Yeah. I can see you being kind of a tight-ass.”
Mindie gasped as Wendy sized up her opponent’s ‘Waboombas’ and apparently decided she, Wendy, rated marginally higher in overall size, shape, and appearance.
“Nice,” Ms. Waboombas said. “Doctor Pflemmel?”
“What?”
“The implants. Pflemmel or Hoovascotia?”
“I’ll have you know these are natural in every way.”
“Suuuure they are. So whattya do? You a dancer?”
“A dancer? You’re asking me if I dance?”
“Isn’t that what I said?”
“I have been known to dance.”
“Me too. Movies?”
“Do I see movies?”
“No. Do you make movies? Are you in them?”
Mindie was stunned and suddenly softened. She smiled, apparently flattered.
“No. I’m not in movies,” Mindie said girlishly. “Though many people have said I should be.” She adjusted her hair coyly, and laughed a bit. “In fourth grade, I…”
“You wanna get in? I can get you in, easy,” Waboombas told her.
“What?”
“You wanna get into movies? I make ‘em, and I know some people who’d love to use you.”
“Use me?”
“Well, not use you. That’s just an expression. You’d get paid to be in ‘em. They’d kill for someone like you.”
“Someone like me?”
“With a body like yours.”
Mindie giggled, girlishly again. “I do take care of it.”
And keep it well protected, I thought.
“It’ll look great on camera,” Ms. Waboombas said.
“In front of the camera?” Mindie couldn’t believe it.
“Where else?”
“Acting?”
“Some people call it that. I think of it as an overall performance, but sure. ‘Acting’ works.”
Suddenly Mindie was Wendy’s best friend.
“You can get me into movies?” Mindie asked.
“Is there a language barrier, here? Yes. Into movies. They’re always asking me if I know any other hot girls. If you’re reliable, they’d give me a finder’s fee.”
Mindie blushed and chuckled.
“Especially with gazongas like yours.”
“And they really are my own,” Mindie said, laughing. At no other time in her life would Mindie be pleased to have someone refer to her ‘mammarial