Dogs Don't Roll Over
Written by: Alex Sandell
No matter where Im at, I talk too loudly to be lonely for long, and somebody always recognizes my "unique" voice. Meeting people is my strong point in life. I'm so hyper that my bizarre, outgoing nature usually attracts weird people with nothing better to do. At the same time, it usually annoys annoying people with too much hostility on their hands. I can become a friend with almost anybody I work with, within a month of starting a job. The ironic thing is, the same bizarre, outgoing nature that attracts friends, is the very same nature that turns those same friends off within a year. Sure, I've maintained a handful of friends for long periods of time, but usually, my hyper active, fast talking intensity drives a sane person nuts in under twelve months.
As soon as I sit down to spend a relaxing half-hour in front of a neon sign, I am discovered by "Corvette." "Corvette" is the kind of friend that will stick with me forever. She's a human contradiction. The lady is by far the zaniest, most outgoing, and enjoyable person that you've ever met, and at the same time, the most annoying, redundant and artificial soul that you've ever laid eyes upon. Like a sick joke, one that you laugh at hysterically, although, deep down, youre repulsed.
I met Corvette on the shuttle ride to "Broken Arrow." I've heard that she used to be known as "Poncho," but chose to change her name to the more "sensual" sounding "Corvette." No one knows her real name, outside of the managers, and I swear she must have given each and every one of them a night of oral pleasure, just to keep it a secret. I'm assuming, because of how terrified she is to have it revealed, that her real name must be something like "Fred."
Still, it wasn't her strange name that brought us together; it was a crowded shuttle and her stinking underarms. About five months ago, the two of us were riding the same shuttle to work. That fateful day was the first time a girl sat by me on the shuttle, versus my sitting by a girl. Although Corvette was at least a foot taller than me, and had a big butt, I was instantaneously sexually aroused by this occurrence. A member of the opposite sex chose to sit by me! Maybe I was sexually attractive, after all, then again, maybe it was the only open seat.
Although I had desperately wanted to talk, I kept my trap shut, like a taxicab driver that suspects his passenger is carrying a concealed weapon. As the two of us sat in silence, amongst a bus-full of more conversive animals, I began to notice a pungent scent, one making me feel as though someone wasnt "dry and secure."
I began wiggling uncomfortably at the prevalent scent of B. O., as Corvette sat confidently, not seeming to notice. Ive observed that one of the many odd laws of nature seems to be the ability of a human to be completely UN-bothered by their own bodily scents. The confident manner in which Corvette sat securely in her seat made me wonder if it was her armpits, not mine, giving off this fowl odor.
There's only one thing more humiliating than having your own body giving off embarrassing scents, and thats having a member of the opposite sex stinking up the world with an embarrassing scent of their own, and having to pretend you dont notice. This is an especially distressing situation if the person that's giving off these vulgar odors is one that you've met in the last few minutes. Once you've been acquainted with someone for a good couple of months, you learn to accept their awkward aromas, and maybe even get up the nerve to comment on them, but someone new just shouldn't smell bad.
I began subtly trying to smell my own underarms. I couldn't let Corvette know that I sensed a scent that was unpleasant to my senses (say that three times, fast). First, I pretended to stretch, I raised my arms in the air and quickly tried to sneak in a whiff. When I smelled no vile stench emanating from under my right arm, I pretended to cough. While coughing, I tactfully snuggled my nose under my left arm, smelling . . . nothing.
I looked to Corvette, who was smiling at me, which was the equivalent of having neon arrows pointing at her stinking pits. It was then that I knew, for sure, that it wasn't my arms that stunk, it was hers. Feminine hygiene, my ass.
For three minutes, I tried valiantly to convince myself that it was my armpits that smelled, not this, the first girl in the world that volunteered to sit by me, who was giving off these icky fumes. I've heard that when large groups of people stop using deodorant or antiperspirants, they begin to enjoy the natural smells of one anothers bodies. Until this shuttle ride, I thought that maybe this was possible. After smelling Corvette, I started having some doubts. From the smell of it, I assumed she had two dead Dalmatians hiding under her arms.
I finally succeeded in convincing myself that it was indeed my armpits giving off this putrid smell. I became concerned over my bodily odors violating Corvette's space. Surely it was the crude male of the specie that was stinky, not the nurturing female. Females don't stink, that's why the person with the penis is expected to pay for the dates.
We were nearly at the casino when I finally felt I was compelled to speak. I figured that, if I brought up my armpits smelling, it would make it sound like I wasnt embarrassed to be so fucking smelly. If I were humiliated over my odors, why would I mention them in casual conversation? Surely, I wouldn't bring up a fragrance, unless I was proud of it.
I turned to Corvette, and spoke my first words. "Hi," I began, "my pits are really stinking today, I hope you don't mind." I waited desperately for her response. Will this fellow odorous human be able to accept another human that admits he is stinky? I wished with all my might that she would. Who knows, maybe she'd even be able to tolerate my smell, according to the study I read, she might even enjoy it.
After a minute of armpit-sniffin' anticipation, Corvette responded, "that's not you that has smelly arms, it's me, I forgot my antiperspirant. I'm sorry about this. I wanted to sit alone, but there was no empty seats." I began squirming, "I wear Speed Stick," I returned, like a total dork. "Hey! So do I!" Corvette blurted out. A girl who wears "Speed Stick." Our love/hate relationship had began.
Corvette shrieks out a "Waaaaaaaaaaaaaaaayne," and pulls me from my stinky reminiscing. I respond to her shriek with a "did you remember your antiperspirant today?" I slap my forehead, not believing what I just said. Corvette SCREAMS in response, and begins laughing in a deranged tone that would usually be reserved for some sort of mad scientist.
"I take it that means yes?!?" I return, plugging my ears in fear of another scream. "Of course I put on my pit-stick, the only time I forgot was on the fucking shuttle that one day." "Oh yeah, that's right. I forgot about that." If you actually think about it, a human lies quite a lot during the duration of his or her life, I figured one more wouldnt hurt. Corvette ignores my "I forgot about that" lie, and stomps over to the candy machine. She inserts a dollar, and buys two bags of nacho-cheese flavored Corn Nuts. Corvette LOVES her Corn Nuts.
She sits down and begins screaming (I may talk loud, but Corvette literally SCREAMS every word that she says) to me about some guy that keeps hitting on her while she's working. "If this keep up," she screams, "I'm gonna have to get security to throw this guy out." "Do you think he's cute?" I ask. Corvette starts screaming and saying "he's fucking rude, dude" over and over again, Corn Nuts flying everywhere. I wipe a half-chewed Corn Nut from my eye, and tell "Corvette" that I have to go, my break is over.
Im not really in the mood to talk, so I decide to just go upstairs and get back to work, even though I'm entitled to another twenty minutes of break. I stroll up the bleak staircase once again, and enter the smoky world of gambling fanatics, card dealers, Elvis Presley, and change-selling slaves.
Go to: Chapter 40
©1997 Alex Sandell but, if you're a book publisher and, you wanna get this puppy out, please get in touch with me, hand me a nice, big contract and, of course, a 12 pack of Grape Soda and maybe we can do lunch.
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