Marcelle Dreams

Swiping a forearm across her sweaty brow, Marcelle exhaled and whipped up an imaginary friend to help kick her fatigue in the ass. Michael Landon won the honor this time. (Sandy is generous)

Starting out with a dead man seemed fitting, seeing how somebody croaked in her last two fantasies. Her breasts smothered puny little Truman in one; she keeled over from boredom when she let Felix take a go in the other. She swore off friends after that, but might reconsider once a few of them had more experience. For now, Michael was perfect - too damned sexy to bore her, and already dead, so she didn't have to worry about wearing him out or losing him between the bazooms, as Truman had called them.

She wound the top of her trash bag into a knot (wishing she were twisting her fingers through Michael's curls instead) and hefted the sack of dead leaves over her shoulder. She would ride Michael to the dumpster and cool off before she returned to clearing the courtyard alone, since nobody else cared how sorry the complex looked. If she was lucky, the sun would die and Michael would return to life somewhere along the way. If she was lucky, which she wasn't.

Out of habit, she blew a kiss at Juanito's window before noticing he hadn't even opened the blinds. Michael's grin took care of that disappointment but she forgot both dark-haired knockouts when she spotted a sling chair in the dumpster. Maybe her luck was changing; she had made several decent finds lately. And, despite her complaints, most of the time she honestly felt as happy as she acted. Some people questioned her for laughing while she griped; others just said they couldn't imagine how she could even be happy. Years of practice, that's how, and a few bits of good luck now and again.

Like this - she either had a new chair, or at the very least a shot at trying on the latest fad in lawn furniture, without an audience. Several times, she had pulled a sling chair off the shelf in the drug store but chickened out before she sat on it. If she tried and didn't fit, or got stuck and couldn't get out, other customers would laugh. That might legitimately piss her off for the rest of an otherwise decent day.

She traded her bag of leaves for the trashed chair and carried it behind the dumpster to open it. The fabric and legs were intact. Not bad. But that didn't mean it was as new as it looked. It could be like the white jeans. They didn't have a stain on them but were so dry-rotted the seat completely blew out when she leaned over the meat counter at Kroger.

She played it safe; tested the seat of the chair with her foot, gradually adding more pressure until she was afraid she'd lose her balance. It felt sturdy. While working up the nerve to give it her full weight, a sniff from the other side of the dumpster distracted her.

Marcelle folded the chair and looked out. Bill's skinny girlfriend walked toward the dumpster, wiping her nose on the back of her hand. Marcelle ducked back. Maybe the girl had physical ailments that caused her disgusting habits, sour attitude, and nauseating body weight. It didn't matter; the thought of making nice to the dimwit made Marcelle's skin crawl.

The dumpster lid opened and closed. Marcelle waited a few seconds, opened up the chair again, and peeked around the side to check sourpuss' location. Roughly two hundred fifty pounds of tattooed flab, chrome jewelry, and vinyl clothes barreled across the parking lot and cornered the anorexic sourpuss less than a yard from the dumpster. Marcelle's head throbbed as she closed the chair again and tried to flatten herself against the hot metal, noticing the stench for the first time.

"Your man say anything about finding money in the parking lot?" The male voice asked.
Sourpuss sniffed. "Who are you?"

"Nick. I'm with Wendy. Number ten." Marcelle slid down when the dumpster lid opened and stayed in position until it had closed again and Mr. Flab continued with his investigation. "You're in thirteen, ain't you?"

The female voice sounded father away. "Not your business."

"Ha! Guess he didn't tell you nothing." Big Guy cleared his throat and spit. "Cut your skinny ass right out of his windfall, I see."

Their voices came together then, close enough that Marcelle feared they might join her behind the dumpster soon. "What are you talking about?" Sourpuss asked. "Am I missing something?"

"My girl went out last night. Dropped two, hundred-dollar bills somewhere between the car and the apartment," he said. Sourpuss responded with a go ahead grunt. "She come back in yapping about seeing your guy eyeing her from the breezeway. Weird shit, and I was fucked up so I only half listened." He spit again. "Says she don't remember it this morning but I think she's trying to protect him now. Screw that."

"What's any of that got to do with me? You think Bill has something going on with your girl?"
Marcelle bit her tongue to keep from telling them this had even less to do with her and Michael, so they should stick to talk about the lost money or move the hell on.

"Nah, Wendy ain't interested in him. Just thought I'd see if you know anything about the money."

"You really think he has it?" Sourpuss sniffed a couple more times. "Interesting."

"If he found it and didn't tell you, he's a real prick." The big guy lowered his voice. "You could get high on two hundred bucks. Know what I mean?"

"I'll check it out. Nick? What number are you in?"

"Ten. Between the wailing birds and the Mexican Fucking Riverdancer."

Relieved that they walked away before she passed out, Marcelle stepped away from the dumpster. Mexican Fucking River Dancer? Ami wasn't going to like it when she found out that's what he thought of her Argentine Tango.

Marcelle sucked in a few clean breaths and returned her attention to the chair. It would be low for the card table, but a fourth seat was a fourth seat and she could use it in the courtyard. With a little maneuvering, she fit between the arms but was still afraid to put her weight on a discarded chair. When she had extra money, say something she found in the parking lot one day, she'd buy a new chair and try it out in the privacy of her own apartment. She tossed the chair back in the dumpster and returned to the courtyard.

Before she worked up a second sweat, Loretta stepped out her door in the gray cotton jumper that had become her uniform but nobody had the nerve to ask why. Marcelle waved. "Did you come out to help?"

"Maybe after my workout." Loretta walked toward Ami's door. "Why don't you join us?"
Marcelle's idea of exercise usually involved the likes of Michael Landon, but she followed Loretta. Anything to get help with the cleanup.

"I'm in the studio," Ami called out when Loretta opened the door. "Come on back."

Loretta followed Arabic music down the hall to the master bedroom that Ami had turned into a dance studio. Marcelle stayed close behind, finding what she thought was a beat in the unusual melody and wondering if that was what the tattoo guy had mistaken for Riverdance music.
Without stopping her routine, Ami met Loretta's eyes in the mirror. "Just warming up. Glad you're going to join us, Marcelle."

Loretta kicked her sandals to the corner and slid across the laminate floor on her socks. She landed in position next to Loretta and rolled her shoulders to the music.

Marcelle left her shoes with Loretta's, and waddled into place behind the younger girls. No sooner than her shoulders found their groove, Ami bent over and grabbed an ankle.

"Wendy has a hot head over at her place," Marcelle said, forcing her face in the direction of her thigh. "Thinks you're Mexican."

Ami touched her nose to her knee and held it there. Marcelle's stomach turned just thinking of the pain. "Mexican? Must be the wrestler-looking guy."

"That's him," Marcelle wheezed.

Ami sat on the floor, arms in the air, and twisted her torso from side to side. Loretta and Marcelle joined her. "Marcelle needs help in the courtyard," Loretta said to Ami's back. I get nervous when she works so hard in this heat."

"Don't take this wrong," Ami said. "I think it's nice you want to keep things neat. I just don't understand why." She scooted down, stretched her arms out to the sides, and twisted some more.

Marcelle did her best to follow Ami's graceful lead. She didn't have the breath to continue the conversation. After stretching and straining every muscle in her body, and just when she thought she might die, Ami got up and shut off the music.

"That's enough for today if you want us to help you in the yard."

Marcelle climbed to her feet, too exhausted even to think about Michael Landon, much less the remaining leaves. "Maybe we can finish tomorrow," she said, stepping into her shoes.

"That's what you told us yesterday," Loretta said.

"And the day before," Ami reminded her.

Marcelle walked toward the door. "If I didn't know better, I might think you girls distract me on purpose."

Before entering her apartment, Marcelle caught a second wind. It probably wouldn't hurt to search the parking lot for that missing money. Dean Martin seemed like the perfect companion for this trip.