David Bischoff: The Blob

“Uh, thanks, Reverend. How you doing?” he managed through a rigid smile.

“My hay fever’s acting up, but I’ll live.” The reverend pursed his lips. “You know, I haven’t seen you at Sunday services lately, have I?”

“Well, uh…” said Scott, but he got no chance to continue, since the pharmacist had reappeared, displaying two bright red packs of condoms.

“You want the ribbed or the regular?” he asked.

Oh, no! Unless he got brilliant real fast, his mom was gonna get an earful of this, Scott thought, hemming and hawing. Then inspiration struck.

“Ribbed, I guess. They’re not really for me.” He ventured a look at Reverend Meeker. The guy’s eyebrows were raised so high it almost looked like he was growing his hair back!

“Oh?” he said.

Scott pointed over to Paul, immersed in a magazine. “No, they’re for my friend over there.”

The pharmacist and the reverend both craned their necks to get a good look at the guy in question. Their reaction encouraged Scott and he forged on. “Yeah! He’s planning to take advantage of some poor young girl tonight. You should hear him talk about it. Disgusting!”

The pharmacist looked doubtful. “Why doesn’t he buy them?”

“I had to drag him in here as it is. The guy’s totally irresponsible.” He slapped his five dollars down, wanting to get this over with as soon as possible and get away while he still had these guys actually believing his story.

As if sensing the people were staring at him, Paul looked up from his magazine and called down to his friend. “C’mon, Scott! What’s the holdup? I don’t want to keep her waiting, I told you!”

Perfect! Scott shrugged to the pastor as if to say, See? What did I tell you!

Reverend Meeker seemed to believe Scott’s story, looking down the aisle at Paul with concern and compassion.

The surly pharmacist shook his head. “That boy doesn’t need condoms. He needs a muzzle!”

“You really can’t blame him, sir,” said Scott. “It’s the school food. Far too much glandular-reactives, I say! I think we ought to get the FDA in to check it. Me, I always brown-bag it!” He got his change, snatched the sack, and tipped an imaginary hat. “Well, gotta run. Maybe I can discourage him from the error of his ways.”

The pastor looked as though he wanted to ask Scott if he was going to start coming back to church, but seemed too stunned to get the words out. The pharmacist just gave a disgusted grunt and started ringing up the pastor’s purchase.

“Well, get the stuff?” said Paul, putting the magazine back on the rack.

Scott slapped the sack. “You bet.”

“What were you talking about with the collar there?”

“I was gonna just settle for plain rubbers, but good ole Reverend Meeker, he highly recommended the lubricated sort.” He grinned. “He says he likes ’em bright red too.”

Shocked, Scott looked back over his shoulder. “Good grief, he must have gone to Jim Bakker University!”

It was controlled chaos as usual at the Penny household, a sixties-style colonial nestled in a cluster of similarly modeled homes. Peg Penny, the mother, was trying to deal with the remains of the evening dinner, carting dishes into the kitchen and sticking them into her GE dishwasher. At the same time, she had to cope with the baby, gurgling away in her high chair, as well as two ten-year-olds who were playing with their desserts. Meanwhile George Penny, the father, was rattling around with his stereo, trying to get his favorite station tuned in to accompany his evening’s paper-reading. And Meg Penny, older teenage daughter and ace cheerleader, was running around on the upper level, rooting through drawers for the right clothes to wear that evening, making all kinds of noises when those tried-on clothes didn’t look right for her date with Paul Tyler that night.

When Peg came out of the kitchen to get the next load of dirty dishes, she found her ten-year-old son, Kevin, balancing his entire square serving of lime Jell-O on his spoon, while his pal Eddie Beckner looked on with glee.

Before she could do or say a thing, Kevin stuck his mouth onto the Jell-O and, with one mighty suck, inhaled the entire glob!

This action was greeted with a squeal of approval by Christine, the baby. Eddie Beckner, who had disdained his own green Jell-O, opting to eat only the whipped cream on top, applauded.

“Kevin, don’t eat with your face,” said Mrs. Penny.

“We’re in a hurry, Mom,” explained Kevin. “We’re going bowling with Anthony.”

All enthusiasm, Eddie piped up. “And then to the movies.”

That news stopped Mrs. Penny cold. She didn’t approve of most of the movies they were letting young kids in to see these days, and she was more than vocal about this matter. “What movie?” she demanded.

Kevin, well aware of his mother’s opinions on the subject, kicked his friend under the table to shut him up, but Eddie’s mouth was already cruising along at full speed. “Garden Tool Massacre. Your basic slice-’n’-dice.”

Mrs. Penny did a double take. “Your basic what?”

“This guy in a hockey mask chops up a few teenagers”—and then he noticed Mrs. Penny’s reaction. “But don’t worry, there’s no sex or anything bad.”

Peg Penny was still an attractive woman, but when she frowned—as now—the severity of her expression gave no hint of her beauty. “No! Absolutely not!”

“Mom, c’mon!” said Kevin.

“Kevin, I will not have you seeing that kind of trash, and that’s final. Do you understand?”

Kevin nodded sadly. There was no use trying to argue with her when she had that kind of face on. “Yes, ma’am.”

Peg Penny had just turned to deal with baby Christine, who had tossed her spoon onto the floor, when another crisis erupted, this time from upstairs.

“Mom!” Meg, her daughter, called down from the second-story landing. “Have you seen my pink sweater?”

Yes, she certainly had seen Meg’s sweater. Peg Penny cringed. “It’s on the hamper, honey,” she said, heading for the stairs. “I meant to talk to you about that…” Leaving the children to their own devices, she started up the stairs to deal with her teenage daughter.

Meg Penny, meanwhile, was going through the hamper. A flash of pink. A blur of fuzz. She plucked up the cashmere fabric and was staring bemusedly at it when her mother walked into the room. The thing looked as though it had shrunk!

“What happened?” she asked.

“Well,” said Mrs. Penny, “I’m afraid it got mixed up in the wash. I meant to do it by hand…”

“Maybe it will stretch back,” said Meg, slipping it on over her bra, trying to get the bottom down to her blue jeans. Alas, it went only to her midriff. Meg stared down at it a moment, then looked up at her mother. “It’s an interesting look.”

They both laughed, and Mrs. Penny was clearly relieved at her daughter’s reaction. Generally they got along very well. Of course, there were the occasional tensions, inevitable in a situation where a daughter was inheriting a mother’s youthful beauty while mom traveled into middle age. Inevitable also due to the fits of independence typical of adolescence. But still they had a lot in common, Meg and Peg Penny. They were somehow good friends.

“I’ll tell you what,” said Mrs. Penny. “Why don’t you wear my Ann Taylor blouse?”

Meg was taken aback. That blouse had cost a lot of money! “Really? Are you sure?”

“I’m sure,” said Mrs. Penny.

Meg was very pleased. She would look good in that blouse, and she wanted to look nice for her date tonight with Paul Tyler. She figured her father would like Paul. He was always telling her to date guys that were “straight arrows.” Funny thing was, that was the part of Paul that she’d never much liked. He just seemed too normal. But then, when she’d joined the cheerleading squad, and she got to talk to him a little bit, she found that beneath those midwestern good looks he was actually an interesting individual. So when he’d asked her out today, she’d not only said yes, but she was thrilled at the prospect of dating him.