Lidia Yuknavitch - Dora - A Headcase

Inside the Jag I strip. Little Teena hums the striptease song from the driver’s seat. The windows immediately fog up. I stretch my legs down and my hips up until I can see my own underwear — leopard print. I pull on a pair of white denims. Bell bottoms. Which to be honest, I didn’t think still existed. Then I dive into a pink angora sweater and shoot my head out, a little fuzz in my mouth. I strap on a pair of Candy wedgie sandals. Then I don the sacred Farrah wig. Head down, wig on, flip up.

Ave Maria opens up the little suitcase between us, rummages around, then hands me a pair of owl-eyed brown sunglasses and some cherry lip gloss. I put the sunglasses on and butter up my smacker.

Next she hands me my Bluetooth. We’ve all got matching Bluetooths like little ear tumors. Communication is essential when you’re on a mobile shoot.

I look at myself in the rearview from the backseat. If I was any more 1970s I’d be whoever my mother was.

Obsidian’s not in the car. She’s on the way. Obsidian’s talking to us through our Bluetooths. Sometimes her voice in my ear makes my breath jack-knife. When she says the word “Ida,” I get dizzy.

In the Jag, with a laptop in the back seat, parked and holding, we track the Sig.

Because of the clock with the hidden micro cam I put on his office desk.

Because of the GPS I put in his trenchcoat.

Because of. . spiked tea.

“Pull him up on the screen,” I go.

Ave Maria and I lean in to study the computer screen like doctors.

Ave Maria gasps. What we see: a tiny cartoon old man frantically pacing around his office with a boner so big he looks like he’s grown a third fucking leg.

He creeps over to his desk and tries to sit down. No luck getting that bad boy to behave. He limps his way over to the camel backed chair and braces himself. He looks down at it. “Um, is he crying?”Ave Maria says, and then starts laughing. “Holy fuck,” she says, “He can barely walk!” Little Teena produces a stoner laugh.

I watch my Sig waddle over to the black leather Italian couch. He kinda half kneels like his back is out, then lurches, then drops and rolls himself in an attempt to lie down. “Christ,” I shout, “it’s a whopper! Look at that goddamn thing!” We laugh like teens.

On the couch is an alien. A mutant. A man whose very pants are overtaking him. He tosses and turns with his arm over his face. He grabs at it. “Whoa,” I yell, “he’s gonna try to steer it!” I twirl my Farrah hair around my finger violently. I silently wonder if he’s going to cum in his own face like Old Faithful.

“Lemme see that shit,” Little Teena says from up front. I position the laptop on the seat so he can see it.

“Holy mother of god!” Little Teena bellows. “He’s on the floor! On all fours! He’s … he’s trying to make it to the door? Wait! He’s grabbed the trenchcoat … wait for it, wait for it, he’s UPRIGHT, folks,” Little Teena announces boxing match style. We laugh our asses off.

“ Turn the engine on and pull up,” I go. “Switch to the GPS tracker.” Ave Maria mans the laptop in the back seat, and shazzam. Sig becomes a pulsing red throb on a virtual city on the computer screen.

Now here is where you separate the boys from the men. For this mobile shoot to work, we’ve got to have stamina. We’ve got to wait for it. I figure minimum an hour, maximum, two. Yeah, I know all the ads say “if your erection lasts longer than four hours,” but Sig’s a Dr. So I’m guessing he’s too anal to wait four hours sitting alone in his office with a monster dong.

We shoot the shit in the car. Ave Maria’s mom’s having migraines. Meaning our stock of headbanger reduction pills just got filled. Little Teena’s almost saved up enough for the Nikon D3X Digital SLR camera. The expeed image processing on that bad boy assures breathtakingly rich image fidelity and reduces noise, even at high ISOs. I narrate a little of what I’ve read from Marlena’s Mantegazza book. “Check it. Mantegazza used to prescribe coca to his patients. He wrote that to a man in imminent danger of losing his life through nervous exhaustion, he’d dope him up to the nines. Said coca was like a billion times superior to opium.”

“Whoa,” Ave Maria goes.

Just under two hours later, we have movement.

Ave Maria puts her finger on the red pulsing dot. It jumps around spastically. “I wish he’d make up his mind,” Ave Maria complains, “he’s in, he’s out, then in again … what’s he doing in there? Gyawd. Is he OCD?”

I rub a see hole in my window with my angora elbow.

From the front Little Teena laughs and rips a mega fart.

Ave Maria wails. “You douche! Oooooohhhhhhhh maaaa-aaaaan dude! You fucking hotboxing us? Open the fucking windows!”

When my window lowers I see my doctor’s front building door open a crack. “Shut up! It’s him!” I go.

“What the fuck?” Little Teena says.

Nothing comes out of the door.

Nothing.

Nothing.

But we all know there’s a man behind that crack.

I’m holding my breath, then realize it, then curse myself, then do it again.

“Fuck,” I say, “it’s the cheese…” Because a cop car pulls up. But it’s not a cop car. It’s a black and white taxi cab. That’s when I see my shrink, my nemesis, my Sig exit the building. I get a baffling chest pang and my heart races like I’m on fucking speedies.

But what comes out of the building I’m not ready for. What comes out of the building looks something like a medieval figure. Like a creature that might ascend a tower and you know, ring the bells. A perfect Quasimodo.

“Holy jesus fuck,” whispers Little Teena.

There in front of us, wearing a truly flasher trench coat, is the Sig, trying old man desperately to shove his dick down one leg of his pants. Trying to drape the bottom of the trenchcoat over his bulging crotch. Pushing the brown trenchcoat fabric down while it pushes back up with Hitleresque authority.

“He looks crippled,” Ave Maria whispers. We crack up again, but we also get low in the car and try to keep our laughing quieter.

Sig looks one way, then the other, then sort of launches himself into the cab, losing a shoe, the cab ripping away with a screech.

“Holy holy fuck,” repeats Little Teena. “Are you fucking getting this? You recording?”

“Oh shit,” I yell, realizing I’m sitting in the car like a dumb blonde NOT FILMING OR RECORDING DICK.

That’s when god appears. If god were an outrageously gorgeous angry Native American girl with a sheath of ebony hair and a shard of black slit your throat glass around her neck.

Obsidian yanks my door open and blasts her way into the car and shoves me over going “GO GO GO! I got it! I got it all!” with a hand-held mini digi-cam cupped beautifully in her hand. We’re all grabbing our ears since she’s both shouting as us via Bluetooth and shouting at us for realz.

“Floor it!” I go. My ears and skin ringing with longing for a girl with ink black hair who would never, ever wear a wig.

Under the maze of Seattle’s snaking overpasses we plunge. Past the retarded baseball field with the giant metal fish architecture. Through the dumb ass tunnels wearing dangling ivy. Rain making everything blurry.

“I got ten bucks that says he’s going to the Blue Ball up on Capitol Hill,” Little Teena wagers.

“The SM club? No way. I say he’s going up to the bouge gay hook up park — to buy a buttload of downers. Or get that monster sucked off. Besides, ten bucks is a pussy bet. Make it fifty and you’re on,” Obsidian says. My mouth fills with spit and admiration.

“Yep, it’s the Blue Ball,” Little Teena says from the front as we run a red light in pursuit. And I’ll take that bet.”