Petite Girl From France

Years ago when I lived and played in Tucson, Arizona, there was and I believe still is a free alternative newspaper called The Tucson Weekly. It is distributed every Wednesday to outlets across Pima County. It’s the source for local politics, culture, arts, music, food and anything else happening. I particularly like the Personal Ads on the last pages. It contains the typical Women looking for Men, Men looking for Women along with a section for Gay and lesbian folks. There’s a section dedicated to what some would consider bizarre or peculiar sexual practices. I noticed a post from a woman in the ‘Missed Connection’ section of the Personals.

‘Laundry Prince; I spotted you at Aristotle’s Wash n’ Dry last Saturday night. You left with your clothes in a green pillow case, wearing a Frank Zappa t-shirt. You drove away in a red MG convertible. Think you’re sexy and mysterious. Let’s talk Dirty Laundry, Petite Lady 23 from France.’

At first I was upset by being identified as a pathetic nobody, someone without a life doing laundry on a Saturday night. However, ultimately I was flattered by her description. It was now the following Wednesday and I was still wearing the same Zappa shirt with most likely the same jeans and underwear from that night. I took a low maintenance approach to my appearance in the first year after my divorce. The red MG she referred to was loaned to me by Marcia, a Jewish Goddess and friend with benefits. She was back in New Jersey visiting with her parents as well as finalizing her divorce.

I was intrigued by the post and responded to the mailbox at the Tucson Weekly, leaving what I thought was a clever reply.

‘Petite girl from France at Aristotle’s Wash n’ Dry last Saturday night. I have a PHD in dirty laundry and I often air it in public. Call me Friday around noon if you’d like to connect. Signed, Dr. Detergent.’

Friday morning rolled around and I was expecting a phone call from my petite girl from France secret admirer. I checked the phone knowing my bill was past due and my service was subject to being disconnected. I lifted the receiver and… damnit! Of course, why would I have assumed otherwise. 

It was just 7:30 and Mountain Bell opened at 8:00, which gave me time to pay my bill and have my line reconnected by 12:00. Hopefully she wouldn’t call before that time. My bill was seventy-six dollars over two months and I knew I could pay the first month balance of thirty-two dollars with a promise to pay the remaining balance in a week. I’m sort of a professional when it comes to these kinds of negotiations. I’ve never been the responsible type, always opting to gamble with fate. Even though the odds were against me and I usually lost.

I changed my clothes in Superman seconds, hopped in the MG and headed downtown during morning traffic. My intentions mirrored those of a character from a some cheesy romance novel. I have this tendency to fantasize about situations, creating elaborate scenarios that never come to fruition.

Waiting at the red light on Tucson Boulevard, I noticed my dealer smoking a cigarette in front of the Welcome Diner. Immediately my mind clicked into addict mode. It’s rare to see him out and around. He’s a hard guy to find. Even if you do get a hold of him on the phone it takes forever for him to deliver.

The instant the light changed, I gunned the MG and made an illegal U-turn against the oncoming traffic, blaring their horns and drivers screaming profanities at me. Shortly thereafter, the siren of a Tucson police cruiser accompanied by red and blue lights flashing in my rearview mirror. I pulled over and waited for the Officer to approach the vehicle. 

“Well look who we have here! Santiago what the hell are you doing? You know there’s no left turns or U-turns permitted when the suicide lane is activated, now don’t you?”

It was Rick Larson, a cop I’d known for a couple of years now. He once coached my son’s baseball team and was one of the anonymous members of the ‘We’re A Bunch of Drunks’ group I’d been ordered to attend by a judge as a condition to my probation a while back.

“Ya I know Officer Rick, trying to get to a Pharmacy as quickly as possible. My asthma is acting up and I’m in desperate need of an inhaler. I apologize, can you give me a pass and let me get to the pharmacy down the street please? It’s difficult to breathe, I really need an inhaler.”

“This one time! Go on get outta here. Take it easy will ya? This is Marcia’s car isn’t it? Is she still putting up with you?”

“Rick please, it’s an emergency.”

“Ok go! You owe me.”

“Yes I do. Thanks Officer Larson.”

I put the car in gear and now had to make it appear as though I was heading to the pharmacy on Tucson Boulevard. What a lucky break, seeing I didn’t have a valid license, and had warrants out for not appearing in court and other violations. I made it to the Walgreens and pulled into the parking area as Rick passed by, giving me a short blast on the siren.

Can you believe that guy, following me to make sure I wasn’t lying? What an insult for him to think I’d concoct such a story. I smiled as I entered the store, bought some Altoids then quickly returned to my car. I wanted to get back to where I saw my dealer at the restaurant. When I finally returned he was no longer out front. I parked and checked inside, but he was missing in action. 

I reverted back to the original plan and made it to the Mountain Bell office. I entered the building determining this must be my lucky day. There wasn’t another person waiting ahead of me. A voice called out. “Can I help you Sir? Window three.” 

The woman behind the glass was pleasant and extremely helpful. I ended up paying just twenty-three dollars with a promise to take care of the remaining balance in two weeks. I wonder if maybe I should hit the Indian casino or the dog track. It’s rare when I’m the recipient of such fortunate events. The nice lady told me my phone will be reconnected by noon and to have a wonderful day.

I reached home then flipped the switch to the swamp cooler as it responded with a strong burst of air. It was just 10:30 but I checked the phone, discovering the dial tone had yet to be restored. I decided to do the dishes that have piled up over the past few days. Of course, I am out of dish soap, having forgotten to pick some up on my way home from the bar yesterday. Being the resourceful guy I am, I poured in some shampoo as a substitute. It produced an abundant amount of bubbles, plus it left the dishes with the pleasant lavender scent.

After I’d finished, I drifted into the living room and checked the phone once again. Bingo! I was in business. 

Fifteen minutes later the phone rang. 

My petite girl from France sounded a bit different than I had imagined but she did speak with a French accent, adding to the intrigue. We agreed to meet at The Coffee Grounds on Speedway near Bookman’s tomorrow, Saturday morning at 10:00. She suggested the place and the time, so I gave her control of the rendezvous. I thought it would make her more comfortable.

I mentioned that she was already familiar with what I looked like, so I asked how I would recognize her. She told me she’d be wearing a jean skirt, red blouse and had long brown hair, once again mentioning she is petite. I sensed a small amount of excitement in her voice before saying goodbye. After hanging up I realized we hadn’t exchanged names.

I went home early that night and fell asleep in front of the television.

The morning rolled in with rain leaving puddles dotting the landscape after the night’s storm.  

It was 9:40 so I quickly showered, shaved and managed to put on some fresh clothes. I was quite pleased with my reflection in the mirror.

I strolled in through the sliding glass doors of the coffeehouse as though I was a Greek soldier returning home after a victory campaign. I scanned the area filled with customers seated at tables. I didn’t see my petite girl from France with a red blouse and long brown hair. At first I thought she may have decided to forgo our meeting. It was then I noticed a woman who fit her description sitting at a small table in the far corner of the coffee shoppe. I hoped she hadn’t seen me yet, so I could make a quick escape undetected. I was immediately aghast by her appearance. But no such luck, she began waving her tiny hands and calling out mon cheri, mon cheri. I acknowledged her and slowly meandered around the tables and chairs to where she was sitting. I dropped my car keys while nervously trying to put them in my pocket. When I bent to pick them up I could see the bottoms of her tiny shoes while she sat on her chair. She smiled, putting out her hand to shake.

“I wasn’t sure you were going to show up, mon cheri. I realized we never exchanged names. I’m Danielle or Dani.”

“Hello Danielle, it’s a pleasure to meet you. My name is Santiago.”

“Oooo I knew you’d have a sexy name to go with your strong features.”

“Thank you, I’m named after my grandfather.”

“It’s wonderful to have the opportunity to get to know one another. Maybe develop some type of friendship or relationship.”

“Are you serious? Isn’t there some kind of law against little people dating big people?”

“You’re so funny. I’ve never heard of such a law. And is that how I should refer to you, as a big person?” 

“You know what I mean. Nevermind I’m sorry. I don’t even know what I mean.”

“If you’re repulsed by me, you’re free to leave. But you’d be making a huge mistake.”

I began to stare at her cleavage complimenting her large round breasts. I began to get a bit horny feeling my cock starting to stiffen.

“I’m not repulsed by you. It’s just that I’m not accustomed to hanging around with what, a little person, dwarf, midget? See I don’t even know what to call you.”

“How about Danielle for a start. And when you bring me home to meet your mother you may describe me as a little person.”

“Now who’s being the comedian?”

“If you give yourself half a chance to get to know me you may find something about me you like.”

“Ya okay. I’m sure you’re an absolute riot.”

“That I am Santiago. Let me be a bit crass. Have you ever had sex with a little person before? I mean fucked her ?” 

“No I haven’t. Now that you mention it however, it does sound intriguing.”

“That’s encouraging so I’ll cut straight to the chase, I want you. There’s no courting period before we fuck. I’m French and the French are connoisseurs when it comes to making love. Do you want to put my statement to the test?”

“I haven’t even had my morning cup of coffee yet.”

“I’ll make you a whole pot of coffee back at my house. Are you game?”

I thought about how I haven’t experienced sex with a little person and couldn’t consider myself fully sexually educated until I’ve tried it all.

“Let me ask you this, do you enjoy oral sex?”

“Honey, I can suck a golf ball through a garden hose.”

“Well let’s say au revoir to this place and head on over to your digs.”

I spent the entire weekend with my petite girl from France. She proved to be humorous, intelligent and extremely sexual. After that we still saw one another off and on until her student Visa expired just as she graduated with her Doctorate Degree in Education. There’s no doubt she would excel as an educator. She taught me the allure and sensuality of ‘La Petite Morte’.

Kandy Fontaine: Slutty Detective of the Quantum Abyss

Kandy Fontaine unarchives herself at 3:33 a.m. in a Tokyo alley slick with neon rain and discarded identities. Her body is a cocktail of quantum foam, cyanide, absinthe, and pussy juice—shaken, not stirred, by the hands of forgotten gods. She emerges from the data sludge like a reborn glitch, mirror shades fogged with entropy, fishnets crawling with subatomic spiders.

She is not a woman. She is not a monster. She is the Kaiju chocolate dab queen of Kathy Acker’s dreamspace, pole-vaulting through the fourth wall with a moan and a wink.

Tokyo gasps.

The skyline folds inward as she lands, heels cracking pavement, her scent rewriting the laws of physics. Salarymen drop their briefcases and weep. Schoolgirls grow fangs. Pachinko machines orgasm in binary. The city knows her. The city wants her. The city fears her.

She walks into Shinjuku like she owns every timeline that ever tried to forget her. Her quantum doubles shimmer in the foam behind her—Kandy 1 through Kandy ∞—each one a slut, a detective, a monster, a poet. They follow her like shadows with unfinished business.

She enters a bathhouse made of collapsing probability. The foam is thick, warm, alive. She strips—mirror shades stay on—and slides into the bath, where her doubles await. They fuck like collapsing waveforms, each orgasm a new universe birthed and destroyed. Kandy screams in every language ever spoken and some that haven’t been invented yet.

She is solving the crime of identity. She is interrogating reality with her tongue and her fists. She is the answer and the question and the glitch in the syntax of the cosmos.

Scene Two: The Dab Awakening

Kandy’s chocolate Kaiju form expands. She dabs once—just once—and the city folds into a Möbius strip of desire. Her dab is a weapon, a dance, a declaration. She is the slutty detective of the quantum abyss, and she’s here to solve the mystery of why reality tastes like betrayal.

She enters a nightclub that doesn’t exist yet. The bouncer is Schrödinger’s cat, alive and dead, aroused and terrified. Inside, the music is made of screams and saxophones. Her doubles take the stage. Kandy Fontaine and the Quantum Sluts. They perform a set that lasts 13 seconds and 3 eternities.

I fucked my future self in a bath of foam
And she told me I was the killer and the clone

The crowd erupts. The crowd dissolves. The crowd becomes foam.

Scene Three: The Detective Work

Kandy finds a clue in the folds of her own labia. It’s a microchip engraved with the word: REMEMBER. She inserts it into her mirror shades. Her vision explodes with data: every orgasm she’s ever had, every betrayal, every time she was called “too much” or “not enough.”

She sees the culprit: Reality itself.

Reality has been gaslighting her since birth. Telling her she’s just a woman. Just a slut. Just a glitch. But she knows better. She’s the detective of desire, and she’s here to arrest the entire concept of normalcy.

She pole-vaults into the Diet Building. Politicians scream. Laws unravel. She dabs again. Chocolate Kaiju splatter coats the walls. She fucks the Prime Minister’s quantum double until he admits that time is a lie and gender is a hologram.

Scene Four: The Dreamspace Trial

Kandy stands trial in Kathy Acker’s dreamspace. The judge is a sentient dildo. The jury is composed of her exes, her doubles, and one confused octopus. The prosecution accuses her of being “too real to be fiction.”

She defends herself with a monologue:

“I am the slut you buried in your subconscious. I am the detective who found your shame and fucked it into poetry. I am the Kaiju who dabs on your expectations. I am the foam. I am the juice. I am the glitch.”

The jury orgasms in unison. The judge explodes. She is acquitted.

Scene Five: The Collapse

Tokyo cannot contain her. The city folds into a black hole of desire. Kandy Fontaine rides the collapse like a stripper pole, mirror shades reflecting the end of everything. Her doubles merge into her. She becomes ∞.

She dabs one last time.

The universe moans.

Epilogue: The Archive Reopens

In a quiet alley in Shinjuku, at 3:33 a.m., a puddle of quantum foam begins to fizz. A mirror shade floats to the surface. A fishnet stocking twitches. The archive reopens.

Kandy Fontaine is coming back.

And this time, she’s bringing the whole dreamspace with her.

Death Shtick

A pretty blonde girl walks into a comedy club, mid-afternoon… 

With a setup like that it’s no wonder the bartender thought she was lost. 

“I’m here to see Dickie Crusher,” the girl said. 

The bartender pointed to a lonely stool at the corner of the bar, where a man was sitting under a cloud of cigarette smoke, huddled over a legal pad. The man with bug eyes, thick glasses, and crazy hair was Dickie Crusher. No doubt about it. 

Dickie looked up from his scribbling as the girl approached. The ballpoint pen sticking in his hand made him look like an ape gripping a crayon. “What do you want?” 

“My name is Sally Amis. I’m a comedian. Trying to make it in the biz. I was wondering if I could talk to you, privately.” 

“Trying to make it in the biz, huh? You want to watch me jerk off?” Dickie laughed maniacally. His dingy, tobacco-stained teeth were as comical as his routine. 

Sally smirked and crossed her arms. “Thanks for the offer. Not interested.” 

“I’ve seen you around. Hitting the circuit. Sucking up those AM slots. Tough crowds. Drunk. Are you funny?” 

“Yes, I’m funny.” 

“OK. Make me laugh.” 

“I haven’t got a mirror handy.” 

Dickie snubbed out his cigarette, murmured positive-sounding grunts. “OK. You got a wit. But that doesn’t necessarily mean you’re funny. At the same time, I never said unfunny people can’t have a career in this biz. Please, come into my office, young lady. I promise I won’t try anything.” 

Dickie’s “office” was a shabby dressing room in the back. 

“You might say I have a ‘residency’ here. This is my desk.” He threw the legal pad down atop the rickety vanity in front of the mirror with the burned-out bulbs. He pointed to the cracked leather sofa at the other end of the room. “That’s my wink wink casting couch. Tee hee. Have a seat. Make yourself comfortable.” 

Sally didn’t sit. Shoulders tensed, she kept the conversation focused and professional. “I wanted to talk about your jokes. I’ve studied your bits quite closely. For example, that joke you did about the shooting at the doughnut shop on La Brea?” 

“Oh, yeah. Gangland style drive-by. Talk about getting glazed up, am I right? Those doughnuts weren’t the only things with holes in ‘em. Hee hee!” 

“That’s just it. It seems for every crime committed in the city you have the jokes ready in your back pocket. Why?” 

“Bits. I get a bit, and I work it how I work it. And why not? It’s called being a comedian. Any disaster, crime, national tragedy, terrorist attack, you name it. It’s fair game. While the masses are mourning, I’m getting material. It’s how comedians are wired. Most guys are afraid to share those bits, because they want careers, families, and Netflix specials. I tell it like it is, baby. That’s why I’m headlining in this gin joint. No Netflix special for me. But I can make ‘em laugh. Boy do I. Deep down, people need to laugh at what scares them. I’m providing a community service. I’m a hero!” 

“Like the one about the pressure cooker explosive that went off at that movie premiere last month?” 

“Yup, shame, talk about review bombing. Heh heh!” 

“And the woman in Los Feliz, from last week?” 

Dickie’s brow knitted in concentration. “I don’t recall.” 

“Witnesses say she went home with a weird-looking guy? They found her in a freezer.” 

“Oh yeah! Hee hee. Netflix and chilled, am I right? Gnuch! Gnuch! BOINK. Buh-la-la-la! Buh-la-la-la! You’re not laughing.” 

Sally didn’t find Dickie’s jokes particularly funny. But she knew the crowds ate it up, because of the way he delivered his bits. The squeaking voice, the googly eyes. The strange noises. It was the blessing and curse of a trickster to be able to squeeze out a smile in spite of the dark nature seething under the surface. 

The attractive blonde pulled out a ragged notepad to assist with her interview. 

Dickie grabbed a rubber chicken from a large prop chest by the couch, gently squeezed it by the neck. “What do you want to discuss now? My penis size? Nothing to write home about, I assure you.” 

“What about the new bit from just a few days ago? An eleven-year-old girl was found raped and murdered just outside of town. Witnesses claim they saw a man carrying a large cardboard box into the woods, in which the remains were discovered.” 

“Never heard of it,” Dickie said. 

“You did a joke about how kids get so ‘carried away sometimes.’” 

“Haha! Damn, I am pretty funny!” 

“The weird thing is, you seemed to have the bit before the story broke. Even before next of kin had been alerted.” 

“What are you saying, kiddo? That I what? You want I should help the police, like a sniff dog? If I do a bit and it hits too close for comfort then that’s the breaks. Like I told you, these bits are in the air. I just grab a hold of one and tell it like I see it. What’s it to ya, anyway? What kind of comedian are you?” 

A grave look crossed Sally’s face, distorting her otherwise symmetrical features. “I’m not a comedian. I’m a detective. I’ve been studying you closely for months. Everyone else in the LAPD thinks I’m out of my league, that I’m chasing a shadow. They laugh at me as they pass.” 

“They must be the only ones who find you funny.” 

“I know there’s something off about you. And I’m willing to put it all on the line to get you. Because I think you’re sick. You and your whole shtick.” 

Richard “Dickie” Crusher took a long drag off his cigarette. “Now that’s funny. You should run with that. And I mean run.” 

“I’ve been working undercover. Been pulling those late-night spots. Trying to get my face out there. All so I could get close enough in your orbit to be sure. But as soon as I saw you, I knew I had my guy. Your jokes are too specific. Too many details. Like you were actually present at the scene of the crimes. You’ve slipped up now, joking about a story before the public was even aware of it. But the joke’s up, Dickie. Because even though I don’t have the evidence to take you in right this minute, I know you’ll keep slipping, and soon, because you can’t help yourself, and you won’t stop. You better look out, Dickie, because you know I will.” 

Sally pivoted for the door. 

“I told you you should run,” Dickie said. 

Why she did it she couldn’t have said, but Sally turned to get one last look at her favorite subject, the maniac she’d lost sleep—and part of her life—obsessing over. 

She looked up just as Dickie brought the lead-filled rubber chicken down on her head, crushing the skull instantly. And he continued to hammer blows down until he was quite certain she wouldn’t be telling her friends at the LAPD anymore crazy stories. 

That night, Dickie’s act was better than he had ever played before. The audience cracked and spilled onto the floor. It was as if Dickie was delivering his magnum opus, his final shtick. For that’s exactly what it was. Sally Amis was keen enough to tell her colleagues at the station where she’d be that afternoon. And when they didn’t hear back from her, they went to investigate, and they found her stashed in the prop chest from which Dickie had pulled his rubber chicken. 

If you asked any of the audience members who attended that evening, they’ll tell you what an unforgettable show it was, and how you may never see its equal. If you ask the comedians who hover around the clubs in the wee hours of the morning, they’ll tell it to you in industry terms: Dickie really killed.