Fishface and Chesty McBust walked together down the hall toward the home economics class, which was located on the second story of the high school building. Chesty was a beautiful brunette with a fabulous figure but unfortunately for the male student population she was also the daughter of Captain McBust of the local police department. No one seemed to have the courage to ask her out.
“Chesty, how do you know when it hits you?” asked Fishface, with a faraway look in her eyes.
“What? Puberty?”
“No, love. Real, true, absolute love.”
“It’s never happened to me, Fishface, but I imagine that when it does, shooting stars will go off in my heart or something like that. People can just tell.”
Fishface pondered for a moment. “I think I‘m in love with someone in our English literature class.”
“Is it that new boy? He’s cute but he’s kind of stuck on himself.”
“No,” said Fishface, “it’s Tommy Dinkle.”
Chesty McBust stopped and stared at her friend. “Aren’t you in a little bit over your head? I mean he’s only the most popular guy in school.”
“I think he likes me. He kept staring at me in class today.”
The girls resumed walking. “That doesn’t mean much. I mean, he could have been staring at you because you had a zit on your nose or something.”
Fishface gasped and quickly covered her nose with one hand.
“Guys usually don’t fall for a girl unless they know the girl likes them. You need to do something so Tommy will know you’ve got the hots for him.”
Fishface kept her hand over her nose. She thought for a moment, then said, “Couldn’t I just get him in a dark corner somewhere and rip off my clothes, panting?”
“No, that’ll never work. Girls probably do that to him all the time. It’s got to be something different. Something that will let him know what a talented and caring person you are. It was Chesty’s turn to ponder. “I know! We have home economics now. Cook something for him. The way to a man’s heart is through his stomach. If you can cook something he likes and get him to try it, you’ll have him eating out of the palm of your hand.”
“Ripping off my clothes would be a lot easier.”
“Whoever said being in love is easy?”
The home economics class contained four complete kitchen areas and was decorated with sombreros and other Mexican ornaments. Chesty, Fishface, Linda and other future homemakers were gathered around two large, centrally located tables that had been pushed together. Luscious Frappé, the young, good-looking home economics teacher, announced the assignment for the day. “In keeping with the theme for this month we will be preparing a main dish today that is a favorite in many Latin-American countries – frijole delight. Please work in your same teams and be very careful about the quantities of the ingredients you use.”
Fishface still had her hand over her nose. Linda, standing next to her, noticed this and surreptitiously sniffed at her armpits to see if her deodorant was still holding up.
“What seems to be the problem, Linda?” asked the home economics teacher.
“Nothing, Miss Frappé.”
“All right then, girls. Let’s get started.”
In the kitchen area, Chesty and Fishface were working as a team. Chesty read off the ingredients to Fishface, who dumped them into a skillet on the stove.
“One sixteen ounce can of pork and beans.”
Fishface dumped the beans into the skillet. “Check.”
“One sixteen ounce can of garbanzo beans, drained.”
The garbanzo beans went into the skillet. “Check.”
“One sixteen ounce can of buttered beans, drained.”
“Check.”
“What does tsp stand for?” asked Chesty. Home economics was not always such an easy class.
“Tablespoon, I think.”
“Okay, three tablespoons of tabasco sauce, six tablespoons of chile powder and eight tablespoons of cayenne pepper.”
“Check, check, check. Got it,” said Fishface, measuring the ingredients carefully.
“Now simmer for ten minutes, make one special delivery and you’ve got yourself a new boyfriend.”
The two girls hugged one another, laughing.
___
Marsh Goodthighs walked swivel-hipped in a very short, tight skirt down the Main Street sidewalk toward Mr. Dinkle’s used car lot. She looked good and she knew it. A gang of tough-looking bikers in black leather jackets pulled up behind her on the street. They whistled, shouted and revved their engines as Marsha walked enticingly along. Marsha basked in the revelry for a few minutes, enjoying being the center of so much male attention, then she stopped walking and turned to Duke, the leader of the pack. “Hello, big boy,” she said in her most seductive voice.
“Hey, baby,” said Duke. To demonstrate his manliness, he revved the engine of his Harley. “How about a ride?”
“No thanks, honey. I can’t right now. But you’re invited to a party at my house on Thursday night.”
“Did you guys hear that? We’re invited to a party. Who’s gonna be at this party?” demanded Duke.
“All of you … and all of me. That is, of course, if you’re interested in coming.”
“We’ll be there, right boys?” The bikers cheered and whistled.
Marsha pulled what looked like a business card from the top of her low-cut blouse and handed it to Duke. “Here’s my address and telephone number. See you Thursday night.” She turned away from Duke and once again began to walk swivel-hipped down the Main Street sidewalk. Duke watched her for a few moments and then raised the card high into the air. “We’re going to a party!” The bikers howled in delight.
___
Marsha walked underneath a large banner that proclaimed – HONEST JOHN’S USED CARS, past various parked vehicles in very used condition, and up to the small building that served as Mr. Dinkle’s office. She peered inside a window. The executive desk in the office sat empty. Mr. Dinkle was seated at a small secretarial desk, feverishly trying to type out a contract. The desk was covered with mounds of papers and forms. As Mr. Dinkle pushed the return button on his antique electric typewriter, the contract in the machine shot up into the air. “I need help!” Mr. Dinkle cried piteously. “Where is she?”
The front door opened and Marsha walked into the office toward Mr. Dinkle. He stood up with his mouth agape.
“Right here, honey. I type eighty words per minute, take dictation and there are a lot of other things I can do, too.” Marsha patted Mr. Dinkle on the cheek as she sat down at the desk, inserted a form into the machine and began to type rapidly. Mr. Dinkle still stood with his mouth open wide. Marsha glanced up at him. “Go sell us a car, sweetie.” Mr. Dinkle turned and without a word walked meekly out the door.
Old Lady Magillicuddy walked unsuspectingly along the sidewalk by the Honest John’s used car sign. Suddenly, she detected movement in the car lot and stopped, squinting. Mr. Dinkle, like a hungry shark in search of prey, was sneaking from row to row of used cars toward his hapless victim. Old Lady Magillicuddy, not knowing exactly what was going on, but suspecting the worst, shuffled off down the sidewalk as fast as she could move, but she was too late. Mr. Dinkle seemed to appear out of nowhere in front of her wearing his biggest used car salesman smile. “Have I got a deal for you!”
Fifteen minutes later Old Lady Magillicuddy pulled out of the car lot driving a beat-up, rusted out, stick shift pick-up truck. It was obvious from the way the vehicle lurched that she had never driven a stick shift before. Mr. Dinkle smiled broadly and waved with one hand while with the other one he clutched a fistful of money. He strutted toward the office, pulled open the door and sauntered inside. The desk where Marsha was seated was now neatly arranged. The stacks of papers were all typed and carefully placed in an out basket. Marsha was polishing her nails on her blouse.
“Bought it for twenty and sold it for twelve hundred. Not bad for fifteen minutes work.” Mr. Dinkle sat down at his executive desk and tossed the money in a drawer.
“You poor dear,” said Marsha. “You must be completely worn out. Let me massage your shoulders.” She got up from her chair, walked toward Mr. Dinkle’s desk and, facing him, bent over and began to rub his shoulders. Mr. Dinkle found himself staring into Marsha’s low-cut blouse.
After a few moments of vigorous massaging, she asked, “How do you feel now?”
“This is completely unbelievable,” replied Mr. Dinkle.
___
The beat up pick-up truck with Old Lady Magillicuddy at the wheel lurched crazily down the street past Amanda Horsehide, who was headed in the direction of Honest John’s Used Cars. Attired in a long, old-fashioned dress and carrying a large, bulky purse she strode purposefully up to the main office. She peeped through the window and then banged loudly on the door. Marsha opened the door just enough to stick her head out and frowned at Amanda. “We’re closed,” she said curtly.
Amanda pointed to a sign that said OPEN, hanging in the window next to the door. “The sign says otherwise,” she pointed out.
Marsha flipped the sign around so that it read CLOSED. “Don’t believe everything you read, dearie. We’re closed.” She slammed the office door shut rudely, catching the hem of Amanda’s dress in it.
“Well, I never!” exclaimed Amanda to the closed door. As she turned to walk away, her dress ripped completely from her body, leaving her standing in her bra and bloomers. She began to run from the car lot toward her home, clutching her oversized purse in front of her. She sprinted down the sidewalk but came to a screeching halt as she ran head-on into the gang of bikers.
“Well, look at what we have here,” said the leader of the pack.
Amanda Horsehide shrieked, opened her large purse, and shoved it completely over Duke’s head. Then she raced screaming down the street. The leader of the pack wrestled with the purse and finally managed to pull it off of his head and fling it to the ground. “My hair’s messed up! Get that pig!” he yelled to his posse. The bikers started their engines and, whistling and yelling raucously, raced after Amanda.
Amanda Horsehide sprinted along Main Street, ducked down a side street and dove headlong into a dumpster. The bikers turned the corner into the street and rode on by her as she lay buried in the trash. A garbage truck approached, backed up to the dumpster where Amanda was hiding and hooked onto it. The dumpster was lifted high into the air and Amanda, along with the contents of the dumpster, was flung into the truck. The truck lowered the now empty dumpster and drove off down the street.