bet was to wait on the fringes of the Halvorson flea market adjacent to the hotel until either Brando Erikkson or Dolly came by, or it was time to get ready for my Johnny time, so I thanked her and headed back into the early afternoon heat.
I sidled up to the nearest flea market table which, near as I could tell, sold the contents of various junk drawers from over the ages—rusty doorknobs, cheap Marlboro lighters, assorted tintype photos, pocket knives. All the stuff that you don’t want even when you own it. I pretended to dig through the crusty treasure as I counted the minutes, and then the hours. The white-haired man running the booth gave up trying to sell me something about 3:00 pm. At 3:30, I’d had enough and was turning to go home when I caught a glimpse of a strawberry blonde walking down the motel walkway toward a room.
I tried to stroll away unobtrusively, furtively sniffing at the metallic smell of my fingers, stained orange from digging in junk. I would need to wash these puppies. I ducked down as the reddish-blonde head turned toward me, and through the windows of the car I was hiding behind, I affirmed it was Dolly. She looked flushed and happy. She was in and out of her room, a golden “7” on its door, in under three minutes. She hurried to the black Civic and peeled out of the parking lot before I could say “hi.”
I walked casually to her door. A quick twist of the knob told me it had locked automatically behind her, and the shades were closed tightly on her windows. Where had she been off to in such a hurry, and what had made her so happy?
I started back toward my car, still parked at Gina’s, and then had a flash. Should I stop by the drugstore to prepare myself for my meeting with Johnny? It probably wasn’t an official date, and even if it was, I technically didn’t want to date right now, and even if I did, we probably weren’t going to fool around. But it sure would suck to be pregnant by accident. I decided I had nothing to lose from a quick trip to the Apothecary. If nothing else, it wouldn’t be the first pack of condoms to expire, lonely and unused, in my bedside stand.
There was only one problem with this plan. Buying condoms is never fun, but in a small town where everyone knows your business, it can be horrifying. For an example of the small town gossip train, last month, I ordered a caffeine-free Coke instead of my usual Classic Coke with my lunch at the Turtle Stew. Three hours later, Gina phoned me at the library to ask if I was pregnant. Because of this wicked closeness in Battle Lake, I was always careful to keep my business private as much as possible. There was no way around the condom issue, though, so I walked purposefully into the Apothecary and straight to the condom aisle.
There was a huge variety, but I had long ago decided choosing which condom to buy was like picking which dish to order at a Mexican restaurant—they might have different names, but they’re all the same. I grabbed the pack nearest me and headed toward the counter, where Johnny Leeson was buying some sort of medicine and a bag of balloons, his back to me. My cheeks burned with imminent shame.
I concealed the condoms behind my back, not sure if Johnny would think I was presumptuous, slutty, or well-prepared if he noticed them. I carefully backed away until I was behind the end cap suntan lotion display, where I dropped the condoms like a bundle of itchweed. I grabbed the nearest magazine off the rack and walked back around.
“Hi, Johnny,” I said, feigning casual.
He turned quickly, and then moved to shield his purchases while the cashier bagged them. “Hey, Mira.” He looked embarrassed, and as soon as the cashier handed him his bag, he hurried toward the door. “See you tonight!”
I shook my head. Was even Johnny going weird on me? I glanced absently at the magazine I had grabbed, noting it was Cosmo , the intelligent woman’s kryptonite. I had long ago decided I would rather be
I sidled up to the nearest flea market table which, near as I could tell, sold the contents of various junk drawers from over the ages—rusty doorknobs, cheap Marlboro lighters, assorted tintype photos, pocket knives. All the stuff that you don’t want even when you own it. I pretended to dig through the crusty treasure as I counted the minutes, and then the hours. The white-haired man running the booth gave up trying to sell me something about 3:00 pm. At 3:30, I’d had enough and was turning to go home when I caught a glimpse of a strawberry blonde walking down the motel walkway toward a room.
I tried to stroll away unobtrusively, furtively sniffing at the metallic smell of my fingers, stained orange from digging in junk. I would need to wash these puppies. I ducked down as the reddish-blonde head turned toward me, and through the windows of the car I was hiding behind, I affirmed it was Dolly. She looked flushed and happy. She was in and out of her room, a golden “7” on its door, in under three minutes. She hurried to the black Civic and peeled out of the parking lot before I could say “hi.”
I walked casually to her door. A quick twist of the knob told me it had locked automatically behind her, and the shades were closed tightly on her windows. Where had she been off to in such a hurry, and what had made her so happy?
I started back toward my car, still parked at Gina’s, and then had a flash. Should I stop by the drugstore to prepare myself for my meeting with Johnny? It probably wasn’t an official date, and even if it was, I technically didn’t want to date right now, and even if I did, we probably weren’t going to fool around. But it sure would suck to be pregnant by accident. I decided I had nothing to lose from a quick trip to the Apothecary. If nothing else, it wouldn’t be the first pack of condoms to expire, lonely and unused, in my bedside stand.
There was only one problem with this plan. Buying condoms is never fun, but in a small town where everyone knows your business, it can be horrifying. For an example of the small town gossip train, last month, I ordered a caffeine-free Coke instead of my usual Classic Coke with my lunch at the Turtle Stew. Three hours later, Gina phoned me at the library to ask if I was pregnant. Because of this wicked closeness in Battle Lake, I was always careful to keep my business private as much as possible. There was no way around the condom issue, though, so I walked purposefully into the Apothecary and straight to the condom aisle.
There was a huge variety, but I had long ago decided choosing which condom to buy was like picking which dish to order at a Mexican restaurant—they might have different names, but they’re all the same. I grabbed the pack nearest me and headed toward the counter, where Johnny Leeson was buying some sort of medicine and a bag of balloons, his back to me. My cheeks burned with imminent shame.
I concealed the condoms behind my back, not sure if Johnny would think I was presumptuous, slutty, or well-prepared if he noticed them. I carefully backed away until I was behind the end cap suntan lotion display, where I dropped the condoms like a bundle of itchweed. I grabbed the nearest magazine off the rack and walked back around.
“Hi, Johnny,” I said, feigning casual.
He turned quickly, and then moved to shield his purchases while the cashier bagged them. “Hey, Mira.” He looked embarrassed, and as soon as the cashier handed him his bag, he hurried toward the door. “See you tonight!”
I shook my head. Was even Johnny going weird on me? I glanced absently at the magazine I had grabbed, noting it was Cosmo , the intelligent woman’s kryptonite. I had long ago decided I would rather be
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