April positioned a wooden dining room chair in front of her living room window and reached her hand into a bag of rippled potato chips. She had no shame.
Meanwhile, her boyfriend Andy sat on the couch, watching TV and wishing that his girlfriend wasn’t a window widow hunter. He was dressed in khaki shorts, a ketchup-stained white undershirt, and white socks. Style? Not so much.
“Maybe she won’t show up tonight,” Andy said, turning his head toward his girlfriend’s back. She sat motionless, concentrated. Salty fingers and all.
“Let’s not kid ourselves, Andy. You know damn well that she’s here every Tuesday.”
Andy damn well did know this, but he supposed that April had finally scared “The Bingo Bitch” away last week when she wrapped a nasty note around the driver’s side door handle of Bitch’s car, which was parked along the street, right in front of their garage, blocking them in like nobody’s business. Andy called it the Scroll of Threats. It detailed what April would do to The Bingo Bitch if she parked her “boat” in their driveway for the ninth week in a row and thereby prevented April from using the parking space solely designated to her by the landlord. “I will make sure you sail away in this huge-ass boat with one large cargo of a fine,” April wrote.
“She’s here every Tuesday because the poor lady just wants to play . . . “
“B-I-N-G-O! B-I-N-G-O! B-I-N-G-O! And Bingo Bitch was her name-o!” April sang.
“All I’m saying is that you should sit down on the couch with me and just let her park her car and walk into the fire hall in peace.”
“It’s a fire hall, Andy, not a church. The closest she’ll get to peace is getting a piece of me.”
“Give that poor woman a break. She . . . knows not what she does?”
“Well, I know what she does, and what she does is piss me off. Every single Tuesday evening. So guess what I’m doing this week if she parks in my spot? I’m calling the cops.”
Andy sighed and returned his attention to the TV screen while April returned her eyes to the street. She was ready to catch The Bingo Bitch red-handed with a wallet full of money that could very well be inserted into the imaginary parking meter that April had established in her mind. The clock on the wall ticked and tocked, which meant that it in April’s world, it would soon be time to rock ‘n roll. She shoved a few more chips into her mouth, rolled up the bag, and waited. Meanwhile, Andy surfed from one channel to the next, unable to decide between a sitcom and a reality show.
“There she is! The Bingo Bitch has arrived!” April exclaimed.
“Where is she parking?”
“Up our asses.”
Andy abandoned his comfortable seat on the couch and walked toward April. He placed one hand on her cold shoulder.
“Don’t worry, Andy. I’m just stepping out to have a word with her.”
“A civil word, okay? Not a civil war.”
After slipping her feet into a pair of old clogs, April casually stepped onto the porch and cleared her throat. She knew one thing was for sure: The Bingo Bitch wasn’t going to sail this sea without encountering a nasty storm.
“Just so you know, you can’t park in front of my house at your convenience, lady. This isn’t your driveway,” April yelled. “I mean, since when did God pass on custody of the universe to you?”
As Andy stood looking out the window, he noticed that The Bingo Bitch could not hear April. He chuckled as he imagined her sitting down at her Bingo table, reaching into her purse, and pulling out a small case.
Thank goodness for hearing aids.
Fiction, poetry, and all that good stuff . . .