Two Rebel Girls
It’s Complicated: Lit Up and The Writing Cooperative Contest
I met them at a flea market on a hot, breezy August morning. A blonde and a brunette. Sisters. It was difficult not to stare, but I did my best. They strolled up next to me as I was flipping through a stack of old concert posters.
“I love Blues Traveler,” said the blonde, eyeing the cardboard poster beneath my index finger.
“I guess they’re okay, but I think John Popper just plays a bunch of notes on his harmonica really fast, if you ask me,” said the brunette.
“Good thing no one’s asking you,” snapped the blonde.
“I like Blues Traveler too. John Popper doesn’t just play a bunch of notes quickly, he’s actually an accomplished harmonica player,” I said, staring at both of them.
“If you’re going to stare at us you might as well tell us your name. I’m Thelma, and this is Louise. Yes, just like the movie with Michael Madsen. Our mom had the hots for him, and she really liked how that movie ended. You know, two rebel girls doing things their own way.”
“I’m Justin. I’m sorry for staring, I just haven’t seen this before. Have you always been connected together?”
I felt my face get red with embarrassment from my idiotic question, fearing that they had already pegged me as a dullard.
“LOL. Yes, we have always been conjoined twins, dummy. Two legs, two arms, and two heads should have been enough clues for you. Did you actually just ask us that?,” said Thelma, laughing hysterically.
Thelma had been blessed with a warm, inviting smile and rows of perfectly straight white teeth. I admired that she had enough confidence to call me a dummy.
“I guess that helmet tucked under your arm means that you rode your motorcycle here? See how good we are at analyzing clues?” said Louise, with a smirk.
“Yea, I ride an old Triumph. Have you two ever been on a motorcycle?”
“What do you think?” asked Thelma.
“Why don’t you guys let me take you out tonight. Give me your address and I’ll pick you up at 7 o’clock.”
“Ooooo, look at Mr. Confident,” said Louise.
“What should we do with him,” asked Thelma.
“I haven’t decided yet,” said Louise.
“All right dummy, here’s our address. Bring two extra helmets.”
“No problem, but there’s one thing. You have to stop calling me dummy.”
“You got it, Justin,” said Louise, with a wink.
* * *
Thelma and Louise lived in a nice little townhouse in Newport Coast. They greeted me at the door.
“Well, look who showed up. It’s Easy Rider. Come on in, we’re making White Russians.”
“Do me a favor and go easy on the vodka. I don’t want us to take a spill on the Triumph.”
I wandered through their entryway, looking at framed photos hanging on the walls. Thelma and Louise had been up to all sorts of shenanigans. Parasailing. An African safari. Getting a kiss on the cheek from a seal at Sea World. The one constant in each of the photos were the smiles beaming from their happy faces.
I walked into the kitchen, sat on a barstool, and watched Thelma and Louise gracefully do their thing. Thelma tossed a few ice cubes and Louise caught them in a glass. Thelma’s left arm poured vodka into the glass, while Louise’s right arm poured Kahlúa in perfect tandem. Thelma finally topped it off with a generous portion of half and half.
“Here you go, Easy Rider,” they said simultaneously, presenting the drink to me like a humanitarian award.
The White Russian was delicious, and I finished it in three gulps.
* * *
We rode onto Pacific Coast Highway, heading south. We must’ve been quite a sight — a row of three white helmets in triangle formation floating down the coastline. The sun was setting over Catalina Island and the ocean was a gleaming orange flame as we flew past Reef Point. A new swell was delivering endless rows of smooth, rolling waves toward El Morro cliff. The wind made everything go silent and the horizon looked as if it were reaching for us. The palm trees passed us slowly at first, then in a blurry haze.
Thelma’s left arm squeezed my stomach, as Louise’s right arm squeezed a bit higher, at my ribs. Louise thrust her right thumb up. Faster! I pulled back on the throttle, and the roaring engine shot us through the California paradise of Laguna Beach.
I knew that upon our arrival at the bar there would be plenty of stares and whispers and pointing by strangers. Phones would be held in our direction and flashes would go off. Most likely, none of that would faze Thelma and Louise. It would all be new to me, though. But I found myself not caring, because I enjoyed being with both of them.
THE END
Enjoy another relationship story by J. Lender here:
