text: A Worn-Out, Broken-Down Susie My wife Vicki and I were visiting her recently widowed mother in Fort Myers. It was Norma’s second go around with widowhood. Her mid-life marriage to “Doc,” a semi-quack, womanizing chiropractor, was mostly a matter of economic necessity after the life shattering death of Vicki’s father Bill. Suffice to say Doc was never Norma’s true love, and she took his passing with outward respect, but little remorse. Let’s just say Norma didn’t knock herself out this time wearing black. Vicki and I had been with Norma a few months earlier when death from liver cancer was knocking at Doc’s door and she needed to make nursing home arrangements. “Whatever’s cheapest,” was her sole criterion. It was Sunday morning, the final day of our intended stay. Overcome with boredom, I thought to make myself useful by taking Norma’s aging Honda to the car wash. She used the car sparingly, mainly for traversing the ultra-dangerous U.S. 41 to and from the Publix, a weekly sojourn we feared would lead to her auto accidental demise. Nevertheless, the Honda needed a cleaning, and the tires were much closer to flat than properly inflated. I was seated in Doc’s Naugahyde recliner in the living room, folding and stacking the Fort Myers News-Press. I called out my mission to Vicki and Norma, who were in the kitchen engaged in the daunting task of cleaning out Norma’s freezer. She and Doc were depression-era Hoosiers before retiring to the sunny, manufactured-home lifestyle in Ft. Myers. Their enthusiasm for thrift was outdone only by their penchant for saving and freezing morsels of unconsumed food, no matter how meager. “I’m going to get Norma’s car washed,” I announced. “Norma--where are the keys?” “That’s nice of you, honey,” Vicki chimed from the kitchen. “Where are your car keys, Mom,” I overheard her add. “I don’t know,” Norma muttered gruffly. Her tone of voice and hillbilly accent combined to produce expressions of the English language which were uniquely hers. Although Norma cared deeply for those she loved, her words were often barked in the manner of a disgruntled truck driver rather than the considerate, courteous way of a caring parent. “Are they in the car?” I asked loudly, rising from the chair, and striding to the front door. “I don’t know, Gary,” she called back. “You can go and see.” “Be back in about an hour,” I advised. As it turned out, Norma’s car key was in the ignition, so I coaxed the rickety Honda to life and proceeded to the Sunoco Super Car Wash and convenience store out at the intersection of U.S. 41 and Coral Cay Avenue. There I invested a dollar and a half’s worth of quarters to inflate the tires, and ten dollars for a “deluxe” automated car wash, complete with Lavender Spring air freshener. After the addition of twenty dollars or so worth of 87 Octane rated gasoline, Norma’s previously dilapidated, unkempt Honda was transformed into a relatively clean albeit decidedly mediocre one. Thinking ahead, I was looking forward to the drive back to Palm Beach in my gleaming red Porsche. As I was reaching for the car door, I noticed a woman approaching. I first looked away, but having sensed distress in her expression, I looked back to her and remained outside the car. I would be less than candid if I did not admit that the woman’s appearance also contributed to my decision to engage her rather than drive away. She had long, straight brown hair, a tan, slender body and was skimpily attired, even for July in South Florida. She wore frayed, cut-off denim shorts and a faded, spill-stained FSU tee-shirt. The tee-shirt fit her snugly, suggesting that she wore no bra underneath. “Excuse me, sir,” the woman said as she came within range. “Can you spare me a dollar? --My car’s broke down and I need to call for a ride.” Although usually repelled by such entreaties, I found myself taken in by the woman’s bedraggled yet attractive appearance and unfortunate circumstances. And, eerily, at closer range she bore an almost “twin sister” resemblance to Susie Norcross, a particularly unforgettable girlfriend from my distant college days at Indiana University. Without hesitation, I reached into my pocket and withdrew my money clip. I fingered the bills, at first looking to find a One. But I thought again, and for some reason picked out a Twenty and handed it to the woman. “Maybe this’ll help,” I said. She accepted the bill then bowed her head and began to sob. After a moment she approached closer and extended her arms around me. She pressed her face into my shoulder briefly, then stepped back and regarded me with moistened eyes and a forced smile. During the process I sensed the lingering fragrances of both perfume and gin, remnants, no doubt, of a hard-scrabble Saturday night that had left her without a cent or the means to return to wherever she called home. “Thank you--so much,” she said, and then turned and began walking slowly away. Every two or three steps she would look back and thinly smile. Uncharacteristically, “Good Samaritan” instincts took control of my behavior and I walked toward her. “Let’s go inside and call a wrecker,” I suggested. “Maybe they can get your car started.” “I can’t go in there,” she said, her countenance shifting from dejected to frightened. “Why not?” I asked, but she offered no explanation. Her eyes moistened anew, and she looked nervously away. Looking past her toward the entrance to the store, I noticed a Lee County Sheriff’s cruiser parked adjacent to the vacant handicapped parking space. Regarding her now with even greater interest and concern, I sensed the depth of her plight. My professional experience as a lawyer facilitated my supposition: she has outstanding warrants I surmised. “You got a cell phone?” she asked. “Sure,” I said, reaching into my pocket to withdraw it. I booted the phone and handed it to her. “Thanks,” she said, accepting the phone then walking away as she attempted to place a call. I watched her as she sniffed back a sob and raised the phone to her ear. In the process she shook her head slightly and smoothed her free hand back through the flowing brown tresses. A shiver of desire registered within me, along with a flash-back to my college days with Susie. A moment or two later the woman turned her back to me as she began speaking into the phone. Although I could not hear the words, the woman’s body language indicated that the conversation was not going well. After a minute or so, her agitation stopped, and she lowered the phone from her ear. Her back still to me, she closed the lid of the phone. Finally, she turned, head bowed, and began walking back toward me. “Problems?” I asked. “No--yeah--oh, what the hell--fuck it,” she said as she handed me back the phone. “Uh--fuck what?” I said carefully. “What was that all about?” “Oh, my asshole roommate--says he’s too busy to pick me up.” “Where do you want to go?” I asked. “It’s in Coral Cay--I share an apartment with Mr. Asshole.” “Get in the car,” I said, gesturing toward the passenger side door. “I’ve always wanted to see Coral Cay.” My invitation had a similar effect to giving her the Twenty. She looked into my eyes, pursed her lips, and began to sob again. “Oh, thank you,” she said, leaning into a renewed embrace. This one was firmer than the first, and the sensation confirmed my earlier suspicion that she wore no bra. “I need a Diet Coke,” I announced, stepping back, and looking off again in the direction of the convenience store entrance. “You want something for the road?” I asked. Initially, she declined my offer, but as I moved away toward the store she called out: “You know, I’d love a Yahoo--and some Twinkies, if they got ‘em.” Good God--Yahoo? -- I thought. “You Vassar grads are all alike,” I called back with laugh. The woman made no response and proceeded to get into the car. After procuring the Diet Coke, Yahoo and Twinkies, I returned to the Honda to resume the improbable, impromptu valet service I had somehow gotten myself into. While inside the store, I had taken notice of the Deputy Sheriff whose cruiser was parked at the door. He had seemed harmless enough to me, but as I waited in line to pay the cashier, I could imagine the terror the deputy’s presence could invoke in someone in my newly-found passenger’s apparent circumstances. The trip to Coral Cay took about a quarter hour. “Nice car,” the woman said as she cracked open the Yahoo and peeled off the Twinkies wrapper. “How long you had it?” “It’s my mother-in-law’s,” I corrected. “My wife and I are over here helping her with some things--Her husband passed away about a month ago--By the way, what’s your name?” “Donna Davis,” she said. “Friends call me Dee Dee--How about you? And where are you and this, uh, wife from?” I thought I detected a hint of disappointment in her acknowledgment that I was married. “Name’s Gary, we’re from West Palm Beach” I said, before taking a sip from the Diet Coke. “Where’s that?” Dee Dee responded, her mood noticeably lightened by her initial enjoyment of the sugar-shock breakfast food I had provided. Startled by the geographic if not complete ignorance indicated by her question, my visceral response was to choke on the mouthful of soda rather than respond. My reaction spewed cola out over the steering wheel and temporarily rendered me incapable of driving. I pulled off the highway to recover, dabbing my watering eyes with the sleeve of my shirt. “Christ!” I sputtered. “Excuse me!” “You gonna be OK?” Dee Dee asked. She placed the can of Yahoo in the drink holder, laid the Twinkie on the dashboard and looked over to me. Recovering with a series of deep breaths, I returned her stare. In her dark brown eyes, I perceived not only a caring concern for my well-being, but a strangely attractive intellectual dullness. My right-brain instincts took control of the moment. I leaned toward her intending a kiss. She responded willingly, and with the parted-lips technique that sensuous women have developed into an art form. After several mindless moments, engaged in this unscripted but undeniably inviting kiss, I pulled away and regarded Dee Dee anew. “Who-o-oa,” I said. “What’s going on here?” As I contemplated the circumstances, my mind wandered to the scene in the 50’s era movie The Seven Year Itch in which family man Tom Ewell attempts to apologize to the young, sultry and daffy Marilyn Monroe for abruptly kissing her: “ I’ve never done that before ,” he says remorsefully. “ Happens to me all the time ,” Marilyn responds. “You tell me what’s going on, Gary,” Dee Dee said after a moment. “I just think you’re a nice guy.” “I-I am,” I stammered as I guided the car back onto the highway. “There’s--just something about you,” I continued haltingly. “It’s just--you look almost exactly like this girl I wasted about half of my college education chasing after--It’s very--very weird, that’s all--Her name was--Susie.” Dee Dee made no response to my strange revelations, refocusing her attention on the half-eaten Twinkie and the can of Yahoo. It was apparent that like Marilyn in the movie, Dee Dee experienced little surprise at my advances, and our encounter presented to her none of the drama and moral confusion it posed for me. Two or three miles passed by without further conversation. During the silence, my thoughts flashed back to Susie episodes from my college days. From time to time I glanced at my passenger, and dual realizations were re-enforced: Dee Dee really did bear a striking resemblance to my old flame; and despite the danger signs the circumstances of our encounter veritably screamed, I was yearningly attracted to her. It was as if, some thirty years after breaking my foolish, undergraduate heart, a worn-out, broken-down Susie had re-entered by life, available somehow to pick up where our teenage romance had ended. The polarity of our current life experiences seemed only to heighten my attraction to Dee Dee. At this alternative universe moment, Susie needed me again--She even wanted me-- Desired me. I attempted to douse my racing and irrational thoughts with a fresh swig of Diet Coke. “So, tell me ‘bout this--what’s her name? --Susie?” Dee Dee asked. “Oh--just a girl I went with in college,” I said--“Indiana University--you know--up north?” “Never been there--musta been cold.” “Sometimes,” I said after a moment, considering again the shallowness and provinciality of her conversation. Has she ever been anywhere? I wondered. “Tell me about you,” I continued. “Are you a native Floridian?” “I was born here--if that’s what you mean--and I got a good tan--But I ain’t no freakin’ native.” I laughed at her response, not really knowing if it was an attempt at her own repartee, or further confirmation of her remarkable lack of sophistication. “Lived here your whole life?” I continued. “Yeah, mostly--moved to Winter Haven for a couple of years when I was married--but been back around here--‘bout ten years, I’d say.” “Do you work?” I asked. “God, these are tight,” Dee Dee said, reaching forward to replace the Yahoo in the drink holder. Leaning back into the seat and extending her shapely legs into the foot well, she stifled a yawn, then unsnapped the button of her shorts and unzipped the zipper half way down, revealing a provocative section of her evenly-tanned lower pelvic region. “Ohh--that’s better,” she said. “Yeah, I’m a dancer--least I used to be.” “Really,” I said after a moment, the pieces of the bizarre puzzle I had inserted myself into coming together. “So good old Susie Norcross dropped out of IU, moved to Florida and became a stripper,” I babbled. “What the hell does that mean?” Dee Dee asked, in a suddenly perturbed tone, quite distinct from the respectful and flirtatious manner she had shown so far. “Nothing--nothing at all,” I replied. “I’m sorry--and I don’t want to make light of your situation--It’s just that your Susie twin represents a very impressionable chapter of my past--and I guess I’m somehow trying to recapture it--I’m sure Freud could explain everything.” “Floyd? --Floyd who?” Dee Dee said, then shrugged and looked away, out the passenger side window. “You know, Gary,” she continued after a while, “you’re a nice enough guy--But you’re really kinda weird. ” “You got that right, kid,” I said. Dee Dee’s negative reaction to my sophomoric ramblings worked to stimulate some left-brain activity. These logic-based thoughts had the effect of tempering my strange and increasingly lustful attraction to a down-and-out, on-the-lam, aging Fort Myers stripper, who somehow in my mind had transformed into the incarnation of my long-lost college sweetheart. Our trip across to Coral Cay continued in silence. “Turn right on Medalion Way--up there, just past the light,” Dee Dee said, as we approached the vicinity of her apartment. I thought to inquire whether “Mr. Asshole” would be there but thought better of it. “Anywhere around here’ll be OK,” Dee Dee said as I turned into the Emerald Dunes Apartments complex. “Good luck to you, Dee Dee,” I said, “and I hope all my silly shit about Susie didn’t offend you.” “No Gary, not at all--I’m just wonderin’ what it is you want--you know?” She looked at me with warmth and intensity again, like she had back at the car wash. Then she opened the door, turned, and stepped out of the car. Watching her movements my perception fixated again on her earthy, erotic attractiveness. Twinges of lust returned as I watched her proceed, step by sexy step toward the apartment door. Opening it, she turned, smoothed her hand back through her hair again and looked directly into my eyes. “You sure you gotta go?” she called back. “It’s OK if you wanna call me Susie.” I had begun to slowly back Norma’s Honda out of the parking place but stopped upon hearing the alluring question. I returned the transmission lever to Park and sat still in the car holding Dee Dee’s stare. For several moments I engaged again the right brain versus left brain analysis of the situation. My left-brain instincts eventually winning out, I shifted the car into Reverse again and returned my attention to driving the car. On the way back to Fort Myers, I played my Dee Dee encounter repeatedly in my mind. With each re-run I felt better and better about how things had resolved. I flipped the windshield visor mirror open, looked at myself and smiled. “Ya done good, boy!” I said. As the miles back to Norma’s counted down I engaged in a long-overdue contemplation of my station in life: Although susceptible to the temptations of sin, at the core I am a moral person, capable of compassion for the plight of others not so fortunate. Noting that noon was fast approaching, I called Vicki. “Hey,” she answered in her uniquely charming southern Indiana accent. “Thought I’d stop by Subway and pick up some subs for lunch.” “Aw--honey--that’s so nice--yeah, get a half veggie for me, and you and Mom can split a meatball--she loves those”--Hey, Mom want to talk to you.” “Hey Gary--thanks for washing the car. You’re a good man--Vicki and I are lucky to have ya’. “No, Norma,” I said, fondly envisioning the two of them standing in her tiny kitchen amid the clutter attendant to the freezer-cleaning project. “It’s the other way around.” ***