“I’ve found her,” Stephen Wiley began, flashing that neon-lit gaze of his at me.
“You’ve found who?”
“The future Mrs. Wiley.”
The night had led up to this point, I felt, as I shifted my weight from my left foot to my right, still leaning against the bar. As it has been said in numerous B-movies, it was TOO quiet in the Kayo Club, especially for a Friday night. None of the regulars had even poked their nefarious noggins into the bar, per usual. The only familiar face I could dig up was Sid, the deaf bartender. He had run out of snappy patter and I was tired of constantly having to repeat myself. The timing had been ripe for a little lunacy and my old pal Stephen Wiley was just the person to serve up a heaping plateful.
“Well, don’t you want to know who she is?” Stephen insisted in a voice that somehow sounded like a favorite relative.
“Actually, I’m afraid to ask,” I replied warily.
The last “fiancée” Stephen said he had was a seventy year old Salvation Army soldier he saw once in downtown San Jose during Christmastime. He told us he wanted to marry her because he found the way she rang her bell stimulating. Naturally, I reminded him of this past engagement.
“That was merely a passing fancy,” he assured me. “This is true love.”
I watched Stephen for several seconds before I spoke again. He looked the same as he always did, which was usually a tad manic. His graying hair was an explosion of wiry anarchy, complemented by that amazing beard and a pair of overabundant eyebrows that almost had personalities of their own. It seemed that his head was too big for his body, but I attributed this to that abundance of healthy follicles. The apparel he chose was thrift store chic yet always neat in appearance. I had to look to those devilishly silly eyes of his for the story, which I knew was going to be a pip.
“I don’t know. You look as though you doubt me, Paul,” he said defensively.
“Let’s say I’m skeptical. I know you, remember? I’m expecting a sixteen year old cheerleader to suddenly materialize wearing an engagement ring.”
The eyebrows lowered as the visage fell into a mock pained expression.
“You wound me. Here I come all the way down to the Kayo specifically to introduce to you the woman I want to call my wife and all I get is what? Sarcasm!”
“I apologize, Stephen. Honestly. Now tell me all about her.”
“Well, I don’t know. You’re not just saying that to make me feel good?”
“Of course not. Give me the lowdown.”
Delight replaced depression upon the marquee that was Stephen’s face as he began.
“What would you like to know?”
“Is she pretty?” I inquired, sipping my rapidly warming beer.
“Oh, bud, She’s a doll. A real doll.”
“Where did you meet her?”
“At work.”
Bingo. That’s what I wanted to hear. Here was the clue to what Stephen was leading up to. The wild Mr. Wiley worked as a cashier in an adult bookstore down the street from the Kayo Club called the Erotic Emporium. This was not your run-of-the-mill cement floored, drably painted warehouse with an exposed rusty water pipe running across the ceiling. This was a former ski shop that the owner of the Erotic Emporium bought for a song, Swiss chalet interior design and all. The result was a more inviting atmosphere for more upscale customers. It became the kind of place you would not be ashamed to take your wife, providing you were both in the market for a three-speed, vibrating kielbasa. This was where my friend Stephen chose to make his bread and butter that year.
“You met this young lady at the Emporium?”
“Yes. You might say she’s a part of the place.”
“Don’t tell me. She’s the boss’ daughter,” I guessed.”
“Silly goose. The boss has no daughter. I don’t think he’s allowed to procreate.”
“Is she the boss’ wife?” Stephen hopped into an outraged act as easily as changing his shoes.
“How dare you? Do I look like an adulterer?”
I loved it when he took the spurious higher ground.
But, not letting my guard down, I just sighed. In the dullest voice I could muster, I said, “Introduce me already.”
“Stand by, bud,” was his exit line.
I had Sid refill my glass with good old cheap draft beer. I like to stay with one glass the whole night. It gives me a sense of ownership and I’d rather not try to relate to a new glass each time. I sipped the brew slowly and answered Sid’s questions regarding the mental status of my partner. Sid was one of the few who were not very fond of Stephen or his ravings.
“He’s harmless, Sid.”
“He’s what?”
“Harmless.”
“Yeah, well, I don’t know. He upsets the customers.”
“What? Look, Sid, I don’t think an aborigine humping a goat on the bar to the tune of KNOCK THREE TIMES would upset the clientele this place gets.” I turned to the other patrons and added, “No offense.”
“What’s he going to do with a goat on the fence?”
Sid obviously only got about 10% of what I just said.
“Nothing. Stephen is harmless,” I repeated.
“All I can say is…”
Sid stopped about five miles short of completing his sentence. In fact, the entire bar fell silent save for the sound of jaws hitting the floor. I had the feeling that Stephen was standing at the door with his fiancée. In the entrance of the Kayo Club was Stephen, grinning from ear to ear and holding in his arms, in all of her vinyl glory, a fully inflated Love Doll. He walked her over to the bar amid the sea of shock that flowed from the other patrons.
“Paul, I would like for you to meet the future Mrs. Wiley.”
“You bastard. You sly bastard,” I smirked.
Sheepishly cocking his head to one side, he asked innocently, “What’s wrong? Sid, you might want to close your mouth. You look like a carp.”
My snickers grew to sporadic chuckles then built to an absolute guffaw. Suddenly, the tension in the bar broke into pockets of disbelief and giggling.
“Dear,” Stephen said to his date, “This is Paul.”
“How do you do? You were right, my friend. She’s a doll alright.”
“Isn’t she though? Look at this,” he spoke, pointing out her various orifices.
Her mouth was circled into a perfect ‘O’ lined with imitation lipstick. Two additional holes representing a vagina and an anus were more or less in their appropriate areas. The Love Doll is a mere facsimile of a human being. This female model featured baby blue eyes highlighted by eye shadow and two poorly dyed blonde pigtails. The rest of hair was symbolic, being only yellow painted plastic. Its appendages were rounded off, missing both fingers and toes. Details such as these, I assumed were either deemed unnecessary or cost extra. The Love Doll’s only practical purpose was for fucking. Stephen had apparently discovered a few that were impractical. Literally glowing in the spotlight that was upon him, Stephen sang his new found friend’s praises to the hilt.
“She’s such a pleasure. She likes the same things I do. We share the same views on politics, religion, music, everything. She never complains or makes demands. She’s just great!”
“Are you trying to tell me she’s the perfect woman?” “She’s not perfect. She does have one minor flaw.”
“And that is…?’ I asked, feeding him a straight line as a mother would with a spoonful of strained carrots to her baby.
“She leaks.”
“A moot point, my friend. Did you purchase her?”
“Certainly not!” he bellowed theatrically. “What kind of girl do you think she is?”
“Waterproof?”
“That’s almost funny. Let me tell you how we met. The other day at work, we received our weekly shipment of dildoes and nasty doodads. I was unpacking it all when there she was at the bottom of the box, staring up at me with a look in her eyes that said, ‘Take me, you gorgeous hunk of man-meat!’ How could I refuse? I asked my manager Ron if I could blow her up. He told me to go right ahead. However, it took some doing to talk him into letting me take her out of the store. I just explained to him that we were meant for each other.”
“You and Ron?”
“No, Brain Boy. I’m talking about the young lady and myself. Anyway, tonight he finally relented. I had to promise him that no harm would come to her and that she’d be back before midnight.”
“Or what? She’ll turn back into a plastic pumpkin?”
“I used to think you were amusing. Now you’re just sad. I’ve been thinking about giving her a name.”
“Polythene Pam?” I suggested.
“Is this Open Mike Comedy Night here at the Kayo? I want to give her a special name…something exotic…like Penelope.”
“Penelope is exotic?”
“In this town it is,” Stephen added, looking about the Kayo Club, then turning back to me with his patented Wiley wink.
We three, that being Stephen, Penelope and me, stayed at the Kayo for the remainder of the evening, despite Sid’s protests stemming from his disconcerting eye. Stephen attempted to teach Penelope the fine art of billiards at the twenty-five cent pool table, though her abilities, he discovered, were nil. For the most part, she sat in a chair with a cue stick leaning against that sad impression of a hand while Stephen and I engaged in several rounds of Eight Ball and beer. Penelope drank very little herself.
“Just like the lady she is,” Stephen smiled with pride.
Sid was pleased as punch when he noticed us leaving at eleven thirty. It was obvious that he had enough.
“I have to get the little lady back home. It’s almost curfew,” Stephen explained, sitting the future Mrs. Wiley in the passenger seat of his white 1963 Chevy Nova, a vehicle that he kept in remarkably pristine condition. For safety’s sake, he even belted her in.
“It was nice meeting you, Penelope. What happens if a cop stops you, Stephen?”
“Hmm, that’s a thought. You don’t have an I.D., do you, honey?”
She didn’t reply and just stared into space, mouth eternally open.
“Too bad you can’t throw your voice. That way she could do all of the talking.”
“Ha! Either you’re getting funny again or I’m just drunk. Well, bud, tally ho!"
They drove off into the cool night, a man and his doll. The last I saw of them that night was the custom-made bumper sticker he had plastered to the trunk of Stephen’s Nova. It read “EAT THE RICH”.
The following week, Stephen became a virtual social jack-in-the-box, popping up all over town with Penelope. Their itinerary included an evening at a drive-in movie, two appearances at the home of our mutual friends, the Duvall’s, a cameo at a local Howard Johnson’s (where they were asked to leave) and three-count ‘em-three return engagements at the Kayo Club. Just like a Cinderella inner tube, Penelope was back at the store before midnight after each and every outing. In what condition she arrived was pure conjecture. Penelope was immediately initiated into our circle of friends. She was the hit of every party and was treated with respect by everyone. The Duvalls gave her and Stephen a standing dinner invitation every Saturday night. Edmund the Odd, the resident soothsayer of the group, was so taken by her that he painted her portrait ala The Mona Lisa. Ronni Roadrunner, the tasty tart with the caffeine crazies, gave our new friend some of her old clothes to wear. It was an outfit consisting of a flowered halter-top and a pair of Daisy Dukes, topped off by a couple of pretty blue ribbons for her pigtails that matched her eyes. Even Sid, the gruff, hearing-impaired Kayo bartender, grew tolerant of Penelope and even began to warm up to her, just a little.
To Stephen, she was a constant companion. The two of them were inseparable and, truth to tell, all of us who knew our crazy chum had never seen as at ease with himself as in these days past. He seemed transformed and positively centered. Whatever happiness he was experiencing was infectious and brought out the best in all of us. As far as any intimate relationship he and Penelope shared, that will probably always remain a mystery, as it should. The point was speculated upon many times by the rest of us, but never brought it to Stephen’s attention. It was none of our business and we really felt it was in everybody’s best interests not to dwell on it especially since no one wanted to embarrass Stephen or volunteer to conduct any DNA tests. Besides such thoughts soon became irrelevant during those salad days with “The Happy Couple”, as Edmund described them. Their arrival at the Duvall’s fifth wedding anniversary party, two weeks following Penelope’s debut at the Kayo Club, was as natural and ordinary then if Stephen had arrived with Annie, his ex-wife who spent weekends with him every so often. The times were pleasant and good, and that was good enough for us.
It was a night that broadcasted the fact that Indian summer was upon us when I went to visit Stephen at the Erotic Emporium. When I walked through the door, Stephen barely looked up as he paced back and forth behind the counter like a tiger in the zoo. His countenance was blank yet strangely tense. The first words out of his mouth were,
“ I can’t find her."
“You can’t find who?”
“Who do you think? The future Mrs. Wiley, of course.”
“She’s not in her usual place?” I asked.
“I’ve looked. She’s gone. She’s disappeared.”
“Maybe she ran off with a vinyl repairman.”
"That’s sick. Your sarcasm is in only exceeded by your lack of concern for the woman I love.”
“I’m sorry. Just trying to make light of a heavy situation.”
“Pshaw”, he uttered, fingering his steel-wool beard. “Seriously, she is missing. I’ve asked everyone who works here. Jerry the Gentle Giant told me she was in the back this morning, right where I left her. Maybe Ron knows what’s happened to her. I’m going to give him a call. Amuse yourself.”
I browsed throughout the store as I often did when I came to see my friend at work. Pornography never seems arousing to me when viewed in this manner. It becomes more of a curiosity, almost like museum displays. The kinkier the sexual practice, however, the more fascinated I become. The fisting section particularly intrigued me that evening. I began to wonder if anyone, during the performance of this particular act, had ever lost any jewelry.
Stephen’s phone conversation with his manager honestly jolted him as I can plainly see from where I was standing. There was a dejected glaze in his eyes that was very uncharacteristic for him. At first I guessed he had just been fired.
“Stephen, what’s wrong?” I inquired, waltzing up to the counter again.
“I can’t believe it. I can’t believe he actually did that. Ron just told me that he… sold the future Mrs. Wiley,” Stephen said in disbelief.
“Who did he sell her to?”
“I don’t know. Probably some sleazy little scumbag,” he spit out.
“Don’t think that way,” I tried to reassure him. “Maybe she’s with a good family.”
“Oh no,” he went on, working himself into a tizzy. “Some sick sonuvabitch is probably abusing her right now. She won’t stand for it, I tell you. She doesn’t want some disgusting cretin poking her with his slimy diseased dipstick!”
His tone was slightly jovial, but with undercurrents of both anger and dismay. It was clear to me as it would to anyone who knew Stephen that he was genuinely hurt. He sat upon his stool behind the cash register and stared off into what seemed to be another dimension for the longest time while I tried in vain to search for a few comforting words for this man who had just lost his adult squeeze toy.
One really does have to wonder why Penelope would have been purchased when she was basically a display model anyway. Why wouldn’t someone want to purchase an unopened and, therefore, fresh Love Doll? Since she was filled with another man’s breath, what about the possibility that she might have been used in, shall we say, other manners as well? The mind boggles over such imponderables and not in a good way.
Unable to create any pertinent dialogue with my depressed buddy, I bid a hasty adieu, inviting him to join me for a drink at the Kayo Club after work. He half-heartedly congratulated me on the brilliance of that suggestion and agreed to meet me there.
Alas, no dice. Stephen never showed. As I came to find out later, he walked out the doors of the Erotic Emporium after his shift and did not return, quitting without any notice whatsoever. There was no answer at his home when anyone called or stopped by. The Duvalls hadn’t seen him when asked three days later. A search party was organized. Ronni Roadrunner and her merry band of fun-loving bi-sexuals went one way, for a change while Edmund the Odd followed his own path, checking every obscure tavern and pub he could find, one drink at a time. Nary a hide nor hair was uncovered in a week’s time. Of all people, Sid the bartender, definitely not the president of the Stephen Wiley Fan Club, was the last person to see him. Our bearded pal was on his way out of town when he stopped for a quick beer and to bid a fond farewell to the place he loved the best, the Kayo Club. He told Sid (twice, I’d imagine) that he had a real need to see Annie, his ex-spouse. Stephen was more subdued than Sid ever remembered him being before.
“He wasn’t loony, y’know?” Sid told Edmund and myself. “He actually gave me straight answers to direct questions, which isn’t like him at all. He was downright serious, at least for him. Not once did he insult me or make fun of my hearing aid the whole time he was here. Do you know what? He acted like he lost the best friend he ever had.”
The last any of us ever heard, Stephen did indeed hook back up with Annie for a short period of time. By the end of that year, he was reportedly living in Amsterdam and working as a bouncer in a hash bar.
As a tribute, we held a wake for Penelope in Stephen’s absence at the Duvall’s home one windy Saturday evening in early October. Fred Duvall read a Shakespearean sonnet at the same time his wife Chloe performed an interpretive dance. Edmund the Odd told wholly inappropriate but hilariously filthy limericks. Ronni Roadrunner sang the most melancholy version of “You Are My Sunshine” I ever heard, bringing the entire memorial to tears. It was up to me to give a farewell toast.
“Here’s to Penelope. You were a breath of fresh air. May your spirit never deflate.”
We then drank to the once and future Mrs. Wiley and remembered her as she was- shy, petite and, as we all discovered that great and crazy summer, surprisingly resilient in body and spirit.
Copyright 1978 by Scott Cherney
“You’ve found who?”
“The future Mrs. Wiley.”
The night had led up to this point, I felt, as I shifted my weight from my left foot to my right, still leaning against the bar. As it has been said in numerous B-movies, it was TOO quiet in the Kayo Club, especially for a Friday night. None of the regulars had even poked their nefarious noggins into the bar, per usual. The only familiar face I could dig up was Sid, the deaf bartender. He had run out of snappy patter and I was tired of constantly having to repeat myself. The timing had been ripe for a little lunacy and my old pal Stephen Wiley was just the person to serve up a heaping plateful.
“Well, don’t you want to know who she is?” Stephen insisted in a voice that somehow sounded like a favorite relative.
“Actually, I’m afraid to ask,” I replied warily.
The last “fiancée” Stephen said he had was a seventy year old Salvation Army soldier he saw once in downtown San Jose during Christmastime. He told us he wanted to marry her because he found the way she rang her bell stimulating. Naturally, I reminded him of this past engagement.
“That was merely a passing fancy,” he assured me. “This is true love.”
I watched Stephen for several seconds before I spoke again. He looked the same as he always did, which was usually a tad manic. His graying hair was an explosion of wiry anarchy, complemented by that amazing beard and a pair of overabundant eyebrows that almost had personalities of their own. It seemed that his head was too big for his body, but I attributed this to that abundance of healthy follicles. The apparel he chose was thrift store chic yet always neat in appearance. I had to look to those devilishly silly eyes of his for the story, which I knew was going to be a pip.
“I don’t know. You look as though you doubt me, Paul,” he said defensively.
“Let’s say I’m skeptical. I know you, remember? I’m expecting a sixteen year old cheerleader to suddenly materialize wearing an engagement ring.”
The eyebrows lowered as the visage fell into a mock pained expression.
“You wound me. Here I come all the way down to the Kayo specifically to introduce to you the woman I want to call my wife and all I get is what? Sarcasm!”
“I apologize, Stephen. Honestly. Now tell me all about her.”
“Well, I don’t know. You’re not just saying that to make me feel good?”
“Of course not. Give me the lowdown.”
Delight replaced depression upon the marquee that was Stephen’s face as he began.
“What would you like to know?”
“Is she pretty?” I inquired, sipping my rapidly warming beer.
“Oh, bud, She’s a doll. A real doll.”
“Where did you meet her?”
“At work.”
Bingo. That’s what I wanted to hear. Here was the clue to what Stephen was leading up to. The wild Mr. Wiley worked as a cashier in an adult bookstore down the street from the Kayo Club called the Erotic Emporium. This was not your run-of-the-mill cement floored, drably painted warehouse with an exposed rusty water pipe running across the ceiling. This was a former ski shop that the owner of the Erotic Emporium bought for a song, Swiss chalet interior design and all. The result was a more inviting atmosphere for more upscale customers. It became the kind of place you would not be ashamed to take your wife, providing you were both in the market for a three-speed, vibrating kielbasa. This was where my friend Stephen chose to make his bread and butter that year.
“You met this young lady at the Emporium?”
“Yes. You might say she’s a part of the place.”
“Don’t tell me. She’s the boss’ daughter,” I guessed.”
“Silly goose. The boss has no daughter. I don’t think he’s allowed to procreate.”
“Is she the boss’ wife?” Stephen hopped into an outraged act as easily as changing his shoes.
“How dare you? Do I look like an adulterer?”
I loved it when he took the spurious higher ground.
But, not letting my guard down, I just sighed. In the dullest voice I could muster, I said, “Introduce me already.”
“Stand by, bud,” was his exit line.
I had Sid refill my glass with good old cheap draft beer. I like to stay with one glass the whole night. It gives me a sense of ownership and I’d rather not try to relate to a new glass each time. I sipped the brew slowly and answered Sid’s questions regarding the mental status of my partner. Sid was one of the few who were not very fond of Stephen or his ravings.
“He’s harmless, Sid.”
“He’s what?”
“Harmless.”
“Yeah, well, I don’t know. He upsets the customers.”
“What? Look, Sid, I don’t think an aborigine humping a goat on the bar to the tune of KNOCK THREE TIMES would upset the clientele this place gets.” I turned to the other patrons and added, “No offense.”
“What’s he going to do with a goat on the fence?”
Sid obviously only got about 10% of what I just said.
“Nothing. Stephen is harmless,” I repeated.
“All I can say is…”
Sid stopped about five miles short of completing his sentence. In fact, the entire bar fell silent save for the sound of jaws hitting the floor. I had the feeling that Stephen was standing at the door with his fiancée. In the entrance of the Kayo Club was Stephen, grinning from ear to ear and holding in his arms, in all of her vinyl glory, a fully inflated Love Doll. He walked her over to the bar amid the sea of shock that flowed from the other patrons.
“Paul, I would like for you to meet the future Mrs. Wiley.”
“You bastard. You sly bastard,” I smirked.
Sheepishly cocking his head to one side, he asked innocently, “What’s wrong? Sid, you might want to close your mouth. You look like a carp.”
My snickers grew to sporadic chuckles then built to an absolute guffaw. Suddenly, the tension in the bar broke into pockets of disbelief and giggling.
“Dear,” Stephen said to his date, “This is Paul.”
“How do you do? You were right, my friend. She’s a doll alright.”
“Isn’t she though? Look at this,” he spoke, pointing out her various orifices.
Her mouth was circled into a perfect ‘O’ lined with imitation lipstick. Two additional holes representing a vagina and an anus were more or less in their appropriate areas. The Love Doll is a mere facsimile of a human being. This female model featured baby blue eyes highlighted by eye shadow and two poorly dyed blonde pigtails. The rest of hair was symbolic, being only yellow painted plastic. Its appendages were rounded off, missing both fingers and toes. Details such as these, I assumed were either deemed unnecessary or cost extra. The Love Doll’s only practical purpose was for fucking. Stephen had apparently discovered a few that were impractical. Literally glowing in the spotlight that was upon him, Stephen sang his new found friend’s praises to the hilt.
“She’s such a pleasure. She likes the same things I do. We share the same views on politics, religion, music, everything. She never complains or makes demands. She’s just great!”
“Are you trying to tell me she’s the perfect woman?” “She’s not perfect. She does have one minor flaw.”
“And that is…?’ I asked, feeding him a straight line as a mother would with a spoonful of strained carrots to her baby.
“She leaks.”
“A moot point, my friend. Did you purchase her?”
“Certainly not!” he bellowed theatrically. “What kind of girl do you think she is?”
“Waterproof?”
“That’s almost funny. Let me tell you how we met. The other day at work, we received our weekly shipment of dildoes and nasty doodads. I was unpacking it all when there she was at the bottom of the box, staring up at me with a look in her eyes that said, ‘Take me, you gorgeous hunk of man-meat!’ How could I refuse? I asked my manager Ron if I could blow her up. He told me to go right ahead. However, it took some doing to talk him into letting me take her out of the store. I just explained to him that we were meant for each other.”
“You and Ron?”
“No, Brain Boy. I’m talking about the young lady and myself. Anyway, tonight he finally relented. I had to promise him that no harm would come to her and that she’d be back before midnight.”
“Or what? She’ll turn back into a plastic pumpkin?”
“I used to think you were amusing. Now you’re just sad. I’ve been thinking about giving her a name.”
“Polythene Pam?” I suggested.
“Is this Open Mike Comedy Night here at the Kayo? I want to give her a special name…something exotic…like Penelope.”
“Penelope is exotic?”
“In this town it is,” Stephen added, looking about the Kayo Club, then turning back to me with his patented Wiley wink.
We three, that being Stephen, Penelope and me, stayed at the Kayo for the remainder of the evening, despite Sid’s protests stemming from his disconcerting eye. Stephen attempted to teach Penelope the fine art of billiards at the twenty-five cent pool table, though her abilities, he discovered, were nil. For the most part, she sat in a chair with a cue stick leaning against that sad impression of a hand while Stephen and I engaged in several rounds of Eight Ball and beer. Penelope drank very little herself.
“Just like the lady she is,” Stephen smiled with pride.
Sid was pleased as punch when he noticed us leaving at eleven thirty. It was obvious that he had enough.
“I have to get the little lady back home. It’s almost curfew,” Stephen explained, sitting the future Mrs. Wiley in the passenger seat of his white 1963 Chevy Nova, a vehicle that he kept in remarkably pristine condition. For safety’s sake, he even belted her in.
“It was nice meeting you, Penelope. What happens if a cop stops you, Stephen?”
“Hmm, that’s a thought. You don’t have an I.D., do you, honey?”
She didn’t reply and just stared into space, mouth eternally open.
“Too bad you can’t throw your voice. That way she could do all of the talking.”
“Ha! Either you’re getting funny again or I’m just drunk. Well, bud, tally ho!"
They drove off into the cool night, a man and his doll. The last I saw of them that night was the custom-made bumper sticker he had plastered to the trunk of Stephen’s Nova. It read “EAT THE RICH”.
The following week, Stephen became a virtual social jack-in-the-box, popping up all over town with Penelope. Their itinerary included an evening at a drive-in movie, two appearances at the home of our mutual friends, the Duvall’s, a cameo at a local Howard Johnson’s (where they were asked to leave) and three-count ‘em-three return engagements at the Kayo Club. Just like a Cinderella inner tube, Penelope was back at the store before midnight after each and every outing. In what condition she arrived was pure conjecture. Penelope was immediately initiated into our circle of friends. She was the hit of every party and was treated with respect by everyone. The Duvalls gave her and Stephen a standing dinner invitation every Saturday night. Edmund the Odd, the resident soothsayer of the group, was so taken by her that he painted her portrait ala The Mona Lisa. Ronni Roadrunner, the tasty tart with the caffeine crazies, gave our new friend some of her old clothes to wear. It was an outfit consisting of a flowered halter-top and a pair of Daisy Dukes, topped off by a couple of pretty blue ribbons for her pigtails that matched her eyes. Even Sid, the gruff, hearing-impaired Kayo bartender, grew tolerant of Penelope and even began to warm up to her, just a little.
To Stephen, she was a constant companion. The two of them were inseparable and, truth to tell, all of us who knew our crazy chum had never seen as at ease with himself as in these days past. He seemed transformed and positively centered. Whatever happiness he was experiencing was infectious and brought out the best in all of us. As far as any intimate relationship he and Penelope shared, that will probably always remain a mystery, as it should. The point was speculated upon many times by the rest of us, but never brought it to Stephen’s attention. It was none of our business and we really felt it was in everybody’s best interests not to dwell on it especially since no one wanted to embarrass Stephen or volunteer to conduct any DNA tests. Besides such thoughts soon became irrelevant during those salad days with “The Happy Couple”, as Edmund described them. Their arrival at the Duvall’s fifth wedding anniversary party, two weeks following Penelope’s debut at the Kayo Club, was as natural and ordinary then if Stephen had arrived with Annie, his ex-wife who spent weekends with him every so often. The times were pleasant and good, and that was good enough for us.
It was a night that broadcasted the fact that Indian summer was upon us when I went to visit Stephen at the Erotic Emporium. When I walked through the door, Stephen barely looked up as he paced back and forth behind the counter like a tiger in the zoo. His countenance was blank yet strangely tense. The first words out of his mouth were,
“ I can’t find her."
“You can’t find who?”
“Who do you think? The future Mrs. Wiley, of course.”
“She’s not in her usual place?” I asked.
“I’ve looked. She’s gone. She’s disappeared.”
“Maybe she ran off with a vinyl repairman.”
"That’s sick. Your sarcasm is in only exceeded by your lack of concern for the woman I love.”
“I’m sorry. Just trying to make light of a heavy situation.”
“Pshaw”, he uttered, fingering his steel-wool beard. “Seriously, she is missing. I’ve asked everyone who works here. Jerry the Gentle Giant told me she was in the back this morning, right where I left her. Maybe Ron knows what’s happened to her. I’m going to give him a call. Amuse yourself.”
I browsed throughout the store as I often did when I came to see my friend at work. Pornography never seems arousing to me when viewed in this manner. It becomes more of a curiosity, almost like museum displays. The kinkier the sexual practice, however, the more fascinated I become. The fisting section particularly intrigued me that evening. I began to wonder if anyone, during the performance of this particular act, had ever lost any jewelry.
Stephen’s phone conversation with his manager honestly jolted him as I can plainly see from where I was standing. There was a dejected glaze in his eyes that was very uncharacteristic for him. At first I guessed he had just been fired.
“Stephen, what’s wrong?” I inquired, waltzing up to the counter again.
“I can’t believe it. I can’t believe he actually did that. Ron just told me that he… sold the future Mrs. Wiley,” Stephen said in disbelief.
“Who did he sell her to?”
“I don’t know. Probably some sleazy little scumbag,” he spit out.
“Don’t think that way,” I tried to reassure him. “Maybe she’s with a good family.”
“Oh no,” he went on, working himself into a tizzy. “Some sick sonuvabitch is probably abusing her right now. She won’t stand for it, I tell you. She doesn’t want some disgusting cretin poking her with his slimy diseased dipstick!”
His tone was slightly jovial, but with undercurrents of both anger and dismay. It was clear to me as it would to anyone who knew Stephen that he was genuinely hurt. He sat upon his stool behind the cash register and stared off into what seemed to be another dimension for the longest time while I tried in vain to search for a few comforting words for this man who had just lost his adult squeeze toy.
One really does have to wonder why Penelope would have been purchased when she was basically a display model anyway. Why wouldn’t someone want to purchase an unopened and, therefore, fresh Love Doll? Since she was filled with another man’s breath, what about the possibility that she might have been used in, shall we say, other manners as well? The mind boggles over such imponderables and not in a good way.
Unable to create any pertinent dialogue with my depressed buddy, I bid a hasty adieu, inviting him to join me for a drink at the Kayo Club after work. He half-heartedly congratulated me on the brilliance of that suggestion and agreed to meet me there.
Alas, no dice. Stephen never showed. As I came to find out later, he walked out the doors of the Erotic Emporium after his shift and did not return, quitting without any notice whatsoever. There was no answer at his home when anyone called or stopped by. The Duvalls hadn’t seen him when asked three days later. A search party was organized. Ronni Roadrunner and her merry band of fun-loving bi-sexuals went one way, for a change while Edmund the Odd followed his own path, checking every obscure tavern and pub he could find, one drink at a time. Nary a hide nor hair was uncovered in a week’s time. Of all people, Sid the bartender, definitely not the president of the Stephen Wiley Fan Club, was the last person to see him. Our bearded pal was on his way out of town when he stopped for a quick beer and to bid a fond farewell to the place he loved the best, the Kayo Club. He told Sid (twice, I’d imagine) that he had a real need to see Annie, his ex-spouse. Stephen was more subdued than Sid ever remembered him being before.
“He wasn’t loony, y’know?” Sid told Edmund and myself. “He actually gave me straight answers to direct questions, which isn’t like him at all. He was downright serious, at least for him. Not once did he insult me or make fun of my hearing aid the whole time he was here. Do you know what? He acted like he lost the best friend he ever had.”
The last any of us ever heard, Stephen did indeed hook back up with Annie for a short period of time. By the end of that year, he was reportedly living in Amsterdam and working as a bouncer in a hash bar.
As a tribute, we held a wake for Penelope in Stephen’s absence at the Duvall’s home one windy Saturday evening in early October. Fred Duvall read a Shakespearean sonnet at the same time his wife Chloe performed an interpretive dance. Edmund the Odd told wholly inappropriate but hilariously filthy limericks. Ronni Roadrunner sang the most melancholy version of “You Are My Sunshine” I ever heard, bringing the entire memorial to tears. It was up to me to give a farewell toast.
“Here’s to Penelope. You were a breath of fresh air. May your spirit never deflate.”
We then drank to the once and future Mrs. Wiley and remembered her as she was- shy, petite and, as we all discovered that great and crazy summer, surprisingly resilient in body and spirit.
Copyright 1978 by Scott Cherney
