One Step Forward, Too Many to Count Back

Chapter One 

My Cartoon Life  (18+) An inside look into the thing I like to call - my life. #1642182 by audra_branson

Chapter 2

As I dig into my purse for the emergency twenty dollars I always have, I feel not only “Dream Date Ken” staring at me, but also the smirking prepubescent cashier.  Just wait a few decades, Honey.  Your time will come. 

My voice drips with sarcasm as I push the change into Ken’s hand. “Hey, you wanna just hold on to the money in case you wanna Slurpee or cotton candy later?” 

“You're so sweet.”

The man is clueless.  How in the world do you go on a first date with no money and  take your date to the one place she deplores?  I mean, honestly, the zoo?  That’s not even original.  Not to mention the fact he knows I hate it!

Yet, for some reason I find my feet moving step by step into the threshold of animal feces, screaming children, and young lovers that are too stupid to know better.  My brain says run, but my empty purse reminds me I paid for this torture.

“Do you have a penny?” Ken’s voice breaks into my thoughts. 

“I’m pretty sure you have my money.  Besides, trust me.  You don’t want to know what I'm thinking.”

“Huh?”

“You know, ‘a penny for your thoughts’.”

“Oh, I wasn’t thinking anything.”

Good God, is this guy for real?  “No, Ken, I meant . . . Never mind. “

“I thought we could make a wish in the wishing well,” he whispers as he puts his arms around my waist. 

“Hmm, well it’s a thought.  At this point it can't hurt,” I respond as I slither out of his cocoon embrace.

I'm not sure exactly what I wished for, something like imminent death or an alien abduction.  Definitely, something positive though.

As we walk through the mass of mothers with strollers and kids pulling little red wagons with even more kids in them, Ken talks.  I envy the little tow-headed boy holding a conversation with his ragged stuffed frog.  His conversation has to be more interesting than this.  And Ken continues to talk.

"In the first grade, I was the second to the tallest kid . . ."

And he talks.  Exhibit after exhibit is empty except for the delightful smell of feces.

Ken continues.  "But my mother thought I looked better in blue . . ."

I have no idea what he's rambling about.  I've become distracted, not by the troop of kids beside us having a popcorn fight.  I’m used to tuning out hellions.  After all I'm a middle school teacher.  But the thing my thoughts keep drifting to are the fact that with each step, Ken’s shorts creep a little lower.  Not like the I’m-a-wanna-be-gansta style; but more like he’s lost a few pounds recently, and they're just loose - really loose.  He's so into the conversation he's literally having with himself that he doesn't notice. 

One of the darlings in the stroller drops her Sippy cup; accidently, I’m sure.  Being the gentleman I've come to realize Ken is, he bends to pick it up.  Holy Moon Over Miami!  Not even a triangle of underwear in sight!  It is Butts-R-Us.  I look away trying to rid my mind of the visual that I'm sure will haunt my dreams even on my death bed.  When I glance back, I'm relieved to see the mother instictively put her hand over her innocent child's eyes.  No child should be subjected to Ken's ape-like 'hiney'.

At last he pulls them up as he stands.  Maybe now I won't feel like I'm on a date with an over-aged Vanilla Ice. 

“Ken, may I ask you something personal?”  I know I don’t want to know the answer but I can't stop myself.

Raising an eyebrow, he leans in much too close.  “Anything, Baby.  I’m an open book waiting for you to pour over my words.”

I resist the urge to gag.

“Are you wearing underwear?”  Tact never has been my strong suit.

“Never, Baby Girl.  Do you like it?”  His grin reminds me of what a weasel must look like as it sucks down the last egg in a nest.

Bewildered as to why my mouth won't obey my mind and stay closed, I answer.  “You do realize you are wearing shorts. . . at the zoo . . . in 95 degree weather . . . 100% humidity . . . around children . . . and ME?”

He winks.  I swear on all the panda bears in the universe, he winks at me.

“Ken, I’m just going to state the obvious.  You're going to sweat, a lot.  Hence, making your woo-ha and friends sweaty and sticky.  Not that I would know or even truthfully care, but I can’t imagine that would be comfortable.”

“We can take care of that problem later, Doll.”

As I try to process what he has implied, God grants me a gift. My toe catches on a crack in the sidewalk.  I stumble.  Ken reaches to catch me.  Repulsed by his touch, I jerk away landing square on my ass. 

I offer a silent prayer to the Good Lord while I hold my already swollen ankle.  Thank you for giving me this mild injury that has me wanting to puke from pain, so that I might not kill with my bare hands this idiot I met on the internet that is delusional enough to think that I would want to clean his sweaty balls.  Amen.”