Sopping Puddle of Disappointment

What is one of the best ways too cool off from the inside out on a ninety-five degree day in the middle of July in New England? Yes, an icy cold pink lemonade ice pop on a wooden stick. Oh, yummy, yummy. This is the exact moment that is worth waiting for at any age. What was a better way to bring you back to childhood than savoring a tangy, tart, mouth-watering ice pop?

Marty Fuller sat down on his front door step and slowly peeled the plastic wrapper from the top of his frozen treat and caught the very tip of the glistening pink summit between his teeth wincing at the chill that caused a current of tingles that hit every sensitive spot in his forty-six year old mouth. He quickly removed the rest of the wrapper, folded it and placed it just beneath the heel of his brown oxford and held the pop up in front of him.

The sun caught every light point; it was breathtaking covered in glittering ice crystals. Marty licked his dry lips, imagined tasting his tart, tangy treat and was rudely interrupted by his cell phone buzzing in his pocket. He cursed the caller, a vast variety of foul language that would never pass his own chaste lips burst to the forefront of his mind in sparkling firework explosives. Not wanting to entertain the thought that it might be his supervisor, a co-worker, cringing more deeply in his own skin, his own mom?  

After counting three rings, the call went to voice mail and Marty closed his hazel eyes hoping against hope that there would be no more interruptions to ruin this moment, the only moment of this day that belonged to him and only him. Who in their right mind would need him at this precise moment? He didn’t ask for anything, he didn’t ask for raises, he didn’t ask to not be the office pet, he didn’t refuse anything in fear of losing his job or letting his beloved mom down. Marty just wanted to savor in his one and only special pleasure that he didn’t have to share with anyone else at this exact moment in his life.

When awoke at six each morning, five days a week, his life belonged to his job in the mail room at a men’s clothing catalog company. Of course, it wasn’t just the mail room he serviced. Marty picked up coffee and tea for the higher-ups, delivered the dry cleaning he retrieved for the same group during his short lunch breaks and on his way home, if he didn’t stop by his mom’s for what she whipped up for dinner, she would call crying and complaining that he didn’t love her anymore.   

The ice pop shimmered at him, beckoned him to taste it, tiny tendrils of steam curled up from the top and what was that? A tiny trickle of melting juice sweat from the tip and began it’s slow, languid journey to the bottom. The pink lemonade fattened into a heavier pearl of juice and slowly elongated threatening to release from the pop and land on Marty’s wrist. Oh, now was the time to save his fair, be-freckled skin from drinking up the treat before his thirsty pink tongue did. 

The phone began to buzz again in his pocket and his hazel eyes rolled up to the underside of the neighbor’s deck above. He was nearly wrought with fury. It was Friday; it was just after five in the afternoon, who would have the marbles to interrupt the start of his weekend? It was the first of an endless line of weekends where he didn’t have to work on a Saturday. Two whole entire sun-filled days just for him. Marty didn’t go out sunbathing or to beaches, no, not him. With his close cropped and thinning auburn hair matched with his pale, freckled skin, he’d nearly burst into charring flames if he sat out in the direct sunlight for more than ten minutes.  

Marty preferred the worn red and tan plaid easy chair in front of his own thirty-nine inch flat screen watching cooking shows or his guilty pleasure; reality shows about adults indulging in their non-text book style fetishes. He wasn’t against letting one’s “freak flag fly”, he had his own private desires that some folks may feel uncomfortable about, but until now, they had only been fantasizes locked in the private vault hidden in his own mind. Between you and me, he favored blindfolds, leather paddles and safe words.

He let the phone go to voice mail again and focused his attention on his ice pop. It had appeared to shrink in size by a smidge and his heart shuddered at mild disappointment at missing out on the first lick when the ice pop is so frigid that your warm, wet, slick tongue would adhere to the ice on the outside and stick for brief moment. That was his favorite part. He licked his lips again, slowly drew himself to the poised pop so it wouldn’t drip on him neatly pressed khaki pants and the phone began to buzz again.

“Darn it to heck!” Marty fished into his pocket and pulled out the hellish piece of technology that stole his privacy. With a cell phone, he felt as if he could hide from no one. He glared at the caller ID as if the caller could see that they were bothering him during his ‘Marty-Only-Time’ and it was listed as anonymous. It wasn’t even someone he knew, how dare they even dream that they could call him. Marty squeezed the phone inflicting pain on the innocent device wanting to squeeze the head of the intruder on the other line until it popped like an overripe pimple.  

Another sticky drip tapped against his bare wrist reminding him that his long desired reward for an endlessly aggravating week was slowly dwindling to a weepy pool of melted sugar trickling from his wrist to the worn wooden step beneath his feet. The pop still looked moderately fulsome, he could still enjoy enough to be satisfied. You might ask, if this one bites the dust, can’t he just get another one? No, he can’t. There was only one in the freezer, just one perfect pop for one perfect moment. He could shop for more; he may entertain that thought over the weekend, but now wasn’t the time.

Marty switched hands pinching the slippery stick between his thumb and finger. shook the clinging drops from his other hand that was holding the pop and his phone began its agonizing buzz again. Picking up the cursed phone again, he read the caller ID; anonymous. Boy, oh boy, he wanted to give anonymous a piece of his mind. He was going to tear anonymous a fresh new butt hole this very second.

Pressing the tiny green phone icon, he swiped it to the right and the phone call was accepted. Marty was seething with anger; he was really going to give it to him or her. The first hello would be the trigger and he was ready to sling a trough full of filth, threats and insults at this intruder. He could feel the chilled, syrup sweet fluid of his rapidly melting pop slather his forearm down to his wrist. The sensation was like shaking someone’s clammy hand and having the urge to moan out loud, “ew, gross,” wiping your palm on your pants to add insult to injury.

“Marty? It’s Christie Simon from work.” Christie Simon! Oh happiness of all happiness! Marty pined after Christie day and night. She was the one woman who he dreamed of strapping to his bed with a pair of pink feathered hand cuffs he bought at an adult toy store just out of town. She was the woman he wanted to make squeal with the rough side of his leather paddle, bought at the same store. Christie was employed on the sales line selling the clothes at the men’s clothing catalog company he worked for.  

“Why Christie, to what do I owe the pleasure of your phone call?” Marty asked her out three times and all three times, she refused him. It was hard enough for him to work up the courage to ask out the breath-taking, buxom, blond beauty queen of his dreams. Christie wore day-glow pink lip gloss that smelled like peppermint when she was close enough to smell it. Marty liked the way the gloss smelled and his mouth watered when he was close enough to smell it on her.  

“I hope I’m not interrupting anything important.” Was she going to finally accept his request for a date? It was Friday evening, he could get them reservations to the new steakhouse, “Deacon’s BBQ Palace”, if she enjoyed a good steak and a beer. Oh what a dream come true, a date with Christie! Did she like steak? Did she like pink feathers?  

“Oh no Christie, nothing important. What can I do you for?” He cringed immediately. That old line didn’t sound any better coming out of his mouth; he was embarrassed he said it. She followed his crusty old line with a throaty laugh across the line. Marty’s stomach bunched up in knots, his ice pop, nearly forgotten, had developed a constant stream quickly racing down his wrist, wetting his forearm and enlarging the pool of sticky juice between his feet.  

“You’re so funny Marty, that’s what I like about you.” She giggled again and he could almost envision her biting her bottom lip and smiling at the same time. Marty junior stirred in his khakis and he closed his eyes hoping against all hopes that her next question was where were they going for dinner.  

“I like lots about you too Christie, so, what’s up?” She cleared her throat and paused for effect. She was going to build up the anticipation, why not, he’d been wanting a date with her for months and now he would get his chance. Marty dared a glance at his pop, down by more than half. Just two pink slivers clinging to a sopping wooden stick. The ice pop was nearly toast. If he was fast enough and the phone call ended soon, Marty could pop the stick into his mouth and save the last taste for himself.  

“I was supposed to work tomorrow for Mr. Busby on the phone lines. The summer clearance catalog dropped yesterday and I have a date. Would you mind covering my shift for me tomorrow? I’d do it, but I’ve been promising Deke Levy a dinner at ‘Deacon’s BBQ Palace’ for a month now. He’s finally worn me down. So what do you say buddy?” Deke Levy! Not him, anyone but him. Deke Levy was his supervisor. He was tall, muscle-bound, and smooth-talking, his thick, brown hair was not thinning like his was. Deke had big, blue eyes, he had swagger, he knew how to dress, he drove an old Caddy, but it was a Caddy!  

“Sure Christie, anything for you. I hope you have a nice time. “  

“Oh thank you Marty, I owe you one. Don’t worry; it will probably be dead on the lines. People are vacationing; I highly doubt they’ll be calling on a Saturday for wool trousers and long sleeve sweaters. Thanks again! “She hung up. Marty was officially defeated, he had lost and now he just wanted to crawl up into fetal position and hide under his bed. No Christie, no date, no steak. 

Marty turned his phone off and put it on the deck beside him. He took a long, deep, slow breath and blew it out. What a pile of disappointments today. His two day weekend was now cut to one day, the girl he pined for was going out with his boss and there was no way out of it. Mr. Levy would know that he would be covering for Christie so he couldn’t call in sick. Railroaded! Well, at least he could salvage his one true pleasure, his one special thing.  

Marty held his hand up before him, his wrist and forearm slathered with melted sugar syrup. The thin, pink lemonade sweetness clung weakly to the wilting wooden stick. He could have that, he could feel something good inside with just that. Tipping the stick towards his parched lips, Marty opened up and the moment the tip of the stick touched his tongue, the two slivers of sweetened ice broke free from the stick and fell onto the crotch of his khakis melting immediately. 

Turning his face to the sky, he howled in defeat.

The End

Sharon Seltzer

8/5/2020