Cupcake Dan III

Of course, Belinda knew it was strange for Dan to be leaving every Wednesday night shortly after eating the Wednesday night double entree, sausage pizza and her famous spaghetti casserole, a staple dish which she herself had invented, inspired from the Marcello Vince cooking show she often fell asleep to during afternoon naps prior to her dinner prep. Dan’s Wednesday night excursions had persisted ever since Dan was a teenager, old enough to drive his mother’s car. Having only one vehicle, the pristinely kept ancient relic from the dawn of minivans, it was impossible for Belinda to follow his tail. No matter how much she scanned the car for evidence she was never afforded an explanation for Dan’s Wednesday night errands. And while the most obvious course of action was of course, to simply ask Dan herself, that proved to be out of the question , as she could not possibly jn good conscience confront Dan about anything, let alone about something as blatantly secretive as this. The only words exchanged the two were related to meal, and limited as to what the meals were, and when they would be served. 

As soon as she had seen Dan pull the minivan out of the driveway, the onslaught of thoughts came to the forefront of her mind. Thoughts of all different shapes and sizes and colour and sound, repressed thoughts, alluring thoughts, completely ordinary thoughts she could never seem to sense whenever Dan was in the basement dungeon beneath her kitchen. The sensation of thoughts was enough to make her crumble, she wished so badly to reach out and grab each individual thought, to touch them, to hold them forever. The rush was exhilarating, the blood flowing through her brain was rushing like the puss out of a boil, the ejaculate from a long celibate monk, filled with such force and fury, she placed her hand against her temples for relief, sitting down quickly before almost falling against the TV set. 

There was a sweet cottony foam under her tongue and ringing around her lips. Her heart was swimming in sticky sweet molasses. The television was playing an old rerun of ‘The Palson Family’, and she remembered watching it with Dayna Thorn, who turned to her and said:

“I wish I were an actress” 

Dayna then had the terrible nerve to go out and become one, leaving Belinda in her staggering wake, seldom ever calling anymore once Dayna got her first guest spot, and then all the other features came rolling in. Belinda thought to herself about the ad for the acting class she saw in the paper one week hence. She pondered it momentarily, clipped out and folded neatly inside her purse, and then she saw herself in bright lights starring in a Gone With The Wind remake, twenty years younger and fifteen pounds lighter and her now grey hairs, dirty blonde as they had ever been. Her face was smooth from all the wrinkles and stress induced broken blood vessels and the heavy calcified hardness in her stomach had receded into angel feathers. The phone was only ten feet away. She debated calling the number for Marla Stanley, the acting coach and agent advertised in the paper with the gleam in her eye and the trademark translucent smile. Belinda’s stomach filled with joy and rapture as she looked out the window at the evening clouds sweeping over the late winter sky, and the song of a cardinal stretched into an endless stream of hope. The lamp beside the window casted an orange halo of dust and in her reverie she contemplated all the tough corners of the living room that required her step stool to reach.

The prospect of time to dust the corners of the house made her legs twitch, and aching to lunge her way towards the coat closet where the brooms and step stool were kept. There was a spot on the tile she had recently noticed. A dark brown spot and she had no idea how or what had caused its occurrence. She traced back through her memory. Sauce? Dirt? She couldn’t decide. She’d been aching to go at it, to get down on her hands and knees and scrape its grimy and tainted face off her beloved tile floor. She had recently read about how effective Clorox could be when used in tiles and had since been eagerly waiting for the opportunity to test it for herself. 

But the shag carpet? She thought. The orange shag carpet on the living room for. It was a blossoming, burning orange like the spring sunsets of her girlhood. It was damp and dusty and she was sure it carried a scent for anyone who came to the house, one she had been accustomed to, but to everyone else was most likely obvious, but too embarrassing to point out. How long it had been, she thought, since she had even had anyone over. Perhaps, Belinda thought, the odours shag carpet was so humiliating, so revolting, it had done a number to prevent anyone from joining her for coffee and cakes anymore. 

 She realized too, how long it had been since she arranged her unworn clothing for a donation bin, and that her shoe rack certainly needed organizing. And then there was the dreaded tangled mess, the hot diabolical conundrum that was her jewelry drawer. She nearly got up as soon as the drawer had entered her mind, but the shag carpet beneath her feet kept her situated. The brilliant orange sent her back to her grandmother Penelope’s, whom used to keep her fridge stocked with cream soda and the freezer with ice cream bars. Grandma Penelope whom used to play rock and roll music on the radio and teach her how to do the twist and the mambo and the jitterbug. Orange was the poor quality hair dye grandma Penelope wore, matching many of her dresses, and the curtains over the window in her tiny apartment. How could she get rid of the orange shag carpet, no matter how mouldy, how filled with dander and dead skin shavings and toe nail fragments? The orange shag of her creamsicle, tangerine, marigold youth? But, on the coffee table there was an edition of ‘House and Home” and in it she had seen such decadent, darkly shaded hardwoods, colours that would match the Wilson & Co coffee table she had been fantasizing about as featured on the ‘Homegrown’ program, channel 29. 

In that moment, she couldn’t help but let her mind wander over to the staggering image of Gerald Stevens. Handyman Gerald Stevens, Witchwood’s Mr fix-it; the man who had been the object of her fantasies for so many years. His full head of hair had began to turn silver in some parts, only stirring Belinda’s rushing streams of passionate desire even more. She still smiled when she saw him, and modestly let her eyes move down, away from his steely blue ray-guns orbits and towards his bulging forearms, and his padded weathered hands, hardened and chiseled from years of work. Her eyes glazed over and the desire ran deeper as she contemplated the news she had overheard a the summer prior at the Crisper Corner about Tiffany Shack’s lush new backyard patio, designed and crafted by none other than Gerald Stevens himself. Gerald Stevens, who she had intentionally driven by the Shack residence to have a look at, hoping to get a glance at him in his washed out blue jeans, faded grey shirt and tool belt, his arms bronzen from the sun. She could hardly wait for spring to begin to find Gerald doing landscaping and interlocking and his beautiful horticulture design, baking in the sun.

And then there were the talks of Geralds kitchen renovations Belinda always seemed to overhear. Her hand slithered down, through the buttons of her blouse as she envisioned her face down, bent overtop the shining white granite counters of Patricia Newman’s brand new kitchen. Oh to be down upon her spotless mosaic floors, staring up at the roof high ceilings, her own rapturous voice echoing on without end. 

The first thing she would do, would be her bathroom, Belinda decided. And one day, while Gerald was working on installing the high powered jacuzzi, she would make some kind of slight remark, a mild innuendo, and then seize at her opportunity. Recently, Belinda had seen a Hitch and Co wall sized mirror being advertised she wished she could see herself in while making love to Gerald in her hypothetical jacuzzi. 

And the thought of the bathroom caused her to remember how long it had been since she had cleaned Dan’s bathroom. The memory of the last time she had seen it caused her to shudder away from her fantasies. The moist vinyl floors, absorbed full with bodily excrement and sewage leaked from the heavily used plunger. She knew it was time to replace the toilet after all those years and calls to plumbers, but found it impossible to do so in accordance with Greg’s schedule and she didn’t entertain the possibility of forcing him to use the upstairs guest powder room as a potential alternative. She felt her feet twitch for her to grab her mask and gloves venture down the stairs. The thought of cleaning the forsaken bathroom and the rest of Dan’s putrid basement dungeon, the idea of vacuuming those bug infested carpeted floors, and dusting the whole room from head to toe and replacing the never changed sheets on the bed made her sigh with deep enjoyment. 

With the smell of windex and fresh paint wafting through her nostrils, she felt alive and rejuvenated and her blood rushed into places long laid dormant. She imagined a new basement, replete with tile floors, fitness equipment and even a little bar where Gerald could entertain their dinner guests. She wondered how she could get away with arson while Dan was still in the basement. She thought about how much money she would need to abandon the house completely and to not feel guilty about him once and for all. She wondered if Gerald and everyone else in town may have forgotten about her stained reputation. She had heard that out in Sunnybrook it was quieter, and that for some reason, the ratio of men to women was immense and favourable to a seasoned woman like herself. The bottle of pinot that she had received two christmases prior was sure to still be in the back over the overcrowded fridge. She considered how delicious it would pair with the still unopened collection of Emile Cote chocolates she had stored underneath the sink where she kept the cleaning supplies, safe from Dan’s reach. And in her bathroom there were still the perquisites from the time she broke her elbow, carrying Dan’s dinner down the wobbly basement steps, yet another home improvement she fantasized having Gerald perform for her. The silent emptiness of the house without Dan made her sigh with relief, as if it were the first breath she had taken in her life. She closed her eyes, and let the rapid train of thoughts wash over her, all the sudden, desperate, impulses which she knew she would never act upon, the flight of forbidden, liberating, soul awakening ideas that would never come to life. 

Dan’s breath filled the van with sour air as the two drove on, and even breeze from the open window wasn’t enough for Rosa to escape the imposing, physically revolting presence of Dan, sweating, nervous and eager in the drivers seat. 

The slumy, slime ridden potholed road surrounding Oleg’s soon gave way towards tree lined, domestic faunas of two car garage houses each filled with two to three young kids, a dog, and big screen televisions. Ornamental lawns, vanity license plates, and elaborate Christmas decorations still hanging in February like dirty lingerie on a lampshade. Through the windows happy handsome couples could be seen with their uneducated, princes and princesses dining out of takeout containers. An old lady who must have been Siberian sat on a freezing bench along the sidewalk park entrance wearing an unzipped fur hooded parka, staring with her ice chip eyes at Rosa as the two drove by. 

“Lived here long?”

Rosa asked, as they rolled through the quiet neighbourhood. 

Dan snorted and muttered a “yes” and desperately tried to keep his attention upon the wheel without lunging into the cupcake box resting on his lap. Rosa watched his hands fidget, and his fingers wiggle like little worms as Dan struggled to maintain his sweaty grip on the wheel. 

Soon they arrived in the driveway of Dan’s mothers house, and Dan killed the engine with an exasperated sigh of relief, his face confused, showing the utter shock and disbelief he had for him making it all the way home, keeping the precious box in tact. 

“There’s a window around back you’ll have to use. “

Dan said, wheezing as he unbuckled his belt. 

Rosa squinted at him. 

“Don’t want my mom to see you.”

He said, choking for air.

Rosa nodded silently. 

“It is a basement window, it’s tiny, but I guess you can kind of squeeze through.” He said sizing her up. 

“Hopefully.” He added. 

“Just drop from there into the top of my desk, and then climb down from there. You’ll be fine. I’ll go on in and flick on the light.”

Rosa looked around, at the fortified block of castle sized houses, as though she were debating ejecting herself at that moment. 

“Oh and watch out for the rose bushes. DO NOT step in the rose bushes”

Rosa felt her way through the backyard gate, and then crept around through the darkness until she saw the light Dan had turned on coming out from the basement window. 

At that moment she looked down and noticed she had only slightly trampled the icy rose bushes. 

It was a tight enough squeeze to get her first leg in, and she could hardly breathe as she struggled to maneuver her thick hips through the tiny window, sucking in her breath, and her rolls held by her corset. By the time she was through, she was greeted by masts of spider webs, and a deep gasp of dusty air and an odour more vile than anything she had experienced. Dan’s toilet had been broken once again, so the room carried a heavy screen of sewage.

She perched herself onto the small space between the high desk cabinets and the ceiling, and was caked in dust and deep engravings in her skin from the painfully tight wedging she had done to make it through the window. She gently propped herself down onto Dan’s desk, one barefoot atop the keyboard, and another atop a crinkling potato chip bag, her fur coat, heels and purse, which she had thrown inside preemptively, laying on the hardened carpet. All the while, Dan had taken no notice of her, or made any half hearted attempt to spot her on her way in to prevent a possible hip fracture or concussion. 

Instead, once Rosa finally managed to gather herself following her tremendously straining efforts, and her sheer revulsion from the condition of the room, she turned to see Dans heaving naked body sprawled out upon his comically undersized bed. 

Suddenly, Dan’s eyes had changed in a marked way. His glasses were off, and he took on a fiendish glow as he met Rosa’s gaze. Beside him, cradled in his right arm, was the still unopened box of cupcakes. 

“So, you said you’d do anything?” He said, drooling. 

“Of course, baby” came Rosas mechanical reply 

“I want you to watch me. “

“Mmm, that’s hot. “

Dan licked his lips and proceeded to open up the box. He dove straight for the black Egyptian liquorice, and stuffed it straight into his face. His mouth was closed, and the black frosting smeared deep around his lips and nose. Dan took the rest of the cup cake and smudged it all over his chest and belly. Rosa looked on with disbelief as Dan reached for yet another cupcake and did the same thing, spreading it all over his face and his chest, staring at her as he did it. 

“Come closer” said Dan. 

Rosa came to the edge of the bed and Dan gestured towards the box, pushing it in her direction. 

“Do it to me.” 

He said. 

“Shove it in my fat mouth”

Rosa took a peanut butter frosted cake and shoved it into Dan’s half open, blackened, caked up lips. 

“Mmm mmmm mmmm” 

“Smear it all over me.”

With the mashed up cake still in her hand, Rosa proceeded to lather it’s contents all over Dan’s belly and his face. 

“Keep going” 

He said. 

Rosa took another out of the double dozen box and plastered it all over Dan, before reaching into the box for yet another one. 

They continued on until Dan was covered head to toe, chocolatey, pink and vanilla frosting all over, the bed sheets all different shades of brown and heaping with crumbs. 

Dan proceeded to roll around and squeal with the remaining cupcakes laid out across the bed, slowly absorbing deep into the folds of his belly and the sheets. 

“Pig” said Rosa. 

“Louder” said Dan. 

“Pig!”

“Pig!” 

“Pig”

“Dan?”

“Pig!” 

“Dan? What’s going on?”

“Oink” 

“Pig!”

The wooden stairs cracked and Dan continued rolling, oblivious. 

“Oink oink oink” 

“Pig!”

At about halfway down the stairs that’s when Belinda could see it. The sight of Dan, frosted up and squealing in his filth, the crusty old basement carpet, the ugly, aged woman on the bed, the stench of the hideous room, it was too much all at once. Belinda collapsed, and rolled down the other half of the stairs, breaking her neck on her descent, and losing complete consciousness almost immediately, but not before one final glance at cupcake Dan, still oblivious to her arrival, still squealing in his frosted bed of cupcakes.