The Literary Girlfriend: The Ultimate Bust!

All I wanted to do was to get this (and some other articles of clothing) clean. I swear I wasn’t looking for romance or trouble. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

The literary girlfriend stereotype is that all of them are thin and pale, with long straight hair and big glasses.  I’ll admit, my two literary girlfriends (not at the same time) in college fit that stereotype.  That was okay because I was pale and skinny too, but I had short hair and contact lenses, so it didn’t feel like I was dating myself.

Maybe most literary girlfriends fit that description (I’ve never seen any empirical data to support or refute this), but I know of at least one literary girlfriend who shattered that stereotype.

*****

I was fumbling for quarters for the washing machine in the apartment complex laundry room when the door behind me opened.  From a sideways glance, it looked like a hot chick had entered the facility, but I couldn’t tell for sure.  I saw long dark hair and long tan legs, but I had learned from past experience that a corner glance hot chick could turn into a full view scary dude, so I played it cool and pulled quarters out of my pocket until the newcomer walked up beside me.

Once the newcomer’s laundry basket slammed in place on top of an empty machine, I turned for the mandatory but uncomfortable greeting.  It got uncomfortable alright.  A hot chick was indeed standing right next to me with a tiny basket not quite filled with… I knew it wouldn’t be a good idea to look.

The problem with looking at hot chicks is that it’s tough to be casual.  I had to acknowledge her, but I didn’t want to look at her too long (actually, I did, but I knew I shouldn’t), so all I saw was long dark hair, brown (but not leathery) skin, a light colored clingy t-shirt, and lots of leg.   And her eyes, whatever color they were, were directed straight at me.

“Hi,” she said, with perfect posture and her hands on her hips.  Jeez, I was pretty sure she wasn’t wearing a bra, but I also knew my imagination could go crazy sometimes, so I forced my eyes up, up, up until I saw only her forehead.

“G’morning,” I muttered.    I immediately looked away, mostly from shame at my own appearance.  I was wearing torn shorts when I should have been hiding my skinny hairy legs.  My bed head hair slanted to the left.  My nose was runny, and I was the kind of guy who could have nasal drippage down to my upper lip and not know it.  I was unshaven, not with the cool five o’clock shadow that made ladies swoon, but the kind of scraggly face that made people think I’d ask them for spare change. I could clean up nice when I needed to, but that was not my morning.

As I pulled the last quarter from my pocket, I involuntarily jerked and the coins fell from my hand.  I promise, this wasn’t from being flustered.  I’m naturally clumsy.  I could drop stuff even when I wasn’t around hot chicks going braless in clingy t-shirts.  I’ve dropped stuff while helping the elderly.  This happened to be a poorly timed drop.

Two of the quarters bounced to my right where I could retrieve them, but the third and fourth rolled between the hot chick’s feet.  There was no way I could reach for those coins.  It was up to her.

If the hot chick noticed the quarters, she didn’t show it.  Instead, she put her own quarters in the machine slot, picked up her basket, and dumped the clothes in.  As I watched, I noticed definite movement going on underneath the clingy t-shirt.  She was braless alright.  I stood fascinated while she poured the detergent into the machine.  Then she suddenly turned and faced me.

“So, how do you think we’re going to do this year?” she asked.

“Huh?” I said, looking back up to her forehead again.

“You know,” she said.  And then I saw the logo on her clingy t-shirt. The logo was that of our local NFL team.  Stupid me, I had noticed the clingy t-shirt but not the football team logo on it, and she had just busted me.  This was indeed the ultimate bust.

The good news was that she had asked me a football question.  “We’ll make the playoffs,” I said, “but we have to get past Buffalo to get to the Super Bowl.”  Buffalo had just been to the Super Bowl two years in a row (as unlikely as that sounds now).

“Buffalo sucks,” she said.

“They don’t suck,” I said.  “I hate ‘em, but they don’t suck.”

“Buffalo sucks.”

I wasn’t about to argue the meaning of the word “sucks” with a braless hot chick in a clingy football t-shirt.  I was just happy she hadn’t called me a pervert.

“Okay, they suck,” I agreed.  “But we still have to get past them.”

The hot chick nodded and turned to leave.

“Hey!” I said.  It must have been with some authority because the hot chick stopped and turned.

I asked, “How do YOU think we’re gonna do this year?”

She smiled.  “We’re gonna kick Buffalo’s ass.”  Then she turned and left.

As she sauntered out, I made plans to shave, shower, and put on some flattering clothes for the dryer.  The dryer!  That’s when I remembered that two dryers were broken and only one was working.  And she had already started her washing machine.  And I still had to pick up quarters off the floor.

I suck, I thought.

I picked up my errant coins, slid them into the remaining slots, and stopped.  Since the braless hot chick had a head start on her washing machine, I had to use the shortest settings possible.  I put the machine on quick wash with cold water and figured I’d come back in thirty minutes.

Then I strategized.

If the hot chick put her clothes in the remaining dryer before me, I’d be stuck for the rest of the morning.  Women were notorious for leaving their clothes in the dryer all day, and there was nothing a guy could do about it.  If it were a man’s clothes, I’d take them out and set them neatly some place and no guy would care.  But there was no way that I’d touch a woman’s clothes in that situation.  I wasn’t going to be the guy in the apartment complex who was known for touching women’s clothes.

That meant I had to get that dryer before the hot chick.  And it couldn’t be a tie either, because anything close to a tie went to the woman, whether she was a hot chick or not.   My clothes had to be in the dryer before the hot chick even got back to the laundry room.

The hot chick was no longer a hot chick.  She was now my opponent.

*****

To be continued in The Literary Girlfriend: The Big Question … and the hot chick actually gets a name.