I am the Avon Lady. I come in peace.
A few weeks ago a desperate man called me, looking for an Avon Lady stripper for his best friend's bachelor party... Read about it here before you read what happened next!
I pedaled my bike to Wal-Mart the day of Rocco and Julio's party. I left it tethered to the dented mailbox standing sentry by the garden department and headed inside, past a canned pyramid of refried beans, past the little boys' clothes, past toilet bowl cleaner and push-up bras and boxes of Little Debbie treats, straight to the clearance corner. Sure enough, I found just what I needed - a huge green woven Easter basket for the princely sum of one buck. I pried the pale plastic duck off the handle as I waited in line and handed it to the middle-aged cashier with my handful of loose change. She didn't blink, just stuffed it in a wire bin filled with hangers and discarded merchandise as I waved goodbye. I hung the basket on the right side of my handle bars and headed home.
My two boys watched as I artfully crumpled pieces of pink tissue paper and layered it in the bottom of the basket. I added a tube of Avon Bust Sculpt and a fancy handwritten set of instructions for... uh... male "performance." A spritz bottle of RPM, a Mesmerize Soap-on-a-Rope, a bottle of Avon Bug Guard, and three discontinued (and two-year-old but still smelly) Avon vanilla-scented candles completed the set.
"You're charging how much for this basket?"
My older boy wrinkled his nose. I looked at the goods. The handle of the basket was discolored where the duck used to perch, so I rubbed it, tried to soften the harsh edge, but the oils from my hand made it worse.
"Nevermind how much. This is Avon lady business, young man. Now you two clean your rooms and get ready for your club meeting."
My boys shuffled down the hall. I heard them shove toys under the beds, hide dirty clothes in the closet, heard them change from school duds to Star Trek uniform in anticipation of the Sci-Fi Club movie night. I stared in my own closet. What does an Avon Lady with a gift basket wear to a stag party? I sifted through my clothes, looked for something demure, chaste, something that screamed No Stripping! A knock at my bedroom door interrupted my thoughts, and I cracked the door to see my youngest son in his yellow science officer's shirt.
"Yeah? What do you need, honey? I'm trying to get dressed!"
"Mom! Can you wear your uniform, too?"
Why not? I grabbed my Star Trek Voyager Captain's uniform, the full-sized one-piece one with the velvet piping I made for Halloween, and decided it was the perfect foil for a handful of horny bachelors. I added my gold-toned communicator pin and a pair of serious black boots and twisted my hair into a commanding French twist.
"Ok, crew! Front and center!"
My boys fell into line and we marched to the car, the boys with stacks of dog-eared comic books, me with my gift basket and the directions to Rocco's house. I dropped the boys off at the recreation center as twilight hit our hills. I left them with an official salute and pointed my car toward the railroad district, the poorest section of town. The vanilla candles gave off a chemical scent as I passed the train depot. I rolled down the windows, hiked the fan up to "high," tried to force the sickly sweet odor as far away as I could, but other smells invaded my senses, made me roll the windows closed. Rusty cans and glass liquor bottles sprinkled the sides of the road like heavy forgotten confetti, the signs of someone's pleasure turned environmental hazard. The splayed body of a dead dog hoarded the middle of the street. The legs and arms formed a cross like a canine crucifix, and I swerved to avoid it. The sun continued falling behind the Rocky Mountains. I switched on my headlights just as I found Rocco's street.
I parked my car nearly a block away. It was obvious which home housed the party. The thump, thump, thump of cranking bass shook the air. I felt my internal organs vibrate in time to Latino rap. I wished I carried a real Star Trek phaser. I climbed the rotten stairs leading to Rocco's door and hovered at the top. The unmistakable bump and grind of cheesy porn music wafted through the door, mixed with the clink and pop of a thousand beer bottles and the rap baseline, an unholy symphony. I brushed the front of my uniform, arranged the gift basket neatly over my arm, and took a deep breath. I rang the bell, but I could tell it didn't work. I knocked.
A scuttle of foot motion fractured the noise. Someone switched off the movie, and a pair of clicking shoes stopped at the door. I felt a cold eye inspect me through the peephole. I smiled my best Starfleet greeting. I heard the hard catch of a breath, then a Spanish swear. I wasn't prepared for what came next.
"Oh, man! It's a narc!"
To Be Continued...
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