Sonja and Mary

One was good-looking in a voluptuous way, but wanted to be a nun. The other was squarely stocky and chased ideal “Mrs.” candidates. One had no experience leading a group, but learned the business of doing so. The other had no business leading a group and gained no experience doing so.

Sonja was a natural redhead (I guess) with unfreckled skin, generous curves, a quietly smiling disposition and a Catholic jones that rubbed me like steel wool. At first we treated her with kid gloves, but we learned the gloves could come off and she wouldn’t bruise.

Although we had our differences, there was mutual respect and even trust. On one occasion, Bill and I were tossing our mascot, Scuzzo, (topic for another day) like a limpid volleyball, making detours off walls, ceiling and desks, when Sonja snatched him to “save the poor thing.” As I darted and dodged around her trying to “rescue” Scuzzo for our game, Sonja suddenly stopped and plunged the little fella into her sweater, in whatever space existed between her ample breasts.

I paused. Sonja stared at me, arms at her side. Bill’s eyes bugged out. I twisted my mouth in disgust. “You wouldn’t do that if I were Bill,” I groused.

Sonja smiled and shook her head. I waved her away and accepted defeat. Bill’s eyes darted back and forth between us.

Mary inspired me to hateful heights. I called her “Plymouth Rock” as in “You are under the rock upon which we stand” or “Built like a Plymouth, head like a rock.” I lean towards chivalry with women, but Mary got the worst of my snide lip. She would often come in and say something like: “Guess how much I paid for this dress?” Ignoring the fact that she often looked like a loosely-draped toad, I had several options and I had chances to use them all more than once:

“Too much.”
“Four thousand dollars,” (to make her sound cheap.)
“Two dollars,” (to make her sound like a bad shopper.)
“Bird feathers.”
“You paid for that?”
“Not money, I hope.”
“Bottle caps.”
“Don’t need to guess: you’re wearing the price tag.” (She fell for that one several times.)
“Oh hush. The corpse wants it back.”

No, it wasn’t pretty. Mary once pouted that she wanted sympathy and I replied she could find it in the dictionary, between “shit” and “syphillis.” (I was way past trying to be clever.)

She stared at me for about ten seconds then replied: “So’s Schmidt.”

Nice try. Probably her best effort. Her absence in my life would have been a joy.

And speaking of joy, maybe I should have gone in after Scuzzo.