Overit


overit

Debbie named every one of her children for flowers – Daisy, Rose, Alstromeria, Fuchsia, Ginger, Bird of Paradise, Lily, Geranium, Nightshade, Daffodil, Tulip, and the last but one – Baby’s Breath. Her last child – by then so tired of flowers, of birds and bees and fucking her sweaty hairy-backed Harold – she named Overit. And then she left, Overit in tow, leaving Harold and his blooming progeny all huddled in a phlegmatic hyperallergenic mass, living on homeopathics and chicken pot pies.

Debbie and Overit took the late bus to Vegas. Debbie did some serious cosmetic control on her baby-birthin’ stretch marks – none for the first five or six, she claimed, or maybe she just couldn’t see them until she got some perspective.

Debbie was not a jaded showgirl. Overit was not a spoiled show kid. He was serious as grits, helping his mama with sequins and eyelashes when he was no more than two, three years old, bless his heart.

Debbie died one day when Overit was 14 and the rent was due. So he did what any red-blooded hominid would do. Put himself in mama’s tights and pulled himself up by her bootstraps. Overit had some challenges – most notably Harold’s hairy back and a wobbly personality – somber accountant serious child one moment, striptease strumpet with broken puberty voice the next.

He never meant to do it. He knew Debbie was Overit and so was he, but he wrote to his sister against his mama’s wishes – only the next-to-last one, Baby’s Breath – and asked her to come west, help out with the act, maybe a brother and sister or sister and sister duet sort of thing, and she did.

Baby’s Breath arrived with the clothes on her back and a hot wax tank and got straight to work. Overit’s back was smooth as a baby’s behind, eyebrows arched and happy. Baby streaked his hair just a wee wee bit. “Oui, oui!” said Overit, lifting one brow, puckering briefly at her in the mirror, then wiping the lipstick off one front tooth.

Baby sighed, slipped the wax gun in her back pocket and went out for the night. No, Overit couldn’t come with her, she just had to get exfoliation out of her system sometimes. She went off exploring that bright shiny Vegas strip – feels like she’s in an Elvis movie, life is skimming by like travelogue, like she’s standing on a pedestal and the world is rushing at her, unedited, with spotlights bobbing and this constant beep beep beep beeping until she wakes up. I guess it was a binge or a psychotic episode, or then again maybe it was just adolescence, like an electric sidewalk pulling her ahead ahead ahead.

Anyway, there they were – headliners, then nobodies, then comebacks, then has-beens, then honorary stars, then legends, then Republicans, then scandalous tell-all unauthorized biographies, and then they said STOP STOP STOP.

Overit and Baby’s Breath stepped off every four years or so and went to see their old hairy pa and their 13 floral brothers and sisters. When they did, there was a cacophony of birdsong, and the sibs were all in organdy and lace. Overit took home some tulle every time, and Baby patched her pa’s overhauls.

bear

Overit and Baby’s Breath were spawned by a bear in a garden; but they counted their blessings in the flashing neon back home in Vegas, where gangsters grew showgirls in cement. The two of them arranged feathers, not flowers, and by mutual consent they did not save the farm when the bankers came to get it. There’s a WalMart there now, in the heart of the heartland, with a picture of a smiling cow in the bright white dairy section. Their old pa works as a greeter there, gumming out a friendly “Mornin’” from his wheelchair. The whole garden of his kids till the retail fields around him, while in Vegas the showgirls still bloom, same as they did back when, same as they always will.

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1 Response to “Overit”


  1. 1 Lollyloo August 22, 2006 at 5:41 pm

    More wicked gender-bendin’ fun.

    I love the concluding paragraph.


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