Socks and Brains
by Sarah-Jane Lehoux
I’ve just woken up in someone else’s bed. That’s the third time that’s happened this month. It’s getting worse. Or better, depending on your point of view.
The stuffed monkey on the dresser tells me to enjoy it while I can. He says this gift will run out right when I need it most. But what does he know anyway? He’s just a stupid monkey.
“Stick and stones, love,” he says to me. If I had a shoe on, I’d take it off to throw at him. But my shoes are gone. So are my jeans, my shirt, my underwear. Everything but my socks. I decide it’s better not to know how that happened. I’d ask the monkey, but he’s a filthy liar.
I search the room for some clothes. I’m such a lucky ducky because it’s clear that whoever lives here must be around my age, around my size. After much debate, I choose a pretty pink sundress then root through a jewellery box for accessories. One must always accessorize.
I spin around in front of the mirror, pleased with what I see. Even the monkey’s got to admit that I’m hot. Smoking hot. And I don’t think that because I’m vain or anything. It’s just the honest to god truth.
Only one thing wrong with this picture of perfection. My socks. It’s a major faux pas to wear sweat socks with a sundress, but that’s okay. I’ll keep them because they’re mine, and they’ll cry if I leave them behind. Besides, I’d like to see some skanky, fashionista-wannabe mock my style sense. Just try and bring it, bitch.
Time to go. I’ve got places to be. Well, at least I think I do. A girl like me always has a full social schedule, even if I don’t remember it. Why can’t I remember it? Doesn’t matter. The party comes to me, not the other way around.
“Goodbye, tacky little room!” I say as I head towards the bedroom door. I don’t bother saying goodbye to the monkey. He hasn’t stopped cursing me out since I put on the dress. Jealousy is so lame.
The rudeness in this house is apparently contagious. “Who the hell are you?” a woman in the kitchen yells.
“It’s okay,” I answer. “I’m supposed to be here.”
“Oh. Yes, of course.”
“Please, sit. Let me make you some lunch.”
I eat what she offers. It isn’t much and it isn’t great, but I’ll make do. For some reason, I’m absolutely famished. I ask her what day it is.
“Monday,” she says.
Oh dear, I’ve missed that many days? That’s a new record.
The woman is staring. She wants to ask me something, I can tell. I put down my fork and look at her expectantly.
“May I kiss you, Goddess?” she asks in a hushed voice. I’m flattered. She is the twenty-first person to call me that. It tickles my fancy. I allow her lips to graze the back of my hand, but I don’t like the greasy smear of lipstick she leaves behind.
I narrow my eyes. She squeals as all the arteries in her brain explode at once. She drops onto the linoleum, but her eyes are still open. I hate that. Her mouth is open too. She must be thirsty. I pour the rest of my glass of orange juice onto her face. That should help. I’m so kind.
A garden of worms sing to me as I walk across the woman’s lawn. I don’t normally like a capella, but these worms have got it going. Really, if I had a record label, I’d totally snap them up. They’re so much better than cats. I request “Bootylicious” and they are eager to oblige. I can’t help bopping my head along to the music as I stroll down the sidewalk.
The street is empty. Everyone must be at work or at school. How annoying! I’m already tired of walking. Time to conduct a little experiment.
“Give me a ride,” I think really hard. I’m not sure if this will work, but it can’t hurt to try.
“Yes, it can,” my hair says. “You’re making your ears bleed.”
“Be quiet or I’ll shave you off.”
“You’d never do that. You’re too vain.”
“I will so! I’ll get a wig. One that knows how to make decent conversation.”
That shuts my hair up. And just in time to see five cars swerve round the corner, one after another. They screech to a halt in front of me. I choose the yellow convertible. Not only is the car cute, but so is the driver. He’s built and has a super nice smile.
“Where to?” he says as I slide into the passenger seat.
I give him a peek inside my memories. Just a blink really, enough to get the idea across. “Home.”
“Sure thing. It’ll take a while though.”
He’s not lying. We’re on the road for hours before I recognize the names of the towns we pass through. Boring! I wonder why I came this far south. I went south the last time I missed a day too. And the time before that. I wonder if I’m trying to get somewhere.
“I’m hungry,” I tell my driver, and he stops at the first store we come across. As he races inside, I look down at my socks.
“You can’t keep doing this forever,” the left one says.
“Shush! Don’t say things like that,” says the right. “You’ll scare her.”
I smile at them, trying to calm them down. “It’s all right. Everything will be all right. Once we get home, everything will be fine.”
“Sooner or later, you’ll have to stop."
“Shh,” I whisper. “You’re giving me a headache.”
My driver returns with chips, chocolate, gummy bears, three bottles of water and one of iced tea. My personal trainer would so rip me a new one if she saw me eating this junk. But no biggie. I think I zapped her last month anyway. My driver watches as I tear open the bag of gummy bears, decapitate them one by one, and drop their heads out the window.
“Why are you doing that?” he asks.
“Because I don’t like the way they’re looking at me.”
I don’t like the way he’s looking at me either. If I look inside his head right now, I’m sure to see all sorts of vulgar fantasies. I tell him to get out of the car. I narrow my eyes again. His brain pops just like the woman’s did.
“That’s fifty-three,” the last gummy bear cheers. “You’re on a roll.”
I pluck off his head before he can say anything else. Now there’s nothing to do but eat the gummy bodies while I wait for another volunteer to drive me the rest of the way home. My socks have started arguing again. I’m doing my best to ignore them, but I’m starting to wish that socks had brains.
Copyright © 2009 by Sarah-Jane Lehoux