The Whack-Job Girls

More Praise for

The Whack-Job Girls“Bonnie ZoBell’s The Whack-Job Girls is long enough to make you envious, yet short enough to get the job done in the way few writers can. Read this book for the magic of its language but come back to it again and again for its just plain good stories.”

– Rusty Barnes, author of Mostly Redneck

“Told with equal measures of humor, heartache, and empathy, the stories within Bonnie ZoBell’s smashing debut, The Whack-Job Girls, will captivate you. As you read, you will fall in love with these women. Indeed, you might even come to realize that, in fact, you are these women.”

– Myfanwy Collins, author of Echolocation and I Am Holding Your Hand

“The women in The Whack-Job Girls & other stories could be you or me or any gal walking down the street who has lost her way, for a while, or forever. These poignant tales shine with pinpoints of light, even the darkest of them. Bonnie ZoBell is a fearless writer.”

– Susan Tepper, author of From the Umberplatzen

“ZoBell’s stories can be found in that spicy locale, somewhere between softness and terror, somewhere unsafe and smoldering.”

– Stefanie Freele, author of Feeding Strays and Surrounded by Water

“This collection whacks readers throughout with its original stories full of blessed images such as turquoise thumbs, adult playrooms, and acoustic popcorn. One never knows what to expect as the stories twist and turn into unexpected places. ZoBell scores a knockout with The Whack-Job Girls.”

– Randall Brown, author of Mad to Live

“The Whack-Job Girls is a high-potency collection that blasts through the death rattle of jobs and relationships that torment us, attempting to gnaw away until we disintegrate into soporific depictions of what we are not. The powerhouse narrators in these mesmerizing tales come out of the volcanic ash fully intact and more defined, if not a bit soiled by the subversive factors that beg to break them. ZoBell delivers a subtle, yet raw cast of characters in this unforgettable collection. Wow!”

– Meg Tuite, author of Domestic Apparition and Disparate Pathos

“Bonnie ZoBell’s stories are fierce, daring, and populated with characters who yearn for connection, contentment. No whack-jobs these, but women juggling all that life lobs at them. These stories are unmissable, necessary, wonderful.”

– Tania Hershman, author of My Mother Was an Upright Piano

“Bonnie ZoBell’s collection of very short stories will leave you breathless. From the naked woman who sees the Madonna in a water stain, to the anthropology student who works nights as a hotel maid, these stories about cornered women fighting back display an eye for the offbeat. With a sensitive, wry voice, ZoBell manages to find hope even in the bleakest scenarios, which makes this book a deeply rewarding experience.”

– Clifford Garstang, author of In an Uncharted Country and What the Zhang Boys Know

“I dare you to start one of Bonnie ZoBell’s stories and not finish it. The woman can toss you a line, hook you, and reel you in. Talk about pacing! She’s gritty, but sweet. Attentive. Big hearted. A little nuts. Plus, and this is vital: she’s funny. She’s a funny chick who can write. Love!”

– Ellen Parker, editor of FRiGG

“I am in admiration—Bonnie ZoBell pulls no punches as she explores the fractured worlds of women on the very edge in crisp, clear and yet generous prose. A terrific collection.”

– Vanessa Gebbie, author of The Coward’s Tale

“Bonnie ZoBell’s The Whack-Job Girls & Other Stories is full of humor, irony, wit, and some incredibly unforgettable characters. From the vodka-drinking and naked mother projecting her vision of Madonna onto a leaking wall to an impressionable anthropology student/hotel housekeeper who tries to understand some strange goings on in a hotel—these stories are hard to put down. ZoBell’s whack-job girls are ones we’ve met at beauty parlors, in bedrooms, in hotels, in pet shops. They are members of our family. In their quirkiness and skewed vision of the world, they fascinate us, invite us along their crazy day trips, give us wrong directions, yet we still love them. They win our admiration as they dump tired old boyfriends for new ones wearing snake tattoos and having a cute behind, or bravely face their future while losing their sight. I could not get enough of them. ZoBell’s prose is smooth, clear, assured, and full of crisp detail that delights the eye. But it is the whack-job girls themselves who steal our hearts and minds with their zest for life and unpredictability. And like the rest of us in this confused and confusing world, they are all too human.”

– Kyle Hemmings, author of The Truth about Onions

The Whack-Job Girls& other stories

Bonnie ZoBell

Monkey Puzzle PressHarrison, Arkansas

The Whack-Job Girls& other stories

Copyright © 2012 by Bonnie ZoBell

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief excerpts. Printed in the United States of America.

Graphic DesignAl Faraone

Monkey Puzzle Press424 N. Spring St.

Harrison, Arkansas 72601m o n ke y p u z z l e p r e s s . c o m

ISBN-10: 0-9851705-7-3 ISBN-13: 978-0-9851705-7-8

Cover DesignCynthia Reeser

For Jimmy, without whose Herculean love and support the writing of this book would not have been possible.

Table of Contents

Nonnie Wore No Clothes 1

Black Thumb 5

You Are Not Langston Hughes 7

Deep Sea Dive 11

The Whack-Job Girls 15

Rockstar 19

Black Friday 24

Serial 28

The Writer as Rapist 31

Graveyard 35

THEY WERE ALL in bed together. Sharla and Frank. The cats. The dogs. Frank, because of his sleep apnea, wore breathing gear. As his machine began whistling and gurgling, the animals snuggled closer to Sharla, on her side of the bed like there was an imaginary line. They knew the rules, when it was OK to curl up beside Frank, when it wasn’t.

Without warning, he sat up, heaving his pillow to the floor. His panicked face fixated on Sharla. “If they don’t stop bombing, we’ll all die.”

“It’s just a dream, Frank. It’s OK.” The doctor had upped his dosage of anti-psychotics, but that didn’t mean it all went away.

“Lie down and go back to sleep, sweetie,” she said. The animals gave Frank room.

For a moment, he didn’t seem to know her, but then she saw a fragmentary recognition settle in. Frank’s unfortunate childhood lurked until he was heavily under—one of those remarkable things the body does to take care of itself. Primal unanswered feelings, too painful for waking hours. Holes never filled. Scar tissue so dense only the subconscious can reach inside.

“All I ask,” he gurgled behind the mask, “is that they keep

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Deep Sea Dive

The Whack-Job Girls

their butts off my pillow.” Tubes of moist air spewed up his nasal passages, and

when he slept, Sharla thought of him as off in a nautical state, underwater, where he’d survive only because of his apparatus. She’d urged him to go to the doctor when she could no longer stand the gagging gaps in his snoring, when he stopped breathing altogether. She didn’t want him to die, fresh out of air.

She kissed his forehead. “Good night, my deep sea diver,” she said.

Between gusts of air, he shushed the words out: “The animals shouldn’t be on the bed.”

“They make me happy.”“Don’t you want to sleep next to me?” He snuggled

closer. “Of course, I do, honey.” She watched his eyes lose focus

as he fell off.The dogs fought for position. The Springer slept between

her legs as Sharla held her book out mid-air—a novel she deserved to read a half an hour a night. Since going blind, the Springer clung to Sharla, who couldn’t even take a shower alone without the dog sitting at the far end of the tub, staring at Sharla with filmy eyes. The Pomeranian mix, a rescue who’d finally stopped cringing and piddling when a hand was raised to pet him, was smaller but pushier. He wormed his way around the Springer and onto the arm trying to hold the book.

There were also the cats. The enormous black one taken from his mother too soon rubbed a cheek against the night stand, flirting so Sharla would pet only him. The little tuxedo cat, black and white, spat at the bigger one for getting too close to Sharla. She had to be kept indoors because a previous owner had removed her claws.

Sharla couldn’t relax. She told herself that if she’d only let go of her thoughts she’d be comfortable, but she could not. What if one day Frank awoke still believing his nightmares, that she was out to harm him like everybody else? What if

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Bonnie ZoBell

he doubted her love so much he left her, playing into her own night-time drama—the father who’d abandoned her in childhood and now left her over and over again in her sleep? Her leg cramped from its anchored position, her bottom ached from being in the same spot for too long. But if she moved a single limb, she’d disrupt the entire world.

Abruptly, she stood to reclaim her body. Frank awakened in a fit.

“Get them away from me!” he said, ripping his mask from his face, throwing it against the wall. He glared at Sharla, undoubtedly seeing whatever abomination she’d committed in his dream and explaining, “They’ll kill me if I don’t get out of here. Don’t let them touch me.”

“You’re having another dream, Frank,” she told him quietly. “You’re OK.” She bent forward, combed his hair with her fingers, though not too close—sometimes, when he wasn’t fully awake, his fists lashed out. One night she’d run to the bathroom with a bloody nose.

Somewhat calmed, he nuzzled up to Sharla but got the Springer instead on his way to a deeper sleep. The dog’s legs galloped, still hunting in her dreams like she did before she lost her sight. She rolled over and laid her neck over Frank’s.

“My honey,” he said, throwing a thick arm over the furry girl.

The rescued Pom made yelping noises in his sleep, probably from dramas before his rescue. The black cat taken from his mother too soon suckled the rescue dog’s foot. The tuxedo’s mouth made hunterly contractions, acting out her instinct for the kill that her body could no longer carry out.

Sharla moved quickly to the door, the animals jerking to and jumping off the bed to follow, as she knew they would. Like a herd, they moved behind her, their nails clattering against the hardwood floors as she made her way to the living room. She wondered if there was any way to leave the mayhem behind for just one night. Her own medicine had not curbed her midnight restlessness.

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The Whack-Job Girls

On the couch, Sharla’s legs stretched out as far as she could get them. The animals snortled and purred, whimpered and sighed all around her but, stricter now, desperate for sleep, she pushed them away. Blessedly, they spread themselves over easy chairs and rugs, on the dining room table and the loveseat. Sharla pulled her grandmother’s quilt over her body and fell into an uneasy sleep.

During the night, though, something inside would not let go, the guilt over leaving Frank behind, that he would awake with no one. In the morning, she found she’d pinched two small bruises on the inside of her arm in the shape of a butterfly.

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Bonnie ZoBell

Acknowledgments

This chapbook could never have been written without the existence of the Flash Factory on Zoetrope Virtual Studio’s site. Thank you, RichO Osgood and Frank O’Connor, for running a tight ship and inspiring us flashers. Every single one of these stories came from the prompts in your office. Thank you, Francis Ford Coppola, for allowing Zoetrope Virtual Studio to exist.

An equal thanks goes to my Zoetrope buddies who gave me so much great input on these stories. I’d like to name each and every one of you, but there are a lot of us and I’m sure to forget someone. Similarly, in the list below, I know I’m going to leave a name out, but please know that I deeply appreciate your support.

My gratitude to Kyle Hemmings for his help in creating Flashtown, U.S.A.

San Diego Mesa College and the San Diego Community College District provided some of the time, space, and travel needed to learn more about writing and to hide out and write these, and I deeply appreciate that.

Dorland Mountain Arts Colony and the Virginia Center for the Creative Arts generously offered me private time and space, and I am thankful for being able to use some of that gift to write these short tales.

My local writers group in San Diego warmly extended needed encouragement and feedback: Judy Reeves, Michelle Zive, Gail Chehab, Lana Witt, Judy Geraci, Scott Barbour, Linsey Kitchens, and Josh Goldfaden. I miss you!

For their help in reading various drafts, giving opinions, and offering support in times of trouble and jubilation, I thank mi amigos, Christine Ladewig, Heather Fowler, Pianta, Scott Starbuck, Marko Fong, Barry Friesen, Jeanne Holtzman, Cynthia Litz, Meg Pokrass, Stefanie Freele, Cliff Garstang, Susan Tepper, Myfanwy Collins, and Meg Tuite.

For the beautiful book cover design and advice, thank you for your creativity, Cynthia Reeser.

For your amazing talent and time, graphic artist extraordinaire, Al Faraone, I thank you.

For your inspiration, creativity, and editorial prowess, I appreciate everything you’ve done to help me make this into a book, Nate Jordon.

I am grateful to my family for always being there: Karl, Janet, Barbara, David, Jean, Betsy, Todd, Karen, Claude, Sylvia, Mary, Gus, Bruce, Helene, Grayson, Iris, Izzy, Karl, Zoey, Vanessa, Michelle, Marilyn, Jesse, Justin, Lily, and Jack. I love you.

Bonnie ZoBell has received an NEA Fellowship in prose, the Capricorn Novel Award, a PEN Syndicated Fiction Award for a story later read on NPR, and a spot on Wigleaf ’s Top 50 Very Short Fictions. Her work has appeared in numerous pub-lications, including Night Train, The Greensboro Review, Connotation Press, New Plains Review, PANK, Prime Number, and Cutbank. She received an MFA from Columbia University on fellowship, currently teaches at San Diego Mesa College where she is the Creative Writing Coordinator, is an Associate Editor of The Northville Review, and a Roving Editor for Flash Fiction Chronicles. Her short story collec-tion What Happened Here is forthcoming from Press 53.

For more information, please visit www.bonniezobell.com.

About the Author

A modern day Beat combination of Rocky Balboa uppercuts and Kerouacian human perception, The Weekender exhibits the greatest fear of all rebellious writers: ending up inside the slammer with the pros.

Memoir / $8.00Chapbook: 40 pagesPublished: July 2012ISBN-10: 0-9851705-1-4

With tooth and nail, Meg Tuite scrapes not under the skin, but under the bone to find the marrow of meaning and purpose in the lives of her characters. Her unique voice and style redefine what it means to be a woman, and to be a writer.

Fiction / $8.00Chapbook: 26 pagesPublished: January 2012ISBN-10: 0-9826646-9-9

Brad McLelland’s bruisers is a wild, dark and humorous road novel that ignites the senses, burning like Oklahoma wildfire. Hop in the truck with Leo and Jeremy and take the ride of your life.

Fiction / $8.00Paperback: 76 pagesPublished: May 2011ISBN-10: 0-9826646-6-4

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