Jim Meirose
The Largest Lady in the World
Off in the distance, where each and every sign had flashed large, larger, and then gone behind and back as Mr. Gerdulon paced seventy-mile-an-hour pace ‘cross I-80, there appeared a sign that must be far larger than most. Mr. Gerdulon let the pedal up a couple of hairs and slackened himself down to sixty-five, and that seemed like coasting. Like coasting enough to, after dropping down roughly to fifty-nine, that the sign suddenly towered all over and told him it’s intent, that being; turn off to come see me; World’s Tallest Lady of Guadeloupe on the Planet. And—of course—a twenty-four-hour snack bar.
The towering sign came abreast of him, as he pulled to the shoulder, and stopped. It had occurred to him that perhaps ten minutes should be invested in taking a piss in the tall brush aside the sign. Leaving the car, he pocketed the keys, and sidled toward the under of the ‘neath of the world’s only World’s Tallest Lady of Guadeloupe roadside attraction sign—he’d chosen to relieve himself roadside this time, to avoid the cold sense he’d got after yesterday’s use of a trucker rest stop—that he had been watched, perhaps mocked silently by some stranger, and that perhaps [this being a stretch, but nonetheless possible] he may have been mugged down, shot up, stabbed into, and left for dead, and the this here and now today within which he was remembering that, may have instead been a dead void of a nothing even less so, ‘cause—well, yes—‘cause well yes, he’d been dead. Wallop!
C’mon not let’s go hikethrough, haste is waste—passing the sign heading for cover he remarked inwardly to his silence of a self the massive thickness size and strength of the giant I-beams forming the sign supports and yes, pop, wow—setting down this sign had been a great achievement. A great achievement, requiring the coordinated effort of no less than a full squad of strong men, each wielding a specialized even stronger bright red green and black sign erectation superloud solid steel hot-pollutioning highly specialized expensive, machine.
Gaining the brush, he pushed on through, only. Yes only. If only not, yes.
Mr. Gerdulon was stop dead right there confronted.
Yes. Indeed, she must be the world’s tallest. Yes, indeed.
Though looking through her haze, she must needs be a mile or more off, she faced him full on, and, given what he was about to do in her presence, all glowering. Some things should not be done in the presence of anyone. Let alone, a lady. And let alone a gigantic, stone-faced her holiness of, the World’s tallest, et superhuge, et et, ladyship of, yes—of the virgin of Guadeloupe.
With the presence of the lady now being part of the equation, Mr. Gerdulon was dismayed to find, that the brush wall he pushed through did not mark the edge of a deeper wood, which might hide his act, but, of a quite different vision, that being—a long, flat, manicured lawn leading all the way to the big lady, and ‘round all ‘round, and beyond.
Very different vision.
Maybe needed to piss though, very, he could not badly; he could piss, but how could he, here? But, he—he and him—where would they—him and he—needing to piss, piss? This in mind, they spun their backs to her, very badly, but—facing the brush now, how could he, et, et, him, where? Where they could? But—was it he, but, they, but—him, them, he, altogether, spun, back to face the tangled, his back ‘way from t’ leafstems, they being thick enough so to facing himselves into her brush-bush, but, but—hey, were the tangled leafstems thick enough to hide the sight of his member from the road? Eh, no—that was true, but then, all became that the bushes stopped chest-high up, on him.
Mr. Gerdulon pushed to the bush wall, zipped himself open, and did not ask but it was like all times when a man would plead skyward, Lord may it pass quickly, but—her eyes. He felt them pressing hard on his back. Her right eye into his right shoulder blade. Her left eye into his left shoulder blade. Ah ah ah h’—the frightful symmetry of it all did escape him, but—the cars and the trucks sped by, all simultaneous to all’s gone already, out on I-80. Eh, Papi. There’s a man looking out on the road from above the brush border, beyond which, my Lord, that is the largest lady in the world seems like, Lord, and my God, yas yes, she’s a large lady oh, yah, the largest lady but—eh, what sign? I saw no sign, but, hey who what why’s that man up before her, oh, yah, that sight’s not one I ought to have seen. Nor anyone anyway—would have said Mr. Gerdulon had he been sitting ‘side her.
I shouldn’t have seen it, why; I shouldn’t have stopped here, is why. Did I stop here, why; did they put her there, why; did I have to go, maybe, ut—oh probably, never mind, no. It’s coming yes, yes. Why did I load up on coffee so? It’s coming, it. Oh. Why did I load up, load up with coffee, so?
Papi, that sounds interesting, I think I used to pray to her, oh, I know, I don’t know why I never told you, but can we go back, go in, pay to see her, Papi, oh, Papi, please—can we go back to see her?
Okay, oh sure. On the way back will be fine. Why did I load? But coming, it comes. Yes, it’s more important we get to Herra’s on time. Up with coffee? Coming it comes much too slow, but.
All right Papi, like mama says so often. I will hold you to it, Papi. Will hold you to it. Hold you to. Much too slow, but. It. Better than not at all. So? Better than not. Who was that man looking over that bush, Papi? Better than not at. Who was the man at that bush, Papi? Do you know, Papi? All. Do you, Papi? Do you know that big man—as they hazed away.
Mr. Gerdulon finished, and in a slit of a slash, he broke out o’ the bushes and into his car. He was, but. Feeling a bit wet. The car started immediately, causing him to turn the key in the lock, pull ‘er up into drive, down the pedal, pull away, but, feeling a bit wet.
No.
Haste makes waste, but here. Push yes push. Push out in the traffic.
Good, but.
All wet down here, yes.
No good.
Crap.
About the writer:
Jim Meirose‘s short work has appeared in numerous venues, and his published novels include Understanding Franklin Thompson (JEF pubs), Sunday Dinner with Father Dwyer (Optional books) and The Box (Scarlet Leaf Press).
Image: Roadside by Maynard Dixon (1875-1946). Oil on canvas. 30.25 x 40.25 inches. 1938. Public domain.
