Cheryl’s blue dress drew a lot of compliments that first time she wore it. The occasion was Evie Duncan’s wedding and the bride had asked Cheryl to be one of the cake cutters, so she went shopping and bought the azure rayon sheath right off the sale rack for $15.
Cheryl felt extra proud of herself there in that new dress with a carnation corsage, smiling at all the guests in the church basement until Evie’s father turned up in the refreshment line. Gene Duncan was the 50ish type who acted like a fool around females he wasn’t related to. Mama had said the trouble with him was going through the Change, a condition she described as “used up and not knowing it.”
Gene gave Cheryl a drooly look as she slipped a small square of confection onto a paper plate. “That’s a mighty fine dress you got there, honey. ”
“This ole thing? I got it on sale the other day at the Shirley Shop.” She blushed, wondering why she had even volunteered that much information. She didn’t particularly want to talk to him.
“Well, that’s right smart of you. It sure is becoming.” Gene’s gold tooth glistened back at her as he leaned up close, too close for a deacon and added, “That color really does something to me, too. Nothing like a pretty young thing in a blue dress. Yessiree, if I was a young man, I’d have half a mind to take you out.”
He probably would, if he had half a mind, Cheryl thought. “Go on now. ” She handed him his cake. He grinned like a dog itching fleas as he turned and wandered into the crowd.
Arriving home that evening, Cheryl took care not to get makeup on the neckline and carefully hung the dress on a padded hanger. Wearing something only three hours was hardly reason to invest four dollars at the cleaners, so that next week, she vowed to wear it again and gather a few more compliments. After all, she was 22 and not getting any younger.
On Tuesday morning, she gave the garment the sniff test and checked for stains. Finding none, she gingerly, she slipped the dress on snugly over her hips. A couple sprays of cologne, and she was ready to meet the world.
The magic worked. All day people just seemed to notice Cheryl, including the Xerox repairman who paused in the middle of his toner cartridge replacement to chat for the longest time.
Pleased with herself, Cheryl slipped into the front seat of her Nova that afternoon. The car felt like an oven on wheels; it was easily 95 in the shade. Just as she slid into the driver’s seat, the back seam of the dress gave way as hot vinyl stung the back of her pantyhose. The sensation of a ripping thread panicked her, particularly when she started the motor and spied the gas gauge: a needle past empty. Inching through the parking lot and out onto Division Street, she could feel the stitches let go one by one–half way up to her fanny– by the time she reached the second red light. She tried not to breathe.
Mentally, she scanned Division, trying to remember the nearest gas station. All of them were self-service and busy this time of day. There was no way around it. She would have to pull up to the pump, ease her way out the door and back herself against a fender to get any gas into the tank. But the real trick would be paying, an act that would require crossing the drive-up lot and making her way inside the convenience store that would be filled with commuters. She thought of the Comet station a few blocks down the street. They had a drive-up window, but there was no telling if the fading gas fumes could get her that far. She could already imagine herself stranded along the roadway, having to walk with one hand holding her dress together in the back. Passersby would think she had some intestinal disease or worse!
Reluctantly, Cheryl studied the gas gauge again. The needle had floated even lower. Carefully, she eased up on the gas pedal to try coasting, praying all the while to somehow escape this desperate situation. By the time the Nova nudged up to the station, the car was sputtering for life as it she onto the oil spot a half-car length shy of the pump. Thank God she had made it!
Cheryl checked her pocketbook for a ten and surveyed the lot, hoping no one would drive up until she got the gas nozzle in place at least. She knew her center back seam gaped open to the heel of the zipper. She could imagine standing up with her dress practically torn in half as the gawkers drove up for a closer look.
She sucked in a breath and carefully eased out of the car door, propping it open on itself as she maneuvered the hose from the pump and waited impatiently for it to register zero. At that moment she heard the approach of a truck engine. She looked up to see a gold tooth smiling back.
“Evening,” Gene sauntered over to the pump. “Need some help?”
Cheryl shook her head. “No, I’m doing fine, but I just about ran out of gas. That’s why I stopped.” Cheryl eyed the gauge on the pump: $4.50, $4.52.
“Reckon that’s a good enough reason,” he said, casting one of his sidelong grins and nodded toward the pump. “Price don’t seem to go down none, does it? Heard tell they’re having a gas war down by Gaffney.”
“Oh, ” Cheryl said. She wished he’d just go away and leave her alone.
“Yessiree. Gas was down to $1.20 a gallon. ‘Course things always been cheaper in South Carolina.”
She mumbled a short reply, watching the gauge spin, her money slip away: $6.78, $6,70, $6.72.
“Doing anything special tonight?” Gene asked. He smelled of afternoon perspiration –somewhere between after shave and deodorant breakdown.
“No. I just got off work.” She realized what a stupid thing it as for her to say. It was none of his business what she was doing!
Gene leaned toward the pump, nearly pulling his shirttail from his Sansabelt slacks.
“How much gas you putting in there, anyway?” he wanted to know.
“Ten dollars. Ten even.”
“Ain’t gonna fill ‘er up?”
“Ten’s all I need.”
He glanced back toward the pump. “You’re right close to that now.”
Astonished, Cheryl saw the $9.88 mark flip by. She eased up on the flow, and stiffly maneuvered her back around to get better control as the digits rolled every so slowly. She wished the asphalt would open up and swallow her whole.
“Something wrong with your back?” he asked.
The words singed her. “No, why?”
“You’re bent over all funny like. Here, let me help you.” He took the nozzle from her hand, hung it up and carefully replaced the gas cap. “A lady like you shouldn’t be pumping gas in such a pretty dress. That’s the trouble with self-service. You get gas on yourself and smell like a grease monkey.”
“I suppose,” Cheryl muttered as she pulled the driver’s door toward her.
He gave her a dubious grin. “As I was saying, you got plans tonight? We could go have dinner, my treat.”
She gave him an odd grin, fumbling the ten-dollar bill in her hand. “Let me take care of this first. If you’ll excuse me.” She reached around to the seat of her dress– open flush to the waistline. She slid back into the driver’s seat and fumbled with her keys, but as she turned her face to the open window, Gene’s eyes met hers.
“You sure something ain’t wrong? You seem nervous. Do I make you nervous, Honey?” His face was close enough to catch the reek of spent cigarettes on his breath.
“Excuse me,” she said, as she cranked up the engine. Gene barely had time to move out of the way before Cheryl spun the car around the row of gas tanks. She could feel his stare crawling after her as he stood there filling his truck with super unleaded. She eased to the drive-up window where the attendant appeared to have just woke up from a nap.
Cheryl glanced back across the lot at Gene who was still looking in her direction. “He’s paying,” she said crisply, and pulled her Nova back into the afternoon traffic.
