The Early Years; More From The Winifred Dourooski Story!

It's been so long since I've added anything on to the Winifred story, I've probably overlooked a fact or five; just ignore any whopping plot gaps!

     

     Winifred Blasky woke up with a smile on her face and a song in her heart.  She had a date tonight which looked promising.  The gentleman's name was Bartholomew Dourooski; and he seemed everything that she was not; sophisticated, wealthy, and world-wise.  She was so looking forward to tonight.  She cursed herself for the dirty habit she'd recently started, and reached for her pack of cigarettes that was lying on her nightstand.  She'd recently tried to be cool around her friends, as they all smoked, but in the back of her mind, she was disgusted with herself.  One would like to think that at almost age 30, looking cool to your friends would no longer be important, but not to Winifred, no sir, if anything, it had gotten more important to her.  See, she didn't have a very good image of herself.  That was why it was important to her to look cool in the eyes of her friends.  She grabbed the book of matches lying close by, lit up, and let the blue smoke calm her nerves.

 

 

     It was time to get ready; should she go with the blue or green dress?  It was important to look as good as she could.  She didn't go out on that many dates, so she had to make them count. 

 

 

     She at last was looking ready to go, and sat down on the white couch to wait for Bartholomew's arrival.  She was so nervous, and craved a cigarette, but she had vowed to herself she would give them up, starting now.  Her fingers played air piano on the armrest.  She was just about to get up and go to the window to check for the 1,000th time if he was here, when she heard a car pull into the driveway.  He had arrived.  She ran to the window just in time to see him step out of a gold-colored luxury car.  Look at him, so poised, so self-assured, so everything she was not.  She suddenly had a terrible thought, what the heck did they have in common?  Oh well, it was much too late to worry about that.  She heard the doorbell of the apartment she shared with exactly no one ring, and suddenly she found herself crossing the beige carpet, and then her hand was on the doorknob.  She pulled open the door, and there he stood.  Her heart did a flip-flop; he was so handsome!

 

     "Hello Bart, you look nice; would you care to come in and sit before we head to the restaurant?" she asked.

 

     "Oh, that would be nice, and if you don't mind, it's Bartholomew."

 

     Immediately, she was angry, Sure; I'll tell you what, so that I don't make the same mistake again, why don't I just call you Dickhead?  "Sorry; would you like something to drink?"

 

     "Sure," he answered, "but nothing with alcohol in it; I'm driving us,"  as he took the offered seat on the couch.

 

     "Just let me pop into the kitchen and see what I've got," she replied.  When she went into the kitchen and pulled open the refrigerator, she saw with dismay the only thing she had was a 2 liter bottle of grape soda.  She kicked herself for not planning ahead a bit better.  "Ah, I'm afraid all I have is grape soda or water," she yelled to the living room. 

 

     "Oh, the grape soda sounds good."

 

     She took out the bottle of grape pop and poured some into a glass.  She added ice and took it to where he was sitting.  "There you go; I'm afraid it's not the usual thing to drink.  I bought plenty of beer, not thinking, and I should have thought to buy a better selection of soft drinks."

 

     "Oh, that's okay, this sounds nice." 

 

     He grabbed the glass from her, said, "Thank you," and took a drink, as he started to say, "Thank you very muc--damn!" and promptly dropped the full glass of soda on the carpet, the white carpet. 

 

     Winifred watched the unbelievable mishap, and blurted, "Look what you've done, you clumsy b*****d--err--oh well!" before she could catch herself.  Remember, be nice,  she reminded herself. 

 

     "I'm so sorry!  I guess the glass just slipped out of my hand."

 

     Yeah, yeah, you spastic moron!  she thought.  There it was again; that vile person's voice.  "Oh, don't worry about it, accidents happen."  Yeah, to complete knobs!

 

"Maybe we should just go," said Bartholomew.

 

 

     They were sitting in his fine car, getting ready to pull out of the drive way but instead they just sat there with the engine running until the silence became too much for her and she had to say something.  "Is there some sort of problem?"

 

     "Oh, ahh, no problem, except I can't remember what to do now."

 

     "What do you mean, can't remember what to do now?"

 

     "Oh, this isn't my car; this is a loaner car from Top-Of-The-Line Motors here in town because mine's in the shop getting fixed."

 

     "Oh; an unfamiliar model, I see."

 

     "No, the exact same model, except mine's an automatic, this one's a manual, and it's been a long time since I've driven one."

 

     "Oh, I see," she replied.  Great, I'm going out with a slow-witted moron, she thought.  

 

     At long last, he shifted into gear, revved the engine, and--the car shot backwards, right into the support post for the parking roof overhang, which luckily shimmered and shook, but didn't collapse. 

 

     S**t, was it looking like a long evening!  Screw it, forget her vow to quit; she rummaged around in her purse and found a pack with a couple of cigarettes still inside, found her lighter, and fired one up.  Vow, shmowe!

 

  

Reviews

[Marie]

I can almost feel sorry for WInifred. She started with such high hopes. But I know it was over when he insisted on being called Bartholomew.

[Michael Stevens]

Yeah, he's slightly uptight!