Mr. Wendig challenged his readers to write a story about something you’d find at a flea market. Word limit: 1,000.
A friend at work challenged me (for reasons best unexplained) to write a story titled “Bald Pregnant Women With Bras and Unstoppable Telepathy.”
I searched my soul. Could I do both at once? Was it possible to write a flea market story that also had that title?
Spoiler alert: yes.
Bald Pregnant Women With Bras and Unstoppable Telepathy
With a belly full of McNuggets and three hours till Sociology, I was precisely the target audience of the sprawling, newly-arrived flea market. It was a warm Monday afternoon, and dozens of tents covered grassy Franklin Square, each with a sign lovingly crafted by its own resident marketing genius:
GIT R DUN – DIY solutions for every household project from tracheotomy to taxidermy
PAIGE TURNER’S LIBRARY – Exquisite literary classics, sold by the pound
CELEBRITOPIA – Every single object you own should feature LeVar Burton’s smiling face
The KITSCHY CRAP tent drew me in with sheer honesty.
I examined a leopard-print salad shooter, a MacGyver mousepad, and a gumball dispenser shaped like Argentina (!) before a bemused repulsion led me to a VHS wonder entitled Bald Pregnant Women With Bras and Unstoppable Telepathy. 1972, PG-13, 99 minutes of cinematic glory.
The proprietor’s FUCK DA PO-PO wrist tattoo doubtless signified a prior stint as a middle school guidance counselor. I brandished the video at him.
“The hell is this?”
“The hell does it look like?”
Sixty seconds later, he had my two dollars, and I had possibly the greatest B-movie treasure this side of Plan 9 From Outer Space.
I watched it that very night. It was accurately titled. Vodka helped.
***
At 2 a.m. a voice in my head spoke my name.
Marcus.
“Grrrrnggghh?”
Marcus, I want to talk.
“Wuzzit?”
Are you listening to me?
I sat up slowly. “Who are you and also what the fuck?”
Marcus, I know perfectly well you watched that documentary.
“Documentary? You mean you’re actually a – ”
Yes. I’m a bald pregnant woman with unstoppable telepathy.
“And a bra?”
That’s personal.
“You’re in my brain.”
Marcus, we need to talk. About us. Sometimes I wonder if you’re giving me the support I need.
“And you are…?”
Crystal.
“Krystal?”
With a C.
“You heard the K?”
I’m in your brain, dumbass.
“You sure are.”
Marcus, promise you’ll never leave me.
“Is your last name ‘Meth?’ Cuz that would be really funny.”
That’s hurtful. I’m not speaking to you anymore.
“Darn.”
No more Crystal.
Certain questions simply cannot be answered at 2 a.m. “Am I schizophrenic?” tops the list. I fell back asleep.
***
Most of Tuesday passed telepathy-free, and I chalked up Crystal to a ramen-induced hallucination. That evening found me on my couch watching a Futurama rerun, my non-imaginary girlfriend Megan curled up comfortably on my lap.
Marcus.
“Crystal?”
Megan stirred. “What?”
Who the hell is Crystal?
“Who the hell is Crystal?” echoed Megan.
Only one way to have this conversation without seeming crazy. I held my cell phone up to my ear.
Quiet about your other women. I’m Amber.
“Sorry, Amber. You sound a lot like Crystal.”
“Who the fuck is Amber?”
I raised my hand in a gesture that was either placating or papal.
Can you get me a jar of pickles from the store?
“Isn’t that your husband’s job?”
I’m divorced, dickweed, thanks for asking.
“Why are you bald?”
Do you really not know how telepathy works?
“Is that a serious question?”
Vlasic. Kosher. After you buy them I’ll give you my address.
“Is your last name ‘Bock’? Cuz – ”
Fail me and die.
Amber was out. I glanced around. Megan was out too.
I don’t even like Futurama.
***
Wednesday was rough. Samantha’s persistent soliloquy – Will it hurt? How much will it hurt? I bet it won’t even hurt that much. Oh God, I’m going to die – severely hampered my Riemann sums. Over lunch, I assured an invisible Jada that her boobs looked just fine, earning a Scrooge face from the decidedly male McDonald’s cash register professional. I skipped English Lit entirely as a preoccupied Clara expounded on the relative merits of Fisher-Price and Little Tikes. By 5:00 I knew what the word “Desitin” meant.
Thursday was worse.
***
I reclined on Jim’s futon as he scrutinized his Corona Lite.
“So Megan hasn’t called you back?”
“Jim, do you think it’s possible to stop telepathy?”
He didn’t even blink. “Depends. If it’s Star Trek, and the telepath’s a Betazoid, then you can stop it by, like, being a Ferengi.”
“This isn’t Star Trek.”
“What is it?”
“Bald Pregnant Women With Bras and Unstoppable Telepathy.”
“Unstoppable telepathy?”
“Yeah.”
“And you’re trying to stop it?”
“Ideally, yes.”
He swigged. “Marcus,” he said, “you’re an idiot.”
***
For sheer surreality, few things exceed being accosted by a bald pregnant woman on a crowded campus lawn.
IRL, Amber was five foot negative one, very third trimester, and wielded a pink leather purse roughly the diameter of her unborn child. She was rocking some serious Patrick-Stewart-grade baldness. I would describe her emotional state as “dissatisfied.”
“You want to play this game with me?”
My adrenal glands experimented with their “overdrive” setting. “Amber, I just checked Walmart. They’re fresh out of Vlasic. I can look again next week.”
“You’re a lying sack of shit. You don’t think I’ll cut you? I’ll fucking cut you. I’ve got shit in this purse you can’t even imagine.”
“Amber, I hesitate to suggest this, but I’m reasonably sure I can outrun you.”
“YOU MOTHERLESS GOATSUCKER YOU THINK YOU CAN KNOCK ME UP AND THEN THROW ME TO THE CURB WHILE YOU’RE FUCKING SOME OTHER LITTLE SLUT – ”
“Dill?”
“Yes please.”
Fifteen minutes later, I returned with her prize.
“Amber, I deeply respect your inexplicable super powers but I think you are a terrible person.”
“Stuff it. I’ve been this way for nine months. You could be free tomorrow.”
“Go on?”
“Someone else watches the video, the curse transfers to them.” She waddled away.
Freedom!
But who (besides me) would voluntarily sit through the film in question?
I needed someone who would keep watching a screen no matter how bizarre, how senseless, how unrelentingly awful it might be.
Suddenly I knew.
***
“It’s open.”
Old buddy of mine. I stepped into his apartment. “Hey, man. Can you take a break from C-SPAN for a second?”
Brian D. Buckley 