At thirty, Lindsay Ramone loves herself. How couldn’t she? She’s smart, beautiful, and enjoys acting and creating scenes. She has a good life. A positive life. And fortunately, she’s overseen by two very close and special people.
Lindsay is monetarily cared for by her wealthy uncle, a best-selling novelist who finds his niece similar to himself. Both suffer from mental illness, particularly depression. Lindsay’s uncle sends her numerous healthy checks, creating an easy lifestyle for her.
Lindsay’s second caregiver is her best friend, Jilly Joey Finn, a professional online product surveyor. They’ve known each other since the ninth grade. Jilly has always been an emotional rock and a strong support for Lindsay.
When Lindsay has the most electrically emotional and fascinating day in late August with Jilly, a dark and depressing day sneaks up on her. As predicted, Lindsay falls into a temperamental, dark depression. Mental illness begins to eat her alive, again.
Lindsay has a few mechanisms of resistance to help her mental illness: therapy tools, swimming naked with the sea turtles, and Jilly’s affections. But maybe Jilly has been crossing the line with her friendly holding ... at least lately she has. Now Lindsay wants to find out exactly why.
Lindsay Ramone slides across the thirty-inch-wide quartz kitchen countertop in the one-bedroom flat again, like a Galapagos Island sea turtle. This way. That way. Gliding some. She's almost incapable of moving her arms and legs because she’s on her belly. She wears a turquoise turtle pendant the size of a quarter around her neck on a silver chain; its thickness is almost an inch. The sterling silver chain stretches to eighteen inches. Her plump-size checkered mini-skirt on her too-big thighs causes her to believe she’s an It-Girl in high school again, even though she’s almost thirty now and well-well-well over the seventy-five pounds she used to be in the twelfth grade.
Lindsay wears a white cotton Kate Spade blouse with three buttons undone. The blouse barely covers her "plenty-o-girls,” as she refers to her chest. Scolding red lipstick is layered thickly over her Botox-inflated lips, which I know her wealthy Uncle Reed from Philly paid for with a recent check from his new trashy hardcover titled Evita Smiles. One of those books that someone on Goodreads called “sex-filth” in a recent review (it could have been me, but I’ll never squeal). Lindsay thrusts left and right with arms and legs, or flippers as she sometimes refers to them, and makes her way along the L-shaped silver-white speckled stone counter as her faux Miss February cherry red curls fall over her sparkling, contemptuous, and emerald eyes. She smiles. She teases. She blinks.
“Get my cell and take a photo of me, Jilly. I want to put it on X. I’m sure I look tasty. All the college boys will want me.”
“Never. You look like a Trump strumpet. I wouldn’t dare.”
“Don’t be a bitch,” she whines. “Get my phone.”
I roll my eyes, and my heart begins to melt. Shame on me for displeasing her. Of course, I will take a sex-filth photo of her. Why wouldn’t I? Because Jilly Joey Front -- me! -- has fallen in love, love, love with the taunting, derisive, insolent, despicable, scornful, scoffing, mocking, disdainful, derisive, supercilious, insulting, disrespectful, and contemptuous Lindsay Ramone.
“I’m sorry, Lindsay.” I look to my left and right in the kitchen, living room, foyer, and dining room combo. My head spins like that gruesome girl’s in The Exorcist. God bless her soul. “Where did you leave it?”
She makes a tsk sound and responds, “Well, how the puss should I know? I’m sure you saw me with it last. It’s not like I’m always looking at myself.”
Sometimes ... Only sometimes do I become smart with my wannabe betrothed. Okay, more than sometimes. Perhaps a high percentage. The truth is, I try to pass my smartass comments on to her as humor. Just so Lindsay doesn’t take them as insults. Sort of like now when I tell her, “I’m going to wrap your big ass in Velcro and stick your cell to it. Then you won’t lose it. But then again, maybe you still will.”
“Not funny,” she says, smirking from the counter. “Now. Find! My! Cell!”
“Yeah. Yeah. Yeah.” And off I go into the messy land of Lindsayville, looking for her goddamn phone, which I know for a fact is under her Kate Spade blouse and belly.
* * * *
Her flat needs the seven dwarves’ attention to remotely help it look like the castle I want her to live in. “Fuck Snow White and those voyeuristic little perverted pricks,” Lindsay often tells me about cleaning up her place. Her tidying-up skills consist of the largest and strongest Hefty bag, ten minutes of her time to toss shit away, and a shopping spree on Amazon to repurchase all the goods. Can she afford it? Well, her Uncle Reed can.
Lindsay’s flat resembles a crime scene or news footage following a hurricane along the Florida coast. Think mass destruction. Think rubble. I’ve often suggested she hire a cleaning staff to tidy up her place. When this happens, the same dialogue regarding the topic unfolds:
“Lindsay, you should hire Clean Maidens. You can afford it.”
She almost always snaps her head in my direction when I suggest something to her. “How do you know I can afford it?" Have you weaseled your way into my accounts? Are you one of those Chinese hackers? You’re working for China, aren’t you? You’re a spy. I know you are. That’s why you voted for Biden.”
“Of course not. Don’t go all China-shit on me. I’ve been your best friend since the ninth grade at St. Merle Catholic, and I know you. Plus, your Uncle Reed is famous and rich. He loves you and likes to feed you money.”
“You mean he buys me off, right?”
“I didn’t say that.”
“That’s exactly what you meant, though.”
