Growing up a lesbian and very introspective about my career possibilities, I knew I didn't want to teach gym, because that was a stereotype that would eventually lead to shame and/or incarceration. Then one night I had an epiphany while watching "The Maltese Falcon"...I would be a private eye, a shamus in forties vernacular. Fresh out of THE Ohio State, armed with a worthless degree, I plopped down borrowed money for an office in Cincinnati, directly across from Skyline chili, causing my office to always reek of onions and horrible chili. I was thankful for my sinuses problems. But still spending a small fortune on Fabreze.
I spent my advertising budget on Reds' games, but unfortunately, that season they stunk worse than the aforementioned chili. After a month of living on Vienna sausages and stale crackers (there is no way they eat this crap in Austria!), my luck began to change.
While I pondered weak and weary, sitting behind my cheap desk, looking at a Kroger ad, pricing Tuna Helper, although I can't afford tuna, suddenly I heard a tapping, of someone rapping, gently rapping at my chamber door. Cursing myself for feeding that damned raven in the first place because now I'll never get rid of it, but, surprisingly, my door swung open revealing a large, middle-aged woman in a frumpy dress like something out of the Mayberry general store. She looked like Large Marge from "Pee Wee's Big Adventure". She was so hefty, I expected to see Han Solo encased in Carbonite behind her.
"Welcome to Shady Lady Detective Agency," motioning her in to be seated and immediately concerned if the flimsy IKEA chairs I had hastily assembled could survive her mass. Her eyes darted across my desk, stopping first on the red Solo cups I put there to add class to the joint, then to my overflowing ashtray with 102 butts I could count with the ease of Dustin Hoffman. Finally to my nameplate.
"What kind of name is Penelope?" (Although her pronunciation was more akin to cantaloupe). I corrected her, fearfully, not wanting to run off my first client with semantics.
'What can I do for you, Miss...?"
"I'm Bertha, Bertha Snodgrass. (her name was as melodious as her appearance.) I need you to find a missing person,"...as she slid a photograph across the table slowly, like revealing an iffy poker hand.
Peeking at it, suppressing the urge to scream, cry and/or vomit, I was looking at the ugliest woman ever seen outside a Grimm's fairy tale. Her toothless smile meant I could rule out dental records. She looked like the love child of Clint Howard and Joey Ramone! "Are you certain you WANT her found?" I asked, while fighting acid reflux.
Her eyes bulged even more, if possible, as she yanked the gruesome photo from my trembling hand and screamed, "Of course, I want her found. SHE'S MY LOVER!" Then in a quieter moment, she whispered, "I'm a lesbian. Does that shock you?"
Hoping to put her mind at ease, I mentioned I also play for her team. She glared, "Yeah, your flannel shirt and Doc Marten's gave you away, butch!" ( so much for the compassionate approach.)
"When did you see this enchantress last, Ms. Snodgrass?"
"It's been two weeks," she said between sobs.
"Does she have any physical characteristics I can look for; Tattoos, etc?"
Bertha contemplated before informing me that Eleanor (this goddess's name apparently) has a pussy sweeter than a Pixie Stick.
"Perhaps something more easily seen by the eye, I meant," while pushing the standard contract across to her for signature. Reading quickly, she paid the initial fee of $100, all one dollar bills.
She explained, "I strip part-time at the Cuntry." (a notorious lesbian bar across the river in Kentucky). Upon hearing this horrifying confession, I began using tongs to count her payment.
"Did you two have a fight?"
Sobbing, her body shaking, she admitted. "I caught her cheating on me!"
"With a man or another woman?"
She snarled, "At Candyland." (How did Mensa miss these two?)
Taking rapid notes, looking up, "Do you think she might be having doubts about her sexuality and is out searching for a penis?" (perhaps she has a protein deficiency.)
"Never," she bellowed, before slamming her meaty hand down on my desk in anger, the ashtray flying in a perfect arc until crashing across the bridge of my nose with a distinct crackle, reminding me to buy my favorite candy bar, and leaving me bloody and woozy, staggering around my office like an extra on "The Walking Dead."
"I think this concludes the interview, Bertha. Give me a couple of days. I'm afraid the upcoming stitches might delay the proceedings."
Clutching the soggy bills, I left, heading for the missing woman's last known place of employment, the UC Medical Center. I showed the infamous photo to a couple of young paramedics who pointed to the east wing before running screaming into the approaching night. Finally, and regretfully, I laid my private eyes on Eleanor, leaning against a mop, carefree, blissfully unaware she was being stalked by one of the greatest lesbian private eyes in southern Ohio. Approaching cautiously, telling her my name and mission, she cackled.
"So, the bitch sent a private dick to find me?" It suddenly dawned on me, she was incredibly easy to locate, so why did my client even need my help? Perhaps to serve as a negotiator while the song "Reunited" began to run through my mind, a terrible thought and an even worse song. As my prey turned and feigned mopping the same spot for the eighteenth time, I noticed purple bruises on the back of each thigh.