De La Sole

By Lisa Dempsey

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De la Sole

A story about the right people, the wrong reasons and some shoes.

"Stupendous. My two-year old laughed so hard, she threw her back out."

—Anissa Powell-Brisette, Vancouver, BC

"Funny, original and outrageous. A story that even the ugly will enjoy."

—Olivia Dunkley, London, England

"As a life-long victim of both plus-size discrimination and marching band intolerance, I celebrate the chance to see someone else get whaled on."

—Jonah Streckwood, Decatur, IL

"Honked up. For no tale will better hilarify your buttocks and electrify the prancing of your thighs."

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Aug 19, 2004
• ISBN: 9781468513455

Lisa Dempsey

Lisa Dempsey is the author of De la Sole.  Dempsey originally hails from Philadelphia, PA. In the last ten years, she has lived in cities such as New York, NY, Geneva, Switzerland and Toronto, ON, moving ostensibly for “work.” Her true motive, however, has been to travel the world to mainstream the word hoagie. She is proud of her 100-page humorous novella, particularly its wildly popular, original cover design, for which Ames Bros in Seattle, WA keeps receiving all of their well-deserved credit. De la Sole is Dempsey’s first book. Although the characters of De la Sole are entirely fictitious, they prefer the less discriminatory term imaginary, as they are alive and well and living in the author’s head.  

Book preview

© 2004 Lisa Dempsey

All Rights Reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

First published by AuthorHouse 09/27/04

Cover Design: Ames Bros.

ISBN: 1-4184-7522-X (sc)

ISBN: 1-4184-7523-8 (dj)

ISBN: 978-1-4685-1345-5 (ebk)

Library of Congress Control Number:2004095684

Printed in the United States of America

Bloomington, Indiana

Contents

One.

Deux.

C.

29.

Shirley Hemphill.

Blah.

Pretty Persuasion.

Yellow!

Whoa.

Cha-cha-cha.

What about Nana?

Aigh Yaigh Yaigh.

Do it for Johnny.

No Ketchup, no Fries.

92.5.

They Think They Can Pink Me?

Hank Harrison Sucks.

The Girl with the See-through Head.

The Front.

Smooth Head.

PJ4T-O.

Lowercase n.

Moustache Soup.

Dognose.

Mau-mau-mau-mau-mau.

The Food Chain.

Speed the Plow.

Big Bus Bill.

An Army of 10,000 Dachshunds.

Box Cheese.

The Point Is on Your Head.

1989.

Not the Sharpest Bulb in the Drawer.

Not Gordon.

Hal Riney.

The Long Road.

Acknowledgments.

One.  

She should be here by now. Tim mumbled as he nervously paced back and forth along the sidewalk, telling himself to take a deep breath and to trust that she would show up as planned. But after only one deep breath and five seconds of waiting, he abandoned all trust and resumed his frantic shuffling.

In spite of Tim’s boyish, apple-pie face, wide blue eyes and genuine longing, Tim trusted very little in life, mainly because he understood so little of what he observed in the world around him. Things were always changing and he couldn’t see the point in trying to keep up. Instead, Tim held fast to the three things he knew in life with certainty. One: men are biologically programmed to fold toilet paper, whereas women must bunch it up into giant, wasteful wads. Two: Dr. J is the coolest athlete of all time. Three: of all the beings on the earth, people are the very worst. Tim knew this because he was one of them.

Speaking of the worst, when it came to people, Tim experienced the worst of the worst. Jane. He was totally in love with her. He often hated her for not knowing it.

Tim checked his watch again and cursed the sidewalk. He had made it a point to show up early just in case she broke up with the latest nozzlehead she was dating. He figured the day would come when Jane would need a selfless, compassionate shoulder upon which to cry. It was Tim’s bad luck that when he and his compassionate shoulder arrived, the only one there was his best friend Marc.

Tim barked at Marc. Brave of him in light of Marc’s thickness. Hey. You have some nerve standing there calmly when everyone else is this late. That, of course, was not true. It was early.

She’ll be here, man. Marc shrugged off Tim’s concerns with the unfolding of his newspaper.

Tim jabbed a finger at his watch. Do you see the time?

Dude, we go through this every Friday… Marc rubbed his forehead.

Friday. That was the day everyone used to meet for happy hour after work—usually Jane, her cousin Trish, Marc, and Tim. That Friday, the foursome had agreed to meet downtown outside of Marc’s office.

She’ll show. Marc shook his head and tried to focus on his paper. She always does. So relax. Read the paper. Or at least let me relax and read the paper.

In spite of their close friendship, there were some pretty striking differences between Marc and Tim. Marc’s hulky, Italian Stallion frame and uncomplicated buoyancy had always contrasted sharply against Tim’s fair, wiry physique and determined viscosity. When the two first met in college, it was a case of the meathead jock being a nice guy and inviting his shy but amusing roommate out for beer with the rest of the team after a game. Marc had a heart the size of a T-bone steak. He was everyone’s big brother.

Marc taunted like a big brother too. Although, now that I think about it, Jane might be preoccupied. I mean things could have gotten a little friendly with Douggie. He didn’t even have to lift an eye from the sports section to bait Tim.

What? She just met him.

Marc tried to pretend he was still reading, but his evil arched Italian eyebrows indicated otherwise. You know, I’ll be really pissed if she’s out woo-hooing while we stand around here waiting for her.

Tim took a step back to catch his breath. She is not out woo-hooing anyone.

Tim was unaware that Trish had arrived until he heard her husky snicker behind him.

As Trish pulled a hair clip from behind her head and shook the office from her hair, she unleashed a firestorm of red-hot curls that fell past her shoulders. Well, I would be if I were her.

Yep. Me too. Marc turned the page in agreement.

Marc and Trish had been friends since childhood—Marc and Trish’s moms grew up together; they had always considered each other to be kind of fake relatives even though they weren’t actually related.

Oh, good. Look who’s arrived just in time to kick me in the back. Tim rolled his eyes and turned to find Trish, who loosened the top few buttons on her blouse, lit a cigarette, and blew the smoke at him.

Trish often pretended not to like Tim, or most people for that matter. But over time, Tim learned that the more Trish bullied him, made fun of him, or bossed him around, the more she cared. He knew that this bossy, gravel-voiced, trash-talking, and unexplainably streetwise woman was a true friend. Tim knew that she was not the nicest person around, but she was loyal to the death. Besides, no one messed with Trish. Not then, not now, not ever.

Marc shook his newspaper. Timmy. In all fairness, man, Jane doesn’t even know that you are interested.

She will as soon I get her away from that loser Doug.

I’m sorry, dude. Marc checked his watch. But it doesn’t look like tonight’s going to be your night.

Wrong. After exhaling several smoky rings in a row, Trish hurled her still-lit cigarette to the sidewalk. She just called. Something happened with Doug. She’s going to meet us at the bar. And with that, as if what she said were completely insignificant to Tim, she tossed her thick mane of hair back and sauntered to the curb to hail a cab.

Tim scurried after Trish. So there are problems with Doug already? What did she say?

Trish eyed him from the side. Not much. She just sounded really upset.

Upset? Upset as in about to break up with bad, awful, heinous Doug?

Trish responded with a stern glare and the lighting of a fresh cigarette. Tim was getting on her nerves.

I see, He relented. Let’s leave it at that. She was just plain upset. Tim kicked at imaginary pebbles as Trish scanned the street for a cab.

Where was Jane when she called? Marc wondered as he tucked his newspaper under his arm.

At Doug’s apartment. Trish finally spotted a cab and waved it over.

Marc frowned. I thought he was away on business.

Business. What an asshole. Doug made Tim sick.

He is away. Trish opened the cab door. Jane’s been going there to feed his cat.

Marc stepped back in mild surprise. She’s already got his keys? Serious.

As Marc got into the cab, Tim grabbed his meaty arm. Hey! It is not serious.

Deux. 

Three barstools and three martinis. It should have been heaven. Yet happy hour had never sucked so much—for Tim.

As the threesome waited for Jane to arrive, Tim sulked over his drink, Marc sat askew on his bar stool and scanned the dark, smoky bar for an open pool table, and Trish sat facing the room, her elbows resting on the edge of the dingy oak bar behind her. As she suspiciously eyed the overcrowded dive before settling in to relax, Marc wondered if she was looking for men or for trouble before quickly surmising that the answer was probably both.

Tim rested his chin on his hand and held up a speared trio of olives to the dim light. "Feeding his cat. Please. I’ll bet his cat is an asshole too. That must be why she was so upset."

Marc put his drink down on the narrow bar and turned curiously to Trish. Wait. Jane was in Doug’s apartment. Alone. In his apartment.

Magically, the pool table alongside the bar opened up. Marc quickly hopped his hulky frame off his barstool and patted Tim on the back. And you’re actually wondering why she’s upset, man?

Tim blinked. Hard. Well, yes.

So you think she found something. Trish blew a ponderous cloud of cigarette