Read Online Lady Churchill's Rosebud Wristlet No. 26 by Kelly Link Gavin J. Grant - Free Book Online
Authors: Kelly Link Gavin J. Grant
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the current to a medium hiss and work on the day’s double-butts until every muscle convulses.
Back in the men’s trailer I rub myself with Ben Gay, head to foot, and make some decaf. On the End-of-the-Workday Medical Report, I type No, None, Negative, click submit.
The next day, the fume extractor’s in the shed. A new Post-it’s stuck up:
Didn’t mean to drown you in inert gasses. But if you’re feeling feeble, we’ve got cutting edge deep brain stimulation. Free. Happy welding!
I turn on the fume extractor. Aida quakes in, sighs when she sees the extractor, shakes out her skull cap, puts it on her head then tugs on the rest of her ppg. She does not once mention the Reverend Francine.
In the afternoon, I high-speed butt-weld window brackets on an Olds, On Ice, and Aida does the same with its seatbelts. When I take a coffee break, Aida finishes all the window brackets. Her way of saying thank you—I always cc her my reports.
No study nurse shows up.
Back when we first started this study, the Reverend Francine, Angel Communicator, made a shed visit.
“The air in here is fetid,” she said.
“That’s the manganese,” Aida said.
“You called?” the Rev said.
“For angel guidance,” Aida said.
First, the Reverend Francine placed her fingertips between her eyes, next her crown, then the back of her head. Pointing one finger, she drew a line connecting the three points to form a triangle. Last, she found a spot above each ear and rested her fingertips there.
“My inner telephone’s ready,” she said.
“I really need the money from this study,” Aida said. “And, sure, I want medical breakthroughs for us welders, but the treatment, if I end up needing it, petrifies me. Should I stay or quit?”
The Rev closed her eyes and placed her fingertips on her Adam’s apple. From throat to ears, she vibrated for a minute before she said, “Angelic vacuum cleaner.”
“Say what?” Aida said.
Eyes still closed, the Rev said, “Visualize angels floating above your head holding vacuum cleaners, suctioning up all the vitriol in here. Aim the nozzle at your body, your mind, your feelings, whatever needs cleaning.”
Aida hummed like a Hoover.
“May the angels watch over you,” the Rev said and left.
“That oughta keep Uriel and Raphael busy,” I said.
“Hmmm-mmm,” Aida said.
“No outside intervention allowed,” I said, then I went to the men’s trailer and submitted my Workday Medical Report: No, None, Negative.
Today’s the day I replenish our welding supplies, for which I’m compensated mucho bucks a month, plus I get away from the shed and the trailer for a change of scenery. When I go to the shed to take inventory, Aida’s in there still Hoovering and walking as if she’s in a trance. I jot down a list.
“Are you restocking supplies?” she asks. “Can you bring me back a bottle of wine? For medical purposes.”
“Yes,” I say. Many bottles. For love purposes, I channel to her.
I’m very fond of Aida. Even though boyfriend-girlfriend liaisons are against regulations. How could I stop myself from falling for a woman who’s not only an arc stunner with the double butt and joint welds, in both the horizontal and the vertical positions, this rascal also telephones angels! Aida says ours is a spiritual friendship. To which I say, Caught on fire! In time, I’ll merge, unite, weld myself to her, I know I will.
Aida Blue’s thirty and has perfect posture, if a bit inflexible; grey pops up in her dark hair like arc strikes; her rich voice sounds smoky and she smells of cilantro; tucked into her stout jeans, tight as a burrito, I can’t keep from noticing her wrinkled crotch, her dungaree-swathed labia. One ogle gets me whistling, “What’s new pussycat? Mee-eee-eee-eee-eee-ooowww!” At times, to stretch out her wine, she spikes it with water—kink-ky. Of course, booze is prohibited on the study, and so is vitamin E, brain shield, but here’s my credo: Don’t ask. Don’t
Back in the men’s trailer I rub myself with Ben Gay, head to foot, and make some decaf. On the End-of-the-Workday Medical Report, I type No, None, Negative, click submit.
The next day, the fume extractor’s in the shed. A new Post-it’s stuck up:
Didn’t mean to drown you in inert gasses. But if you’re feeling feeble, we’ve got cutting edge deep brain stimulation. Free. Happy welding!
I turn on the fume extractor. Aida quakes in, sighs when she sees the extractor, shakes out her skull cap, puts it on her head then tugs on the rest of her ppg. She does not once mention the Reverend Francine.
In the afternoon, I high-speed butt-weld window brackets on an Olds, On Ice, and Aida does the same with its seatbelts. When I take a coffee break, Aida finishes all the window brackets. Her way of saying thank you—I always cc her my reports.
No study nurse shows up.
Back when we first started this study, the Reverend Francine, Angel Communicator, made a shed visit.
“The air in here is fetid,” she said.
“That’s the manganese,” Aida said.
“You called?” the Rev said.
“For angel guidance,” Aida said.
First, the Reverend Francine placed her fingertips between her eyes, next her crown, then the back of her head. Pointing one finger, she drew a line connecting the three points to form a triangle. Last, she found a spot above each ear and rested her fingertips there.
“My inner telephone’s ready,” she said.
“I really need the money from this study,” Aida said. “And, sure, I want medical breakthroughs for us welders, but the treatment, if I end up needing it, petrifies me. Should I stay or quit?”
The Rev closed her eyes and placed her fingertips on her Adam’s apple. From throat to ears, she vibrated for a minute before she said, “Angelic vacuum cleaner.”
“Say what?” Aida said.
Eyes still closed, the Rev said, “Visualize angels floating above your head holding vacuum cleaners, suctioning up all the vitriol in here. Aim the nozzle at your body, your mind, your feelings, whatever needs cleaning.”
Aida hummed like a Hoover.
“May the angels watch over you,” the Rev said and left.
“That oughta keep Uriel and Raphael busy,” I said.
“Hmmm-mmm,” Aida said.
“No outside intervention allowed,” I said, then I went to the men’s trailer and submitted my Workday Medical Report: No, None, Negative.
Today’s the day I replenish our welding supplies, for which I’m compensated mucho bucks a month, plus I get away from the shed and the trailer for a change of scenery. When I go to the shed to take inventory, Aida’s in there still Hoovering and walking as if she’s in a trance. I jot down a list.
“Are you restocking supplies?” she asks. “Can you bring me back a bottle of wine? For medical purposes.”
“Yes,” I say. Many bottles. For love purposes, I channel to her.
I’m very fond of Aida. Even though boyfriend-girlfriend liaisons are against regulations. How could I stop myself from falling for a woman who’s not only an arc stunner with the double butt and joint welds, in both the horizontal and the vertical positions, this rascal also telephones angels! Aida says ours is a spiritual friendship. To which I say, Caught on fire! In time, I’ll merge, unite, weld myself to her, I know I will.
Aida Blue’s thirty and has perfect posture, if a bit inflexible; grey pops up in her dark hair like arc strikes; her rich voice sounds smoky and she smells of cilantro; tucked into her stout jeans, tight as a burrito, I can’t keep from noticing her wrinkled crotch, her dungaree-swathed labia. One ogle gets me whistling, “What’s new pussycat? Mee-eee-eee-eee-eee-ooowww!” At times, to stretch out her wine, she spikes it with water—kink-ky. Of course, booze is prohibited on the study, and so is vitamin E, brain shield, but here’s my credo: Don’t ask. Don’t
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