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Helene's Get Lost Wednesdays

Helene's Get Lost Wednesdays

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Published by Ryan Webster
Paul's Beautiful Femme Fatale tells him to get lost on Wednesdays. Episode from HELENE, living novel by David Arthur Walters
Paul's Beautiful Femme Fatale tells him to get lost on Wednesdays. Episode from HELENE, living novel by David Arthur Walters

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Categories:Book Excerpts
Published by: Ryan Webster on Oct 07, 2013
Copyright:Attribution Non-commercial


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Scene from LOST ( 
 BY DAVID ARTHUR WALTERSHelene and Paul had their struggle for independence in common despite theirdifferently styled neurotic armor. Perhaps that is what each loved the most in theother, keeping 
them at arm‟s length. Both would by all means avoid being the
dependent type of person: the helpless, compliant, cooperative, compromising,friendly kind of person who moves toward others, alway 
s wondering, “Do they likeme?”
  Therefore whenever they met it was in a state of uneasy truce. The meetingsusually took place at her place, where everything was appropriately placed in squeaky clean circumstances due to her military-style upbringing, the finishing school sheattended, her airline hostess training, and her experience hosting the social affairs of bigwigs for her wealthy husbands.
Helene‟s cute little one
-bedroom apartment in a renovated temple on SouthBeach was a far cry from the former four-bedroom digs at the Waldorf and houses inMexico and Switzerland, but she was bound and determined to make the most of herfallen circumstances which included a few sticks of expensive furniture she hadmanaged to salvage from her marriage to a cocaine-crazed Ponzi-schemer. The fedsgot everything else except the wedding ring she sold to sustain herself a few months.She had squandered her life savings on saving him: rehab and jail were to no avail.Most of all she regretted the loss of her paintings. They were they last ones she hadpainted hence were of great personal value. And then there were the irretrievablefamily photographs and her two-hundred pairs of fine shoes.She was plagued by memories of the mental and physical violence she hadsuffered, so during her idle hours she kept herself occupied washing the walls down with bleach, cleaning every inch of grout with special grout cleaner, repairing anddetailing the apartment and so on, to the point that it looked brand new. Indeed, alandlord would do well to rent a different place to her every year. In any event, Paulliked her place in contrast to his mattress-on-the-floor studio in the remains of theghetto down the street.
ace needs some flowers,” he ventured. “I think I‟ll get some pink roses.”
“Don‟t,” she responded
curtly, “I‟m pink 
enough inside
, and I don‟t have a vase.”
Paul felt most at home at Helene‟s when she was ironing her shee
ts and pillow cases. One night he dreamed he was making love to a woman made of sheets, and wasdisappointed when he awoke to discover that his sheets were not bleached andstarched.Prudent Dame Helene was wont to put him in his place most vehemently atthe slightest sexual innuendo, admitting that she was a quite the prude and did not likesex to be mentioned in her presence, although she was not beyond circulating crudejokes about small penises via email. She made an exception one evening, andremarked that no man would ever get between her covers without pajamas. Thatcounted Paul out, for he did not own a pair of pajamas; he could not sleep wearing anything over his loins.But most importantly, Paul was man of humble means who felt uneasy if heowned anything of value, hence he
 was not Helene‟s type of man, a type, she said,
 who has a single qualification: he must
be a “generous” m
an. He suggested that hemight place an advertisement
in the Personals himself: “Gentleman Seeking Generous Woman.”“The ad will do you
no good in South Beach,
” she said. “The
women arelesbians or fortune hunters. You should position yourself on the west coast of Florida, where you may meet a well endowed
divorcee in her seventies.”
No thanks,
replied Paul,
“I would rather have my 
own millions, and go forgirls in their thirties if not someone your age.
If you had millions, women down here would crawl all over you.
“My problem”
confessed, “is that I‟m
not really interested in scraping upthe millions or o
 wning the property it would buy.”
your problem. You are a low-class loser.
I would not mind if a foundation would own everything I use and foot my bills until my demise. It would get millions annually from franchises, licenses,speeches, book sales, and the like.
“Do you want rice or couscous?”
(End of conversation).# Age was a sensitive subject for Paul and Helene, and, curiously, more so forHelene at 53 than for Paul at 60. They realized they were in fact growing older whenconfronted with age discrimination, not to mention the mirror on the wall. But Paul was too immature or foolish to take his age seriously for long. Helene asked him for
his age soon after they met. “Sixty.” She must have heard “fifty,” for she later said, inpassing, “After all, you at fifty are younger than I am.” He supposed she made theremark in jest, and retorted fancifully, “Forsooth you are my big sister.” But one
 Wednesday evening at her place she put down her glass of red wine and turned to him with great deliberation to firmly ask, as if to catch a boy in a fib,
“Paul, just how old
you, really?”“Sixty,”
Paul innocently replied.
“You lied to me!” screamed a suddenly enraged Helene. “You said you werefifty!”
said that I was fifty, and I thought you were kidding, so I strung along to please you,
Paul literally gasped out his excuse.But she was blind to any evidence offered in opposition to her righteousindignation.
“No, you lied!”
“Oh, for crying out loud, our age isn‟t important,” Paul pleaded, seeing an
argument coming that he could not win
no matter how persuasive a defensive pleamight be, no argument may sway a woman who must always be right or fallcompletely apart in recognition of a chink in her shining armor.
“That is not the point! The point is your dishonesty – 
you lied to me! I can‟ttrust you. You are not a gentleman! A gentleman would have said, „I‟m
much older
than you.‟ Get out! Get lost!” She pointed to the door.
“Aw, Helene, please don‟t do this again,” Paul whined, remembering that he
 was kicked out on another Wednesday evening after she invited him over for dinner:
she had called herself “fat,” a
nd he replied, intending to flatter her, that he preferred

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