Inspector 13 had a cruel streak. It stretched like elastic across the waist of America. No man, it seemed, was beyond her reach.
She didn’t start out this way, and she herself wondered when she’d gone around the bend. She’d had her share of broken relationships—most of the ‘broken’ part was correctly attributed to the various men involved—but it had all been resolved, she thought. She knew one day true love would land on her doorstep. She didn’t feel the need to make every man pay for the past. But that’s just what she did.
When she first did it, it was little more than a joke to offset the doldrums. As a quality inspector in a men’s briefs factory, she had little to look forward to each day.
“Look at me!” she lamented to herself in the ladies’ room mirror. “I’m just what I didn’t want to be: single in my early 30s, holding a dead-end job! I need to start having fun, and it needs to begin today.”
She imagined the expression on her unknown victim’s face when it caught him. That provided just enough enjoyment for her to make it through the drudgery. She giggled in a girlish manner the first time; then she did it again.
She rightly discerned that if she put a few extra “Inspected by 13” stickers on the outside of each pair of briefs, then the purchaser would never look inside. He’d assume he’d found them all—after all, how many stickers do they need?
Supposing the inside sticker survived the quick unwrapping and removal of those obvious, then it would likely survive the obligatory wash which preceded the first wearing. After a round through the dryer, the edges would be peeled back ever so slightly, waiting to catch any hair that came their way.
Eventually, her touch was felt in more men’s briefs than that of any other woman in the country.
~~~~
Far away from the Kentucky briefs plant, James McIntaggart was making the most important presentation of his career. He was both honored and terrified by being asked to report Southwest Area sales figures to the board of directors in San Francisco. When he first got the summons his stomach wrenched like a corkscrew. But after a week of preparation, and an exceptionally strenuous workout this morning, he felt invincible.
“As you can see here, on this chart…” he spoke in the liturgy of corporate America, “ungh!”
His abrupt stop was accompanied by an intense welling of tears in his almost crossed eyes. He shook slightly, then quickly regained his composure.
“…new sales were relatively flat until…ouch!”
The directors looked at him, both puzzled and annoyed. They’d had no direct interaction with James, only having heard the reports of the exceptional revenue he’d brought them. He had the instinct and natural demeanor of a true professional. This presentation, however, was becoming everything but that.
“Please, Mr. McIntaggart,” the chairman spoke after the fourth expression of pain. “If you need to tend to something, we will wait for your return. But no more interruptions. We have a lot to get done today.”
“Sorry, sir,” a mortified McIntaggart replied. He resumed his presentation, holding hard to his composure. Miss Jones, executive administrator for the chairman, watched as he cocked his hip and slowly drew his knees together.
James discreetly turned sideways and deftly put his left hand into his front pants pocket. He ran his index finger under the edge of his briefs, through the pocket lining, all the while struggling with his divided focus.
Miss Jones paused from taking minutes to watch the accordion-like movement of his pleated slacks. She caught his eye and smiled faintly. Flustered, he faked a cough, reached for a glass of water, and noticed the chairman’s scowl. Miss Jones silently congratulated herself on her morning’s choice of short skirt and low-cut top. “He is kind of cute,” she thought.
~~~~
At a construction site approximately 2000 miles east of the boardroom, JJ and Clem were settling down for lunch.
“Seen Andy?” JJ asked as they sat relieved in the shade of the awning. It had been a hot July in Chicago so far, and they’d found hardly a shadow while laying steel 30 floors up.
“Yeah, a few minutes ago. He’ll be down soon,” Clem answered, sorting through his lunch box to see what surprise awaited him today.
“Well, if he don’t hurry, he’s gonna miss the great story I have to tell you.” JJ smiled as he pulled a tin out of his bag. “Did I ever tell you about the time I met Nixon?”
“No, I don’t believe you have,” Clem chuckled, knowing the story would be a complete fabrication, culminating in an excruciating pun, as had become JJ’s trademark.
JJ looked up into the towering framework, searching for their friend. Suddenly he grabbed Clem’s forearm.
“What the—JJ, what is wrong with you?” Clem stared in disgust at his suddenly disheveled sandwich.
“Clem, quick, where has Andy been working this morning?” There was a tone of anxiety in JJ’s voice.
“Treetop, I think. He should be down soon, I told you.” Clem wrested his arm from JJ’s grip, looking at him as if he were nuts.
“Yeah, maybe too soon if we don’t do something! Look, Clem, up there!”
JJ pointed urgently toward the highest beam. There, as if stranded midway across, was a frantically kinetic figure, obviously caught in a torrent of distress.
“What do you reckon he’s doing up there, Clem?”
“Beats me, but I think your story about Nixon is going to have to wait!” Clem yelled as they both raced towards the elevator.
They quickly got to the top and dragged Andy in. Pained and pale, he clung to his friends while they descended. As the door opened and he took his first step, it got him again. With a mighty shout he ran out of the elevator and dropped his pants, kicking his boots through the constricted material. Seconds later he had found the culprit. He sat at the table with his fist wadded and shaking, enduring jeers from his gathering union brothers.
Clem clapped him on the back in a show of masculine affection. “Whew, glad you kicked that sticker’s butt, Andy. I’d hated to have lost you.”
Meanwhile, JJ was making the rounds with Andy’s pants.
“Can I interest anyone in a pair of dungarees? Only slightly scuffed, look to be 42 in the waist. Who’ll give me ten?”
~~~~
Back in Kentucky, management had noticed that Inspector 13 went through her stickers much more quickly than did the other inspectors. She was summoned to a meeting with management, where she offered many excuses. None of them, however, were accepted as valid reasons. They had statistics on how many briefs each inspector had checked each day, so her assertion that her output was higher didn’t convince them. She was reminded again of the inspection process, where to put the stickers, and how many to use per brief. She promised to comply.
She tried really hard to reform, realizing she’d had her fun but it was time to be responsible. A silent wave of relief swept across the country.
It lasted two weeks. One Monday on the way to work some bastard cut her off in traffic. She leapt off the wagon with vengeance and a one-word curse: “Men!”
Everywhere men winced, though they knew not why nor for whom.
~~~~
In the early morning hours outside of Amarillo, Van Johnston fired up his John Deere for a long day’s labor. The cotton was lush this year, thanks to above-average rain fall and the complete absence of hailstorms. He hoped the Panhandle’s good fortune would hold beyond harvest.
Today’s first task would take him to the far side of his eastern field, where a well-pump was in need of a little maintenance. He strapped his tool box onto the tractor’s running board, pulled his seed company cap down tight, and climbed into the seat. With any luck he’d have this job completed before the noon sun made the day unbearable.
He turned onto the dirt road on the western edge of the field, humming to himself as he normally did, adding his quiet tones to the rumble of the 7020. In the midst of his reverie came a pained note of urgency.
“Yow!”
He popped six inches off the seat, then settled back down quickly and reaffirmed his grip on the wheel.
“What the devil was that? Sheez, that hurt!”
He resumed his humming, but only momentarily. Within seconds he was yelping in pain again, and in his frenzy to find the cause he inadvertently cut the steering wheel hard right. He bounced perpendicularly across the most prolific cotton he’d seen in 20 years, hardly noticing as he searched for the ant that had somehow gotten into his overalls.
He looked up just before he hit the center pivot of the irrigation system. He turned hard right again. His panic stole so much attention that the instinct of hitting the brakes never got to express itself.
By the time he found the source of his pain, he had completed, alongside the original perpendicular line, two consecutive arcs, which landed him near his original starting place.
There was a story on the 10:00 news: “A mysterious pattern cut into a Randall County cotton field has residents watching the skies for UFOs. Penny Richards is on location.”
“Thanks, Hugh. I’m standing in a cotton field that has been in the Johnston family for generations. Decade after decade they have worked this land. They have raised their children here, alongside the cotton. The children wear jeans made from the fibers grown by their father or grandfather. They wear them through grade school, junior high, high school, and even to college. Returning home with their agricultural degrees, they don overalls made of this same cotton, and pairing their family’s inherited skill with the latest agricultural advancements, they grow more cotton.
“But that doesn’t explain why, in the early morning hours on this Tuesday, a pattern resembling the number 13 suddenly appeared in this very cotton field.”
~~~~
The news story was picked up by syndicate, and an edited version aired in Manhattan the following Friday evening. One of the many people who didn’t see it was Steve. He hadn’t had any significant action for a month, and he was out to change that. A tour of SoHo and Washington Square bars was his itinerary—or rather the prelude to the only trip that mattered: the one back to his apartment in the Village with his prey in tow. He could feel love weaving through the air, calling him and his unsuspecting femme fatale to their destination.
He took the subway, saving his cash for cab fare for two. Exiting in SoHo, he checked his look in the reflective windows of a clothing shop. He smiled, adjusted his collar, and presented to himself a double thumbs-up sign.
“You are gonna make it this very night!” he said, winking at his reflection. Swiveling on his heels, he made a beeline for the first club on his list.
As he stood sandwiched at the bar with his first drink, he surveyed the offerings around him. Lo and behold, the finest opportunity stood right next to him.
“Hi,” he said coolly, before offering his own patented pickup line.
She scoffed. “Oh come on, with those killer threads I’d think you could do better than that! What else do you have to say for yourself, Lady Killer?”
“Oh, come on yourself, honey, it couldn’t have been that bad,” he protested, knowing it really was. That’s why he used that line. It always got a response, and a bad response was better than none.
“What I’m trying to say is…ow!” he winced as his shoulders lurched forward and his right knee shot upwards.
“Ow?! So now we’ve progressed to monosyllabics and monkey moves?” Her sarcastic attack left him reeling to recover. He straightened and regained his sauve affectation.
“No, I mean…ow!” he exclaimed again, this time grabbing his crotch full on with his free hand.
Her eyes widened in offense. “What’s this?! Crude gestures? Well, I have only two things to say to you, you creep: One, not on your life! Two, go get some treatment if it hurts that badly!”
With that, she planted both her hands on his chest and with one mighty shove sent him onto the dance floor.
Without losing a drop of his drink, he whirled and spun, trying to rid himself of the mysterious force that had literally grabbed him by the short hairs. An opening appeared around him, as the dancers gave him clearance, more from fear than from admiration.
Drink aloft and groin cradled, he jumped and convulsed, his face wrenched in agony.
“Wow, that guy’s really got it going on!” a young pretty brunette yelled into her girlfriend’s ear. “I’ve never seen moves like that!”
“Oh, I’m not so sure,” her friend yelled back. “Looks more like he’s in pain to me.”
“Maybe, but just look at him! Dressed like that, I’m willing to take my chances! I bet he’s loaded!”
“I don’t know, Lis…” she began to protest, but in vain. Her brunette friend was suddenly on the dance floor, whooping and spinning, doing her best to keep up with Steve.
The tiny follicle finally broke loose, giving Steve immediate relief. As he stood still to catch his breath, he noticed that he was the center of attention. The crowd seemed to want something. They started jeering, looking at him in disappointment. The gorgeous girl who had suddenly appeared next to him looked at him in confusion. It took only a second of instinct for him to realize what he must do. The crowd roared in approval as he resumed jumping and spinning and yelling, never yet spilling a drop of his drink.
He smiled slyly at the brunette as he opened the cab door two hours later. “So, what was your name again?”
~~~~
Eight hundred miles southwest of Manhattan, Suzie finally made it home after a particularly exhausting Friday. Management had been on her case all week, and this afternoon they’d delivered an ultimatum: she must correct her bizarre deviations from corporate policy or seek employment elsewhere. They just didn’t appreciate her need for self-expression, at least not her chosen mode of it, anyway. Well, she could conform, she supposed, and had the whole weekend to prepare herself for it. Just in case she chose to leave, however, she’d already packed a few work keepsakes. She set the box on the kitchen table and picked up the phone. With a resigning sigh she dialed the nearest Bowling Green pizza shop and arranged to have a large meat-lover’s special delivered.
Right on time, her doorbell rang, and she opened the door to a thirty-ish pleasantly handsome and wholesome looking delivery man.
“Are you Miss…” he started, but she interrupted.
“Yes, you’ve come to the right place. I’m starving! How much do I owe you?” She sorted through her bills as he removed the pizza box from the padded warming pouch.
“That’ll be 15 ouch!” he said, with a convulsive downward jerk of his entire body. Had she not been so quick the pizza box would’ve landed face down on her porch.
“Are you okay?” she asked. “What happened?”
“Nothing, ma’am,” he replied, obviously embarrassed by the nature of the pain.
“Okay, so it’s 15 ouch?” she teased, with a slightly devious-though-demure look.
He straightened up slowly and tried to look cool and relaxed, smiling through the small tears that formed in his eyes. He blinked them away quickly and took a deep breath. He gently locked his knees together.
“Okay, then, here you go,” she said cheerily, handing him a few bills. She smiled mischievously as she shut the door, which confused him.
He was also confused by the $20 tip she had just handed him. Surely it was unintentional. He reached to knock again, but the mysterious force grabbed him and sent his body lunging towards the door with a shaking thud.
On the other side of the door, Suzie flinched as he landed. Quickly she set the pizza on the table, then hurried back to watch through the peephole. She had to stifle her giggles as she watched the poor man wrestle with the pizza pouch, his keys, and the cash. He rose gingerly and, it appeared to her, adjusted himself.
Too embarrassed now to knock, he turned to walk back to his car. Unfortunately, the next shot of pain arched his back and sent him against the door again. Suzie resisted the urge to open it at the right time and enjoy some impromptu slapstick. She waited for him to slide down onto the porch before she opened the door.
“Are you alright?” she asked in as sincere a voice as she could muster.
“I don’t know, ma’am,” he said as he pulled away from the receding door. “I’m really not sure what’s going on. But do you mind if I use your bathroom?” He was obviously uncomfortable physically and in having to ask the favor.
“Sure, come on in. It’s down the hall to the right.” She tried to act very proper and business-like, but in her mind she was already arranging the table with two plates.
A few minutes later he emerged with a relieved expression.
“Damnedest thing,” he mumbled to himself, then louder to her: “I’ll be going now. Thanks for the use of the facilities. Sorry for intruding.”
“Oh, not at all,” she replied casually, appearing from around the corner. She gave him an overt once-over. “So, um, I know you’re working and all, but if you have time for some pizza…”
He picked up her trailing invitation, also giving her a head-to-toe look. “Uh, sure, I guess I could stop for a few minutes. It’s just a second job for some extra income, I was thinking about quitting soon anyway. Sure, I’ll have a piece or two.”
“Great! I’m Suzie,” she stuck out her hand. “Glad to meet you!”
“I’m Darren,” he took her hand in his and they both imagined the immediate spark.
She nodded toward the table. “Well, come over and have a seat.”
She quickly removed the keepsake box from the table and reached to the counter for the two plates. He pretended not to see that she had them at the ready.
They enjoyed the suddenly awkward small talk, the dicey manners associated with very messy pizza, and a flirtatious exchange of smiles.
“So what happened out there on the porch?” she finally got the nerve to ask. He fidgeted a bit, but she didn’t reel in the question.
“Oh, you don’t want to know!” he attempted deflection.
“Oh, sure I do. I’ll have to know, certainly, when all my friends ask ‘so how did you meet him?’ I can’t just say I invited the delivery guy in—no offense, but that makes me seem a bit too easy and desperate. I have to give them some kind of story. So, come on, what happened out there?”
“Alright, but it’s not very glamorous. I don’t know if your girlfriends will be very impressed. It was a damn sticker.”
“A what?” Suzie sat up straight. Her surprised tone sounded a little disingenuous, it seemed to Darren.
“A sticker. I don’t know, maybe it’s different for you girls, but men’s briefs always have these little inspection stickers on them, you know, a quality control thing. Apparently Inspector 13 is quite enthusiastic, and in addition to the three or four I pulled off the outside of the briefs—how many stickers does a pair need, anyway?—there were two more inside! I never even saw them. I figured once I got all the others that was it. But no! And those things will grab you at a very inopportune time, let me tell you!”
She laughed. “‘Quite enthusiastic!’ I like that. But it might have happened at a very opportune time, don’t you think?” she offered with a smile.
“Well, yeah, in this case, I guess you’re right. It did land me here having dinner with a very hot chi—um, I mean, an attractive lady such as you. But geez, the pain I had to go through to get in here! Not just there”—he was uncomfortable suddenly, pointing to his groin—”but man, I swear I have three bumps on my head.”
“Three bumps where?” she feigned innocence again.
He cleared his throat and shuffled his chair, pretending it needed to be aligned perfectly with the table.
“Uh, so, that’s that. Yeah, um, so what do you do for a living?”
“Well, I might be changing jobs soon, but I think I have a card handy.”
She rummaged in the nearby box and found it. A nice new roll, still in its plastic wrap. She playfully tossed it in the air and caught it, placing it casually in the center of the table. It was no business card, as Darren could plainly see. It was a roll of stickers.
“And I promise you,” she leaned towards him, “I am very enthusiastic.”