Afternoon of the Iguana
a short-short story
by Jason Loeffler
Smashwords Edition
Copyright 2011 Jason Loeffler
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For Cassy and Amanda,
one-time partners in crime
Afternoon of the Iguana
If that darn animal wasn’t trying to kill Margaret, then he sure went out of his way to daily piss her off. The bright pink lettering on the side of the semi-truck she passed on this particularly sunny California afternoon, while the wind whipped through her long hair on the freeway, reminded her of her mistress’ prized pet that she was now on her way to pick up: Duchess, the rare pink iguana.
Even without his royal name, Duchess bore the mantle of divine right around the mansion. Margret was painfully aware of the stringent requirements one had to meet to have such a pet; from special lighting to a strict and unalterable diet of mustard greens, collard greens, dandelion, arugula, and, yes, special vitamins to counteract the harmful effects of the chicken wings her employer fed her brat. “Oh, but Margaret, dear, he just loves fresh meat! Look at him lick his widdle-itty-bitty lips.”
Margaret was, by now, already well acquainted with those lips. And the teeth they hid.
A month ago, Duchess, the agile climber, had, unbeknownst to her, climbed atop the refrigerator while she was chopping his greens for lunch. While she was thus occupied, he proceeded to dive-bomb her from above, biting her ear, and the encounter left several pink marks along her upper lobe, where his teeth had shredded skin.
But this was only one in a long line of offenses. Duchess had repeatedly tried to trip her on the stairs—and she knew he’d meant to do it every time by the self-serving, satisfied look in his eye, afterward. In addition, Duchess had the tendency to wander off for hours on end, forcing Margaret, on occasion, to give up her lunch—the only repast she got in an otherwise busy day—to find him. The worst, though, was when he refused to leave his bathing pool.
The pool was only a few feet deep, in the back lawn near the patio—where Mrs. Gabbler often sunned, along with her pet. But when Her Majesty said it was time for the two of them to go indoors, it was Margaret’s job to fish the unwilling reptile from his lair. He’d propel himself through the water with powerful tail strokes like a crocodile, drawing her further into the water to better nibble at her ankles, an ancient intelligence in his eyes mocking her efforts.
Veering off the highway and slowly into the parking lot of the drab strip-mall, Margaret thought of Mrs. Gabbler’s weekly Tuesday request—for Margaret to run out on some useless errand while the pool-man dredged the iguana’s lagoon. The man in question was a German, big and hairy, and reeked of kraut. He’d test the pH value of the water, check the pumps, and then proceed to slobber all over Mrs. Gabbler’s oily body while she sunned, and while the iguana swam laps, watching.
While she searched for a parking space, Margaret wondered why a woman who didn’t do anything but sun, sip gin, and screw the pool-guy needed to hire out for someone like her. Feeding the ‘baby’, tidying the house, and organizing Mrs. Gabbler’s things wasn’t exactly a full-time job, even if felt like one. But Mr. Doyle—the man who called himself Mrs. Gabbler’s husband, and whom Mrs. Gabbler called, simply, “Doily”—insisted that her every need be met.
And so they were, thanks to Margaret.
She did the important things, like managing the gardener, the chef, and the pool-guy, weekly. She did the remedial things, like shopping, daily. She did the mundane things, like driving Mrs. Gabbler to the hairdresser’s, the dressmaker’s, the spa, and the gym—where Mrs. Gabbler sipped a Bloody Mary and watched the men swim laps—as needed. And she did the worst of it all, caring for Duchess, in every moment of her day.
But Margaret wasn’t resentful—this was her job. She accepted that.
She just got a little depressed, though, when she thought of how, while running useless errands on Tuesday afternoons, like this one, she might be working out at the gym herself, trimming off her own winter flab, or enjoying her own Bloody Mary. She was young, but she didn’t feel it. Despite all that, however, she just couldn’t leave Daniel—Mr. Doyle—to all the reptiles in his life. He was a good man, even if he wasn’t a very kind one.
He had a ruthless reputation at the firm, and on the courtroom floor, and his swarthy features had been frightening to Margaret at first, until, that is, dear ‘Doily’ had brought her flowers. They were purple lilacs, her favorite, and he’d bought them on her birthday. Mrs. Gabbler had commented blithely on the waste of money at the time, since such things were only doomed to die, but Daniel had been firm, and the flowers remained on the kitchen counter until nightfall; after which, Duchess ate them, his dry lips tearing up the blossoms.
Margaret threw the stems away the following morning.
Now, she snagged some prime real-estate near the door she wanted and parked the car. Getting out, she locked the door and approached the shop, gazing at her reflection in the window-glass before her. When she reached the door, she turned, and checked her make-up. Yes, she decided, the powder still concealed the hard-won hickey on her neck.
The clerk at the inside counter smiled when she entered. Margaret informed him she was here to pick up the iguana, and he nodded, shuffling into the stockroom. While he was gone, Margaret rubbed the wounds from Duchess on her ear. Then she touched her hidden bruise and thought of Daniel’s lips. And of Mrs. Gabbler’s deck chair, all oiled up, where she’d opened up her legs to him. And of her mistress’ comment that, “She didn’t know if she would live if anything ever happened to her, ‘widdle-boy’”.
When the man returned, he set Duchess on the counter with a care the animal didn’t deserve. His pink scales gleaming in the light, Margaret’s cunning adversary looked the same as he had when she’d last seen him a week ago, when she’d come to drop him off—only better.
Probably because he was dead. And stuffed.
Margaret smiled.
She paid the clerk with Mrs. Gabbler’s credit card and tipped him well, noting how the ancient laughter still lingered in the lizard’s eyes. And, for the first time, Margaret got the joke.
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About the Author
Jason Loeffler is a graduate with honors in writing and in English, with an informal emphasis in theatre, from Drury University in Springfield, Missouri. He is the author of several short stories, poems, and news articles, as well as one novel, The Devil’s Purpose, for which he currently seeks representation. To contact Jason, or to learn more about his work, please visit his website, Jason-Loeffler.com, for more information.
Works by Jason Loeffler
Cold Burn
A Stitch in Time
The Hunt
The Blue Fairy
Afternoon of the Iguana
Eau de Smoking Rubber
Snow Angel
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