April Fool (Part I)

It could be said orchestrating an April Fool’s prank is more stressful than being the victim of one. Consider, for starters, the time devoted to brainstorming and to set-up and, if you’re exceptionally ambitious, to cleanup. But the worst, by far, is the time spent mired in anxious anticipation.

This year, I managed to play both the roles of victim and victimizer, and it’s the latter that caused me heartburn and nearly made me wet my pants.

I began crafting my own prank last Saturday, the very day I met Bianca. She was seated on a chair beside shelves of discarded cookery, regretted QVC purchases and framed prints even Motel 6 might scorn. She wore her sandy blonde hair short and feathered in a fashion not unlike pop star Justin Bieber. She was completely nude, but I didn’t care. I had to have her. I hoisted Bianca at the waist and folded her neatly over my shoulder, like a caveman preparing to transport his cavewoman.

#BFFs

“We’re eloping,” I told the first GoodWill shopper who noticed my cargo. I had reached the dishware department, and Bianca’s permanently pointed right foot swung dangerously close to the stemware. He smiled.

“Now I can ride in the HOV lane,” I quipped to a woman in the shoe aisle. She laughed.

I settled Bianca’s bare behind on the checkout counter. My mouth was fixed in an ear-to-ear smile, but the cashier’s eyes refused to return it. He registered my $25.99 purchase, swiped my credit card and accepted my signature. The receipt, I noticed with some disappointment, was not itemized. 

Back at the car, I settled Bianca into the passenger’s seat and adjusted her arms to accommodate the seatbelt strap across her chest. I slipped sunglasses over her blank blue eyes and protected her modesty with my jacket. I snapped selfies and sent them to my parents, sister and friends. And then I started the car and we completed my remaining errands together, pausing for occasional frivolity along the way. On Highway 101, I detached Bianca’s right hand and used it to wave to day workers crammed into the cab of a landscaping truck. They laughed. I selected the most conspicuous spots in parking lots and fantasized about the double takes my patient passenger earned as I shopped. And, as promised, I ventured into the HOV lane (technically, it was a Saturday, but imagine the thrill!). Yes, I was deliriously pleased with myself. In a decade of thrift shopping, this had to be my finest purchase.  

My husband, Matt (you may refer to him as “Victim No. 1”), was fully immersed in the new HBO show “Vinyl” when I returned home, and so I had little trouble smuggling my prize into the garage. First, I unscrewed Bianca’s torso. Then her legs, one pointed, one bent, popped off. Finally, I detached her arms and dislodged each delicate fiberglass hand. I piled the parts behind the compost bin, entered the house and greeted Matt and then unlocked the garage side door.

For nearly a week, Bianca’s bits remained stacked haphazardly within the garage water heater closet. I briefly considered the horrified screeches their discovery might elicit should Victim No. 1 or Alicia, our new roommate (henceforth referred to as “Victim No. 2”), suddenly experience an urge to open said closet, but reasoned that scenario would likely best even my intended plans.

To be continued...