Sunsets and Silencers

"Whatever Happened to What’s-his-name?" Flash Fiction by Norman Waksler
 
 
 
 
            Eddie B. was stunned when the  pop star Megan Megan named him the father of her baby to be. Eddie B. was a mechanic in the small Massachusetts city of Leominster.  Megan Megan was everywhere on TV and tours. As far as Eddie B. could remember, they’d never met, never mind fucked. Eddie B. was in his balding late thirties with a fast food gut and in-debt eyes. Megan Megan was a blonde twenty-one with a washboard stomach and a hard little ass, fine legs and a mouth like a lipstick ad. Eddie B. thought her singing was screechy, but god, she was a hot little piece. Eddie B.’s wife, Phyllis, after three kids and fifteen years married, was pouched out here and sagged there, so, yeah, maybe during one of their less frequent these days fucks, he had fantasized about Megan Megan after seeing her dance and sing on the tube, but as far as Eddie B. knew, that wasn’t how babies were made.

            “It was like a dream,” Megan Megan announced to the assembled media, “that you remember in the middle of the night and forget in the morning. But I know it was Eddie B. who works as a mechanic in Leominster, Massachusetts. I’m not ashamed of a one time thing, but I never want to see him again. The baby will be mine, just mine,” patting her perfectly flat abs between her low rider jeans and her high rise tee shirt.

            Phyllis was furious. “How could you sleep with that little slut? When did you meet her? Was it when you said you were going out with the guys, and instead you were getting into that little whore’s pants? You’re going to pay for this, Eddie B. I swear. My brothers’ll kill you, if I don’t kill you first.” Followed by tears that were not quite as painful as the prospect of a beating from her very large brothers who ran the family lumber yard and had really rotten tempers anyway.

            Eddie B. denied up and down that he ever had anything to do with Megan Megan, omitting to mention the fantasizing, since he didn’t think it would help matters at all. “Look. Number one. When the hell would I have had a chance to meet a star like that, and number two, why the hell would a girl like that want to screw a guy like me? I mean, come on, Phyllis, use your goddamned head.”

            “Yeah, yeah, yeah. Why would she say so if wasn’t true? You’re a lying sack of shit, Eddie B.”
            Eddie B.’s teen aged kids were upset and confused, not knowing whether to be mad at him for cheating on their mom, or impressed that he’d actually gotten it on with the totally sick Megan Megan, though they couldn’t figure out why she’d want to have anything to do with their dad who was OK, but, like, falling apart already.

            “Who is Eddie B?” asked Entertainment Now!, “Who is Eddie B?” asked the buzz sites, the bloggers, and the ezines.  So the media mobs descended on their little house in Leominster to find the answer, then after Phyllis kicked him out, on the garage where he worked, shouting questions and ignoring his denials, interfering with the other mechanics and generally keeping work from getting done.

            Not that the other mechanics minded. “Oh, sure, I knew Eddie B. was a stud from way back,” said Louis J. to the camera. “He always had a hot babe hanging on to him.”

            “Eddie B.” said Ralph P. “You never know about a guy. You look at him and you’d never think a babe like Megan Megan would have anything to do with him. But still water, you know.”

            The boss was less than happy with the constant interruption. “Eddie B. You better take some time off till this shit dies down. Did you really fuck that sweet  piece? You’re one lucky guy.”

            That was the attitude of all the guys that Eddie B. knew, and he couldn’t help noticing that there were women who looked at him differently now, like he had to be a real stud to have gotten it on with Megan Megan, and maybe they wouldn’t mind trying whatever it was he had. But Eddie B. was too tired and confused and annoyed and discouraged to want to take advantage of his chances, though he thought it would be good revenge on Phyllis if he could.

            Without a home, out of work, avoiding the lumberyard brothers, Eddie B. had a thought — he’d go find Megan Megan and get her to admit the whole thing was some kind of crazy mix-up, that somehow, maybe she’d passed through Leominster and seen the garage and found out his name and just decided to put him on the spot instead of whoever had really knocked her up.

            It took a day on the library computer among the many million Megan Megan hits to learn her location in Florida. A long bus ride brought him to her town, and a long walk took him to the gate in the wrought iron fence surrounding her twenty seven room mansion where a pair of broad and brawny guards said, “Private property bud. Move along.”

            “I’m Eddie B. I need to talk to Megan Megan.”

            One of the guards ducked into the gate house, checked a photo, came out and said, “Right. Eddie B. Miss Megan Megan has taken out a restraining order against you. You can’t even be in the same county she is, so you need to go back where you came from or we call the cops.”

            Eddie B. could’ve cried from the injustice of it all. “But she’s got to tell the world it wasn’t me.”

            “She doesn’t have to tell anybody anything, and you’ve got ten seconds to depart, or else.”

            “At least let her come out and look at me. She’ll know we never met.”

            A cell phone appeared. A finger tapped 911.

            “All right, all right. I’m going.”

            Sitting with a cup of coffee in a diner in the small town center, Eddie B. tied to figure a way to sneak into the mansion and confront Megan Megan. He fantasized black clothes at night, picking the lock, disabling the alarm, tip-toeing up the stairs to enter the suite where Megan Megan slept on her famous circular bed, her fabulous blonde hair spread around her sweet face. He shook her gently by the shoulder in some silky material. Her eyes opened suddenly, staring at him in alarm. “It’s OK,” he said. “It’s just me, Eddie B. I just need you to tell the world I’m not the father of your baby-to-be.”

           With no hurry at all, Megan Megan turned away, reached under her two pillows, pulled out a small silver automatic, and pointed it at him. “Oh shit,” said Eddie B, as he imagined what the next morning’s headlines would say
           
 

                                                                                        
Norman Waksler has published fiction in a number of journals, most recently Storyquarterly, Madison Review, Chaffin Journal, Edgar, and Epicenter. His most recent story collection, Signs of Life is published by the Black Lawrence Press.  He lives in Cambridge, Massachusetts. For a nice picture of his Cairn Terrier, Glennis,  as well as further information, see his website, Normanwakslerfiction.com.