Brigid’s flip-flop crisis

Rod had never heard Brigid use such language before.  He quickly turned around, then turned back, then turned around.  He had to think fast.  A uniform malfunction!!  Would he get to see Brigid’s bare nipples?  Or maybe her shaved “pussy”??  Or maybe he shouldn’t look at all?

        Through the corner of his eye he saw the problem and figured it was ok to turn around and look.  Brigid, trying to get out of his way when he turned around with the drum, had twisted in one of her sparkly flip-flops and one of the little strings had snapped free of the thin sole.  She hopped back to the table, trying to hold onto the broken sandal by squeezing with her toes.  It fell off and she awkwardly bent down to pick it up.

        When Rod returned to his seat next to her she was in a distracted state.  Her bare buns once more sat on the freezing bare metal of the folding chair, but now one leg was curled, toes hidden in the hollow of her other knee.  She held the damaged flip-flop in her hand with eyebrows knitted with concern.  She knew the smallest detail of her micro-uniform; Rod could see that the little button that kept the string in the sole had broken off, lost now somewhere on the parking lot asphalt.  As Rod watched closely, the Tunemasters majorette carefully re-threaded the string through the hole and tied the ground-facing end into a knot.  The parts of her uniform were so tiny Rod imagined she should be using a watchmaker’s magnifying glass.

        “It will be a little tight on the ankle side, but it will do,” Brigid said.  She carefully brought her foot out and slipped the flip-flop back on.  Standing up, she attempted two steps but the knot slipped out, and soon she was back on the chair, the bare foot hidden again.  “What will I do now?” she asked herself, clearly distressed.  “I can’t be seen like this!”

        Everyone knew that Brigid was a modest girl.  She would never be seen in the provocative clothes some other girls wore.  Her usual outfit was long pants, sneakers with socks, and a long-sleeved blouse over which she often wore a denim jacket, probably to hide her boobs, which stuck out on her thin body.  She was proud of her majorette uniform and to be seen with an item missing would deeply embarrass her.

        Rod thought fast.  “Maybe . . . if you tied it around a toothpick or something?”

        “Good idea!” Brigid said, which made Rod feel proud.  She looked to the supermarket door.  “My mom’s still in there -- can you ask her to get a box?”

        “Okay!!”  Rod jumped at any request Brigid might give.  He dashed inside and walked briskly from aisle to aisle, looking for Mrs. O’Dierna.  He couldn’t find her! . . . Well, I can buy a box myself.  He had a ten-dollar bill with him, in case he wanted a snack or something.  Quickly searching, he found toothpicks in the soda aisle, next to the party plates, and zoomed to the checkouts.

        It turned out that Brigid’s mother was on line.  He got behind her.  “Hello, Mrs. O’Dierna,” he said, stiffly and respectfully.  She had been pushing the cart with one hand, her cane in the other.  Little Jessy was in the little seat on top.  Rod noticed Nutella in the cart.  Brigid was not going to be happy about that.

        With some difficulty Rod pushed his fingers into the tight pocket in the front of his jacket and extracted the ten-dollar bill.  Then on an impulse he pulled a bottle of water out of the little cabinet next to the line.  Realizing that Brigid hadn’t brought any money with her (where would she put it?), he got a bottle for her too.

        The line wasn’t moving.  An old guy in front was having an argument with the cashier as to the value of one of the coupons.  It went on and on; now the assistant manager was called.  Listening, Rod learned that the dispute was over twenty-four cents.  He closed his eyes and exhaled.  Brigid was in crisis, waiting for him.  And this old man was holding things up over twenty-four cents.

        Not that wearing that flip-flop actually meant that Brigid would be more “covered”.  The strings were so tiny, thinner than shoelaces, that she was in effect exposing all of her feet to the world.  Everyone else’s uniform covered their whole bodies, except for their faces and necks.  While the majorette only had those little circlets, the little V-strings over her butt, the one-inch-wide strip over her vagina, and the little flip flop strings.  Rod had once calculated that the majorette enjoyed only 0.5 percent coverage over her body, while the rest of her band had the benefit of 96 percent.  But it was the principle of the thing.  A majorette can’t go around in public with part of her uniform missing!  It would be indecent!

        Rod exhaled again.  He shared an exasperated look with Mrs. O’Dierna, though her eyes had a twinkle to them.  She was not in any hurry.  As for little Jessy, she was happily perched in her seat, engrossed in a rattle built into the front bar.

        Finally the old man was placated; the store decided to honor the coupon after all.  Rod wanted to cut ahead of Mrs. O’Dierna but he knew that would be impolite.  Brigid would have to wait a couple more minutes.  Looking outside the front windows, he couldn’t see her, though he could see part of the drum.  He saw people passing by on their way in, in their overcoats, boots . . . Here he was inside the warmth of the store, all covered up . . . poor Brigid practically naked outside, sitting on that freezing metal chair . . .

        The O’Dierna family liked chicken, it seemed.  There was a lot of it, lifted from the cart by the stockboy and put on the moving belt.  Evidently the folks at the store knew about Mrs. O’Dierna’s limited ability to bend over and lift things.  The overweight, disabled mother of five watched with a smile.  Then as she pushed the empty cart forward Jessy hopped onto her shoulder and jumped to the floor, sucking her thumb as her mother led her out behind the stockboy pushing the cart full of bags.

        Rod thought: The O’Dierna’s are a happy family.  Despite not having a lot of money, and Mrs. O’Dierna’s health problems.  Having Brigid as “assistant mother” must help a lot.

        He finally got out to the table with the little box of toothpicks.  Brigid, still with her foot folded into her knee, sat with her fists on the table and a furrowed brow.  Rod smiled.  “I know, Nutella,” he said.

        “Yes . . . exactly.”  Brigid watched as the old station wagon turned onto Martin Luther King Boulevard.  Now she looked at the box of toothpicks.  “Thank you much, Rod.”  She opened the box and fumbled to get a toothpick out.  Rod noticed that her fingers were stiff and red.  He glanced down and noticed that her toes were red too.  In fact her body was flushed all over.  White people, you could tell so much about them from their skin.  Brigid tried to hide it but she was feeling the cold.

        “Here,” Rod said, putting the bottle of water in front of her.  “Thanks.”  Then he could have kicked himself.  Just what she needs -- a drink of cold water.  He could have gotten her a hot tea.  Then again . . . they didn’t have any hot drinks in the store.

        Resourcefulness was an important asset for a Tunemasters majorette.  Brigid had it in abundance.  She expertly formed two toothpicks into a cross, then tied them onto the bottom of the flip-flop.  Once again she slipped it on and took a few steps.  This time it worked.  “Thank goodness!” she breathed with a sigh of relief as she sat down again.  Rod tried not to watch as her breasts rose and fell with her sigh.  It seemed like the circlets were sticking out more.  Underneath, her nipples were probably hardening with the cold.