J-E-LL-O

            I’m not a drunk, I swear. I’m not some whore you’d find at any old bar. I’m not a tramp.

            My younger sister is, though. Carla? Yeah, she’s a real floozy. I wasn’t surprised when she called me from the Milan Police Department. I wasn’t surprised when she giggled, telling me she was covered in Jell-O. We’ve been through this one before. Dino’s Dugout Sports Lounge is one of Carla’s favorite haunts.

            She must have waltzed right in, shaking her hips and sucking in her stomach, those huge fake tits of hers bouncing to the beat of her saunter. She probably wasn’t wearing much but a peach string bikini. She says it goes well with her bleach blonde hair. I say she needs to get her roots re-done.

            Yeah, she probably didn’t even think twice before downing a couple of Jell-O shots and jumping in to the pool. She’s a regular Jell-O wrestler down at Dino’s. She’s popular, too. All those skeezy men with their comb-overs and their gold chains and their Hawaiian button-downs—they all adore her.  And Carla, well, she just eats it right up. They buy her round after round of those fruity, girly mixed drinks and she’s down for the count. Giggly, blonde, and loose, that’s all they’re after. With Carla, that’s all they’re ever gonna get.

            Carla told me she ran a stop sign, that her car was at an intersection south of town. She asked me to bring her some jeans and a t-shirt so that she wasn’t freezing, traipsing around in her bikini in the snow and ice. She needed shoes, too, she said. And, of course, she needed me to post bail.

            “Please, darlin’? Kristy, I need you to do this for me. I won’t never ask for nothing again, promise.”

            Ha. Yeah, right. As if she’d never get in trouble again. She just turned 25, just got those new tits, just bought a new bottle of peroxide. I hung up on that floozy sister of mine. I ain’t never gonna help my sister out again, that’s for sure. I’m too tired for this shit.