The "Carolina Soft Shoe" and other maladies...

Her name was Vanessa. We worked shoulder-to-shoulder as colleagues in the business of high-priced, low-quality, sweat shop fashion. Shall we call it "Banana Republic?" It was any old anemic weekday when I noticed she was on her way back into the store. "Vanessa!" I mused unceremoniously. Vanessa's shift had ended about 15 minutes previously to my sighting of her, and yet, there she was-again. As it turned out, her short-bed 2-wheel drive Toyota truck wouldn't start.

"I'll help you, Vanessa!" I blurted expediently. Although I knew next to nothing about the inner workings of any automobile, I believe my urgency to assist was an innate reaction to the subverted necessity to glad-handle something more widely accepted as "manly," than the new line of camel blazers and cashmere knitteries located in-store.

Vanessa hopped behind the wheel and popped the hood. I was happy for the privacy the raised hood afforded me, as I'm sure it would have only taken a seconds glance into my empty eyes for Vanessa to know with a surety that she was better-off resuming "grinding" her starter, ostensibly.

My eyes were quickly lost staring into the dirty meanderings of Japanese genius. As I scoured for an easy place to grab and twist, my eyes locked onto the low-hanging fruit, that was the car battery and cables attached thereto.
"That might do the trick," I offered aloud, as though my cable twist constituted the 27 to 300 point check promised by used-car dealers(did it?). To my great astonishment, the truck turned over and fired up with a better-than-ever roar 'n' purr.
I was somewhat bemused by how blase` Vanessa was over our little miracle. I couldn't discern if she had always considered me a versatile utility, or she just didn't care if ol' reliable turned over-or not!
"Aren't you getting ready to go on a mission?" she obligatorily inquired in a presumable effort to reciprocate some degree of friendship.
"I went on a mission, you know," she continued, not waiting for me to say anything.
"Really?" I waited.
"Ya, but I came home early," Vanessa freely rolled. Not wanting to upset our delicate social breakthrough, I recklessly persisted.
"Why did you come home early?" Even as the question pursed my lips, I knew it was a colossal faux pas, if not a total breach of established civility. Although Vanessa did not make me wait long for her reply, every nano second working up to it had me relating more and more to "Ralphy," and his courageous effort to tell Santa what he really wanted before finishing his slide ride to the cotton-batting snow below.
"I got sick," she offered safely. Notwithstanding my safe recovery from near and total disaster, I decided to press things a touch further.
"Really," I regained confidence.
"Sick with what?"

"Bulimia." she heralded.

If there was a time for silence, I had already missed it, and yet, in that misfortunate moment all I had for her was silence--too little, too late. What had previously seemed like a pseudo-interested Vanessa was now a fully transformed, "Ok, I told you, so what are you going to do about it?" Vanessa. My mind scrambled like scout eggs in a dirty dutch-oven. I knew I had ventured so far into the outer realm of what is safe in common conversation that I no longer felt any gravity pulling back.

"Oh...a..ahh...um..." I stalled, "I thought maybe you got the Carolina Soft-Shoe from drinking some bad water, or something." I muttered with slurred speed. "Carolina Soft Shoe?" I repeated to myself, "Did I just say that? What does that even mean?" I further introspected, as I attempted to quantify the collateral damage.

Not to worry though...

Vanessa took care of it.

"Oh... I had that too." she concluded.

Whfeww! Here's to dodging bullets.