Twenty-four hours later, the max for La Flor’s attention span. I can forget about her wanting to use the blog for whistleblowing. Besides, who’s she going to blow the whistle on, Dr. Phil’s alt ego? Her mystery writer friend? Big Carmen? I decided to write a reflection on the meaning of life. . . .
“Ray, Ray, Ray! You promised I could be the whistleblower today. You promised. You promised. You know what happens to people when they break their promises to me?”
“I won’t let you forget it, ever. I mean longer than ever. I mean I will remind you when you wake up. I will remind you every five minutes. I will remind you when you go to bed. I will keep saying it over and over while you sleep.”
“Won’t you get tired of reminding me?” I asked.
The beautiful, tough, and edgy whistleblower knows how to get her way. I said, “It’s all yours, La Flor. Try not to make it too long. WordPress has a thing against long whistleblowing blogs.” Okay, I admit I wasn’t telling the truth about WordPress. Don’t tell her, por favor. I’m only trying to help you.
La Flor sat in front of the laptop. She said, “I’m all over this like perfect eyebrows on me. Like perfect pouty lips on me. Like the way I fit into the edgiest of clothes.”
“I get the point,” I said. I began to silently pray.
“Will I bother you if I speak aloud while I’m writing? It helps my creative spirit.”
“What you’re writing is all true? You’re not creating anything, are you?” I asked. A bit timidity in my voice.
“Every word. Make sure all the doors and windows are locked. Turn your smartphone off. I want no interruptions, especially from you know who.”
“Your mystery writer friend? Dr. Phil’s alt ego?”
“No. No. No. LC.”
La Flor turned her attention to the blog. She began writing her whistleblower piece, “Your so vain, LC. You probably think this post is about you. Don’t you. Don’t You. Well, I hear you went to Vegas. You played craps and naturally, won. Then you flew up to Chicago to see how deep dish pizza is done. Then, you strolled into my party like you’re walking on air. You had one eye on your smartphone, the other on the girls wanting to be your partner. Your so vain, LC. You probably think this post is about you. Don’t you. Don’t you.”
“Stop. Stop. You’re plagiarizing,” I shouted.
La Flor turned to me, “No, I’m not. I got permission from Carly Simon’s alt ego after I told her all about LC flirting with two of my competitors. I’m blowing the whistle on that two timing, sweet talking, hunk of muscle, and all man.”
“It sounds like you’re talking your way back to him,” I said.
“Only after he crawls back to me on all fours and begs me to take him back,” said La Flor.
“Then you’ll take him back?” I asked.
“No, I just want him to crawl back. Besides, I’ve got another guy.”
“You do? Who is he? Where did you meet him?” I asked.
“I don’t have trouble getting guys. They’re always hitting on me. It’s a curse I have to live with since I’m beautiful, tough, and edgy.”
“Somebody has to do it,” I said.
“I decided to go with brains over looks and muscle.”
“You’re using him, right?” I said.
“How did you know?” asked La Flor.
“Just a feeling. Do you think it’s fair?” I asked.
“Yes. Next question,” said La Flor getting ready to hit the publish button.
“Do you think Little Carmen will be jealous?”
“That’s the point, Ray. What planet do you live on?”
“Will Little Carmen confront your new faux boyfriend?” I said, think La Flor’s game might be dangerous for the unwitting guy who fell for her.
“All I can do is hope.”
“Survival of the fittest, Ray.”
“Is it Dr. Phil’s script writer? The skinny, geeky looking guy who’s very shy?”
“Perfect choice, don’t you think? You forgot to mention, receding hairline, and has the shape of a pencil.”
“A lamb being led to the slaughter,” I said.
“I like to think of it as the most meaningful thing he’ll ever do in his life.”
“La Flor don’t hit the publish button.”