Penny figured out that the best thing was to shoot the pressurized goo into the palm of the hand and smear it “evenly over surface to be shaved.” Now the novice shaver was ready to comply with the last instruction: “Shave.” Penny found the injector razor in the medicine cabinet, took a firrn grip on it and pulled it over the lathered cheeks.
The mentholated whipped cream came off—-but that was all. Pressing harder didn’t help either. Cheeks red from being scraped shone through the stubble, but the stubble itself remained. It was still there five minutes later after all the lather had been removed.
Only then did Penny think to examine the razor. The examination revealed one highly pertinent fact. There was no blade.
The injector cartridge of blades turned up behind several bottles of nose drops way in the rear of the medicine cabinet. It took twenty minutes to find it. “It’s easy to see why he didn’t slash his wrists,” Penny grumbled, ejecting a blade from the cartridge.
The blade flew out, skidded over the surface of the sink and lodged in the drain. Permy tried to extricate it, but it was stuck firmly. Wedging a finger under the blade for leverage didn’t loosen it either. But it did result in slicing a chunk out of the finger.
“A helluva place to cut yourself shaving,” Penny mused, searching through the clutter of the medicine cabinet for a Band-aid. The first Band-aid was stuck fast and Penny was unable to separate it. The second one came apart easily, but wouldn’t adhere to the surface of the skin. The third one adhered—too well. The gauze part was gooey with glue which clotted the wound nicely.
Penny decided the blade stuck in the drain was the plumber’s problem. A second blade was inserted properly in the razor. Penny relathered and was ready to shave.
“OUCH!”
The first upward stroke felt like the face-hairs were being pulled out with a tweezers. Penny tried drawing the razor downward. That was better. Stubble came off with the shaving cream and adhered to the edge of the blade.
After that it was duck soup—until Penny came to the problem of trimming the moustache. One end was just a trifle longer than the other. It was aesthetically disturbing. What could be more natural than to try to even it up? Carefully, Penny trimmed the offending end.
Not carefully enough. Just a trifle too much off. Now the other end was a wee bit too long for the sake of balance. Penny evened it up.
The only trouble was that between the extra hairs and the rest of the moustache there was a bare patch of about an eighth of an inch. So now it was the other side that was an eighth of an inch too long. Simple. Just trim the first side again.
Being a perfectionist, it was a while before Penny got the two sides even enough for her satisfaction. The result, looking back from the mirror, was a little disconcerting. There were two perfectly symmetrical smudges about the width of a black crayon line, one under each nostril. The hell with it, Penny decided, and shaved the upper lip clean.
Annoyance had made Penny careless. The small razor snagged just inside one nostril. Pennington P. Po-tter’s nose began to bleed. It was at this moment that Mrs. Potter, who had been wondering what was taking her son so long, entered the bathroom to investigate.
“Blood!” She groped for her heart under one flabby breast. “Pennington. What have you done to yourself?”
“I’b god a dosebleed.” Penny explained the obvious.
“I’ll call a doctor!”
“Don’t be silly. I jusd cud byself shavig. Id’ll stob id a midute.”
“Hold your head back. Put a cold cloth on the back of your neck. Apply pressure to your upper lip. Change your underwear!”
“Chadge by uddewvear?” Penny was trying to comply with the first three instructions, but the fourth one was a puzzler.
“If I didn’t remind you, you’d never remember.”
“What does by udderwear hab to do width by dosebleed?”
“Everything. Suppose it’s really serious and we have to call an ambulance and you have to go to the hospital. The first thing they’d do is make you take off your clothes. How would you feel with dirty underwear? And think of me. Think of how I’d feel. I’d be mortified! That’s how I’d feel!”
“I’b dot goidg to ady hosbidal. Id’s stoppig. See?” Penny straightened up and demonstrated that the flow of blood had slowed to a mere trickle. A small piece of toilet paper tamped into the nostril stopped the bleeding altogether.
“No son of mine is going to walk around in public all day with toilet paper hanging out of his nose!” Mrs. Potter declared firmly.
“Id’s oddy udtil id ooagulades. I’ll take id oud before I leab.”
Penny went back into the bedroom and put on a shirt. Mrs. Potter followed. “I’ll tie your tie for you, dear,” she offered.
“All ride.” Penny removed the toilet paper from the nostril and sniffed deeply. “That’s much better.”
Mrs. Potter knotted the cravat deftly. “There we are.” She patted the result. “Mother fixed.” Then, as an afterthought—“P. P. wee-wee?”
“Make up your mind which euphemism you’re going to use and stick to it,” Penny suggested.
“Don’t you be fresh with me, Pennington! I’m only trying to save you from being embarrassed later. You mow what will happen? People will say ‘Shame-shame!’ They’ll say ‘Shame-shame on P. P.!’ ”
“I went to the bathroom,” Penny said wearily.
“Are you sure?”
“I’m sure! I’m sure, dammit!”
“Don’t curse. I don’t know where you pick up such language. Probably from that floozy Sonia you spend so much time with you can’t find time to come home to your mother.”
“Sonia?”
“Don’t play innocent with me! You know very well who I mean! That Village tramp!”
“Oh . . . Sure . . .”
“I didn’t bring you up that way, to use profane language. You never heard such words in this house. But I know when you started to change. Don’t think I don’t know. It was when you married that no-good Brandy!”
“I’m married!” There was wonder in Penny’s voice. The idea had all sorts of implications. Marriage meant a wife and a wife meant sex. Penny wondered how one went about making love to someone rather than having someone make love to you. Penny’s shaky manhood was all the more shaky at the idea.
“Of course you were married. But now you’re divorced. What’s the matter? Don’t you remember? Have you got amnesia? That’s it! Amnesia! That lousy quack went and gave you amnesia! I’ll sue him for malpractice!”
“I’ve got a better suit than that brewing,” Penny muttered. There was a sense of relief at knowing that the marriage was past tense. “Shouldn’t I be getting to work?” Penny wondered.
“Why? So you can curse to your heart’s content, I suppose. Sneaky! That’s what you are! You just want to curse where Mother can’t hear you! But God can hear you! Remember that! And He can see you too. Remember that when you’re kanoodling with that Miss Hodgkiss behind the water cooler or wherever you’re kanoodling!”
“I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about.” Penny had had about enough of Mrs. Potter.
“There! He cursed again!” Mrs. Potter raised her eyes heavenward. “Did you hear him? All right! Take your foul mouth out of here! Go to work!”
“All right.” Penny started out and then stopped. “There’s only one trouble. I just can’t seem to remember where I work. Could you give me the address?”
“Amnesia! I knew it! My poor boy! Come here and let me comfort you!”
Penny backed off. “Why don’t you just cut that crap out and give me the name and address?”