Recycled Booty

Recycling fake people into zombie hordes for your amusement…

My family had a sordid history involving recycling. Dad’s garage was legendary as a depot of useful things. He had no idea what to use most of those things for, though. Mom suggested a bon fire to roast a steer or perhaps to light the building on fire as a training exercise for local firemen.

This tendency towards hording, I mean recycling, was passed on in DNA. My brother built a shed, tall enough to house a giraffe, as vertical storage in his small yard. My youngest sister horded beads and trinkets like a squirrel socking nuts away for an apocalyptic winter. As a seamstress, my other sister had enough bolts of fabric to clothe everyone in Pittsburgh. Me? I rescued things from becoming landfill and eventually pawned the stuff off on someone else.

We lived in a wasteful society. A job in retail made me more aware of this fact. When our store replaced old mannequins with a shinier version, the old fake people were destined for the dumpster.

With permission, a co-worker rescued a few of the mannequins and turned her yard into a horror movie scene for Halloween. Her dogs would bark at the zombie mannequins, do their business, and run like hell to the safety of the house. During the month of October, she literally scared the crap out of her pets.

Our store had a small village of new mannequins still in boxes. Because stores must like to waste money on mannequins, this batch of unused fake people were also destined for the dumpster.

My co-worker, already housing a village of the damned outside of Halloween, couldn’t take them all. Wanting to spare the landfill of yet another batch of imitation people, I thought my seamstress sister might be able to use a few mannequins for sewing projects. The arms were magnetic and easily removed for dressing.

So instead of a decent raise, I received a bonus in the form of plastic people. I’d recycle the mannequins by giving them a home with my sister. She agreed that jabbing a mannequin instead of a live person like a voodoo doll when adjusting the fit of an outfit would be better for business.

Two boxes fit in my trunk. The rest of the mannequins were unboxed and put in the back seat. A torso, booty forward, rode shotgun. This endowed mannequin was used to display plus sized bras and panties (the reason she faced backwards). I had no idea what my sister was going to use this model for since she didn’t craft intimates, but it was free and going to the dump.

My sister lived out of town. I was to deliver the mannequins over the weekend. In the meantime, my car was home to what looked like really white naked people. This wouldn’t have been bad except for the predicted snow storm. To get to my sister’s, I had to travel south, not sunshine south, but south as in pole along a snowy stretch of tundra. I put a shovel in the backseat, in case I got stuck in a snow drift, because the trunk was full of boxed people.

At first glance, I looked like a mass murderer on my way to bury really white naked people one of which was beheaded, lacked arms and legs, and was belted in the front seat. Since it was Sunday, I first stopped at church figuring it wouldn’t hurt to pray before setting out on a winter journey. No, it never occurred to me to cover the mass of fake humanity with a blanket. Though I did have one of those just in case I became snowbound with shiny, fake people who could offer no assistance except if someone mistook the scene before them and summoned a swat team.

The snow storm never materialized. The highway filled with regular traffic. A zombie horde on our front lawn would’ve drawn less attention, but I made it to my sister’s without incident.

I looked like a lunatic with a carload of naked mannequins. Please, don’t buy more mannequins than you need.

Published in Funny Times-October 2017

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