The Bride

Bob put his frozen dinner in the microwave and set the timer for two minutes. Ten seconds later, the doorbell rang. He hoped it wasn’t any of his friends showing up and interrupting his lunch.

An ITS (International Trucking Service) deliveryman stood outside the door with a huge box on a wheeled dolly. “I have a delivery for Bob Gronkle.”

Bob checked out the box. It was almost the size of a refrigerator. “I don’t remember ordering anything – especially something this big.”

The microwave dinged from the kitchen.

“Are you cooking something?” the driver asked.

“A Hungry Harold Salisbury Steak. According to the package’s instructions, I should be stirring the mashed potatoes now.”

“Do you ever throw the box of a frozen dinner out, forget the instructions, and then have to take the box out of the garbage?”

“I have,” Bob answered. Looking at the box again, he questioned, “Who is this from?”

The driver read from a tablet in his hand. “Doesn’t say. It is an international order, and a gift.”

Bob’s eyebrows went up. “A gift?

“Your name is Bob Gronkle?”

“Yes.”

“Then it is for you. Maybe you have a secret admirer. Sign here.” He held the tablet in front of Bob. “Use your finger.”

Bob signed. It looked nothing like his signature, more like a bunch of topsy-turvy letters.

After checking the tablet, the driver wheeled the box into the living room and set it down. “This okay?”

“Yeah, sure.”

The man rolled the dolly out. “Have a nice day.”

“You too.” When he was gone, Bob read the label. “Bob Gronkle. It is addressed to me.”

He went to the kitchen, pulled the Hungry Harold dinner out of the microwave, and pealed back the cover. After stirring the mashed potatoes, he put it back in the microwave and set the timer for an additional minute and a half.

Returning to the box, Bob heard what sounded like a soft buzz coming from inside it. “Electronics?” He pulled a front flap, and the package opened. A pair of legs that had been raised to rest on the box’s front fell out. They belonged to a plump woman in her forties or fifties, who was sound asleep. The buzzing sound was her snoring. “What the?” He pushed the woman’s shoulder. “Hey.”

Her eyes opened, and she appeared to be confused. Turning her head from side to side and looking inside the box, it was like a light bulb went off, and she remembered where she was.

“Hello,” said Bob.

The woman wore a tan, linen, farmhouse style full-length dress that came down to her knees. It had deep pockets on each side. The one on the right had sheets of paper sticking out of it. Sturdy fur-lined, seal-skin ankle boots were over white wool socks pulled up an inch over the top of the boots. Her hair was up in a bun. She hopped out of the box. “Dobryi den."

Bob jumped back.

The woman talked with a Russian Accent, “Vhew. Danka. It is stuffy in zere.”

“Who are you?”

“I am Olga. Your mail-order bride from Russia. Olga comes from Krasnoyarsk, Siberia.”

“I didn’t order a bride. How long were you in there?”

“Three days. Express delivery. You pay extra for dat. Vhere is your bathroom?” She put her hands over her front and jumped up and down. “I have to go.”

Bob pointed. “Right down the hall. You held it for three days?”

“Da.” Olga ran down the hall to the bathroom.

Looking at the box, Bob noticed someone punched holes in the top. He leaned in, grabbed a paper taped to the side, and read an invoice, “One mail-order bride from The Krasivaya Devushka Russian Bride Company. Wait a second. This is my mom’s handwriting. She’s been trying to get me married for years so she can have grandkids.”

He called his mom. “Mom, there’s a Russian woman at my house.”

“That’s nice, honey. I have to go.”

“What do you mean, you have to go?”

“Your father wants his lunch. We’re having leftover tuna fish casserole.”

“Wait - I want to talk to you.”

Bob heard a dial tone.

“Mom, mom, mother.”

Olga returned, stood in front of him, and smelled her armpit. “I am stinky.”

“Three days in a box might do that,” Bob answered.

She put her armpit in Bob’s face. “Take sniff of me.”

Bob held up his hands and pushed her away, as if he was warding off an evil spirit. “That’s okay. I believe you. You are stinky.” He wiggled his nose, thinking it might make the underarm smell go away. “Look, there’s been a mistake.”

“I have paperwork.” Olga pulled a sheet of paper out of the big pocket. “Here is signed contract.”

Bob took it and looked it over. “Yes, one Russian mail-order bride with my name on it. But this is my mom’s writing. I didn’t sign it.”

“Mother knows best.”

Bob held up the contract next to Olga. “This isn’t even you. The woman in the picture looks like a supermodel and is wearing a bikini.”

“She could not come to marry you. Had bellyache. Ate bad borscht. I am fill in to marry.”

“I don’t want to get married.”

Olga moved forward. “Maybe ve kiss.” She made Guppy fish-like motions with her lips.

Bob held up his hands again and stepped back. “Wait, wait, wait. No kissing.”

“Ve have much time to kiss after vedding. And ve have a big vedding. Many bottles of wadka.”

“Oh, boy. Vhy. I mean why. Why don’t you go freshen up a little?”

“Da. Good idea from you. Olga freshens. Vash my feet too. I get my bag first before I vash.” Olga moved to the big box and pulled out an old canvas suitcase. She opened it, grabbed a pair of frilly, plus-size, underpants, and showed them to Bob. “For vedding night. My mamushka wears dese pants on her vedding night.”

“Oh, my.” Bob rubbed his hand through his hair. “Yes, they are wonderful.”

Olga shook her finger at him. “But you only go to second base until ve get married proper.”

“Right, right. Good plan. Save yourself for the wedding night. There are extra towels in the cabinet.”

“After Olga clean up, I cook you a big meal. You have cabbage and moose meat in ice box?”

“Uh, no.”

“I tink of something. Maybe ve go to trading post when I come back.”

“Right, sure. We’ll go to the local trading post and get a couple of pounds of moose meat.” Bob watched Olga pick up the canvas suitcase and walk down the hall. As soon as the bathroom door shut, the doorbell rang. “Now what?” He stepped to the door and opened it.

His next-door neighbor stood on the front porch and walked in without an invite. Wally was in his fifties, wore blue jean shorts pulled up over his belly button, black socks, and dock shoes. A Hawaiian shirt was tucked into the pants. He held a five-dollar bill. “Hey, neighbor.”

“Hi, Wally.”

“You got change for a five, big guy? I ran out and want to eat lunch.”

“I should have it in my talking piggy bank. How’s the vending machine you put in your kitchen working out?”

“Great, when I remember to bring home change. A guy from Victor’s Vending fills it once a week. No more cooking for this guy.”

“Sounds good.”

Wally continued, “It’s like I’m living on the Starship Enterprise in Star Trek, and I go to the food replicator to get something to eat.”

“That’s great, Wally.”

Olga returned, having taken off her dress and wearing only a loose corset on top, baggy, bloomer-style underpants, and her seal-skin boots.

Bob took a step back. “Whoa.”

“Vhere is da lye soap? I do not find in bathroom,” she asked.

Wally eyeballed her. “What do we have here?”

“This is Olga.” Bob moved a finger back and forth between the two. “Olga, Wally. Wally, Olga.”

A huge smile appeared on Wally’s face. “Well hello there, good looking.”

Olga smiled back. “And hello to you, Vally.”

“I’m sorry, but I don’t have any lye soap. There is Irish Spring in the bathroom. Well, it’s British Spring. I bought it at the Dollar Store,” Bob said.

“Olga no like smell. I tink I have soap in handbag.” She went to the box and stepped in.

“How much stuff do you have in that box?” Bob asked.

Wally checked out Olga’s rear end as she bent over.

“Not so much,” she answered from inside the box, making her voice have a distant echo effect.

Wally pulled Bob to the side of the room as Olga rummaged around inside the box. “Who’s the hot number? Is she your main squeeze?”

“Main squeeze? No, no. She’s here by accident.”

“So, you two aren’t dating?”

“Nope. Feel free to put your moves on her.”

Olga came out of the box, holding a sizeable old-fashioned cloth purse.

“You carry lye soap in your purse?” Bob asked.

She pulled out a bar of soap. “Yah. Sometimes bathrooms in Siberia not have soaps for customer.”

Wally sidled over so he was in front of Olga. “Hello there. I own the house next door.”

Olga flashed what she believed to be a sexy smile. “Privyet, Vally.”

Wally turned to Bob. “Privet means hello in Russian.”

“How do you know that?” Bob asked.

“I watched Russian Girls in Miami Beach on the International Channel. It had sub-titles.” Wally turned back to Olga. “Say, Olga. I was wondering if you like to come over and have lunch with me?”

“Maybe so, Vally.”

Wally talked in a boastful manner, “You can order what you want from a vending machine I have in the kitchen.”

“Vending machine in kitchen. You rich Americans.”

“Do you have any coins in that purse?” Wally asked.

“I only have rubles. Vill that vork in machine?”

“I don’t think so.”

“I’ll get you some change,” Bob quickly announced and hurried out of the room.

Olga and Wally stood and looked at each other sheepishly. He bent his head down and shuffled his right foot back and forth. “Soooo.”

Olga said, “Tell me, Vally. Does not vife cook you foods?”

“I’m not married,” Wally answered.

Olga broke out with a huge smile, showing a missing front tooth. “Not married. Vhat a shame. A handsome man like you does not have a vife.”

Wally waved a hand. “Aw, shucks. I’m not that handsome. More like a rugged, he-man-looking guy.”

“Olga tinks you are handsome.”

“And you are quite the looker yourself.”

“Does Vally have job?”

“Sure do. I’m a mailman.”

“Olga like a man in uniform.”

“I have winter and summer uniforms,” Wally answered. A

few seconds later, he added, “When we get to my house, you can choose from little cans of Dinty Moore Beef Stew, soups, and two kinds of sandwiches from the vending machine. It’s Saturday, and the machine gets refilled on Mondays, so it’s a little low today, but it still has all three different flavored potato chips. I get extra of those.”

“Olga vill like that. We eat many potatoes in my village.”

“Do you like Famous Amos cookies?” Wally asked.

“Olga not know what dis is.”

“Then you are in for a treat.”

The two stood silent for a few seconds, and both now looked at the ground. This time, Olga shuffled her feet.

Wally said, “It’s too bad you’re staying with Bob.”

Olga looked at the contract on the table. She picked it up and put it down the front of her dress.

Bob returned with a plastic cup filled with coins and gave them to Wally. “Here’s five dollars in change.”

Wally took the cup. “Thanks, neighbor.”

Olga announced, “I have not good news for you, Bob Gronkle. Olga, by accident, flush marriage contract down the toilet.”

Bob looked at the table where the contract had been. “But it was just…” Seeing Wally and Olga eyeing each other, he answered, “Oh, sure. I can see how that might happen. Well, I guess we can’t be married.”

“Okay, I go,” said Olga quickly. “I get my bag and go to see Vally’s food machine.”

Olga hurried out of the room, and Wally and Bob stood without saying anything.

Wally nodded his head. “Yep, yep, yep.” He picked up a lamp and looked at it. “Nice lamp.”

“Got it at Goldies department store. Five-ninety-nine,” Bob answered, happy to break the uncomfortable silence.

“Goldies has good lamps.”

“Good malts, too, at their diner,” Bob said.

Wally nodded his head. “Yes-sir-ee, good malts.”

The two again stood quietly. Wally looked at the television. “You going to watch the game tonight?”

“Yep. Big game. Packers and Bears.”

“That Jordan Love. He really can throw the pigskin.”

“Yep, he really can throw the pigskin,” Bob repeated.

Olga returned with her suitcase. She had put her dress back on and taken her hair out of the bun. It now hung down to the center of her back. “Let’s go, Vally.”

The two began to walk out. He waved. “See you later, Bob.”

Olga said, “Bye, bye. Duh svee-dah-nee-ye.”

“Yeah, see you. Enjoy your lunch,” Bob answered.

Wally turned his head back and raised his eyebrows up and down like Groucho Marx.

Bob watched them walk out and heard, “Maybe Olga vill yodel for you vhen ve are done eating, Vally.”

“Nothing like a good yodeler,” Wally responded.

“So much for a moose meat and cabbage dinner,” Bob said to himself, walked to the microwave, took the Hungry Harold dinner, and put his finger in the meat. “Cold.” He put the meal back in the microwave and set it for thirty seconds.

The phone rang. “Hello.” He listened, then replied, “Yes, this is Bob Gronkle.”

A pleasant-voiced woman was talking on the other end of the call.

“No, I never signed up for the whoopee, doopie dating service,” he declared. “And the picture you are describing sounds like the one taken at my twenty-first birthday party.” Bob listened to the woman, then objected, “But I don’t want to go to country-western party night and dress like a cowboy.”

He hung up the phone and yelled, “Mother!”