A CERTAIN FELLOW
NAMED PHIL 
It’s over. I killed her. I’m not sorry. There was no other way.
Her name was Veronica. I called her Ronnie. Ever hear that old song? How’s it go? I’m gonna buy a paper doll that I can call my own. Well, what if instead of a pitiful little paper doll we’re talking life-sized, with amazingly realistic skin, beautiful blue eyes, the lids a bit lowered—bedroom eyes—the mouth pronouncing Oh. As in, “Oh yes, oh yes, oh yes!”
Ronnie’s turn-offs: mean people, TV commercials, pointy objects. Turn-ons? The Tijuana Brass, long rainy afternoons, a certain fellow named Phil.
I’m that certain fellow. I’m Phil.
But you know what the really great thing about Ronnie was? In addition to being a wonderfully accommodating sexual partner, she was an extremely good listener. I told her everything, my hopes, my dreams:
“Someday, Ronnie, I would like to invent something.”
“Something that would benefit all mankind.”
“Oh, Phil, when you talk like this, it turns . . . me . . . on!”
“Does it, Ronnie?”
“Oh yes!”
And yet, I must confess, in spite of Ronnie’s many wonderful qualities, I often found myself wondering what it might be like to have an actual woman instead of a merely inflated one. But here’s something interesting. Do you know a woman who’s even more inflated than Ronnie ever was? Barbara Larson, in Payroll. And she’s not even all that attractive. Ronnie put her to shame. Nevertheless I went ahead and asked her out and she agreed, so I took her to a movie, afterwards dinner, paid for everything, had what I thought was a very successful evening, at one point even making her laugh a little. Three days later I call her up and ask her out again. She’s very sorry.
I said, “Didn’t you have a nice time, Barbara?”
“I have to go now.”
“I thought we had a very nice time.”
“Byyye.”
Couple days later I call and ask her if she’d like to have a really good time and go bowling. She tells me to please leave her alone. So tonight I call and ask her again if she’d care to go bowling. She tells me if I don’t leave her alone she’s going to inform the police. That was the word she used, “inform.”
I took Ronnie back out from under the bed. She was very glad to see me, if you know what I mean.
Afterwards we got to talking, like we do. I ended up telling her about Barbara. Big mistake. Ronnie was furious. She called me an asshole and did it ever occur to me that she might like to go bowling once in a while?
I told her I was pretty certain that wasn’t actually possible.
“Oh, I’m real enough to have sex but not to go bowling, is that what you’re saying? I’m just something to stick your dick into?”
“And talk to. We talk a lot, Ronnie.”
“No, Phil. Not really.”
“We’re talking now, aren’t we?”
“No, Phil. Not really.”
“How can you say that?”
“I can’t. That’s the point. You’re the only one talking. In fact, this is you talking right now, saying these very words.”
Ronnie would sometimes do that when she was upset, throw it in my face about her not being real. But tonight she got downright cruel. Said she wasn’t surprised this Barbara woman didn’t want to go out with me again.
“Don’t,” I told her. “You’re just upset.”
But she wouldn’t stop. “I know I act fascinated when you talk to me, my mouth open like ‘Oh, how fascinating!’ But do you know the real reason my mouth is open like that?”
“Don’t, Ronnie.”
“Because I’m yawning, that’s why. Because I’m bored, Phil. Because you are so . . . incredibly . . . boring!”
I grabbed her long, scrawny throat and brought my hands together, and now her mouth was open like that because she was trying to breathe.
Then, all of a sudden, I saw myself.
I got up and hurried out to the kitchen and stood there naked in the dark. “My God,” I thought, “what have I become? What . . . have I . . . become?”
I hung my head and wept, just wept.
Afterwards I felt better, as though I’d woken up from a horrible dream. I headed straight back to the bedroom and stood there in the doorway:
“Ronnie, I am so sorry. I am so ashamed. Please forgive me, honey? Can you?”
She didn’t say anything.
“Honey, please? Don’t make me beg.”
Still no response.
I stepped over to the bed.
“Oh dear God,” I whispered.
She had turned old and wrinkled. I checked the sole of her left foot: the cap on the valve was still secure. I must have punctured her somewhere during our struggle. I watched her growing older and older, her mouth now open in horror at what was happening to her.
“Goodbye, my love,” I told her. “Please try to understand: I couldn’t let you talk to me like that. How could I let you get away with talking to me like that?”
She was finally altogether flat, those big lovely breasts having collapsed in on themselves. I rolled her up, took her to the kitchen, wedged her into the garbage can, and closed the lid.
That, I have to say, felt pretty good. Pretty wonderful, in fact.
Now: I’m going to call Barbara Larson one more time. I’m going to give her one more chance. And if she says no again? I’m going to tell her what happened to Ronnie. I’m going to explain to her: that’s what happens to all inflated women I come across, where they all end up.
See if maybe that gets her interested in bowling.