Mr. Dingle the Strong

Copyright 2023 by B. Watson

I'm a big fan of long introductions, but I'm going to keep this one short...largely because I don't want to ruin anything for you, dear reader. Suffice to say, when blackRandI1958 mentioned the Surfing with the Alien event, my mind immediately went to one of my all-time favorite TV shows—and favorite writers.

Whether this is homage or larceny is, of course, in the eye of the beholder.

*

Be they family or stranger, friend or foe, when people talked about Edward Dingle, they always used the same word: Average.

His detractors might add that he was "mediocre" or "basic," while his friends might enhance the description with "reliable" or "classic," but it all boiled down to the same thing: In almost every way, Edward Dingle landed close to the mean, luxuriated in the median, and clustered with the mode.

There was his height: 5'9", spot-on average for an American man. And his build, which was neither skinny nor fat, overly-muscled nor particularly weak. Then there were his clothes: Slacks or shorts for the weekend and suits for the week, in a selection of fabrics that would have felt right at home covering the couch in a dentist's waiting room. As for his children, Edward Jr. was 19 and Jeannie was 20. Both were B students enrolled at the second-best state university.

Mr. Dingle's home was a lovely clapboard, of a sensible size, painted a sensible gray, with a white picket fence and a flower garden that took up far too much of his time. His job was a perfectly satisfying and acceptable position as a senior loan officer at the First National Bank of Centerville. On the way to and from work, he could often be heard whistling one of his favorite songs. The works of Nickelback were on regular repeat, as were several other ditties distilled from the top 40 lists of years gone by.

On average, American families have 2.5 children; in the case of the Dingles, the .5 was taken up by Ruffsy, a slightly spoiled gray mixed breed who looked exactly like the third picture that comes up when one types the word "mutt" into Google. The dog was beloved by Dingle and his wife, Jane.

Ah, Jane Dingle.

She, too, was average: 5'4" inches from the soles of her sensible shoes to the top of her brunette tresses, which benefitted from regular—but not excessive!—visits to the hairdressers. She had a common (if not actually average) 34C chest, and a perfectly normal height-to-weight ratio. And, like her husband, she had a pleasant, if garden-variety, job: She was the number two agent at "World on a String," the best travel agency in town.

If there was anything notable—although, perhaps, still average—about the Dingles, it was the love they shared. Married 22 years, they went out to dinner once a week and cuddled every night on the couch. Mrs. Dingle was not the biggest fan of Nickelback—her tastes tended more to Kelly Clarkson and (occasionally) Weezer—but if pressed, she had to admit that few things sounded better than "If Today Was Your Last Day" when heard from within the safe circle of her husband's arms.

The Dingles showed their love in thoroughly normal ways: For him, it was carnations once a week and roses once a month, hand-delivered to her office. Dinner out at one of their favorite restaurants every Friday and movies and dancing with fair regularity. He was already saving for their 25th anniversary, a trip to—where else?—Hawaii.

As for Mrs. Dingle, she also showed her love in ways that clung closely to the mean. Baked goods delivered to his desk every Monday—usually chocolate chip cookies or brownies, although she'd once ventured into blondies with walnuts, an event that she later chalked up to a mid-life crisis. And she often endeavored to spice up their sex lives, though the spices admittedly tended toward cinnamon and nutmeg. Lingerie from Victoria's Secret—in pink, of course—and tricks that she'd heard about from her girlfriends, like welcoming him home from work clad in nothing but Saran Wrap.

Needless to say, she looked through the peephole before opening the door!

The Dingles' 22-year love affair did not pass without note. In fact, critiquing their unimaginative, run-of-the-mill expressions of affection was a popular pastime at both their offices.

"Chocolate chip cookies again?" groused Ian Peterson, an accountant in Mr. Dingle's section. "She sent those over last week, too."

"No, last week was brownies," countered Joe Staley, a marketing associate who regularly wandered over for the free snacks. "Geez, these cookies taste like my grandma's."

"Yeah, she puts extra vanilla in them," Ian said. "My mom did that, too."

"I think my mom was the last person to bake cookies for me," Joe mused.

"It's been a while," agreed Ian, thinking of that girl in college who used to make red velvet cupcakes.

Across town, a similar discussion was underway at World on a String:

"Red roses? Again?" snarked Christine Hausman, who sat two desks over from Jane Dingle. "Seriously, does he get all his dating ideas from a book?"

"I know!" said her friend Bernice Kay, who sat at the next desk over. "Maybe something like 50 Romantic Gestures That Were Boring When Your Grandparents Were Kids?"

Christine chuckled. "It's so sweet, I need insulin. And what about those carnations every week? Could you get more generic?"

"And don't get me started on Valentine's Day!" groaned Bernice. "A heart-shaped sampler and a pink bear that says 'I wuv you.' And, of course-"

"A dozen red roses!" they chorused together.

A moment later:

"I don't know the last time someone bought me chocolates," Christine mused.

"I think my dad was the last guy to give me a stuffed animal," Bernice added. "And I had to get my tonsils out first."

And so the Dingles lived their thoroughly average life, with their thoroughly normal love and the occasional ribbing from their colleagues. And it might have gone on like that for the rest of their days...if the Venusians hadn't come to town.

*

The morning the visitors arrived began like any other, with Mr. Dingle curled around his wife. When his alarm went off, he silenced it and spent another moment holding Jane, breathing in her scent and luxuriating in her warmth, before releasing himself from the tangle of sheets, wife, and Ruffsy. Afterward came the usual shower, shave, and breakfast, and it was barely a half hour before he was out the door, clad in his favorite suit and ready to face the day.

It was a sunny morning, and Mr. Dingle decided to walk to work. He'd barely gotten to the corner of Oak and Elm, less than a block from his home, when he felt a weird vibration in the general area of his left shoulder. He dismissed it as a muscle spasm and turned down Oak Street.

Mrs. Collins, the widow in the large Tudor at the intersection of Oak and Elm, happened to be in her garden that morning and noticed Mr. Dingle walking by. It was not an unusual occurrence—he walked to work about three times a week, on average—but there was something about him this morning. Something impressive in his stride, a firmness and determination that brought to mind memories of her Herbert. "Silly old woman," she chided herself. "Five years he's been dead, and you still think of him every day."

But the widow Collins wasn't the only one who noticed something different about Mr. Dingle. Mrs. Bondar at number 22 thought it might be a new hat, while Mrs. Maxson at number 34 was sure it must be a new suit. Ms. Wade thought it had something to do with his smile, and Mrs. Cisse at number 46 couldn't put a finger on it, but was sure that she'd never seen a more appealing man.

At the First National Bank, it also did not go unnoticed that Mr. Dingle had changed. Angela Hortik thought it might be a new cologne, while Ann McDermott wondered if he might be working out. Marcia Lenchner noticed that his eyes were a particularly entrancing hazel, while Lauren Soncini found herself spellbound by the delicate hair on his wrist. Julie Ruleman realized he reminded her of her father, the finest man she'd ever known.

Ian Peterson and Joe Staley, it should be noted, detected nothing different, though both mourned the lack of fresh baked goods that day.

Perhaps the most surprising person to notice Mr. Dingle was Ms. Durney. Nicknamed "Burton" by her colleagues, she had entered the world as Albertine, and often thought that her odd nickname was perhaps a poor attempt to pronounce "Bertine." It was, she told herself, further evidence of the failing American educational system.

Regardless, Ms. Durney fashioned herself a social justice warrior, and had long since dismissed Mr. Dingle as yet another patriarchal white man who took his unearned privilege for granted. That morning, however, she found him especially compelling. Her single, thick eyebrow wrinkled as she tried to put her finger on it—was it his ramrod posture, which seemed ready to storm the barricades? His cool, commanding eye that seemed unafraid to face down the guns of the establishment? His scent, a manly musk with indescribably delicious notes of teargas and patchouli?

While she tried to track down her attraction and sort out her feelings, Ms. Durney found herself rearranging the ribbons on her canvas backpack. This activity was normally reserved for Sundays, when she would choose her priorities for the week and line up her ribbons accordingly. But today she noticed that her purple animal abuse ribbon looked especially fetching next to her white child exploitation one. The peach uterine cancer really set off the blue short bowel syndrome. Maybe not every man is a tool of the patriarchy, she mused—a thought quickly followed by What the hell is wrong with me?

For his part, Mr. Dingle was unaware of the heightened emotions and startling sensations that were flowing through his office. His first appointment, at 9:30, was Mr. Futterberg, who was applying for a loan to expand his sporting goods store. He was followed at 10:15 by Mr. Taylor, who was looking for a home equity loan to build a pool. Both were normal, average interviews—Mr. Futterberg was an easy yes, and while Mr. Taylor seemed disturbingly unconcerned that he would probably never recoup his pool investment, his application sailed through as well.

Then, at 10:45, Ms. Doris Cranch strode into the room.

Ms. Cranch, who prided herself on being a scrupulous businesswoman, had all her paperwork in order. As she reached across the desk to hand Mr. Dingle her last three tax returns, however, she found herself leaning over further than usual, giving him a long look down the top of her blouse.

What am I doing? she wondered, appalled at her behavior. He's married!

What is she doing? Mr. Dingle echoed in his own head, slightly embarrassed. I'm married!

Ms. Cranch sat up sharply, her back as straight as she could make it against the firm office chair. She avoided Mr. Dingle's glance and breathed a sigh of relief as he looked down to consider her application. But then, despite her best intentions, she felt her knees opening. Then closing. Then opening again, a little wider. Stop it! she told herself. Unfortunately, her body wasn't listening.

Unaware of the battle raging within his customer, Mr. Dingle focused on her application. Everything was in order—she had well over the required 20 percent down payment, her credit rating was exceptional, and she had a steady, high-paying job—but he still felt uneasy. An uneasiness that was further exacerbated when he noticed her legs swinging open...closed...open...closed.

"Ms. Cranch!" he exclaimed.

"Excuse me, I'm sorry!" she answered as she clasped her knees together. "I've-I've been under the weather this morning." She wiped a bead of sweat from her brow. "Perhaps I should reschedule for next week."

"That might be best," Mr. Dingle agreed. "Your application is in order, and approval should just be a matter of dotting a few I's and crossing a few T's. Just call my secretary and we'll set up an appointment."

"Th-Thank you, Mr. Dingle," Ms. Cranch said, avoiding his eyes as she gathered up her papers and slowly walked to the door. "I-I'll see you next week."

"Outstanding, Ms. Cranch, I'll see you then," he replied as he watched her leave, her hips wiggling.

While Mr. Dingle tried to be gracious, the appointment with Ms. Cranch left him shaken. Thankfully, he didn't have to see any more customers that morning. His day, however, didn't get any less unusual...or disturbing.

At 11, he received a call from Ms. Hortik, who needed some help with her computer. While the bank had a help desk for technology issues, many of the employees found the tech team condescending and avoided calling them unless they were in extremis. In the loan office, Mr. Dingle had gained a reputation as a helpful resource when it came to computer problems, so it was no surprise when Ms. Hortik asked him for aid.

What was surprising, however, was the change in atmosphere when he left his office. The common area felt hotter and more humid than usual, a condition reflected in the flushes that filled the cheeks of every woman and the buttons that had been loosened on every blouse. Shaking his head, Mr. Dingle made his way to Ms. Hortik's office. She, too, was flushed, and she stuttered as she explained her problem to him. Standing beside her chair, he noticed that she also had some open buttons on her blouse...and that she was wearing a black bra. He soon realized that her problem—a shortcut that she'd deleted—was easy to fix. Suspiciously easy to fix.

"All better," he told her, straightening up.

She bit her lip. "Thank you, Mr. Dingle," she breathed. "H-have a good day."

"You too, Ms. Hortik," he replied, beating a hasty retreat.

Back in the safety of his office, Mr. Dingle noticed a wrinkled scrap of fabric on his desk. Picking it up, he saw that it was a red pair of panties, quite damp, and laden with a large amount of lace. Not sure what to do, he put them on the ottoman tucked behind his desk. Perhaps the owner would want to pick them up later. What the hell's going on? he wondered.

*

Meanwhile, some of the women who had seen Mr. Dingle that morning found their imaginations drifting in the direction of banking. Mrs. Cisse realized that she had a pressing question about deducting interest for tax purposes, while Ms. Wade was wondering about buying versus renting. Mrs. Bondar mused that perhaps it was time to replace her old car and the widow Collins wondered if she could use a home improvement loan to build a sex room.

In all cases, they knew who would have the answers they needed: Mr. Dingle!

*

By 1PM, Mr. Dingle had worked on most of the computers in the office. Ms. McDermott needed a reminder on how to cut and paste, while Mrs. Lenchner had trouble remembering her password. Mrs. Soncini was unable to find her web browser, and Ms. Ruleman seemed baffled by the switch on her power strip. Even Ms. Durney, normally among the most tech-adept in the office, seemed to have forgotten how to find files on her desktop. Watching her lick her lightly-furred upper lip, Mr. Dingle felt a shiver run up his spine.

And every office tech call seemed to bring a special delivery to Mr. Dingle's desk. Panties—and later bras—in a glorious rainbow of colors found their way to his blotter, and eventually to the pile he was collecting on his ottoman. His office, he fretted, was starting to resemble a thrift store, with a scent that was reminiscent of a cathouse.

When he first came in, Mr. Dingle's calendar had been free for the afternoon, but he soon found it filled with walk-in appointments. At 1:30, Mrs. Cisse came in for a bit of tax advice. She'd forgotten to bring her returns—much less her receipts—but between her hair-touching, lip-licking, back-arching and assorted office-chair gymnastics, it appeared that she was workshopping an interpretive dance. Mr. Dingle was pretty sure it wasn't inspired by the federal tax code.

He admitted that, without the proper documentation, there wasn't much advice he could give her, and sent her on her way with a suggestion that she schedule a follow-up appointment. Mrs. Cisse was barely out the door, however, before she was replaced with Mrs. Bondar, who wanted to spitball the purchase of a new car, even though she hadn't researched a make or model, hadn't brought her proof of income, and wasn't sure what her credit score was. As he saw her out, he noticed that there was now a crowd of women milling outside his office door—including Mrs. Cisse, who seemed to have camped out in one of the chairs.

The widow Collins had barely launched into her home improvement plan before the voices outside the door started getting louder. "What did you say, Mrs. Collins?" Mr. Dingle asked.

"I was asking if I could deduct the price of a Filipino basket chair if I use it to entertain my banker!" she exclaimed.

"I'm next!" a voice proclaimed from the other side of the door.

"The hell you are!" another responded. "I've been waiting!"

"Screw you! We've ALL been waiting!"

"What is a Filipino basket chair?" Mr. Dingle asked.

"I need help with my computer!" a voice yelled. "My...uh...floppy disk needs a hard drive!"

"Nobody uses floppy disks anymore, you hussy!"

"Well, it's—" Mrs. Collins began, before a hand started pounding against the door.

"Let us in!" one of the voices said. "I need to discuss...fiscal expenditures and...deductions..."

"Yes, d-deductions!" another voice exclaimed.

"Rising interest!"

"Taking a long position!"

"Pump and dump!"

"I can't hear myself think!" Mr. Dingle shouted. "You all need to leave!"

"Hell no, we won't go!" shouted a familiar voice. "Make love, not war!"

They began banging on the door, further diverting Mr. Dingle's attention from the increasingly agitated Mrs. Collins. "Mr. Dingle!" she exclaimed. "I need your advice! Would satin or leather be more appropriate for the furnishings? Which will take longer to depreciate?" Detecting that he was still distracted, she began undoing the buttons on her blouse.

Worried that the door was going to break, Mr. Dingle initially didn't notice Mrs. Collins' desperate bid for his attentions. When she began removing her bra, however, he was simultaneously surprised, impressed, and appalled. "Mrs. Collins...what...stop that!" he sputtered, backing toward the window.

"But Mr. Dingle, I need your advice," she breathed as she advanced on him. "Lace or leather? Lingerie or catsuits? We must consider the overall aesthetic..."

Trying the window, Mr. Dingle found it unlocked, and quickly slid it open. Thanking the powers-that-be for giving him a first-floor office, he jumped out just as his door gave way. Without a further thought, he began running toward home. Behind him, he heard the mob working their way out the window and streaming through the bank's front door.

"He's getting away!"

"Floggers or canes? Cat o'nine tails?"

"Roses EVERY month!"

"We'll take on the man together, Edward! There's room for you in my collective!"

As the Venusians watched him race down Oak Street, a growing mob at his heels, they turned to each other. "I think that's enough," said Skilla.

"Agreed," said Thrilla. "We have more than sufficient data."

There was a barely perceptible vibration in the air, a barely perceptible shock went through Edward Dingle, and a moment later, the women in the crowd began asking themselves why they were chasing that very ordinary looking man in the tattered gray suit. As they turned back toward their homes and offices, one lingered a moment longer, watching him as he ran home.

"Roses every month," whispered Christine Hausman.