Don't Shoot! I'm Just the Avon Lady! (13 page)

Our landlord owned a beat-up German Shepherd who loved nobody and nothing but eating water from a garden hose turned up high, and me. Buddy hated his owner. Mr. Ewell tossed table scraps over the barbed fence and they landed in the dirt, sometimes on Buddy, sometimes in the murky water dish. He didn’t have a dog house, didn’t even have a collar. His coat looked like a relief map of a war-torn country and a cloud of fleas rose and fell with his breath. But Buddy liked me, and I snuck him cans of off-brand dog food I bought with my earnings from the Dairy Queen and in the dead of night I opened the gate and let him out to run.

We ran like the wind off of Puget Sound, the two of us, while Mr. Ewell slept dead drunk and my boyfriend sat watching hours of sitcom reruns on television. We ran to the place where the tracks met the country road and I’d pretend to be a famous Olympic gymnast on the balance beam, a Mary Lou Reton in stringy hair that smelled of burnt burgers and peanut parfaits. Buddy charged down the middle of the tracks, chasing shadows, chasing nothing, barking, no, howling, like a dog gone mad, gone happy.

All summer long I ate strawberries and raspberries. Some nights I stole beans from my landlord’s garden. The Dairy Queen manager didn’t let me eat the food no one would buy. It rotted in the trash while I starved, while my coworkers starved. He watched the trash like a bloated hawk.

Buddy and I watched the fields along the tracks. We saw blueberries grow plump, but they were protected by a tall wire fence. We saw more raspberries than you’d think could be possible, but weeks of berries left my mouth full of sores and seeds stuck between my teeth. One field was gold, though, and all summer I stopped my Olympic quest and made mental note of the fruit, watched it hatch from flopping yellow flowers, big round green fruit on thick vines. Watermelon. And no fence, no watchlights, no dogs, just the harsh ravine between the rail and the ground between us.

One night in the early fall the melons looked ready. I was weak from malnutrition.
Watermelon would quench my ills
, I thought. My boyfriend wanted no part of a midnight snack raid two miles from home, so Buddy and I ran to the tracks, under cover of the new moon, only fireflies in the berry bushes lighting our path.

Walking train tracks at night in the country can be dangerous. Trains can sneak behind you, take you from this life. You need to feel your feet for the rumble, keep checking for the engine light, because the ravine on each side is steep and rocky and full of bramble bushes and the points of street intersection are few and spaced far apart. Some nights found me and Buddy running, tripping, breathing for our lives, train barreling behind us. And this night, this watermelon operation night, was no exception. A quarter mile from the next street I felt the earth move and ran, ran for my life, Buddy far ahead, already waiting for me at the light.

I stopped in front of the melon field. A sea of hard green fruit fanned out before me, twelve feet below the track. I stepped off the rails and started placing one sideways foot below the other, slowly making my way down the ravine. The bushes stung me with tiny needles and a sharp rock tore through my thin sneaker before I reached the field.

I grabbed the closest big melon and pulled. Oh. Damn. The vine grew thick and I could not break it free. I twisted and tugged the melon, heaving, hyperventilating, stomping on the vine, everything I could. It took twenty minutes to break. The melon weighed twenty pounds and I groaned and gasped as I climbed back through the brambles and rocks to the track. I was two miles from home and every twenty rail ties I stopped to rest. Dawn started to break as I locked Buddy back in his prison and rolled the melon inside the shack. My boyfriend snored in the tiny bedroom, oblivious of the amazing treat we would be eating for days.

I searched the sink for the big knife, and failing to find it, went out to the barn for a small hand ax. I raised it above the melon and let the last of my strength fall into the fruit, breaking it apart in one blow. An unripe pumpkin lay split before me.

With this memory fresh in mind, I wished Comet a life of ripe watermelons, a life brought to fruition. A mile from home I was startled by rustling in the avocado tree next to the sidewalk. I thought it was a squirrel, but a Great Horned Owl turned his head and stared at me for a moment, then spread his feathered tips and rose over the hill, into the sunlight.

Don’t Shoot! I’m Just the Avon Lady!

While I was out, Frankie scratched a cubist design on my laundry room door and pooped on the Mexican blankets. He didn’t seem embarrassed. He gave me a sideways glance and trotted to the back door. He sat and waited, one ear turned east, the other folded down. I turned the knob and he bolted for crabgrass and sunshine.

I grabbed the cordless phone and yellow pages then raided the bathroom for supplies, and took a seat at the kitchen table. The phone book stuck to the table where the boys spilled maple syrup. I opened to the listings for animal shelters, and starting making calls. I dabbed my scraped knees with antiseptic, the phone wedged between my ear and neck. The only bandages in the medicine cabinet were decorated with Japanese anime characters. I stuck six of them on one knee, five on the other, and three on my left shin.
If only Kilt Man could see me now!

No room at the inn, each jaded receptionist said. No room for a small pig with a studded harness. I’ll throw in twenty-five pounds of dog kibble, I pleaded! I’ll pay for him to be neutered! I’ll donate a hundred hours of volunteer time, plus a huge box of Avon’s latest and greatest! Nope. Nope. Nope. I called the local paper and placed a classified ad.

Gorgeous pot-bellied pig FREE to good home! He’s cute! He’s sweet! He’s smart! He’s a natural ham! Free 25 pound bag of pig food and assorted chew toys. Don’t let this awesome pig get away! Free Avon gift with pig.

I placed an ad for my yard sale, too.

13 Hours of Avon Madness! Free beauty consultations and makeovers! Free Avon samples! Incredible sale on products! Petting zoo for the kids! Come one, come all! Saturday, 7 am – 8 pm.

I figured I could corral Frankie in the ancient playpen stored in my garage and let any rug rats scratch him on the head and feed him dog treats. The thought of biscuits made me hungry. I rummaged around the fridge and found a piece of old cheddar. I cut off the moldy edge and nibbled while I prepared for the train station swap. I re-counted the hand creams in Lady Mystery’s bags. Fifty-two. Yup. I tossed in a handful of samples – miniature lipsticks in vibrant reds, two tiny bottles of bubble bath, a vial of amber fragrance. I added five brochures and a square magnet with my name and number and a hand-drawn dove.

I applied fresh rose lipstick and tried to fluff my hair, but it wouldn’t cooperate. One side of my bangs stuck out sideways no matter how much I tried to smooth them into place. It took me twenty minutes to shove Frankie back in the laundry room. I didn’t notice the greasy snout-print he left on my kilt until I bent over to adjust a flapping bandage just before I jumped into the van.
Ah, who cares
, I thought. I revved the engine.

Ring!

“Hey, you still meeting me at the train station in fifteen minutes?” I flipped open my cell phone to answer Shanna’s call.

“Sorry, Birdie, but Joel wants to wants to go to the speedway.” Shanna giggled. She took a long drag on a cigarette and I almost smelled the smoke over the phone.

“It’s ok, Shanna. Geeze, if I ever get a boyfriend, I’ll watch NASCAR, too.” I rolled my eyes and vowed to never get involved with mullet-headed metal rockers. Car races? Since when did Shanna go to stuff like that? I almost hung up the phone, but my best friend yelled.

“Birdie! Birdie! I almost forgot! Remember the Mercedes? I saw it drive past your street this afternoon! I couldn’t see what celebrity was inside, but it was the same car, I swear!” Shanna took another drag. “Oops, Joel’s calling me, gotta go!”

The Mercedes? Crap. I’d spent my early afternoon camping out on the side street. I live near the ocean on a clay rusty mesa between the celebrity meccas of Los Angeles and La Jolla. I have my brushes with fame, sure. I once saw a famous blonde actress drinking skinny latte at a chic beach-side cafe. She wore ratty gray sweatpants and a tight aqua t-shirt. I stooped, pretended to adjust my flip-flops, wanted to be sure I was right. She knew what I was doing. She smiled, gave me a curt wave. She told me she liked the Plumeria flower in my hair. But that’s Del Mar, man, a north-coast suburb of San Diego full of starfish and stars.

My town lies further north, a quiet community of retirement homes and fading family beach resorts. No actresses park it at the local coffee shop, grab a sweet at the Chinese Donut and sun their bellies on our beach. Not until six months ago, anyway, when I noticed something odd. On a late afternoon as I peddled my Avon door-to-door, a sleek Mercedes passed me, drove up Hillside Street and turned into a subdivision overlooking the lagoon. I wouldn’t have thought twice about it, but the two people sitting in the back looked familiar. They wore large dark glasses, chatted with each other, ignored the middle-aged driver. Celebrities. A married couple. A pair so famous, so beautiful and blonde-highlighted and hip that I dropped my backpack to the cement in surprise and turned to watch the car hang a right turn.
No way
, I thought.
No way. Can’t be. Not in this crappy town.

A couple of weeks later it happened again. The same Mercedes, the same direction, time of day, slightly tinted windows, happy couple - but wait! It wasn’t the same married pair. It was another celebrity duo, two hot young men known for their close friendship. The car turned right. What the heck?

I described the car and driver and changing famous passengers to my Turkish friend, Ulak.

“So, what do you think is going on? Think it’s some kind of kinky celebrity sex parties?” I pointed a pretzel at Ulak, jabbed it to make my point, leaned back and waited his response.

“Birdie. You are seeing things. I don’t think those kinds of people visit your neighborhood.”

Ulak sipped his beer. He had a point. What would The Beautiful People do in my part of town, on a street full of identical oh-so-normal stucco homes?

“Well, maybe they’re playing poker. You’ve heard about those secret high-stakes gambling homes, haven’t you?” I puckered my brows, made a mental list of activities the rich might like. Sex. Poker. Well, it was a short list. “I think it’s poker. It has to be.”

“Birdie. Next week you’ll be seeing Elvis in that Mercedes.” Ulak laughed. He crunched a pretzel, chewed it thoroughly, swallowed before speaking once more. “I will bet you one hundred dollars there are no celebrities in Mercedes sneaking around your neighborhood.”

I couldn’t wait to tell Ulak the Mercedes had made another appearance.
Damn
. If Shanna didn’t have her eyes and arms all over Joel she might have seen who was in the car.
Double damn
. I parked the van under the cedar and gathered the delivery bags in my arms.

I waited on the bench. The three white tote bags filled with creams and samples and the fanciest Thank You card I could find sat next to me. I watched my nemesis Ms. Railway Clerk change money and dispense small square tickets. She wore the same mustard-stained shirt, and her right hand was stained with black ink. I wondered if she alternated weeks with the young man, if she attended her church regularly, if she had a husband or a lover at home, if her work satisfied her, where her Watchtowers went. The train whistle blew, and I turned around, watching for Lady Mystery to disembark.

As the passengers clanged down the uneven steps, I saw two police cars out of my peripheral vision. They parked next to the fountain, and a uniformed officer stepped out of each vehicle, hands ready by hips, So Cal vice, but the station seemed too quiet for police action. And then I saw her, my strange customer, in low slung jeans ripped at the knees and a v-neck t-shirt displaying bronzed cleavage and six gold chains. She wore the same little girl pigtails and barely any makeup, and she strode toward me with deliberation and speed. Her black leather boots tapped on the brick walk, my personal Avon High Noon.

“Here you go, no change, ok? I appreciate this, you’re great.” She grabbed the bags and ran for the train, leaving me counting two-hundred fifty dollars in tens and twenties, and I stood there, Avon clutch shoved under my armpit, organizing bills to fit my wallet, the train pulling from the station when the loud paternal voice of the police behind me barked like bullets.

“Ma’am! Drop the purse! Drop the money! Put your hands up in the air and turn around!”

What could I do? I extended my arms in the air, my clutch fell to the ground, and the bills floated to the bricks under my feet. As I turned, I saw Ms. Railway Clerk leaning out of her window, giving me an evil grin. One policeman stood two meters in front of me, arms on hips, one hand near his gun, head slightly cocked to one side, and I heard the crackle and pop of his walkie talkie.

“Ma’am, please step away from your purse and toward my car. Let’s go!” His bald head shone in the sunlight, and I noticed a part of a blue tattoo on his wrist below the shirt cuff. I moved sideways, hands still raised, scared for my life, scared out of my mind, and I worried over who would make my kids dinner and tuck them in bed that evening.

“Please, sir, I’m just an Avon Lady, I didn’t do anything, I just sold some hand cream to a girl. I don’t even know her name. Please, sir, can I put my hands down, please?” I pleaded with him. My shoulders burned and I started feeling dizzy. “Please, sir, I think I’m gonna barf. Please.”