Spring had finally arrived in Greenbelt. The grass had turned that absurdly bright color of green approaching neon. The lambs were gamboling in their overgrazed fields near the edge of town and the sun had warmed Candy’s backyard concrete slab to a toasty temperature. She was using it to dry her bath towels at the moment, giving her house the look of a not very good garage sale -- the kind that causes people to drive by slowly instead of stopping to inquire about the prices.
But things were looking up. Yesterday she had gotten the cast off her arm, which still looked white and pruny, a bit like old gym socks that you find down at the bottom of your backpack when getting ready for a new trip. Snuffy had been found by old Einar Flikkema, hiding out under Einar’s barn. Einar, being a soft touch, had been feeding him Vienna sausages all winter, so Candy’s mom had trouble getting Snuffy readjusted to his “healthier” diet of cheap dry cat food. It was fortunate for Candy that Snuffy was restored. She was certain that caring for the cat was the one daily activity that kept her mother from caring for Candy full time.
Candy sat out in the lawn chair on the slab, trying to tan some color back into her arm. It was time for her to get her act together. To get her whole life together for that matter. She would start by not calling Buck and wheedling a ride to the post office to pick up the new batch of letters. She had a hold put on her mail, so that it accumulated at the post office. She liked to pick the mail up in batches and then work furiously on it, rather than having it trickle in a few letters at a time.
Her bills and personal correspondence also accumulated at the post office along with the fan letters she answered for Annie, but usually that was just as well. She didn’t like to face up to her bills except periodically and rarely ever did she get a personal letter. People either called or e-mailed these days. She would just make herself get up, in spite of the fact that the broken strips of webbing in the chaise longe had allowed her butt to sink in somewhat too deeply. A few minutes later, Candy grabbed her trusty old backpack with the Dead Kennedy’s button on the strap and let the screen door bang behind her.
Walking the 15 blocks to the post office was a pleasant diversion. She got to the yellow-painted cinder block building that housed the post office. As usual, the postmistress (who looked a great deal like Aunt Bea from Mayberry, only not quite so likely to hand you a slice of warm apple pie as to leave you a nasty notice about keeping your porch and pathway shoveled) asked her if she didn’t want to resume delivery to her house.
“No, thank you anyway. I am not sure that I am able to care for my mailbox properly. I will just continue to pick up my mail.” Candy gave her best cheerleading smile.
“Okay then, if you’re sure that’s what you want,” said Aunt Postoffice in that I-don’t-think-you-know-what-is-best-for-you voice.
Candy rather liked the irritation it seemed to cause them at the post office after all of the little pink postcards delivered to her mailbox stating the exact distance that snow must be cleared to either side of the box. She thought she would always pick up her mail and never resume service. Perhaps even years after her death mail would be held at the post office for her. Maybe Janie would make a pact with her and agree to write her post mortem letters.
The postmistress went back into the secret recesses of the post office for what seemed long enough to have a Danish and two cups of coffee. She finally returned with several rubber-banded piles of letters, catalogs, and brightly colored junk mail.
“Thanks so much,” Candy brimmed with sweetness.
“You’re welcome,” replied postal comrade Bea efficiently.
Candy stuffed the pile into her backpack until it was almost overflowing and headed out the door. She liked to pretend that this was all of her fan mail, not just her job. She daydreamed about what it would be like to get so many letters from adoring fans. “Dear Candy, I just adored you in the western, Sagebrush Saga, with Brad Pitt. How do you stay so slim? And where did you learn to kickbox like that?”
But the reality of it was that plenty of the letters Anne got were plain weird. On the way home she would stop by Sunny J’s for a latte and perhaps even a chocolate dipped macaroon. She was sure the macaroons were just the same ones she could buy herself at Safeway, but they were somehow sinfully delicious, if rather stale, when purchased with a latte from Sunny’s. She got to the house after spilling the latte on her hand and burning herself only twice: once with the original inattentive tip of the cup and the second time more severely as she spasmed from the first spill. As she walked up to the house there were her mother and Buck chatting away companionably in the driveway.
“Hi honey!” they said in tandem as she walked up.
“Wow! It looks like a party!” Candy replied, thinking sadly to herself that only in Greenbelt would she consider the gathering of her mom and her sheepish courtier cause for celebration. She really didn’t have any friends in Greenbelt, aside from Sharon, who colored her hair at Greenbelt Beauty, and her Grade School friend, Montana, who occasionally dropped in and told Candy all kinds of weird stuff about her boyfriend and his drug problem.
Occasionally she and Sharon would go out for a burger after Candy got her hair done, and they went to the movies whenever Colin Firth or some other hunk worth paying seven bucks to see played at the Dianne Theater. But the truth was, Candy felt she was wasting away in Greenbelt. Nobody appreciated her as an artist. They were all just living from day to day, planting petunias in coffee cans, and drinking gallons of weak coffee at Patsy’s lunch counter. They thought she was one of them, but really, she was not. Candy knew that she was destined for some kind of great fame, and that whatever it was, it was not going to happen in Greenbelt.
She had spent the winter recovering from her failed relationship with Haines and answering Anne’s fan mail. She had spent the spring recovering from her crushed hand and eating macaroons. But now that summer breezes were rustling the leaves in the tall cottonwoods along Fourth Street, she felt, stronger than ever, that she needed to get away from the monotony of Greenbelt. She wanted to go back to California, set herself up in an apartment, audition for jobs, get an incredible part, meet a wonderful guy, become rich and famous. How hard could it be?
The only trouble was, she barely had the cash to keep herself in macaroons, let alone fly down to LA and get resettled. As much as she felt demeaned by answering Anne’s mail for her, she could not even consider the idea of going back and cocktailing in another sports bar. She would just have to wait until she had enough money to get to LA and take a few months off to really concentrate on auditioning. She had done the waitress thing, and it always ended up that she was so busy trying to make ends meet that she never had time to feel like an actress.
“We were at a garage sale over on 6th, and I saw a pair of jeans I thought might fit you,” Said Candy’s Mom. This hurt, as Candy had gained 15 pounds languishing on the couch and reading westerns in the six weeks it had taken her hand to heal.
“Thanks, but I really have to get to work.” Candy avoided the topic.
“We thought you might want to go to lunch,” Buck added.
“I really can’t. You guys go on. This mail has piled up for weeks, and I cannot put it off another minute.” The reality of Candy’s rent was upon her, and that very morning the thought had hit her that if she didn’t come up with $500 before next week, her next resort would be to move in with her Mom, or worse yet, with Buck. That had been enough to eject her from the couch and marching toward the post office with renewed vigor.
Buck and Mrs. White bid her farewell, and don’t work too hard, and Candy set about clearing several weeks worth of cereal bowls and coffee cups from her workspace. She was feeling glum after the garage sale jeans comment, and as much as the deadline for making some dough hung over her head, the necessity of actually doing the work was more dreadful than ever. Suddenly Candy was filled with an inspiration to do her laundry, to go for a bike ride, to sew a quilt, anything, anything but sit in front of that damned laptop.
Next, she began thinking of ways to make the experience less unpleasant.
“I could listen to a book on tape.” She thought, but she had already listened to all the rentals at Pump and Pack except Rush Limbaugh’s autobiography.
“Some macaroons would be nice,” she thought, but then she remembered the jeans, and shook her head to herself, no. No.
“If only I had some fresh air. I know, I will download all my e-mails onto the laptop, and then I’ll ride up to Luke’s Pond and dangle my toes off the dock while I read all the letters. I can compose the replies after I’ve read them all. Then I’ll reply to all the e-mails. I can send them later.”
In a matter of moments she had the mail and the computer in a grocery sack, and a jug of black cherry Kool-Aid and some grapes and Doritos in another sack. She draped them over the handlebars of her bike and teetered her way out of town.
Meadowlarks and red winged blackbirds were singing all around the edges of the pond. Candy found a nice shady spot, free of fresh cow pies, and laid out her work in front of her like a picnic.
She would read the letters first, sort of pick through them to get inspiration. Then maybe after a swim she would really get started. It was hard to find a comfortable position to read in. There were a lot of ants and twigs hiding in the soft grass. But it was nice here, just her and a small group of Black Angus cows tearing up clumps of the fresh spring grass and munching them audibly nearby.
Candy took the rubber band off the first bundle of letters and noticed one that was rather large and legal looking. Her first instinct was that it was the reply from the publisher’s clearinghouse sweepstakes that she had entered, but she was afraid that they don’t contact you by mail if you actually win. The return address looked like some sort of legal office.
Uh oh, Candy had an unpleasant feeling of foreboding. What would somebody want to sue her for? But wait, good things could come from law offices too. Maybe she was the heir to a fortune. She hadn’t seen her dad since she was four. According to her mom, he had left Idaho to work for Oscar Meyer in the sixties, and they had lost touch. Maybe he had patented one of those new hotdogs with the cheese in the middle, and then died, and she was his soul heir.
Thursday, February 21, 2008
Chapter 5
Buck turned the radio to NPR and listened to a discussion about depression in women as he pulled through the intersection by the Taco Time. He was heading out of town with a pet-port cat carrier that he had picked up at the hardware store while on Candy’s errand. He didn’t know why he felt the urge to do everything that Candy said. Even in 9th grade science class when they first met, she had been lazy and domineering. She would drag her ass into Mr. Belwood’s biology class at nine in the morning with toothpaste on the front of her dress and her hair in whatever style the pillow had dictated. She never bothered to tie her shoes, and yet she looked pretty, sitting up as straight as a princess and smiling like a fool, while Mr. Bellwood drawled on about photosynthesis.
“SO, how are we doing?” she would ask Buck each morning, as if checking on the progress of a lower level employee at her multinational corporation. Then, she would casually flip through his notes and smile approvingly. Buck, at that time, had thick, black glasses and wore a Beatles haircut modified with white sidewalls, as was the trend in Greenbelt. He would let her copy his lab work for no better reason than he didn’t know how to stop her. Candy was like a force of nature. You didn’t question why the hail killed your tomatoes every year, you just replanted, and hoped for the best. Same thing with Candy. She railroaded him with no apparent concern for his humanity, no interest in his thoughts or feelings. But he just couldn’t imagine that she could be that shallow and self-serving forever. Eventually she would realize that she was crazy about him. He just had to be patient.
That had been years ago, and they hadn’t really been in touch while he was away at college. The last time he’d seen her she was working at the lunch counter on Main Street, serving coffee to the old timers. When he returned, he’d heard that she was away in Hollywood, being an actress. Despite his better judgment, he took to watching St. John’s Arms every day, hoping he’d catch a glimpse of her. He had never managed to catch her episodes, but he watched religiously behind the counter at the feed store until he got caught up in the plot.
He knew his fascination with Candy wasn’t healthy. He could have chosen any number of nice girls who could cook and didn’t go outside in their socks, but they all seemed so boring in comparison. And what if he did get married, and then finally Candy saw the light and fell madly in love with him, but he would be stuck in another relationship? He tried not to think about it much. He just figured if he went along and didn’t worry about it, things would eventually work out for the best.
The day that Candy appeared in the feed store to buy cat food for the feral cat that lived in her mom’s granary, Buck had felt his stomach jump. He had heard that she was back in town and living in the old Campbell house on Fourth Street, but he had played it cool, waiting for her to come to him. Now that he saw her, wearing the same untied pointy-toed tennis shoes from high school, he nearly wept with delight. None-the-less, he didn’t want to scare her off. He simply said, “That’ll be 27.50, Nice to see you, Candy.” At that, he was afraid he’d said too much.
It was so much simpler to do something than to say it. He would make himself so indispensable to Candy that she would walk into the feed store one day, and say, “You know, Buck, I can’t live without you. Let's make mad passionate love right here between the sesame trail mix and the calf halters.”
The cat search was the first in a series of bold unbidden favors that Buck planned to do for Candy. It was time, he had decided, to do some leveraging. And if that meant ingratiating himself with Mrs. White, then so be it.
His station wagon was running a bit rough and he was embarrassed to take it to the garage. Every time he had to have car repairs he made excuses. “I’d do this engine rebuild myself, but the boss has me so busy at the feed store, I just don’t have time.” He certainly wasn’t about to go in some afternoon and tell Mike Woods, the mechanic at Grand Street Exxon, that his car was making some “eeech, eeeech” noises when he turned left and going “brrrrrrrrrrrrrrr” right after he turned the key off. They’d be onto him for sure.
Buck’s terrible secret was that he didn’t know the first thing about auto mechanics, or physics, for that matter. When he had received a full ride scholarship to a big college back east, everyone, including his Dad, believed Buck’s story that it was due to a perfect mathematics score on his SAT. He packed up his stuff and disappeared for six years, occasionally surfacing for summer jobs at the Idaho Barley Inspection Bureau or Blue Ribbon Feeds.
When he graduated, his family didn’t have the cash to attend the commencement, but his Aunt Tracy had sent him a card with $20 in it, and his Dad said he could have the station wagon when he got back. Nobody back in Greenbelt had been specific in asking him what his degrees were in, and he bore his BA in Literature with all the pride of a deforming sexually transmitted disease. As long as he could make a living at the feed store nobody would ever have to know that he had a Masters in Cultural History.
Something had just come over him when he got the letter from the office of admissions. After all those years in Greenbelt, bucking bales and trying to fit in with his sunburned friends, he suddenly had the inspiration that there was no way his parents would find out what he got his degree in. He had spent his whole life hiding the secret that he had no interest in engineering or physics or crops or livestock forage. He just didn’t have it in him to explain this turn of events to his family. The truth was, he had received a music scholarship for performance recorder. His music teacher had taken the liberty of sending off a demo tape of some compositions that Buck had performed, and he had been invited to study with the music department at The Berklee College of Music in Boston.
The rest was a blur of Renaissance Festivals and wearing strangely bulbous velvet pants over tights, and sitting in circles with pale, auburn-haired young ladies all over the East coast. The only trouble was that he didn’t really like any of the other people dressed in tights, and he simply had nothing to talk about with the scrawny women who he accompanied on 15th century favorites like “Willow Willow.” He loved music, but the people he played with were either ridiculously pompous or mind-bogglingly boring -- or both.
He had actually dated one of the women in the ensemble for awhile, but between her hobbies of genealogy and aromatherapy, she kept him knee deep in lavender and dead relations. Sex with her was like trying to get it on with one of those conversation deprived old ladies from the Greenbelt rest home. (Not that he knew exactly what THAT was like.) At every pause in the action she would start rambling, “The way you just stroked my thigh reminds me of a story about my great, great, great, great, great third cousin, Katherine Rowans. I just read it on the Internet the other day. Apparently, she and the Twelfth Duke of Winchester…Well, you know he fancied himself as quite a ladie's man… According to ‘Dukes and Dukedoms’ by Errol Fince-Wevvins…”
So after he received his Master’s degree he did what any self-respecting recorder virtuoso and cultural history expert would do. He called up Frank Peters at Blue Ribbon and asked if he could have his job back. Aside from car trouble and the occasional smart ass who wanted to talk about aether theories, his secret was safe. The only thing that he thought might blow his cover was that he had forgotten how to dress like a Greenbelt guy while he was away. He tried to fit in by buying western wear at the X Bar Q Wholesale, but he was pretty sure it looked fishy on him. He had caught Candy staring at his neck scarf like it was some kind of poisonous snake one time, but now that he had invested in his Greenbelt wardrobe, he felt kind of funny about making a sudden change. He didn’t want anybody to get suspicious.
The spring snows had pocked the gravel road to Mrs. White’s house with deep puddles. As he swerved to miss the biggest pot holes, Buck’s thoughts returned to Candy. She had been acting pretty weird lately, even for her. He wondered if she was using drugs or in some kind of trouble with the law. While he had been skipping around in maroon tights, she might have been up to anything in LA. He had rented Pulp Fiction at the Pump and Pack just the other night, and he couldn’t get over that scene where they inject Uma Thurman with adrenaline.
“Crap,” He thought, as he pulled over to the side of the road and opened the can of tuna.
His plan for cat catching involved riding around to likely patches of brush in the vicinity where Candy had hit the cow and stopping to waft his hand over the tuna can sending the irresistible odor of tuna drifting on the breeze to poor Snuffy. Buck expected to hear his pitiful meow at any moment locating him so that he could be coaxed into the car. He had pulled off where a dirt road lead off into a fallow field. There were weeds and some of last years grain along the unharvestable margin of the field. Buck squatted near this waving his hand over the tuna can calling, “Here kitty, kitty, kitty” in his tried and true kitty calling voice.
“Here kitty, kitty, kitty.” He heard a rustling along the ditch by the edge of the field. It looked like things were going great. He congratulated himself on finding Snuffy so quickly. “Here Snuffy, you poor little kitty-witty.” Buck parted the grass and fell backwards, spilling the watery tuna down the front of his pants, as the huge male raccoon hissed and lurched away.
“Jesus!” Buck bellowed.
“SO, how are we doing?” she would ask Buck each morning, as if checking on the progress of a lower level employee at her multinational corporation. Then, she would casually flip through his notes and smile approvingly. Buck, at that time, had thick, black glasses and wore a Beatles haircut modified with white sidewalls, as was the trend in Greenbelt. He would let her copy his lab work for no better reason than he didn’t know how to stop her. Candy was like a force of nature. You didn’t question why the hail killed your tomatoes every year, you just replanted, and hoped for the best. Same thing with Candy. She railroaded him with no apparent concern for his humanity, no interest in his thoughts or feelings. But he just couldn’t imagine that she could be that shallow and self-serving forever. Eventually she would realize that she was crazy about him. He just had to be patient.
That had been years ago, and they hadn’t really been in touch while he was away at college. The last time he’d seen her she was working at the lunch counter on Main Street, serving coffee to the old timers. When he returned, he’d heard that she was away in Hollywood, being an actress. Despite his better judgment, he took to watching St. John’s Arms every day, hoping he’d catch a glimpse of her. He had never managed to catch her episodes, but he watched religiously behind the counter at the feed store until he got caught up in the plot.
He knew his fascination with Candy wasn’t healthy. He could have chosen any number of nice girls who could cook and didn’t go outside in their socks, but they all seemed so boring in comparison. And what if he did get married, and then finally Candy saw the light and fell madly in love with him, but he would be stuck in another relationship? He tried not to think about it much. He just figured if he went along and didn’t worry about it, things would eventually work out for the best.
The day that Candy appeared in the feed store to buy cat food for the feral cat that lived in her mom’s granary, Buck had felt his stomach jump. He had heard that she was back in town and living in the old Campbell house on Fourth Street, but he had played it cool, waiting for her to come to him. Now that he saw her, wearing the same untied pointy-toed tennis shoes from high school, he nearly wept with delight. None-the-less, he didn’t want to scare her off. He simply said, “That’ll be 27.50, Nice to see you, Candy.” At that, he was afraid he’d said too much.
It was so much simpler to do something than to say it. He would make himself so indispensable to Candy that she would walk into the feed store one day, and say, “You know, Buck, I can’t live without you. Let's make mad passionate love right here between the sesame trail mix and the calf halters.”
The cat search was the first in a series of bold unbidden favors that Buck planned to do for Candy. It was time, he had decided, to do some leveraging. And if that meant ingratiating himself with Mrs. White, then so be it.
His station wagon was running a bit rough and he was embarrassed to take it to the garage. Every time he had to have car repairs he made excuses. “I’d do this engine rebuild myself, but the boss has me so busy at the feed store, I just don’t have time.” He certainly wasn’t about to go in some afternoon and tell Mike Woods, the mechanic at Grand Street Exxon, that his car was making some “eeech, eeeech” noises when he turned left and going “brrrrrrrrrrrrrrr” right after he turned the key off. They’d be onto him for sure.
Buck’s terrible secret was that he didn’t know the first thing about auto mechanics, or physics, for that matter. When he had received a full ride scholarship to a big college back east, everyone, including his Dad, believed Buck’s story that it was due to a perfect mathematics score on his SAT. He packed up his stuff and disappeared for six years, occasionally surfacing for summer jobs at the Idaho Barley Inspection Bureau or Blue Ribbon Feeds.
When he graduated, his family didn’t have the cash to attend the commencement, but his Aunt Tracy had sent him a card with $20 in it, and his Dad said he could have the station wagon when he got back. Nobody back in Greenbelt had been specific in asking him what his degrees were in, and he bore his BA in Literature with all the pride of a deforming sexually transmitted disease. As long as he could make a living at the feed store nobody would ever have to know that he had a Masters in Cultural History.
Something had just come over him when he got the letter from the office of admissions. After all those years in Greenbelt, bucking bales and trying to fit in with his sunburned friends, he suddenly had the inspiration that there was no way his parents would find out what he got his degree in. He had spent his whole life hiding the secret that he had no interest in engineering or physics or crops or livestock forage. He just didn’t have it in him to explain this turn of events to his family. The truth was, he had received a music scholarship for performance recorder. His music teacher had taken the liberty of sending off a demo tape of some compositions that Buck had performed, and he had been invited to study with the music department at The Berklee College of Music in Boston.
The rest was a blur of Renaissance Festivals and wearing strangely bulbous velvet pants over tights, and sitting in circles with pale, auburn-haired young ladies all over the East coast. The only trouble was that he didn’t really like any of the other people dressed in tights, and he simply had nothing to talk about with the scrawny women who he accompanied on 15th century favorites like “Willow Willow.” He loved music, but the people he played with were either ridiculously pompous or mind-bogglingly boring -- or both.
He had actually dated one of the women in the ensemble for awhile, but between her hobbies of genealogy and aromatherapy, she kept him knee deep in lavender and dead relations. Sex with her was like trying to get it on with one of those conversation deprived old ladies from the Greenbelt rest home. (Not that he knew exactly what THAT was like.) At every pause in the action she would start rambling, “The way you just stroked my thigh reminds me of a story about my great, great, great, great, great third cousin, Katherine Rowans. I just read it on the Internet the other day. Apparently, she and the Twelfth Duke of Winchester…Well, you know he fancied himself as quite a ladie's man… According to ‘Dukes and Dukedoms’ by Errol Fince-Wevvins…”
So after he received his Master’s degree he did what any self-respecting recorder virtuoso and cultural history expert would do. He called up Frank Peters at Blue Ribbon and asked if he could have his job back. Aside from car trouble and the occasional smart ass who wanted to talk about aether theories, his secret was safe. The only thing that he thought might blow his cover was that he had forgotten how to dress like a Greenbelt guy while he was away. He tried to fit in by buying western wear at the X Bar Q Wholesale, but he was pretty sure it looked fishy on him. He had caught Candy staring at his neck scarf like it was some kind of poisonous snake one time, but now that he had invested in his Greenbelt wardrobe, he felt kind of funny about making a sudden change. He didn’t want anybody to get suspicious.
The spring snows had pocked the gravel road to Mrs. White’s house with deep puddles. As he swerved to miss the biggest pot holes, Buck’s thoughts returned to Candy. She had been acting pretty weird lately, even for her. He wondered if she was using drugs or in some kind of trouble with the law. While he had been skipping around in maroon tights, she might have been up to anything in LA. He had rented Pulp Fiction at the Pump and Pack just the other night, and he couldn’t get over that scene where they inject Uma Thurman with adrenaline.
“Crap,” He thought, as he pulled over to the side of the road and opened the can of tuna.
His plan for cat catching involved riding around to likely patches of brush in the vicinity where Candy had hit the cow and stopping to waft his hand over the tuna can sending the irresistible odor of tuna drifting on the breeze to poor Snuffy. Buck expected to hear his pitiful meow at any moment locating him so that he could be coaxed into the car. He had pulled off where a dirt road lead off into a fallow field. There were weeds and some of last years grain along the unharvestable margin of the field. Buck squatted near this waving his hand over the tuna can calling, “Here kitty, kitty, kitty” in his tried and true kitty calling voice.
“Here kitty, kitty, kitty.” He heard a rustling along the ditch by the edge of the field. It looked like things were going great. He congratulated himself on finding Snuffy so quickly. “Here Snuffy, you poor little kitty-witty.” Buck parted the grass and fell backwards, spilling the watery tuna down the front of his pants, as the huge male raccoon hissed and lurched away.
“Jesus!” Buck bellowed.
Chapter 4
Candy rang Buck. “Buck, could you be a sweetie and bring me over a few things the doctor said I should have?” (Candy noticed an uncomfortable parallel between the way she talked to Buck and the way Anne Johansen talked to her)
“Sure, Candy. I can leave for lunch a little early. What do you need?” Buck still sounded eager to help her even after all the many little favors she’d asked of him over the last few months.
“Well, I need some plastic sheeting, and a lighter, and a couple of long pointy things to use as probes.”
“Good lord, Candy! It sounds like you are either preparing some heroin or doing a home tonsillectomy. What in the world do you need this stuff for?”
“It’s a new pain therapy that the doctor’s told me to try. I’ll tell you more when you get here. It doesn’t hurt.”
“What kind of things am I supposed to get for the probes? Don’t they have this stuff at the hospital? Do you want me to stop by there?”
“No. That is supposed to be the beauty of this treatment. You do it at home with things that you can purchase readily. I thought that you could get some of those skewers that they have for barbeque. Although something like probes from a voltmeter would be even better… But, I suppose they’re too expensive. Just see what you can find at the hardware store. I have to lie down now, I feel groggy.”
“Are you sure you’re okay?”
“I’m fine, just bring the stuff as soon as you can.”
45 minutes later Buck tapped on the door and walked in with two plastic grocery bags draped over his arms.
Shopping was not his forte, and there had been a long line at the hardware store, so Buck was looking a little sober. Not the sort to complain though, he laid out an assortment of accoutrements on the kitchen counter without a word. There were six or so yards of black irrigation dam material, a can of charcoal starter, and a variety of pointy things. Apparently, because of the season, barbeque skewers were hard to come by, and he hadn’t been able to decide between the roasting thermometer, the grapefruit spoons and the corn holders.
“Well? How’d I do, doc?” he asked, hopefully, as Candy stared pensively at the pile of cookware.
“Great, Buck, that should work just fine,” she replied automatically, not wanting to arouse too much curiosity in him. “How much do I owe ya?”
“My pleasure,” said Buck. Apparently he figured buying his best girl dam canvas and metallic pokey things was just the next best thing to chivalry.
“Oh, Buck, really, I can pay you,” she protested, knowing that in actuality she could not pay him unless he accepted major credit cards.
“Tell you what,” Buck did his best to grin a romantic old-fashioned cowboy grin. “You just save a little two-step for me one of these days and we’ll be even."
It pained Candy to see a guy with a masters in physics get all “Yup, Ma’am” on her. It was an affliction with Greenbelt guys to live in a pretend time when girls really needed men and hanky dropping was an option. One thing that really embarrassed her about Buck was the high-heeled cowboy boots and the silk scarf and ten gallon hat he wore out to the bars on weekends. She humored it, partly because at the 5th Ace he was definitely not the only one dressed as Dale Evans. But it kind of made her miss Haines and his incredible body in faded blue jeans and expensive loafers that he wore with no socks. She always wondered how he managed not to get foot fungus. Anyway, she had necked with Buck out the back door behind the dance floor more than once, so she felt she no longer had a right to criticize.
Thinking of the whole series of decisions, or non-decisions that had caused her to get involved with this long suffering doofus of a man made her head ache even worse. It seemed that she had unwittingly enslaved his heart, and now there was nothing she wanted more than to give it back. The more smitten he acted, the more everything he said and did turned her stomach. And yet, she dialed his phone number every time she needed a ride somewhere. She felt a wave of self loathing that did not show any signs of subsiding, while he waited patiently for her next order with a perplexed puppy dog smile on his face.
“Buck, I think I need to lie down again. Do me a favor. I was planning to go to my Mom’s this afternoon. Can you give her a call and tell her I’m sleeping?”
“Sure thing, Punkin,” he replied and pecked her paternally on the forehead. As she heard his truck pull out of the driveway she opened the bottle of pain pills and turned on the TV. There was a Barbie commercial on the cartoon channel.
Suddenly Candy remembered the “Clarinet Commando” Barbie that her friend Jane had made for her birthday. It was on the shelf in her bedroom. She loved her clarinet commando, but she also didn’t really want to try out the hair burning on herself. Barbie was going to have to undergo a treatment. Actually, she had noticed that Barbie appeared a bit stiff sitting there in her cardboard box, maybe she could use something beneficial to the spine.
Candy had a trunk that she used as a coffee table, in which she kept all her really cool sentimental stuff and funny letters from Jane, who was now a studio musician for several TV Game shows. She was pretty sure she had kept her phrenology chart from the museum machine, and that it was somewhere inside the mound of papers in the trunk.
Aha! Under a half smoked cigarette butt that had belonged to Bob Eubanks, (or so Jane’s letter claimed) there was a big squashed furl of paper that looked hopeful. This, unfortunately, was just an inspirational poster she had taken home from an acting retreat she had attended in Belgrade, Montana. It was from a support group game called “paperback writer” where each participant got to write uplifting comments on big sheets of paper taped to the other people’s backs. That way you couldn’t tell who wrote what about you.
She leaned back on the couch to read the comments. “Candy, keep trying! You’ll get there!” “I’ve never met anyone so possessed!” (What was that supposed to mean?) One said “Candy, you are absolutely full of …” but the last word was illegible. Full of shit? Full of genius? Full of what?
She tossed the poster in the trash and continued to dig, more frantically now, but did not find the elusive head map.
“Oh well,” she thought, “It won’t really make much difference to Barbie.” She decided to go outside in case Barbie torched off in a big way. She took an empty spaghetti sauce bottle of water, a box of kitchen matches and several feet of toilet paper.
Candy’s back yard was a former dog run, four feet wide and fenced on all sides with eight-foot chain link. There was one metal lawn chair facing the length of the run, and a sorry looking hibachi filled with snow. It was sunny, and the snow was melting, but it was not comfortable for Candy in her bare feet, and she was in a hurry to get her first experiment over.
She plopped Barbie in a sitting position on the lawn chair and hastily wrapped her head, turban style in toilet paper. In Barbie’s case, it would have to be luck rather than science that decided which patch of hair would alleviate her chronic back pain. Candy managed to find a loose strand peeking under the turban and it was decided that the area of the skull over the left ear corresponded to the spine.
Realizing that Barbie looked all too flammable swaddled up like an enormous Q-tip, Candy decided to douse her in the water to wet the protective toilet paper. Right away, she noted that gauze would have been preferable, as the toilet paper began to droop and disintegrate. None-the-less, it formed a sort of matted papier-mâché that did at least appear somewhat scientific. “Okay!” thought Candy, as she hopped from foot to foot on the cement pad out her back door. “It’s time.”
She nervously lit a kitchen match and held it up to the free strand of hair.
Nothing happened. Leaving Barbie wedged in a snow bank, she ran inside to get the charcoal starter. Struggling for some time with the painfully tight cap, she finally got it open, and by now her frozen arches were sending little electric locomotives of pain up her calves. She gave Barbie a squirt and tossed another match in her direction. This time, a blue flame puffed all around the doll for a moment, and then Candy watched it climb the hair strand like the fuse on Mission Impossible. But instead of actually burning, Barbie’s hair simply melted into a hard, black plastic blob on the side of her head. When it reached the wet toilet paper it sputtered evilly for a moment and sent up a wisp of smoke.
By that time, Candy was watching dismally from inside the kitchen doorway, trying to warm her feet by wrapping them in a crocheted area rug. Barbie wasn’t showing any immediate signs of relief, but on the other hand, her whole head hadn’t gone up, so Candy had to consider the effort a success.
“Sure, Candy. I can leave for lunch a little early. What do you need?” Buck still sounded eager to help her even after all the many little favors she’d asked of him over the last few months.
“Well, I need some plastic sheeting, and a lighter, and a couple of long pointy things to use as probes.”
“Good lord, Candy! It sounds like you are either preparing some heroin or doing a home tonsillectomy. What in the world do you need this stuff for?”
“It’s a new pain therapy that the doctor’s told me to try. I’ll tell you more when you get here. It doesn’t hurt.”
“What kind of things am I supposed to get for the probes? Don’t they have this stuff at the hospital? Do you want me to stop by there?”
“No. That is supposed to be the beauty of this treatment. You do it at home with things that you can purchase readily. I thought that you could get some of those skewers that they have for barbeque. Although something like probes from a voltmeter would be even better… But, I suppose they’re too expensive. Just see what you can find at the hardware store. I have to lie down now, I feel groggy.”
“Are you sure you’re okay?”
“I’m fine, just bring the stuff as soon as you can.”
45 minutes later Buck tapped on the door and walked in with two plastic grocery bags draped over his arms.
Shopping was not his forte, and there had been a long line at the hardware store, so Buck was looking a little sober. Not the sort to complain though, he laid out an assortment of accoutrements on the kitchen counter without a word. There were six or so yards of black irrigation dam material, a can of charcoal starter, and a variety of pointy things. Apparently, because of the season, barbeque skewers were hard to come by, and he hadn’t been able to decide between the roasting thermometer, the grapefruit spoons and the corn holders.
“Well? How’d I do, doc?” he asked, hopefully, as Candy stared pensively at the pile of cookware.
“Great, Buck, that should work just fine,” she replied automatically, not wanting to arouse too much curiosity in him. “How much do I owe ya?”
“My pleasure,” said Buck. Apparently he figured buying his best girl dam canvas and metallic pokey things was just the next best thing to chivalry.
“Oh, Buck, really, I can pay you,” she protested, knowing that in actuality she could not pay him unless he accepted major credit cards.
“Tell you what,” Buck did his best to grin a romantic old-fashioned cowboy grin. “You just save a little two-step for me one of these days and we’ll be even."
It pained Candy to see a guy with a masters in physics get all “Yup, Ma’am” on her. It was an affliction with Greenbelt guys to live in a pretend time when girls really needed men and hanky dropping was an option. One thing that really embarrassed her about Buck was the high-heeled cowboy boots and the silk scarf and ten gallon hat he wore out to the bars on weekends. She humored it, partly because at the 5th Ace he was definitely not the only one dressed as Dale Evans. But it kind of made her miss Haines and his incredible body in faded blue jeans and expensive loafers that he wore with no socks. She always wondered how he managed not to get foot fungus. Anyway, she had necked with Buck out the back door behind the dance floor more than once, so she felt she no longer had a right to criticize.
Thinking of the whole series of decisions, or non-decisions that had caused her to get involved with this long suffering doofus of a man made her head ache even worse. It seemed that she had unwittingly enslaved his heart, and now there was nothing she wanted more than to give it back. The more smitten he acted, the more everything he said and did turned her stomach. And yet, she dialed his phone number every time she needed a ride somewhere. She felt a wave of self loathing that did not show any signs of subsiding, while he waited patiently for her next order with a perplexed puppy dog smile on his face.
“Buck, I think I need to lie down again. Do me a favor. I was planning to go to my Mom’s this afternoon. Can you give her a call and tell her I’m sleeping?”
“Sure thing, Punkin,” he replied and pecked her paternally on the forehead. As she heard his truck pull out of the driveway she opened the bottle of pain pills and turned on the TV. There was a Barbie commercial on the cartoon channel.
Suddenly Candy remembered the “Clarinet Commando” Barbie that her friend Jane had made for her birthday. It was on the shelf in her bedroom. She loved her clarinet commando, but she also didn’t really want to try out the hair burning on herself. Barbie was going to have to undergo a treatment. Actually, she had noticed that Barbie appeared a bit stiff sitting there in her cardboard box, maybe she could use something beneficial to the spine.
Candy had a trunk that she used as a coffee table, in which she kept all her really cool sentimental stuff and funny letters from Jane, who was now a studio musician for several TV Game shows. She was pretty sure she had kept her phrenology chart from the museum machine, and that it was somewhere inside the mound of papers in the trunk.
Aha! Under a half smoked cigarette butt that had belonged to Bob Eubanks, (or so Jane’s letter claimed) there was a big squashed furl of paper that looked hopeful. This, unfortunately, was just an inspirational poster she had taken home from an acting retreat she had attended in Belgrade, Montana. It was from a support group game called “paperback writer” where each participant got to write uplifting comments on big sheets of paper taped to the other people’s backs. That way you couldn’t tell who wrote what about you.
She leaned back on the couch to read the comments. “Candy, keep trying! You’ll get there!” “I’ve never met anyone so possessed!” (What was that supposed to mean?) One said “Candy, you are absolutely full of …” but the last word was illegible. Full of shit? Full of genius? Full of what?
She tossed the poster in the trash and continued to dig, more frantically now, but did not find the elusive head map.
“Oh well,” she thought, “It won’t really make much difference to Barbie.” She decided to go outside in case Barbie torched off in a big way. She took an empty spaghetti sauce bottle of water, a box of kitchen matches and several feet of toilet paper.
Candy’s back yard was a former dog run, four feet wide and fenced on all sides with eight-foot chain link. There was one metal lawn chair facing the length of the run, and a sorry looking hibachi filled with snow. It was sunny, and the snow was melting, but it was not comfortable for Candy in her bare feet, and she was in a hurry to get her first experiment over.
She plopped Barbie in a sitting position on the lawn chair and hastily wrapped her head, turban style in toilet paper. In Barbie’s case, it would have to be luck rather than science that decided which patch of hair would alleviate her chronic back pain. Candy managed to find a loose strand peeking under the turban and it was decided that the area of the skull over the left ear corresponded to the spine.
Realizing that Barbie looked all too flammable swaddled up like an enormous Q-tip, Candy decided to douse her in the water to wet the protective toilet paper. Right away, she noted that gauze would have been preferable, as the toilet paper began to droop and disintegrate. None-the-less, it formed a sort of matted papier-mâché that did at least appear somewhat scientific. “Okay!” thought Candy, as she hopped from foot to foot on the cement pad out her back door. “It’s time.”
She nervously lit a kitchen match and held it up to the free strand of hair.
Nothing happened. Leaving Barbie wedged in a snow bank, she ran inside to get the charcoal starter. Struggling for some time with the painfully tight cap, she finally got it open, and by now her frozen arches were sending little electric locomotives of pain up her calves. She gave Barbie a squirt and tossed another match in her direction. This time, a blue flame puffed all around the doll for a moment, and then Candy watched it climb the hair strand like the fuse on Mission Impossible. But instead of actually burning, Barbie’s hair simply melted into a hard, black plastic blob on the side of her head. When it reached the wet toilet paper it sputtered evilly for a moment and sent up a wisp of smoke.
By that time, Candy was watching dismally from inside the kitchen doorway, trying to warm her feet by wrapping them in a crocheted area rug. Barbie wasn’t showing any immediate signs of relief, but on the other hand, her whole head hadn’t gone up, so Candy had to consider the effort a success.
Chapter 3
The emergency room seemed oddly familiar to Candy. She didn’t realize what it was until she noticed the elderly man with the stomach cramps lean over and attempt to cop a feel from his attending physician. That was exactly what Haines’ character had done to her character on the first of her three ill-fated episodes. The Tricounty Hospital was so much like St. John’s Arms! It even had that incessant ”beep! beep!” sound that seemed to come out of nowhere. She wondered if it came off a CD called "Medical Mix" like it had on the set.
Her crushed hand was killing her, but since her situation was not life threatening, she had to wait in a turquoise plastic U-shaped chair next to a kid covered in spots whose neurotic Mom kept making him stick out his tongue every five seconds. What was more, she had lost the cat, and her Mom had insisted in picking her up from the hospital even though she was really fine. The truck, on the other hand, looked like it was permanently being seen through a fun-house mirror. After wandering around in the ditch for a half-hour calling for Snuffy, she had walked to Myers’s place and called Buck to take her to the hospital.
Buck had to go back to work, and with her hurt hand, they wouldn’t be able to out to the 5th Ace, but they still agreed to meet up and get the car unstuck and do the roast thing. Then her Mom had messed everything up by insisting that she could dig the car out by herself and that she’d bring dinner in to the hospital and take Candy home. "I’ll fix something for Bart, too, and take it by the grain elevator."
Candy winced. For some reason, her mom thought that by putting the courses of a leftover meal all in a plastic bread bag and separating them with graham crackers, she had invented a fancy new kind of vertical TV dinner. Little did she know that those horrid little sacks of slop always went straight into Candy’s garbage can. Which reminded Candy, if her Mom came over unexpectedly, she would be sure to notice that Candy had torn up the bathrobe she had received for Christmas and was using it for dishtowels.
Her hand throbbed. “I could use a hair burning treatment right now,” thought Candy, and smirked at her own joke, regretting that she had nobody to tell all her weird stories to.
Three hours and several painkillers later, Candy was back at her apartment staring dumbly at the bread bag dinner. She had managed to lose her Mom at the doorstep by pretending she was working on a surprise and didn’t want her mom to see it. She realized what an ugly low-down lie this was, and resolved to start knitting something for her Mom as soon as her hand healed. The doctor had told her that if she was lucky the cast could come off in as few as six weeks.
Half in a stupor, Candy got out a steak knife and slit the belly of the hideous bread bag to take a peek inside. She was just about to consider poking a fork into the mess when she noticed a piece of paper lying on the floor. It was her reply to hair burning man. She must have dropped it when she was stuffing envelopes.
Candy absent mindedly read it, recalling the time she had gone to a medical museum in Minneapolis and had the bumps on her head read by a phrenology machine. Different quadrants of the head were supposed to represent different parts of a person’s personality. The theory had been defunct for nearly a hundred years, but it had been fun to believe that the little scroll the machine had printed had accurately profiled her personality. She enjoyed believing that she was born to be a leader of men and that she had a strong compassion lobe. Those little things can give you confidence. Healing is a funny thing, she thought, feeling very philosophical. So much of it is in your head.
“Maybe the itching is all in the lady’s head,” she pondered. “Maybe I’ll just change this letter and give them some hope.” Now she was giggling a little. She flipped up the cover of the laptop and heard the familiar chord as it started. She typed as rapidly as she could with one hand, chuckling to herself every now and then. By the time she had it printed out she was so pleased that she read it over and over, each time being more amazed at how clever she had been. She would tack it up on her refrigerator to amuse herself. But right now she was feeling sleepy, so she flopped onto the couch.
“You were so tired that you didn’t even eat your dinner!” Candy’s mother said sunnily. “I guess I’d better throw it out. You know they say that deadly bacteria can breed in a matter of minutes. So how is your hand, Punkin?”
Candy opened one eye. The good news was that the dinner was no longer a threat. The bad news was that her Mom was dangerously close to the kitchen towels.
“Mom, you know what I’d really love is a latte. How would you feel about grabbing me one at Sunny J’s?”
Candy was horrified at her own deceptiveness. As soon as her mother was out the door she would dash around, hiding any traces of thankless daughterhood, and be back on the couch before the milk was even steamed. (Sunny J’s was just across the street, but it was owned by an old man who found running an espresso machine akin to landing a lunar module.)
“I knew you’d say that! I hope you like almond.” Her mom said, bending down to set a now tepid latte on the table in front of Candy. Apparently she had been here for hours, watching Candy drool on her pillow and messing with her personal stuff.
“I mailed that letter for you too.” Her mom casually thumbed over her shoulder toward the kitchen counter. “You forgot and left one on your printer, so I hustled up an envelope and tossed it in the mail.”
“Thunk!” went Candy’s casted hand against the coffee table as she threw out both her arms like a person who had tipped too far back on a kitchen chair. It hurt. Crunched up in a ball and moaning, the vague memory of her comedic editing job started to come back to her. Full of false hope, her eyes darted to the refrigerator door, but there was no funny hair burning letter there.
“Be careful, honey!” her mom warned, as Candy started banging her head against the table. Her hospital bill was going to be in the thousands, her car was nearly totaled, her hand was broken and hence she would not be able to answer fan mail very efficiently, her Mom had penetrated her citadel, and she had unintentionally sent an innocent man bogus medical advice under the identity of Anne Johansen.
“Fuck this lucky jacket!” she screamed, as she struggled to free her clumsy plastered paw from its sleeve.
Her mom stood in the kitchen dumbfounded. “Well you don’t have to curse, Carmel.”
This truly infuriated Candy. Her mother only called her by her given name when she had been a naughty girl. Not only did she hate the fact that her mom was still trying to mold her character, but she could not stand that her mother refused to admit was her real name really was.
The legal name that Candy’s bills and tax returns came to was Camel White. Not Camille, or Carmelle, but Camel. All of her life she had endured childish jokes about having one or two humps, and yet her mother always pretended that it was a typo on the school roles every year, in every class. Apparently her mom had written the name kind of messily on the forms in the hospital. When the printed birth certificate arrived mom hadn’t noticed the typo, which was forgivable, but not the cover up! Not the ridiculous charade. That was just stupid!
“That was so clever of you to cut up that bathrobe that I sewed for you and make it into dishrags,” her mom broke into her reverie. “Would you like me to hem the edges of them for you? I could just get out your sewing machine and do that right now while you take a little happy-nappy. Now wouldn’t that make your arm feel better? I’ll get you some crushed ice in one of these rags you made from your bathrobe and you can just lay your arm on it and that will help with the pain and the swelling.”
Candy felt like a gopher trapped in its hole while the ammonia was being poured in the other end. She knew that if she couldn't think up a suitable errand quickly, her mom would camp out nursing, cleaning, and redecorating until at least time for Jeopardy.
“Mom, remember when I was little. If I was sick you used to make me a special lunch tray with little cheese sandwiches cut into the shapes of stars. And you’d open a can of black olives. And make homemade chocolate pudding with that skin that forms on the top.”
“Yes, honey. I say most illnesses can be fixed with a little comforting food and some time to relax and watch a few of your favorite TV shows.”
“Well, how would you feel about going home and making me the special lunch and setting up the pillow palace to watch TV from. I really have a craving for that chocolate pudding. You could call me when its done and I could see if Buck will drive me over.”
“Okay, dear. That’s just what we’ll do. It will take me awhile to make the pudding though and then it has to cool quite a while for the scum to form.”
“I’ll be alright here by myself until its ready.”
“Okay, and I will just take these dish rags and hem them up the right way for you. Toodle-oo.”
“Bye, mom. And Thanks.” The pain in Candy’s head was a growing tide that almost matched that of her arm. She felt like her brainpan was being used to store too much wet laundry. Her arm shrieked an off-key song of pain, like a never-ending beginning clarinet solo. She felt a combination of fear and nausea. She knew her mother had not really been pleased with the towels. She fretted over the hair-burning letter. She took two more of the little white pain pills. Perhaps they would soothe her jangled nerves, certainly more so than the impending pudding luncheon. Candy reached over with her good arm and grabbed the laptop. She would see just what she had written. Maybe she could find a remedy to the situation.
Dear Frank:
Caring healers like you are needed to join the medical revolution in patient care and relief through the scientifically proven hair burning treatments. St. John’s Arms is having a special this month only on the home hair burning kit. For the small investment of $50 you can get all of the supplies you need to begin as a healer! (Or $1,500 for the beginning level franchise.) Here’s what you will receive by return post once we’ve received your check:
2 Hair separating probes
Plastic sheeting
Cotton thread
Alcohol burner
Safety matches
Zippo lighter
Detailed map and instructions.
Free tortoise shell comb and brush set
You’ll hear comments like these.
“Hair burning cured my overgrown toenails.”
“I spent over $2,000 on hair burning treatments and boy was it ever worth it.”
Order now to prevent delays!
Sincerely,
Candy White
Director of Product Development
Her crushed hand was killing her, but since her situation was not life threatening, she had to wait in a turquoise plastic U-shaped chair next to a kid covered in spots whose neurotic Mom kept making him stick out his tongue every five seconds. What was more, she had lost the cat, and her Mom had insisted in picking her up from the hospital even though she was really fine. The truck, on the other hand, looked like it was permanently being seen through a fun-house mirror. After wandering around in the ditch for a half-hour calling for Snuffy, she had walked to Myers’s place and called Buck to take her to the hospital.
Buck had to go back to work, and with her hurt hand, they wouldn’t be able to out to the 5th Ace, but they still agreed to meet up and get the car unstuck and do the roast thing. Then her Mom had messed everything up by insisting that she could dig the car out by herself and that she’d bring dinner in to the hospital and take Candy home. "I’ll fix something for Bart, too, and take it by the grain elevator."
Candy winced. For some reason, her mom thought that by putting the courses of a leftover meal all in a plastic bread bag and separating them with graham crackers, she had invented a fancy new kind of vertical TV dinner. Little did she know that those horrid little sacks of slop always went straight into Candy’s garbage can. Which reminded Candy, if her Mom came over unexpectedly, she would be sure to notice that Candy had torn up the bathrobe she had received for Christmas and was using it for dishtowels.
Her hand throbbed. “I could use a hair burning treatment right now,” thought Candy, and smirked at her own joke, regretting that she had nobody to tell all her weird stories to.
Three hours and several painkillers later, Candy was back at her apartment staring dumbly at the bread bag dinner. She had managed to lose her Mom at the doorstep by pretending she was working on a surprise and didn’t want her mom to see it. She realized what an ugly low-down lie this was, and resolved to start knitting something for her Mom as soon as her hand healed. The doctor had told her that if she was lucky the cast could come off in as few as six weeks.
Half in a stupor, Candy got out a steak knife and slit the belly of the hideous bread bag to take a peek inside. She was just about to consider poking a fork into the mess when she noticed a piece of paper lying on the floor. It was her reply to hair burning man. She must have dropped it when she was stuffing envelopes.
Candy absent mindedly read it, recalling the time she had gone to a medical museum in Minneapolis and had the bumps on her head read by a phrenology machine. Different quadrants of the head were supposed to represent different parts of a person’s personality. The theory had been defunct for nearly a hundred years, but it had been fun to believe that the little scroll the machine had printed had accurately profiled her personality. She enjoyed believing that she was born to be a leader of men and that she had a strong compassion lobe. Those little things can give you confidence. Healing is a funny thing, she thought, feeling very philosophical. So much of it is in your head.
“Maybe the itching is all in the lady’s head,” she pondered. “Maybe I’ll just change this letter and give them some hope.” Now she was giggling a little. She flipped up the cover of the laptop and heard the familiar chord as it started. She typed as rapidly as she could with one hand, chuckling to herself every now and then. By the time she had it printed out she was so pleased that she read it over and over, each time being more amazed at how clever she had been. She would tack it up on her refrigerator to amuse herself. But right now she was feeling sleepy, so she flopped onto the couch.
“You were so tired that you didn’t even eat your dinner!” Candy’s mother said sunnily. “I guess I’d better throw it out. You know they say that deadly bacteria can breed in a matter of minutes. So how is your hand, Punkin?”
Candy opened one eye. The good news was that the dinner was no longer a threat. The bad news was that her Mom was dangerously close to the kitchen towels.
“Mom, you know what I’d really love is a latte. How would you feel about grabbing me one at Sunny J’s?”
Candy was horrified at her own deceptiveness. As soon as her mother was out the door she would dash around, hiding any traces of thankless daughterhood, and be back on the couch before the milk was even steamed. (Sunny J’s was just across the street, but it was owned by an old man who found running an espresso machine akin to landing a lunar module.)
“I knew you’d say that! I hope you like almond.” Her mom said, bending down to set a now tepid latte on the table in front of Candy. Apparently she had been here for hours, watching Candy drool on her pillow and messing with her personal stuff.
“I mailed that letter for you too.” Her mom casually thumbed over her shoulder toward the kitchen counter. “You forgot and left one on your printer, so I hustled up an envelope and tossed it in the mail.”
“Thunk!” went Candy’s casted hand against the coffee table as she threw out both her arms like a person who had tipped too far back on a kitchen chair. It hurt. Crunched up in a ball and moaning, the vague memory of her comedic editing job started to come back to her. Full of false hope, her eyes darted to the refrigerator door, but there was no funny hair burning letter there.
“Be careful, honey!” her mom warned, as Candy started banging her head against the table. Her hospital bill was going to be in the thousands, her car was nearly totaled, her hand was broken and hence she would not be able to answer fan mail very efficiently, her Mom had penetrated her citadel, and she had unintentionally sent an innocent man bogus medical advice under the identity of Anne Johansen.
“Fuck this lucky jacket!” she screamed, as she struggled to free her clumsy plastered paw from its sleeve.
Her mom stood in the kitchen dumbfounded. “Well you don’t have to curse, Carmel.”
This truly infuriated Candy. Her mother only called her by her given name when she had been a naughty girl. Not only did she hate the fact that her mom was still trying to mold her character, but she could not stand that her mother refused to admit was her real name really was.
The legal name that Candy’s bills and tax returns came to was Camel White. Not Camille, or Carmelle, but Camel. All of her life she had endured childish jokes about having one or two humps, and yet her mother always pretended that it was a typo on the school roles every year, in every class. Apparently her mom had written the name kind of messily on the forms in the hospital. When the printed birth certificate arrived mom hadn’t noticed the typo, which was forgivable, but not the cover up! Not the ridiculous charade. That was just stupid!
“That was so clever of you to cut up that bathrobe that I sewed for you and make it into dishrags,” her mom broke into her reverie. “Would you like me to hem the edges of them for you? I could just get out your sewing machine and do that right now while you take a little happy-nappy. Now wouldn’t that make your arm feel better? I’ll get you some crushed ice in one of these rags you made from your bathrobe and you can just lay your arm on it and that will help with the pain and the swelling.”
Candy felt like a gopher trapped in its hole while the ammonia was being poured in the other end. She knew that if she couldn't think up a suitable errand quickly, her mom would camp out nursing, cleaning, and redecorating until at least time for Jeopardy.
“Mom, remember when I was little. If I was sick you used to make me a special lunch tray with little cheese sandwiches cut into the shapes of stars. And you’d open a can of black olives. And make homemade chocolate pudding with that skin that forms on the top.”
“Yes, honey. I say most illnesses can be fixed with a little comforting food and some time to relax and watch a few of your favorite TV shows.”
“Well, how would you feel about going home and making me the special lunch and setting up the pillow palace to watch TV from. I really have a craving for that chocolate pudding. You could call me when its done and I could see if Buck will drive me over.”
“Okay, dear. That’s just what we’ll do. It will take me awhile to make the pudding though and then it has to cool quite a while for the scum to form.”
“I’ll be alright here by myself until its ready.”
“Okay, and I will just take these dish rags and hem them up the right way for you. Toodle-oo.”
“Bye, mom. And Thanks.” The pain in Candy’s head was a growing tide that almost matched that of her arm. She felt like her brainpan was being used to store too much wet laundry. Her arm shrieked an off-key song of pain, like a never-ending beginning clarinet solo. She felt a combination of fear and nausea. She knew her mother had not really been pleased with the towels. She fretted over the hair-burning letter. She took two more of the little white pain pills. Perhaps they would soothe her jangled nerves, certainly more so than the impending pudding luncheon. Candy reached over with her good arm and grabbed the laptop. She would see just what she had written. Maybe she could find a remedy to the situation.
Dear Frank:
Caring healers like you are needed to join the medical revolution in patient care and relief through the scientifically proven hair burning treatments. St. John’s Arms is having a special this month only on the home hair burning kit. For the small investment of $50 you can get all of the supplies you need to begin as a healer! (Or $1,500 for the beginning level franchise.) Here’s what you will receive by return post once we’ve received your check:
2 Hair separating probes
Plastic sheeting
Cotton thread
Alcohol burner
Safety matches
Zippo lighter
Detailed map and instructions.
Free tortoise shell comb and brush set
You’ll hear comments like these.
“Hair burning cured my overgrown toenails.”
“I spent over $2,000 on hair burning treatments and boy was it ever worth it.”
Order now to prevent delays!
Sincerely,
Candy White
Director of Product Development
Thursday, February 7, 2008
Chapter 2
The phone rang, and it was Candy’s mother. The voice on the other end had that “I love you, but I am going to get my way, so don’t mess with me” whine that only Idaho mothers know how to do. It seemed that the cat was sick and Mom’s car was stuck in the driveway, and “since you know that nice young man at the feed store, what was his name? I was just thinking that maybe you could come on over and get Snuffy, and I’ll make you dinner.”
“Mom, I have to get this shipment out so I can bill Anne by the end of the week. I don’t want to end up staying up all night,” Candy protested halfheartedly.
She was already visualizing an uncomfortable evening watching Wheel and eating pork chops off TV trays while her Mom told stories about Candy’s early childhood to Buck Anderson. She couldn’t understand why, though her mother could not remember which button turned the TV on, she could remember every brilliant, cute or embarrassing moment of Candy’s life. Not that her mother seemed to have paid attention to any of Candy’s recent accomplishments. Her mom had ignored her ambition to be a jazz clarinetist, a cowboy, a veterinarian, a rabbi, an entomologist, and finally, an actress.
In some ways Candy blamed her Mom’s gooey eulogizing for scaring off Haines in the first place. When Haines had come over for raspberry pie that one night, Candy’s mom had spent at least 45 minutes telling him about Candy’s high school acting career.
“Candy played Hoss when Greenbelt did a musical production of Bonanza. She was the only one who tried out who didn’t have to stuff her Levis with pillows and she already had a ten gallon hat."
"She did a rap version of ‘Don’t fence me in’ for her audition, didn’t you Honey? I remember we were up half the night making shiny bib overalls to look like those baggy pants that one fellow liked to wear. What was his name, Hammertime? I bet you still remember that dance you did, don’t you Honey? You should do it here in the kitchen for Haines...”
On the other hand, Buck Anderson was a Greenbelt guy, so there wasn’t much fear of scaring him off. He drove a flatbed truck and wore size 32 long Wranglers. His idea of culture was swing dancing at the 5th Ace, which was actually a lot more fun than trying to act cool at the stupid parties that Haines had taken her to.
“What are you making?” Candy asked, her thoughts returning to the prospect of dining on something other than Rice Crispies. As long as sauerkraut would not be involved, she was willing to allow hunger to boost her level of feline philanthropy.
“I put a roast in the oven.” Her mom replied, evidence that she had intended to win this little battle of wills from the start.
“Okay, what time is Snuffy’s appointment?” Candy mumbled as she finished typing a letter to a double murderer in North Carolina state prison who wanted to know if Anne wanted to go out sometime after his parole date.
“Three thirty, so you should probably leave around 2:00. Those roads are pretty icy. I heard on the scanner that Marlon Kirchhoff went off the road on his way home from the milk route this morning. Does Bart have sand bags in his truck?”
Dear Mr. Edgely,
Thanks for writing.
It’s people like you that make it all worthwhile!
I appreciate that you must be very lonely, but right now I’m involved.
Snuffy, 3:30 Greenbelt Veterinary Clinic.
“No Mom, I’m sure we’ll both be killed. You know guys like Buck. They get a girl in their truck and they drive like maniacs. He’ll probably stop by the side of the road and ravage me in that snow berm right by your mailbox.”
Ravage me in a snow bank. Okay, see you soon.
The very best to you and yours, and remember,
“St. John’s Arms, bad things happen to people like you—weekdays at 10”
Luck, Love and Laughter,
Annie
Dr. Sylvia Bancroft
(Anne Johansen)
Okay, so it would be form letters for the rest of them, Candy thought, and then the satisfying moment of billing Anne. If I can only save the money this time, she thought.
A few minutes later Candy had the mail merge done for the form letters. She printed the labels for the envelopes, then sorted the piles by zip code. Ratting around in her pile of junk mail and bills, she found a rubber band and a large clip used to seal potato chip bags. She bundled up her lovely little letters, figuring this batch would bring in about 400 dollars. She’d be damned glad to have it. Hopefully Anne would pay promptly.
Candy threw on a quilted flannel jacket that her mom had gotten in a box of stuff at Jim Bagsly's estate auction. She had forced it on Candy with the rationale, “You might need this to keep warm. You never know when it might come in handy. You can leave it in your car just in case.”
Candy had taken a liking to the jacket one day when she had slipped it on and found a twenty-dollar bill in the breast pocket. She now considered it lucky.
She phoned Buck at the feed store. After a bit of haggling, she arranged for him to pick her up for the Snuffy-from-vet-car-unstuck-potroast mission after he got off work. Buck loved her mother’s home cooked meals, so it was not that difficult to get him to agree.
Candy would run her mail to the post office, get Snuffy and drop him at the vet. Then she and Buck could pick him up, do the car thing and have a home cooked meal with mom. Maybe afterwards they could play Scrabble or Boggle or some other word game. Last time they played he protested the use of her word “ormolu” and had lost big-time. Buck did not really like being soundly trounced at word games by Candy and her mom, but he was an awfully good sport.
---
Candy’s ’81 Datsun pickup rattled along the ice-packed dirt road from her mother’s with Snuffy neatly caged in a dilapidated apple box that her mother found in the garage. He was reaching his furry little paws out of the holes in a cute way. Candy tapped her fingers on the side of the box to make him do it again. Yow! The little puffball snagged her with a claw. She sucked on her bleeding scratch and returned her attention to trying to keep the Datsun on the washboards. While she was busily engaged in the simple act of driving and singing along with “Tempted by the Fruit of Another” on the radio, Snuffy quietly wormed his way between the interlocked flaps of the apple box and disappeared behind the passenger seat.
“Hoo! Hoo! Woo-oo-oo!”
Being a sexy backup singer in a Motown group was another of Candy’s frustrated career dreams. The main thing that prevented her from making a go of it (in addition to the handicap of her waspy little voice) was that she suffered from right/left confusion. Ever since she was a small child, she had noticed that all the other kids could find their way from one place to another and tell the difference between right and left by some chromosome level instinct. But Candy, although she was the brightest girl in the class, was reduced to moron status when it came to doing the hokey pokey.
In her Sophomore year, her guidance counselor had encouraged her to try out for the Greenbelt Hornets marching band. Candy beat the odds by turning the opposite direction from the rest of the clarinet section more than 70% of the time. The final debacle, when she actually knocked over the flute section (seven in one blow!) during the class C championship game, cemented Candy’s certainty that she was choreographically challenged.
Nonetheless, one summer she and her friends Nicki Sordahl and Jane Swendsen had worked up some songs by the Shirelles, complete with choreography, backed up by a motley group of boys from 9th grade band. Just before their single gig at the Greenbelt Savings 4th of July Ice Cream Social, Nicki had her front teeth kicked out by her evil 4-H sheep, and they had broken up.
As she maneuvered her truck along the glazed gravel, Candy began to remember the moves that Nicki (the most coordinated of the four) had dreamed up. “Tempted” was over now, so Candy turned off the radio and sang at the top of her lungs,
“Big John, won’t you come on home? When you gonna ma-arry me? Yeah! Yeah! Yeah-ah-ah...”
She had to use her knees to steady the steering wheel, which she managed quite deftly. Was it two shoops to the right and then a spin? Candy couldn’t remember. Besides, she obviously couldn’t spin around while driving. She was just cresting the top of Myer’s point when she remembered the big finale and hit the cow.
“Mom, I have to get this shipment out so I can bill Anne by the end of the week. I don’t want to end up staying up all night,” Candy protested halfheartedly.
She was already visualizing an uncomfortable evening watching Wheel and eating pork chops off TV trays while her Mom told stories about Candy’s early childhood to Buck Anderson. She couldn’t understand why, though her mother could not remember which button turned the TV on, she could remember every brilliant, cute or embarrassing moment of Candy’s life. Not that her mother seemed to have paid attention to any of Candy’s recent accomplishments. Her mom had ignored her ambition to be a jazz clarinetist, a cowboy, a veterinarian, a rabbi, an entomologist, and finally, an actress.
In some ways Candy blamed her Mom’s gooey eulogizing for scaring off Haines in the first place. When Haines had come over for raspberry pie that one night, Candy’s mom had spent at least 45 minutes telling him about Candy’s high school acting career.
“Candy played Hoss when Greenbelt did a musical production of Bonanza. She was the only one who tried out who didn’t have to stuff her Levis with pillows and she already had a ten gallon hat."
"She did a rap version of ‘Don’t fence me in’ for her audition, didn’t you Honey? I remember we were up half the night making shiny bib overalls to look like those baggy pants that one fellow liked to wear. What was his name, Hammertime? I bet you still remember that dance you did, don’t you Honey? You should do it here in the kitchen for Haines...”
On the other hand, Buck Anderson was a Greenbelt guy, so there wasn’t much fear of scaring him off. He drove a flatbed truck and wore size 32 long Wranglers. His idea of culture was swing dancing at the 5th Ace, which was actually a lot more fun than trying to act cool at the stupid parties that Haines had taken her to.
“What are you making?” Candy asked, her thoughts returning to the prospect of dining on something other than Rice Crispies. As long as sauerkraut would not be involved, she was willing to allow hunger to boost her level of feline philanthropy.
“I put a roast in the oven.” Her mom replied, evidence that she had intended to win this little battle of wills from the start.
“Okay, what time is Snuffy’s appointment?” Candy mumbled as she finished typing a letter to a double murderer in North Carolina state prison who wanted to know if Anne wanted to go out sometime after his parole date.
“Three thirty, so you should probably leave around 2:00. Those roads are pretty icy. I heard on the scanner that Marlon Kirchhoff went off the road on his way home from the milk route this morning. Does Bart have sand bags in his truck?”
Dear Mr. Edgely,
Thanks for writing.
It’s people like you that make it all worthwhile!
I appreciate that you must be very lonely, but right now I’m involved.
Snuffy, 3:30 Greenbelt Veterinary Clinic.
“No Mom, I’m sure we’ll both be killed. You know guys like Buck. They get a girl in their truck and they drive like maniacs. He’ll probably stop by the side of the road and ravage me in that snow berm right by your mailbox.”
Ravage me in a snow bank. Okay, see you soon.
The very best to you and yours, and remember,
“St. John’s Arms, bad things happen to people like you—weekdays at 10”
Luck, Love and Laughter,
Annie
Dr. Sylvia Bancroft
(Anne Johansen)
Okay, so it would be form letters for the rest of them, Candy thought, and then the satisfying moment of billing Anne. If I can only save the money this time, she thought.
A few minutes later Candy had the mail merge done for the form letters. She printed the labels for the envelopes, then sorted the piles by zip code. Ratting around in her pile of junk mail and bills, she found a rubber band and a large clip used to seal potato chip bags. She bundled up her lovely little letters, figuring this batch would bring in about 400 dollars. She’d be damned glad to have it. Hopefully Anne would pay promptly.
Candy threw on a quilted flannel jacket that her mom had gotten in a box of stuff at Jim Bagsly's estate auction. She had forced it on Candy with the rationale, “You might need this to keep warm. You never know when it might come in handy. You can leave it in your car just in case.”
Candy had taken a liking to the jacket one day when she had slipped it on and found a twenty-dollar bill in the breast pocket. She now considered it lucky.
She phoned Buck at the feed store. After a bit of haggling, she arranged for him to pick her up for the Snuffy-from-vet-car-unstuck-potroast mission after he got off work. Buck loved her mother’s home cooked meals, so it was not that difficult to get him to agree.
Candy would run her mail to the post office, get Snuffy and drop him at the vet. Then she and Buck could pick him up, do the car thing and have a home cooked meal with mom. Maybe afterwards they could play Scrabble or Boggle or some other word game. Last time they played he protested the use of her word “ormolu” and had lost big-time. Buck did not really like being soundly trounced at word games by Candy and her mom, but he was an awfully good sport.
---
Candy’s ’81 Datsun pickup rattled along the ice-packed dirt road from her mother’s with Snuffy neatly caged in a dilapidated apple box that her mother found in the garage. He was reaching his furry little paws out of the holes in a cute way. Candy tapped her fingers on the side of the box to make him do it again. Yow! The little puffball snagged her with a claw. She sucked on her bleeding scratch and returned her attention to trying to keep the Datsun on the washboards. While she was busily engaged in the simple act of driving and singing along with “Tempted by the Fruit of Another” on the radio, Snuffy quietly wormed his way between the interlocked flaps of the apple box and disappeared behind the passenger seat.
“Hoo! Hoo! Woo-oo-oo!”
Being a sexy backup singer in a Motown group was another of Candy’s frustrated career dreams. The main thing that prevented her from making a go of it (in addition to the handicap of her waspy little voice) was that she suffered from right/left confusion. Ever since she was a small child, she had noticed that all the other kids could find their way from one place to another and tell the difference between right and left by some chromosome level instinct. But Candy, although she was the brightest girl in the class, was reduced to moron status when it came to doing the hokey pokey.
In her Sophomore year, her guidance counselor had encouraged her to try out for the Greenbelt Hornets marching band. Candy beat the odds by turning the opposite direction from the rest of the clarinet section more than 70% of the time. The final debacle, when she actually knocked over the flute section (seven in one blow!) during the class C championship game, cemented Candy’s certainty that she was choreographically challenged.
Nonetheless, one summer she and her friends Nicki Sordahl and Jane Swendsen had worked up some songs by the Shirelles, complete with choreography, backed up by a motley group of boys from 9th grade band. Just before their single gig at the Greenbelt Savings 4th of July Ice Cream Social, Nicki had her front teeth kicked out by her evil 4-H sheep, and they had broken up.
As she maneuvered her truck along the glazed gravel, Candy began to remember the moves that Nicki (the most coordinated of the four) had dreamed up. “Tempted” was over now, so Candy turned off the radio and sang at the top of her lungs,
“Big John, won’t you come on home? When you gonna ma-arry me? Yeah! Yeah! Yeah-ah-ah...”
She had to use her knees to steady the steering wheel, which she managed quite deftly. Was it two shoops to the right and then a spin? Candy couldn’t remember. Besides, she obviously couldn’t spin around while driving. She was just cresting the top of Myer’s point when she remembered the big finale and hit the cow.
Thursday, January 31, 2008
Chapter 1
Doctor Sylvia Bancroft,
366 Summerview Way
Greenbelt, ID
6/22/99
Dear Dr. Bancroft,
I realize that you are not currently practicing because of your recent difficulty, but you are the only doctor I trust with my problem.
My wife Rita is suffering from uncontrollable itching. Nobody takes it seriously. It is not an allergy, or at least none of the doctors we have seen have diagnosed it as an allergy. There is no relief. We have tried all manner of creams, even used magnets. She is irritable all the time, and for her it is a very serious problem.
I read about a new practice called hair burning on the Internet. They burn certain patches of hair to cure certain ailments. Several people reported relief from cancer and other serious illnesses. What I’m wondering is if you know anything about hair burning and if they are considering it as a treatment at the St. John’s Arms hospital. I am willing to try anything, but we are getting low on money.
If I could just find out which patch of hair to burn, I think this is a procedure I could perform at home.
Please write soon.
Sincerely,
Frank Allen
Miss Anne Johansen,
366 Summerview Way
Greenbelt, ID
6/22/99
Dear Anne,
Am concerned about your surgery. Is that why you’ve moved to the boonies? Are you alright? My brother has a lake house in Michigan that we’d be happy to put you up in for as long as the recovery may take.
I realize that this may seem a little bit forward, but after having received your last letter, I’m thinking you feel comfortable with our friendship. I have just completed the course to become a certified nurse’s aid, and I could be on hand to help you in any way that you need. I can’t dispense drugs, but assuming that I pass the test, I can lift, bathe, feed, and assist with enemas and other forms of evacuation. Our relationship will not prevent me from behaving in a strictly professional manner.
I am really concerned about you.
Please write soon.
Mike
Doctor Bancroft,
366 Summerview Way
Greenbelt, ID
Dear Doctor Bancroft,
I was so sorry to hear about your surgery. I am furious that the attending physicians could make that kind of mistake. To a famous surgeon, no less!
I don’t know what I can say that may help you through your recovery, but let me say that what’s inside--your spirit and the loving, caring person that you have always shown yourself to be—will never change, no matter what is on the outside of the package.
If you don’t mind my asking, will you be having the surgery reversed, or will you go on as a man? I need to know because—to be frank—I fantasize about you quite a lot, and now I don’t know whether I’m lesbian or straight. Not that it really makes a difference. I’m too old to do anything about it.
I really think you are making a mistake if you don’t sue about the botched surgery. Sometimes we just can’t let family ties get in the way of what’s right and wrong. I’m sure your brother in law carries plenty of malpractice insurance.
With sincere concern and all my love (and lust!),
Edith Flaherty
Anne
366 Summerview Way
Greenbelt, ID
Geeeezus Keeryste girl,
I saw the last episode. That is nuts. So does this mean you have a lot of free time now, or are you still in flashbacks? What the hell are you doing in bumfuck, Idaho? Will you tell your assistant to stop sending me form letters?
Call me!
Janie
Candy’s brow furrowed as she read this last line. With her free arm extended out of the tub to tip the carton of chocolate milk dry, she expertly tossed the letter into the smallest of five rather large piles. Her toes were turned to prunes, but they were still dexterous enough to manipulate the water taps. As a hot stream curled its way up her leg and along her back, she raised the wine glass. The overly sweet milk had lost its chill, and its thick taste made her grimace. Just a few more minutes. Then she really had to get out. She had to admit, she was lucky to have a job that she could do in her pajamas. They didn’t even have to be sexy ones.
Steadying herself on the edge of the tub, she hauled herself out and dripped her way over the piles of paper to a large coral colored bath towel that was still wet from two previous baths that morning. She pulled on the flannel pajamas, a fleece sweatshirt, and over them a tired-looking wool cardigan. She fumbled to assemble the middle pile of paper into a stack. Then, wiggling her wet feet into a pair of pink faux fur slippers, she walked sloppily to the kitchen counter, where the laptop was set up. She wondered where Haines was right now, the prick. But she stopped herself from reliving the months that had ended up landing her here.
She opened a mail merge document and started to format her reply. Then she searched her database for Mike Smith. Holy Cow. In the “number of replies” field he was at 16 with a bullet. He was a good producer, but she felt a little creeped out by the enema thing. She decided to take a cautious approach this time.
March 16, 2001
Mike Smith
400 Prince Avenue
Green Bay, WI 98202
Dear Mike:
Thanks so much for your concern, but I’m really just fine!
My friends and I at St. John’s Arms would like to thank you for your continued support. It’s people like you that make it all worthwhile!
Now, please don’t worry about me, and tell your brother that I appreciate the offer but I’m as cozy as can be with my boyfriend and my guard dogs, right here in Greenbelt.
The very best to you and yours, and remember,
“St. John’s Arms, bad things happen to people like you—weekdays at 10”
Luck, Love and Laughter,
Annie
Dr. Sylvia Bancroft
(Anne Johansen)
The laptop’s hard drive was making strange humming noises that Candy hadn’t heard before. She wondered if toast crumbs could make their way through the keyboard and into the works. She knew damn well that she should be backing up the mailing list every week, but ugh. She wandered into the pantry and returned with a box of saltines. Maybe she should call this Mike guy sometime. He seemed pretty nice, really. She fiddled with the remote until she managed to get and Ella Fitzgerald CD playing. Okay. One down, only 523 left in this week’s batch.
At 62 cents a letter she’d better hurry up if she wanted to make her rent this month. She would sooner consider having a hair burning treatment than move back in with her mother. Maybe Mike will write back soon. She toyed with the idea of using the standard form letters to finish up the big pile.
The mound of letters seemed a daunting task, like when she let her ironing pile up for five years. She remembered the sense of satisfaction when she had finally taken all of the wrinkled clothes to Salvation Army. Well, she had better press on. She grimaced at her own pun and started typing. She spent a few extra minutes making the letter chatty to keep the chain of fan mail going. Sixty-two cents wasn’t much per letter, but it might make the difference between being able to go on the trip or not.
Edith Flaherty
1600 Honeysuckle Terrace
Miami, FL 22366
Dear Edith:
Thanks so much for your concern, but I’m really just fine!
My friends and I at St. John’s Arms would like to thank you for your continued support. It’s people like you that make it all worthwhile!
Now, please don’t worry about me, and remember that things aren’t always what they seem. I might just end up coming out on top. You’ll have to watch a few more episodes to find out for sure.
And by the way, just how old are you?
The very best to you and yours, and remember,
“St. John’s Arms, bad things happen to people like you—weekdays at 10”
Luck, Love and Laughter,
Annie
Dr. Sylvia Bancroft
(Anne Johansen)
Candy shuddered to think how Mrs. Flaherty (now on reply level 8) might take off on this one, but she was secretly amused that Edith was hot on Anne and that she, the lowly Candy, had the power to fan the flames. On one hand, it was important for her to keep the flow of letters up in the off season, so she felt justified in keeping Mrs. Flaherty at least slightly titillated. On the other hand, she had more than an inkling that the glamorous Anne Johansen herself would shit a brick if she knew that she was carrying on a flirty mail relationship with a lesbian granny. Somehow, this didn’t bother Candy much. In the months since she had first met Anne on the set of St. John’s Arms, she had felt less and less affinity for her.
Anne had seemed nice at first, but there was something about her that made Candy wary. When Candy had been on the show, and going out with Haines, Anne had been all buddy-buddy. But after Haines dumped her and her character got axed, Anne had turned all “poor tragic Candy.” Every time Anne called to check on her fan mail numbers she would say things like “When are you going to come see us, honey? You are such a sweetie. I just love you. You know why I love you? Because you are such a sweetie.” This before she broke the news that she was getting so much mail that she could no longer afford to pay 75 cents per reply. There was a Japanese firm called Heartlove, Inc. that replied for 65. At that moment, Candy would have loved to personally step on Dr. Bancroft’s ruptured pancreas, but she couldn’t afford to lose the income. She counter offered 62, and it was all lovey, lovey sweetie again.
It wasn’t like you could find any line of work that was much easier. Besides, she wanted to have enough money to take a trip to L.A. this summer. Maybe she would have more luck this time finding an acting job. Candy thought back to her last part as a stewardess on a doomed flight. She had tried to look professional and yet still sultry in the blue uniform and red and blue silken scarf. But she had only been on the screen 30 seconds before her character was sucked out of the open door due to the failed locking mechanism. None-the-less, she felt sure that the director noticed that the delivery of her single line, “Would you care for a beverage this evening? –Aaaargh….” was completed without a single retake.
She had always wanted to be an actress. Ever since the fourth grade when she had played the part of the mother in Mrs. Wiggleby’s Silly Spelling Bee, she had dreamed of standing up in front of the footlights and holding audiences spellbound. She wondered if she would have been successful already if her parents had only encouraged her more. Her mother was happy now that she was back in her hometown in Idaho making a meager living answering fan mail. At least it was some form of creative outlet. Actually, sometimes she thought it took more talent for her to compose replies to fan letters than it took Anne to play a female surgeon who worked nights as a drag queen. It wasn’t even original. Anne’s phony English accent was a direct takeoff of Julie Andrews, and she had had her upturned nose surgically down-turned to look more like Glenn Close.
March 16, 2001
Frank Allen
1213 Potsherd Lane
Chandler, AZ 56208
Dear Frank:
Thanks for writing! I am so sorry to hear about Rita’s medical problems. St. John’s Arms does not recognize the efficacy of any hair burning treatments. I suggest you treat Rita to a manicure at her favorite beauty parlor if you want to do something nice for her. She may want to consult a specialist for her medical problems. It sounds like you have done all you can do as a concerned husband. Do write and let me know how she is getting on. And keep me updated on your research into hair burning treatments.
The very best to you and yours, and remember,
“St. John’s Arms, bad things happen to people like you—weekdays at 10”
Luck, Love and Laughter,
Annie
Dr. Sylvia Bancroft
(Anne Johansen)
366 Summerview Way
Greenbelt, ID
6/22/99
Dear Dr. Bancroft,
I realize that you are not currently practicing because of your recent difficulty, but you are the only doctor I trust with my problem.
My wife Rita is suffering from uncontrollable itching. Nobody takes it seriously. It is not an allergy, or at least none of the doctors we have seen have diagnosed it as an allergy. There is no relief. We have tried all manner of creams, even used magnets. She is irritable all the time, and for her it is a very serious problem.
I read about a new practice called hair burning on the Internet. They burn certain patches of hair to cure certain ailments. Several people reported relief from cancer and other serious illnesses. What I’m wondering is if you know anything about hair burning and if they are considering it as a treatment at the St. John’s Arms hospital. I am willing to try anything, but we are getting low on money.
If I could just find out which patch of hair to burn, I think this is a procedure I could perform at home.
Please write soon.
Sincerely,
Frank Allen
Miss Anne Johansen,
366 Summerview Way
Greenbelt, ID
6/22/99
Dear Anne,
Am concerned about your surgery. Is that why you’ve moved to the boonies? Are you alright? My brother has a lake house in Michigan that we’d be happy to put you up in for as long as the recovery may take.
I realize that this may seem a little bit forward, but after having received your last letter, I’m thinking you feel comfortable with our friendship. I have just completed the course to become a certified nurse’s aid, and I could be on hand to help you in any way that you need. I can’t dispense drugs, but assuming that I pass the test, I can lift, bathe, feed, and assist with enemas and other forms of evacuation. Our relationship will not prevent me from behaving in a strictly professional manner.
I am really concerned about you.
Please write soon.
Mike
Doctor Bancroft,
366 Summerview Way
Greenbelt, ID
Dear Doctor Bancroft,
I was so sorry to hear about your surgery. I am furious that the attending physicians could make that kind of mistake. To a famous surgeon, no less!
I don’t know what I can say that may help you through your recovery, but let me say that what’s inside--your spirit and the loving, caring person that you have always shown yourself to be—will never change, no matter what is on the outside of the package.
If you don’t mind my asking, will you be having the surgery reversed, or will you go on as a man? I need to know because—to be frank—I fantasize about you quite a lot, and now I don’t know whether I’m lesbian or straight. Not that it really makes a difference. I’m too old to do anything about it.
I really think you are making a mistake if you don’t sue about the botched surgery. Sometimes we just can’t let family ties get in the way of what’s right and wrong. I’m sure your brother in law carries plenty of malpractice insurance.
With sincere concern and all my love (and lust!),
Edith Flaherty
Anne
366 Summerview Way
Greenbelt, ID
Geeeezus Keeryste girl,
I saw the last episode. That is nuts. So does this mean you have a lot of free time now, or are you still in flashbacks? What the hell are you doing in bumfuck, Idaho? Will you tell your assistant to stop sending me form letters?
Call me!
Janie
Candy’s brow furrowed as she read this last line. With her free arm extended out of the tub to tip the carton of chocolate milk dry, she expertly tossed the letter into the smallest of five rather large piles. Her toes were turned to prunes, but they were still dexterous enough to manipulate the water taps. As a hot stream curled its way up her leg and along her back, she raised the wine glass. The overly sweet milk had lost its chill, and its thick taste made her grimace. Just a few more minutes. Then she really had to get out. She had to admit, she was lucky to have a job that she could do in her pajamas. They didn’t even have to be sexy ones.
Steadying herself on the edge of the tub, she hauled herself out and dripped her way over the piles of paper to a large coral colored bath towel that was still wet from two previous baths that morning. She pulled on the flannel pajamas, a fleece sweatshirt, and over them a tired-looking wool cardigan. She fumbled to assemble the middle pile of paper into a stack. Then, wiggling her wet feet into a pair of pink faux fur slippers, she walked sloppily to the kitchen counter, where the laptop was set up. She wondered where Haines was right now, the prick. But she stopped herself from reliving the months that had ended up landing her here.
She opened a mail merge document and started to format her reply. Then she searched her database for Mike Smith. Holy Cow. In the “number of replies” field he was at 16 with a bullet. He was a good producer, but she felt a little creeped out by the enema thing. She decided to take a cautious approach this time.
March 16, 2001
Mike Smith
400 Prince Avenue
Green Bay, WI 98202
Dear Mike:
Thanks so much for your concern, but I’m really just fine!
My friends and I at St. John’s Arms would like to thank you for your continued support. It’s people like you that make it all worthwhile!
Now, please don’t worry about me, and tell your brother that I appreciate the offer but I’m as cozy as can be with my boyfriend and my guard dogs, right here in Greenbelt.
The very best to you and yours, and remember,
“St. John’s Arms, bad things happen to people like you—weekdays at 10”
Luck, Love and Laughter,
Annie
Dr. Sylvia Bancroft
(Anne Johansen)
The laptop’s hard drive was making strange humming noises that Candy hadn’t heard before. She wondered if toast crumbs could make their way through the keyboard and into the works. She knew damn well that she should be backing up the mailing list every week, but ugh. She wandered into the pantry and returned with a box of saltines. Maybe she should call this Mike guy sometime. He seemed pretty nice, really. She fiddled with the remote until she managed to get and Ella Fitzgerald CD playing. Okay. One down, only 523 left in this week’s batch.
At 62 cents a letter she’d better hurry up if she wanted to make her rent this month. She would sooner consider having a hair burning treatment than move back in with her mother. Maybe Mike will write back soon. She toyed with the idea of using the standard form letters to finish up the big pile.
The mound of letters seemed a daunting task, like when she let her ironing pile up for five years. She remembered the sense of satisfaction when she had finally taken all of the wrinkled clothes to Salvation Army. Well, she had better press on. She grimaced at her own pun and started typing. She spent a few extra minutes making the letter chatty to keep the chain of fan mail going. Sixty-two cents wasn’t much per letter, but it might make the difference between being able to go on the trip or not.
Edith Flaherty
1600 Honeysuckle Terrace
Miami, FL 22366
Dear Edith:
Thanks so much for your concern, but I’m really just fine!
My friends and I at St. John’s Arms would like to thank you for your continued support. It’s people like you that make it all worthwhile!
Now, please don’t worry about me, and remember that things aren’t always what they seem. I might just end up coming out on top. You’ll have to watch a few more episodes to find out for sure.
And by the way, just how old are you?
The very best to you and yours, and remember,
“St. John’s Arms, bad things happen to people like you—weekdays at 10”
Luck, Love and Laughter,
Annie
Dr. Sylvia Bancroft
(Anne Johansen)
Candy shuddered to think how Mrs. Flaherty (now on reply level 8) might take off on this one, but she was secretly amused that Edith was hot on Anne and that she, the lowly Candy, had the power to fan the flames. On one hand, it was important for her to keep the flow of letters up in the off season, so she felt justified in keeping Mrs. Flaherty at least slightly titillated. On the other hand, she had more than an inkling that the glamorous Anne Johansen herself would shit a brick if she knew that she was carrying on a flirty mail relationship with a lesbian granny. Somehow, this didn’t bother Candy much. In the months since she had first met Anne on the set of St. John’s Arms, she had felt less and less affinity for her.
Anne had seemed nice at first, but there was something about her that made Candy wary. When Candy had been on the show, and going out with Haines, Anne had been all buddy-buddy. But after Haines dumped her and her character got axed, Anne had turned all “poor tragic Candy.” Every time Anne called to check on her fan mail numbers she would say things like “When are you going to come see us, honey? You are such a sweetie. I just love you. You know why I love you? Because you are such a sweetie.” This before she broke the news that she was getting so much mail that she could no longer afford to pay 75 cents per reply. There was a Japanese firm called Heartlove, Inc. that replied for 65. At that moment, Candy would have loved to personally step on Dr. Bancroft’s ruptured pancreas, but she couldn’t afford to lose the income. She counter offered 62, and it was all lovey, lovey sweetie again.
It wasn’t like you could find any line of work that was much easier. Besides, she wanted to have enough money to take a trip to L.A. this summer. Maybe she would have more luck this time finding an acting job. Candy thought back to her last part as a stewardess on a doomed flight. She had tried to look professional and yet still sultry in the blue uniform and red and blue silken scarf. But she had only been on the screen 30 seconds before her character was sucked out of the open door due to the failed locking mechanism. None-the-less, she felt sure that the director noticed that the delivery of her single line, “Would you care for a beverage this evening? –Aaaargh….” was completed without a single retake.
She had always wanted to be an actress. Ever since the fourth grade when she had played the part of the mother in Mrs. Wiggleby’s Silly Spelling Bee, she had dreamed of standing up in front of the footlights and holding audiences spellbound. She wondered if she would have been successful already if her parents had only encouraged her more. Her mother was happy now that she was back in her hometown in Idaho making a meager living answering fan mail. At least it was some form of creative outlet. Actually, sometimes she thought it took more talent for her to compose replies to fan letters than it took Anne to play a female surgeon who worked nights as a drag queen. It wasn’t even original. Anne’s phony English accent was a direct takeoff of Julie Andrews, and she had had her upturned nose surgically down-turned to look more like Glenn Close.
March 16, 2001
Frank Allen
1213 Potsherd Lane
Chandler, AZ 56208
Dear Frank:
Thanks for writing! I am so sorry to hear about Rita’s medical problems. St. John’s Arms does not recognize the efficacy of any hair burning treatments. I suggest you treat Rita to a manicure at her favorite beauty parlor if you want to do something nice for her. She may want to consult a specialist for her medical problems. It sounds like you have done all you can do as a concerned husband. Do write and let me know how she is getting on. And keep me updated on your research into hair burning treatments.
The very best to you and yours, and remember,
“St. John’s Arms, bad things happen to people like you—weekdays at 10”
Luck, Love and Laughter,
Annie
Dr. Sylvia Bancroft
(Anne Johansen)
Introduction
"My Stories" is a a serialized novel in progress by Marla Goodman and Shawna Lockhart. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)