My Lost and Found Life (16 page)

The place was quiet for a second, someone tittered, and then people began talking normally again.

“What was that all about?” I said.

Louis shrugged and said, “He's crazy.”

Everyone else had resumed drinking their coffee, apparently unperturbed by what had just occurred. I seemed to be the only one who was discomfited by the whole bizarre scene. Clearly I wasn't in Burlingame anymore.

• • •

Around two, Malcolm reappeared, wearing jeans instead of those awful shorts, and sat down at a window table to play Scrabble with some customers. This was a livelier version of the game than I had ever witnessed. In my experience, Scrabble was an excruciatingly slow game that allowed you to paint your nails or read a book while waiting for dull-witted players to come up with words of more than three letters.

Here it was a raucous and highly competitive game involving loud voices, laughter, challenges, and name-calling. The other three players included a twentyish geek in camouflage pants named Jerry, an elderly black guy called William, and a middle-aged woman they all referred to as Mike.

Mike—real name Michelle—was a stocky, no-nonsense type with extremely short silvery hair. I wasn't surprised when a pregnant earth-mother type walked in and gave her a wifely kiss.

Earth Mommy was six feet tall, blond, and looked as if she might give birth any minute. She was accompanied by a small blond toddler. The kid was quite a sight to behold: He/she was
wearing a baseball cap, sneakers, and a pink ballerina's tutu over jeans and T-shirt, and dragging a pink feather boa.

I was still giggling at this getup when they came up to the counter.

“That's some costume. Are you a girl or boy ballerina?” I asked.

“I'm a boy, ‘course,” he said as if I were very, very stupid.

Earth Mommy gave me a look that would have stopped a tank.

“What kind of remark is that? Are you an idiot?” she barked. “Max is very obviously a boy. For your information, playful cross-dressing is a normal stage of any child's development. Children can be permanently damaged if their parents or others”—she raised her voice at this point—“try to impose false gender stereotypes on them.”

I flushed bright red, but before I could say anything, Malcolm appeared at my elbow and took over.

“Hiya, Max. How about a cookie? Ashley, give this young man a nice big chocolate chip cookie from his Uncle Malcolm.”

I handed Max a cookie, pronto.

“Now, Joyce, Ashley was just joking,” Malcolm continued. “Cut her a little slack. This is her first day. She didn't mean to offend you or Max. Did you, Ashley?”

I shook my head vigorously.

He added, “Ashley's just jealous because she doesn't have a beautiful pink tutu of her own. Right, Max?”

Joyce snorted.

“I'm very sorry if I hurt Max's feelings,” I said.

Max appeared to have already forgotten us. With his cookie
in one hand, he climbed up on a chair in front of one of the computers. It didn't look as if I had damaged his delicate little psyche.

“Can I get you a hot chocolate, Joyce? On the house.” Malcolm was still being conciliatory.

“Let me do it.” I moved quickly to the machine.

As I prepared the chocolate, I worried that I might get fired over this. Gender stereotypes? Good grief. I had better watch my step around these people.

At least I was a big hit with Jerry, the nerdy Scrabble player. When Mal introduced me, he stared at me as if I were a movie star. Really, it was laughable. I gave him a nice smile, nothing else, and he started jabbering and making stupid jokes, the kind that are just a notch above “Knock, knock. Who's there?” He might as well have tattooed the word
Loser
on his forehead.

Throughout the game Jerry kept looking over at me and acting like a ten-year-old with his first big crush. He came over to tell me (big yawn) that he was majoring in computer science at SF State, and he kept the Madhouse computers running. He rattled on about computer games and silly sci-fi movies like
The Matrix.
I was polite and didn't say what I was thinking, which was, “Who cares?”

Then Joyce announced she needed to leave. “Max can stay here with you for a bit,” she said, and Mike nodded.

“Fine, fine,” said Malcolm. “No problem. Ashley will keep an eye on him.”

Joyce gave me a warning look in case I was thinking about promoting more false gender stereotypes. I kept my face
expressionless, but I was thinking, Oh, great, now I'm a babysitter. What next?

I had just glanced at the wall clock, thinking the hands must be broken because they moved so slowly, when a short elderly woman dressed like a heroine in a gothic novel waltzed through the door. It seemed every day was Halloween at the Madhouse.

I heard her say in a high-pitched voice, “Just stay still, darling. Mommie will give you a treat in a minute.”

She was talking into her handbag. I peered over the counter and saw a black nose and dark eyes. A small, wiry, brownish dog stared up at me from inside her bag.

“Is that one of those dogs from the taco commercials?” I asked.

She cooed, “That's Nostradamus. He's a miniature pinscher, and he's my sweet, sweet baby. He's extremely talented, very intuitive, just like Mommie.”

An intuitive dog? I suppose that was possible. Dogs always seemed to intuit that I am a cat person.

“I'm Evelyn,” she announced, raising her hand and jangling what must have been ten or fifteen silvery bracelets on her right arm. Then she leaned toward me and touched my hand. “You shouldn't worry so much, dear. Everything is going to be all right.”

I stared at her, not sure I heard her correctly. “What?”

“Don't worry,” she repeated. “You're going to survive all the trials you're going through. I'm a psychic, you know. Perhaps you'd like me to read the Tarot for you one day.”

“Now, Evelyn.” Mal came up behind her and reached out
to grab one of the brownies on the counter. I had already noticed that he never stopped eating. “Leave Ashley alone. She doesn't need any of that hocus-pocus crap.”

“Malcolm's a true Capricorn,” Evelyn confided to me, as if that explained everything. “Very conservative and judgmental, like all Earth signs. Fortunately, he's also a dragon.”

“A dragon?” I said.

“That's his Chinese animal sign,” she explained. “I look at the duality of each person's nature by determining the interaction of his or her Western astrological sign with his or her Oriental year sign. For example, I'm an Aquarius, born in the Year of the Snake. That's why I'm clairvoyant, with strong vision and intuition.”

“Does that mean you know things before they happen?” I asked. “When I read my horoscope in the newspaper, it always seems so general it could work for anyone. Or it turns out to be completely wrong.”

“Oh, there's nothing accurate about mass media astrology. I do my own charts. I think you must be an Aries? No, you're a Scorpio.”

“How did you know that?”

She smiled. “Tell me what year you were born, and I'll tell you what your Eastern sign is. I'm guessing a Year of the Tiger or perhaps Rooster.”

I didn't have a chance to answer because Malcolm walked back in, asking, “Does poor old Nasty ever get to walk, Evelyn?”

“Of course he does. But he's really quite happy to ride in my bag. His little legs get tired. And, Malcolm, I've asked you not to call him Nasty.”

“Everybody here calls him Nasty because he's a biter,” Malcolm mock-whispered to me as he turned to go back to the Scrabble fest.

“He's just shy and doesn't like strangers to touch him,” his indulgent owner said. “If you take the time to get acquainted, he's very sweet. Would you like to pet him, Ashley?”

“No, thanks. I'm afraid I'm more of a cat person,” I said, keeping my hands clear of her handbag. I already had a burn; I didn't need a bite to go with it.

Just at that moment, a tall, sturdy African-American chick bounced through the door and slammed a knapsack down on the floor by the piano.

“Hey, you must be the new girl. I'm Aphrodite. Everyone calls me Dee. My sister and I work the night shift. How's it going?”

I let loose with a long sigh, then realized I should sound more positive. “Fine. Good.” I mustered up a smile, even though I was feeling weary.

“Hey, don't sweat it, girlfriend. The first day is always the hardest,” she said breezily. She seemed like one of those upbeat people who can really get on your nerves.

Louis ducked into the back and emerged rolling a bicycle and carrying a helmet. “Tomorrow, dudes,” he said, and left.

I was ready to call it a day, but I had another ninety minutes to go. Fortunately, the last hour was the best of the day. Dee and I talked as we worked, and I liked her in spite of the relentlessly cheerful attitude.

Then a tall guy in his twenties walked in and whistled as he stopped in front of the counter. He had a slim build, dark
curly hair, lively blue eyes, and a crooked smile, probably because his teeth were a little crooked. No matter, he was the best-looking guy I'd seen all day, and I smiled back at him.

“Well, things are really looking up around here. And who might you be?”

“I might be the new employee. And who are you?”

“Look out for him, Ashley. Patrick's a real bobcat.” Dee snickered.

Bobcat? This sounded interesting. Patrick had a killer smile and a lilt to his voice that sounded Irish.

“Fair Aphrodite,” he said, rolling out each syllable of her name. “What have I done to earn such disdain from you?” He gave us a delicious grin that could have melted the polar ice caps. “Pay her no heed. I promise I'm as tame as a house cat. The name is Patrick Ryan Rigney.”

“I'm Ashley.”

“Mmmm, you look like an Ashley. Mal, you old dog, your judgment is improving. Where did you find this rare flower?”

“Get away from her, you Irish devil,” Malcolm called. “I don't need you sniffing around my new employee. You'll drive her away with all your bullshit and blarney. Get over here and take over for Jerry. He has to leave.”

“Might I have a cappuccino then, Ashley?” said Patrick. “It seems I have to get in the game.” He winked at me and walked away.

There's no use trying to sugarcoat the whole camper experience. The first week or so it was tolerable. At the end of three weeks, I was tired of it. By the fifth week, I hated it. If I had read about it in a book, it might have sounded like an adventure. As a kid I'd loved reading about the children who lived in a boxcar. But the camper was cold, uncomfortable, and scary. You never realize how important having a home is until you don't have one. I began to have sympathy for the panhandlers sleeping on the streets. At least I wasn't that bad off.

I had developed a daily routine. Each morning I crawled out of my nest, tossed some clothes into my duffle bag, and steered my car to the gym for a thirty-minute workout.

Afterward, I would leap into a steaming-hot shower to enjoy the water as it cascaded over my body. I had never appreciated showers so much. By seven I was dressed and fighting the early-bird workout fanatics for mirror space so I could blow-dry my hair and put on makeup.

After a while, I began to recognize familiar faces among the
morning crowd, but I was the only one who showed up seven days a week without fail. I was careful not to get too friendly or make myself conspicuous. But someone did notice. One morning as I wobbled sleepily past the front desk, I was shocked into consciousness by Patti, the girl who checked everyone in.

“Hey, how are ya! You're a little later than usual, aren't you?” she chirruped.

I jerked my head up from my usual stupor and stared at her like a thief caught with the swag falling out of her handbag.

“I couldn't help noticing that you work out every single day,” she said.

“Yeah?” I said, my heart pounding, even though there was no way she could guess why I came every day.

She leaned over the counter. “I just wanted to tell you that I admire your dedication. I wish I had your discipline. I've seen you in the workout room, and you've developed great definition in your calves and arms.”

I exhaled in relief. “Thanks, I'm very happy with the results I'm getting.”

Thinking fast, I confided, “You know, I had a weight problem, so I try very hard to stick to this routine. I'm always afraid if I miss a day, I'll start putting the pounds back on.”

“Wow, I'd never guess you were ever overweight,” Patti exclaimed, obviously buying the whole bogus story. “What a success story! Maybe we could write about you in our club newsletter.”

“Oh, no!” I said hastily. “Thanks, anyway.”

“Come on, you'd be an inspiration to our other members.”

“No, sorry. I'm very private,” I called as I fled toward the
women's locker room. For weeks after that, I sped by the front desk as if rapacious timber wolves were after me, but Patti didn't mention it again.

The daily procession of coffeehouse customers began each morning at six thirty. Louis opened, and I joined him at eight. After a week on the job, I was at home standing behind the coffeehouse counter asking, “Single or double latte?”

Malcolm was right—it wasn't brain surgery. I became proud of my new skill at creating mounds of frothy white foam to crown the top of my perfectly prepared coffee drinks.

Louis and I worked together until three thirty, when he was replaced by either Dee or her twin sister, Cassie. Separately or together, the twins worked the late shift six days a week. I left at four thirty, unless it was really busy. At ten o'clock (midnight on Fridays and Saturdays), the doors closed for the night. On Sundays Mal himself opened the place at eight, then I took over at eleven and worked until six o'clock closing.