The Queen Gene (12 page)

“Look, lady,” he snapped. “Do you realize how cheap you sound complaining about fifty dollars? If your grandmother is half as stupid as you are, no wonder she didn’t understand the terms of service.”

“Excuse me?” I said in disbelief.

“What part of ‘you’re an idiot’ did you not understand?”

“Have you ever cleaned anyone’s carpets for six dollars a room?” I demanded.

“Not a deep cleaning.”

“Have you ever done
any
cleaning for six dollars a room? I mean, if someone were to audit your office, would they find one single invoice for a six-dollar-per-room service?”

“I don’t have time for this shit, lady!” he said.

“I’m going to report you!” I said like a snitty school marm.

“Go right ahead. They’ll tell you what I’m telling you right now — you’re an idiot!” Then he hung up.

As it turned out, the Better Business Bureau did not tell me that I — or my aunt — was an idiot, but rather that this kind of thing happens all the time. I filled out a rather unsatisfying complaint form, then called the Elder Abuse Hotline. They were lovely, but said unless my aunt was taken advantage of by her caregiver, there was nothing they could do. I then spoke with a woman at the Department of Agriculture and Consumer Services, who said the agency would be more than happy to investigate within the next six months.

“Auntie,” I said into the phone. “I have good news and bad news. The bad news is that we’re going to have to wait a while before this will be resolved legitimately. The good news is that I’m going to have fifty dollars worth of fun with these jerks.”

“What are you going to do?” she asked.

“You’ll see.”

* * *

In my best Southern accent, I called information. “Yes, Hollywood please. Can I have the number of Scarlett’s Gentleman’s Club? Thank you kindly.”

Next call: same Southern accent. “Hi, I wanna be a dancer, and I’m wonderin’ who I need to talk to.” A young woman told me it was Goliath who handled the hiring. “And how will I know who Goliath is?” I listened. “Oh, built like a mountain with tattoos and a goatee, perfect. Thanks, honey. Now tell me, what time does Goliath come in today?” She told me he was in after noon, but that I shouldn’t come in before three because he was always in a “real shitty mood” before then. “Aren’t you sweet to let me know that? Thank you, sugar. Now, if I could trouble you for directions. Just give me the cross street, and I’ll be able to find it. Y’all are right near the ninety-five, right?” She confirmed and gave me the intersection I needed to find Scarlett’s with ease.

Next call: same Southern accent. “Hi, honey, we had a hell of a night here and we’re needin’ a full carpet cleaning. Y’all think you can get out here to help us out?” The dispatcher asked a few questions. “We had a beer spill, it’s hella bad. I’m talkin’ about a pretty large commercial space so I’m gonna need to make sure I get your manager out here to do the job.” She said that she could send Greg. “Perfect, sugar. Now, he’s gonna need to talk to Goliath, and he wants this done pronto. Can you get here right at noon? No later cause he needs to take his nap at 12:30 pm.” She confirmed. “Great, now, two things I gotta tell you about Goliath. I love him like a brother, don’t misunderstand now. But the man is hard-of-hearing so this Greg fella is gonna have to really turn up the volume, okay? Make sure Greg talks real loud and slow. And, Goliath is a sweetheart, but he’s dumber than a sack of hair, so Greg may need to remind him a few times about the spill in the VIP Lounge. He’s real thick. Okay, great, lemme give you the directions.”

The thought of nasty Greg shouting at Goliath, insisting that he clean the beer stain in the VIP Lounge was gratifying.

But not fifty dollars’ worth.

Next I called the Harley Davidson dealership. In my best New York accent, I said to the receptionist, “Yeah, uh, I’m tinkin’ about buyin’ my husband a hog for his birt-day. Where’s your showroom at, ah?” She gave me directions. “And who’s da sales managah?” She said it was Johnny. “How’m I gonna know dis Johnny person?”

The receptionist chimed, “Well, he’s the only colored fellow here.”

Good God, did people still say that? There wasn’t an ounce of malice in her voice. It was just a normal word to her.

My next call to the carpet cleaning place was answered by a different dispatcher. I could hear a dozen women’s voices in the background. “Do you clean businesses?” I asked in my normal voice. “’Cause we got a showroom that gets a lot of foot traffic, and it’s starting to look a little shabby. We sure could use a cleaning.” She said their manager, Greg, would be out doing a call that afternoon and offered to send him by at one. “Wonderful. Let me give you our address.” Then, just for fun: “You’re going to need to deal with our sales manager, so when you get here, just ask for Blackie.”

I just knew that any lowlife who ripped off old people was probably a bigot too. If he had made it through an entire lifetime without a well-deserved ass-kicking from a Southern black man, it was time to remedy that situation.

Finally, I made one last call to get information about the appropriate staff member at another Hollywood office building. Suzy, the lovely woman at the front desk, gave me the right person’s name, directions, and the number of employees who worked there.

Last call to the carpet cleaner. It was the same dispatcher as last time so I hung up and tried again. This time I got a fresh voice. “Hi, I need one of your managers to come out and clean our lobby carpet. One of the guys got your flyer advertising six dollar per room, but he misplaced it, so would you do me a favor and bring another forty or so? We’ve got a lot of guys down here who want to get their carpets at home cleaned, so we want to put one of your flyers in everyone’s box. In fact, first thing when you get here, give the flyers to me and remind me that Eddie wants them to go in everyone’s “in” box. I’m Suzy. Anyway, we’d love it if you could come out this afternoon, the later the better.” She said there was an opening at 3:30 pm. “Perfect. Tell me, what’s the name of the manager you’re sending out?” She told me it was Greg. “Great. I know Eddie will look forward to meeting him. That’s Eddie Gold. And make sure you save a flyer for Eddie. If I’m busy I won’t get the flyers in the boxes tonight, but I know Eddie will want one right away.”

I was certain that Eddie would take a special interest in the nonexistent six-dollar carpet cleaning special. After all, that’s just the sort of thing the head of the fraud unit at the Hollywood Police Department would want to know about.

“Oh, dawling!” Aunt Bernice cried with joy. “You’ve given me such a laugh today. This is exactly the sort of thing Rita would have done if she were alive. I have such a good story for tonight’s bridge game.”

I smiled, thrilled by both my ability to make my aunt happy and the sheer rush of mischief.

* * *

“Hey, honey, we’re home,” Jack said as he and Adam walked through the door. Guess what we found today?”

“What?” I asked.

“I bought a junked car at a garage sale. It’s an original VW bug. Doesn’t work, but the body’s in great condition. We’re gonna have some fun with that.”

“What, may I ask, are we going to do with an immobile old car?” I asked.

“We paint the car!” Adam answered.

Jack confirmed. “When I was in San Diego, I saw this old car at the Children’s Museum that kids would paint. They had like four open buckets of paint beside it at all times, and the kids flipped.”

“You and Adam are going to paint the car?” I asked, envisioning the mess this would make.

“We’re gonna make a party of it. We’ll invite his friends from preschool and let them go to town. It’ll be a blast.” Ten kids with paint did not sound like a blast to me, but Jack seemed so thrilled, I didn’t have the heart to discourage him. “Think about it, we can park it in the front yard and paint it a different theme for holidays. For Halloween, we’ll paint it orange and make it a pumpkin. Thanksgiving we can make it into a turkey. We can make it into an Easter egg. Every month, we can do something different.”

“I’m sure the neighbors will appreciate that,” I said.

“Luce, this is why you wanted to leave New Jersey. Besides, you know no one can see our front yard unless they drive on to the property. We won’t offend anyone’s sensibilities.”
Except mine,
I thought. I looked at my husband, filled with life and excitement that he shared with my son who was shouting about painting the car.

“The car is soooo fat, Mommy!” Adam told me. I wasn’t sure if he was referring to the round top of the VW Beetle or if had learned some new ghetto jargon at preschool.

“Luce,” Jack said, smiling at me. “I know it sounds crazy, but trust me, you’re going to love it when you see how creative we can be with it. We can open the doors and make it into a Nativity scene next Christmas.”

“Can we make it a menorah for Chanuka?” I said, warming up to the idea of my husband’s wild happiness, if not the thought of having a piece of junk on our front lawn.

“I’ll find nine huge electric candles and everything!” Jack said. The things that made this man happy.

“Okay,” I shrugged, knowing that the damned thing was being towed over anyway.

Jack sidled up to me and whispered, “I checked out the back seat.” He raised his eyebrows. “It’s a tight squeeze, but on our own property, no harm, no foul.”

Chapter Fourteen

By May, I no longer startled at the sound of breaking glass. In fact, I didn’t even flinch. It was now simply part of the normal background noise at our home.

My mother’s cousin had lived in London during World War II and said that the first time she heard bombs drop she would frantically duck and cover, but within weeks, the noise no longer alarmed her. She continued her strolls utterly unfazed by the distant explosions. This was how I felt in my home.

Unlike Maxime, Randy the glass sculptor began working as soon as he arrived at our place. Unfortunately, he developed a case of slippery fingers, which is a serious problem for someone who works with glass. At least twice a day, I’d hear the thunderous crashing of glass breaking in Randy’s studio. He complained that not only were his creations being shattered, but that the windows in his house were cracked as well. We checked it out, and he was correct. Every piece of glass looked as though it had a cobweb in the center of it.

“It’s strange,” Randy said. “The first night I got here a window broke, then the next night the one next to it cracked. It’s like someone comes around and smashes it with a rock. Look at the pattern here. There’s some sort of an impact right at the center. It’s freaky that they’re all breaking in order too. It’s like my place is having a tantrum or something.”

I wondered if we had vandals or if perhaps Randy had pissed off a girlfriend. He would have to be a pretty fast operator to have a love affair go sour the same day he arrived in town, but it wouldn’t have surprised me too much if that were the case. He was, after all,
that
good looking.

Maxime still hadn’t produced a single work of art and wept inconsolably every day. Not that anyone was rushing to console him. Jacquie was gone most of every day, seemingly on a mission to single-handedly purchase the entire state of Massachusetts. Now Chantrell was crying, too. It appeared as though she and Maxime called off whatever relationship they had because she stopped visiting his home during Jacquie’s outings. Her new routine was bringing her cello outside next to the vegetable garden and weeping into the soil. I don’t know whether it was the salt water from her tears or the fact that she only played music for ten minutes, but Chantrell’s zucchini garden looked a lot like undernourished jalapeños.

Our arts colony had become a creative vacuum for our guests, but Jack’s painting was flourishing. He completed three pieces that were so dynamic, I hated to see him price them for sale. Not only was Jack filling canvasses, he invited Adam’s preschool class over to paint the VW bug. The kids dipped their hands in buckets of pastel color paints and were so thrilled to be able to leave their mark on the “crazy car,” as Adam called it.

I heard the crashing of glass from Randy’s cottage and wondered what he’d broken now. He hadn’t completed a single sculpture to show for his entire month stay with us.

I glanced at my watch. Thirty more minutes until I had to pick up Adam from preschool. I decided to lie down for a few minutes and recharge with a nap. And perhaps while I was at it, I’d imagine what it would be like to feel Randy’s hot glass-blowing body pressed against mine during a senseless romp in the woods. I eased back on to my fluffy comforter, closed my eyes and pictured Randy walking toward the house to borrow the dustpan so he could sweep shattered glass from his floor. My eyes shot open as I remembered that I needed to pick up Windex next time I was at the store. Okay, back to Randy. I took a deep breath, closed my eyes, and imagined him walking up to the house in his well-worn Stanford t-shirt and torn Levi’s asking if I had an extra light bulb. Hmmm, that wouldn’t work, I realized. I couldn’t have a tryst with him in my own house. Cut! I rewound the video tape in my mind and watched Randy walking backward down the path toward his own home. Action! I saw myself walking down to Randy’s house to bring him a light bulb.
Argh! Enough with the light bulbs already!
Back to Randy and his well-worn jeans and t-shirt. He opened the door and flashed a smile. “Thanks for the light bulb,” he said.
Lose the goddamned light bulb already!
Strike that. “Thanks for the masking tape,” he said.

“My pleasure,” I replied demurely. A gentle breeze blew back my hair, skillfully keeping it out of my lip gloss.

“Would you like to come in for lunch?” he asked, connecting his eyes with mine.

I looked at my watch and realized I was due at the preschool in twenty minutes.
Earth to Lucy! This is a sexual fantasy. You do
not
have to pick up anyone at preschool. You do not need to buy Windex. No one needs friggin’ light bulbs. Walk in the house and allow this man to seduce you!

I did not look at my watch. Instead, I smiled coyly and walked inside the glassman’s house. “Can I offer you some wine?” Randy asked.