And, so, with our bases covered from New Age spiritualism to old-time religion, we moved our antiques in, and Trash ‘n’ Treasures was ready to rock ‘n’ roll.
Anyway, Saturday morning.
Mother and I and Sushi were waiting in the shop for Joe Lange to arrive and “take the conn” (as the longtime Trekkie put it) so that we could attend the swap meet down on the riverfront.
Joe was tall and loose-limbed, with nice features that were somehow a wee bit off—one eye higher than the other, mouth a touch too wide, nose off-center. He was a committed bachelor (in the sense that he’d been occasionally institutionalized), and was an old pal of mine since our community college days, when we were assigned as lab partners in biology class. I’d been faced with a crucial decision: either strangle the irritating nerd, or befriend him. I chose the latter. After graduation, Joe joined the Marines and fought in the Middle East, while I married an older man in Chicago. On some level, we were both getting away from our mothers.
And now, veterans of our various wars, Joe and I were both back home, more or less where we started, including living with our mothers. To varying degrees, I suppose, we were both damaged goods. If you’re wondering, we weren’t an item. Joe showed no signs of interest in sex, either female or male.
Mother was saying, “Dear, I wonder if we’re making a mistake, entrusting our shop to that poor troubled soul. One day it may come back to bite us in the you-know-what.”
She was wearing a new Breckinridge summer outfit—pink slacks, and a pink-and-white checked blouse; the only out-of-date item in her ensemble were the huge-framed magnifying eyeglasses.
I shrugged. "Joe did all right at the shop while we were in New York.”
I had on my fave DKNYjeans and a gauzy floral shirt by Joie, an Internet steal.
We had left Joe in charge for two weeks, and received nary a customer complaint. His sales had been respectable, too.
“Yes,” Mother said, then qualified her nod. “But it’s just about that time.”
She was referring to Joe’s summer “drug holiday,” when his doctor took him off his antipsychotic meds for a few months, because of their potency. The problem was that my friend then reverted to Marine status, and went into full survival mode, often camping out in the caves at Wild Cat Den State Park.
Hiding out was more like it.
The front door opened and Joe stepped in, wearing his desert camouflage utilities. (Once— okay, maybe a couple of times—I have referred to his attire as “fatigues” and caught heck for it.) He wore no helmet or hat, and thankfully wasn’t carrying any military weapons.
“Reporting for duty,” he said crisply.
I exchanged wary looks with Mother.
“Joe, dear,” Mother said in the kind of voice a negotiator uses to talk someone down off a ledge, “do you think you might be able to stand watch here at the shop for a few hours? Brandy and I need to attend the swap meet.”
“Roger that,” he said. “You’ll return at. . . ?”
I checked my watch; it was ten now. “Oh-two hundred.” Then added, “Give or take an ‘Oh.’ Would you like us to bring you lunch?”
“Negatory.” He patted a tan bag slung over a shoulder. “Packed my own rations.”
Leaving Sushi behind, Mother and I made our uneasy exit. Outside, I asked, “You think Joe will be all right?”
“As in, is he up to handling a few customers without scaring them silly? Or, how likely is it he will take them hostage and wait for air support?” “I was thinking more like . . . will he courtmarital anybody with slippery fingers?”
I blinked away the image of middle-aged Serenity ladies lined up for a firing squad.
Mother raised a finger of her own. “My last instruction to the boy was to uphold the Geneva Convention!”
“I’m sure that was helpful.” I sighed. “No chemical or biological warfare, anyway. Does our liability insurance cover post-traumatic stress disorder?” “In him or us, dear?”
Parked in front of the shop was Mother’s vintage 1960s black Caddy convertible (more about that later), and I climbed in behind the wheel, Mother riding shotgun. She had lost her license due to numerous infractions, including but not limited to: taking a shortcut though a cornfield to make curtain time for a play she was starring in; running down a curbside mailbox shaped like an open-mouthed spotted bass; and driving with a suspended license (to get chocolate-mint ice cream in the middle of the night).
I drove the short distance to Riverfront Park, which was across the railroad tracks. The park had been recently beautified by a wrought-iron fence, in keeping with the restored Victorian redbrick train depot.
In past years, the city council, understanding that Serenity’s biggest asset was the Mississippi River, lavished money into enhancing the halfmile riverfront by adding a state-of-the-art playground, restroom facilities, a new boathouse (along with improved slips), and an assortment of beautiful trees, flowerbeds, and general landscaping. Plus ample parking for residents and visitors alike.
Even so, one had to get up at the crack of dawn to snag a parking spot for the summer swap meet, which drew folks from a hundred miles around. But Mother had come up with an ingenious plan for when we were finished shopping: she had entered the Caddy in the antiques car show, which was piggy-backing the swap meet. When the time came to head back to the shop, laden with purchases, having walked the entire length of the park, corns aching (hers), feet swollen (mine), our ride would be right there, waiting for us.
We parked among the other classic cars and vintage relics, made a little small talk with event organizer Mr. Blackwood, and headed off toward the swap meet area. The day was glorious, the temperature in the mid-seventies, humidity low, sun shining brightly in a clear blue sky, with just enough breeze to dry any bead of sweat.
Summer in the Midwest brings all kinds of weather, which Mother and I like to describe as cities.
“Brandy, what kind of weather have we out there?” she would ask.
“Chicago,” I might reply, meaning, windy. Or “Houston,” hot and humid. Or “Seattle,” rainy.
Today was “San Diego.” Which, if you’ve ever been to that wonderful city, means perfect.
But this was Iowa, so blink and you might find yourself in another “city”. . . .
We had a dual purpose today in attending the swap meet. In addition to finding interesting items for the shop, Phil Dean was going to shoot additional footage of us browsing the vendors, the last of his B-roll wish list.
I’m sure he hoped Mother, Serenity’s favorite diva, would do something outrageous for the camera; and I felt confident she wouldn’t disappoint.
You may be wondering what my role on the proposed TV show was. Well, basically, to be her straight man. The Crosby to her Hope. The Martin to her Lewis. Only I didn’t sing as well as either. Maybe I was Abbott to her Costello.
Anyway, Mother was asking, “Where were we to meet Phil?”
“In front of the fried butter stand.”
Okay, so sometimes we don’t eat so healthy in the Midwest. Considering this delicacy was created at the Iowa State Fair—famous since 1911 for its annual life-size cow sculptures fashioned from 600 pounds of pure creamery butter— isn’t fried butter the next logical step? And before you turn up your nose at the sweet concoction, you should try it. Maybe your mouth will turn up (as in a smile).
FRIED BUTTER
1 stick butter, chilled
funnel cake batter mix
1 tsp. cinnamon
vegetable oil
honey glaze
Prepare cake batter as instructed, adding cinnamon. Cover chilled butter with batter. Heat vegetable oil to 375-400 degrees. Fry batteredbutter in hot oil 1 to 1½ minutes. Remove to paper plate to drain, then drizzle with honey.
(WARNING: Fried Butter is not for everyone, as some serious, even fatal, side effects have been reported. These include—but are not limited to—dizziness, numbness of extremities, nausea, increased sweating, bl
urred vision, third-degree burns, shortness of breath, stroke and/ or heart failure. Do not consume if you have a cholesterol level over 200, are allergic to butter, have hepatitis B, glaucoma, lupus, or have traveled to parts of the country where certain fungal infections are common.)
Enjoy!
We found Phil, toting his Sony HD camera, next to the long line of fried butter enthusiasts. In his early forties, the former director of photography of such popular reality TV shows as Extreme Hobbies and Witch Wives of Winnipeg was today playing an extra role besides that of pro-ducer/director, reverting to his original calling as cinematographer. His regular cameraman had already departed for LA with the pilot episode’s main footage.
Phil—muscular, with thick dark hair tinged with silver at the temples, a salt-and-pepper beard, and intense dark eyes—refused to dress like the producer he’d become, still wearing his scuffed white Nikes, torn Levi blue jeans, and wrinkled plaid shirts. Which, to my thinking, was smart, as his good-natured casual style put the local extras (often nervous before the camera) immediately at ease.
Accompanying Phil was Jena Hernandez, a young, petite, dark-haired woman wearing a halter top and shorts; the attractive Hispanic was Phil’s assistant director, also handling continuity, and makeup and hair. (Crew members covering multiple positions were essential in staying within our pilot’s limited budget.)
The first day on set, which is to say our shop, Jena had immediately clashed with Mother (no surprise there), becoming easily exasperated with her eccentric star’s theatrical demands. The talented young woman was ready to quit, when I took her aside.
“Look,” I said gently, “I understand that you’re frustrated, stuck in this hick town dealing with a wild woman . . . and, for you, this is just a stepping stone to better things.” I paused, then went on. “But if you can’t handle her, how are you going to manage Hollywood actors with much bigger egos, and who have the power to fire you?”
Jena studied my face. “What should I do? Ignore her?”
I laughed once. “Oh, no. That’ll only makes things worse. Think of her as a child. If you want her to do something, you have to cajole, flatter, and manipulate.”
“Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
Smooth sailing ever since.
Phil was asking, “Anybody got an antacid?”
I could tell by the melted butter stains on his shirt that he’d partaken of the fried delight while waiting for us. Probably not that many fried butter stands in LA.
Mother, who always carried a small pharmacy in her purse, obliged, and Phil popped the pill in his mouth and swallowed sans liquid.
Mother turned to Jena. “How do I look, dear?” “You look lovely, Mrs. Borne.”
“More powder?”
“Your skin is perfect.”
“Too much rouge?”
“Just the right amount.”
“Perhaps a different shade of lipstick?”
“That one complements you well. You look ten years younger. Twenty.”
Mother beamed. “Thank you, my dear! What a lovely young professional woman you are.” And I winked at Jena, and she winked back, as Mother turned her attention to Phil.
“What’s on the call sheet today, dah-ling?”
His wince was barely perceptible. “I’ve got several vendors already lined up for you to visit.” “
I have pages?” Mother asked officiously.
Sorry to disappoint, but most reality shows are at least loosely scripted, a process made looser by Mother, since she often ignored the “pages” she was demanding.
Phil shook his head. “This will be improvised.”
“But the play is the thing!”
I said, “Mother, it’s like Second City—‘something wonderful right away.’ You’ll be fine.”
“Well, obviously, dear—but what about you? You have no training!”
Phil waved that off. “You and Brandy won’t even be miked.”
Which suited me fine—I hated wearing that battery pack on my fanny with its cold cord snaked up my shirt.
Mother frowned. “Not even a lavalier?”
“No.”
“Well. . . what will I say? What is my motivation? One can’t improvise properly without a premise from which to create.”
Phil said, “Your motivation is to get this pilot in the can. The premise is you’re shopping.” “
For what? Antiques? Collectibles? Am I to bargain like an Arab trader? Meaning no ethnic slur. Am I to introduce myself as the star of our new show? I can’t build a house without bricks, man!”
I snorted. “I’m sure you’ll think of something, Mother.”
Phil sighed. “What you say really doesn’t matter, Mrs. Borne.”
“Well, of course it matters!” Mother huffed. “We’re establishing my character here! Not to mention there will be lip-readers in our viewing audience.”
The producer/director/cameraman was on the verge of losing his laid-back composure— and I’m sure the one-fourth pound of butter in his stomach was no help.
Jena touched Mother’s arm. “Vivian . . .just be your wonderful, charming, vivacious self.”
That girl would go far in Hollywood.
Mother beamed. “Well, that I can do, dear! Standing on my head.”
And she could, too. Stand on her head.
Mother faced Phil, a thoughtful finger to her cheek. “For purposes of improv, shall we say I am browsing, on the prowl for new items for our shop?”
“Let’s,” Phil said.
Followed by Phil and Jena, Mother and I strolled down a blacktop path between rows of facing vendors, stopping at one selling linens in a tent, and another hawking antique dishes on a table under the sun. Phil seemed pleased with the shot he got of Mother and me looking over merchandise, chatting about potential buys. True, Mother was a tad over-the-top, but no more than usual.
But when we visited the last pre-set-up vendor selling nautical curiosities, trouble arose between the dealer, one Mr. Snodgrass, and Mother.
Mr. Snodgrass lived down the block from us, and I’d known him since I was in elementary school. Back then, he’d often yell at me for taking a shortcut through his perfectly manicured lawn.
And his name really was Snodgrass—I didn’t change it to an appropriate echo, Charles Dickens-style, though I believe his name did have a lot to do with his lifelong obsession with grass (the green kind).
Anyway, Phil had just finished shooting a little segment of Mother and me picking out an old brass clinometer (a navigational instrument used for recording a ship’s sideways tilt) when Mother handed the slice-of-pie-shaped antique back to the dealer.
“I thought you were buying this, Mrs. Borne,” Mr. Snodgrass said, somewhat flummoxed. “I’ve already rung it up.”
He’d been old even back when I was in the third grade; these were the same rheumy eyes and bulbous nose, the lines between his bushy eyebrows and around his mouth deeply grooved from years of yelling, “Stay off my grass!”
Mother said, “Then after I’ve paid for it, I’ll be returning it for a refund.” She leaned forward and almost whispered: “We really have no use for such an item in our shop—it’s not like we have a nautical room.”
The man’s face reddened. “All sales are final, Vivian.”
Mother put hands on hips; her feet were already dug in. “I hate to quarrel with a dear old neighbor like you, Rodney . . .”
Rodney Snodgrass. I wouldn’t kid you.
“. . . and I do hate to get you on a technicality, but it’s not a sale until I actually give you the money. ”
Mr. Snodgrass had the expression of a bull in an old cartoon, seeing a red cape—you know, right before steam comes out its nostrils and ears.
Having seen this particular cartoon a number of times, I turned to Phil and whispered: “Need me anymore?”
“No,” he smiled weakly. “Brandy Borne, you’re wrapped.”
That was TV talk meaning I was finished for the
shoot —the whole darn pilot. Free at last, great God almighty, free at last. . . .
I patted his arm. “Safe trip back to LA.”
“Wish us luck selling this thing.”
I raised a finger. “Be careful what you wish for.”
After smiling a good-bye to Jena, I made my escape. Mother never missed me. Anyway, there was a purchase I wanted to make. It wasn’t for the shop, but my stomach.
I made a beeline back to the fried butter stand.
Yes, I knew it wasn’t good for me. That it was impossible to look pretty or dignified or to maintain any other respectable state of human appearance while eating a fried stick of butter.
Which is why I retreated with my treat behind the stand, to an old oak tree, where I sat, Indianstyle, with plenty of napkins in my lap.
I was about to bite into the hot, gooey confection, when another carnival-food addict—also seeking cover—rounded the tree.
Caught yellow-handed, we both laughed.
“What would your wife say?” I asked.
“What would the stockholders say?” Wes Sinclair responded. He wore a pale yellow polo shirt, tan Bermuda shorts, and expensive slip-on shoes, sans socks.
I laughed again (more of a snort). “I can practically hear the market price dropping on your company.”
He settled next to me in the grass, a literal wealth of Serenity money and history right next to me, eating fried butter.
Wesley Sinclair III was a fourth generation blueblood, or anyway his was as blue as blood got in Serenity, Iowa. His great granddaddy had founded the corn processing plant south of town, which recently became a Fortune 500 company (493, but who’s counting?) under Wesley’s savvy leadership, the thirty-two year old having taken over as CEO after his father’s death.
Wes and I were the same age, and had dated a few times at community college after his partying too much got him flunked out freshman year at Columbia University. He came to his senses after his sophomore year and went back to Columbia, graduating with honors.
Antiques Maul Page 21