“It’s mine,” Vivien called to Wanda’s backside as Wanda disappeared through the slamming door.
Vivien stood alone in the office. She watched through the screen door as a small crowd gathered around her house. She wasn’t sure what she should do. Would it seem like she was bragging and looking for attention if she went outside and announced to the assemblage that she came with the house? Deciding that it wasn’t being boastful, since it was true, Vivien stepped outside.
Everyone ignored her.
“This is crazy,” someone in the crowd proclaimed. “Who could live in this?”
“I think it’s cute,” another person observed.
“I wonder how much living space there is?” a third person asked, while trying to peer in the window.
“It’s sixty-four square feet,” Vivien said, trying to nudge her way closer to the house. She was standing behind a mountain of a man and it seemed impossible to get around him.
The mountain turned toward her, eyebrows arched.
“How do you know?” The mountain spoke with Bodey’s gruff voice.
“Because it’s my house,” Vivien said softly, trying not to draw attention to herself.
“This is your house?” Bodey’s voice boomed.
“Yes,” Vivien squeaked, looking down at her shoes.
She looked up as the commotion around Shrimpfork stopped. Everyone turned to look at her. She saw a mixture of curiosity, surprise, and suspicion on their faces. She squared her shoulders. Bale had told her that the house would cause a sensation everywhere she went, so she might as well get used to it.
“It’s sixty-four square feet, has a loft, and can be pulled by a compact or mid-sized pickup truck,” she said.
Shrimpfork was besieged by the crowd. Vivien looked at Bodey for guidance. It was his crowd. He seemed to understand.
“Stand back, people,” Bodey bellowed. “This lady just got here. We don’t want to scare her away.”
You’ve got that right!
Bodey held out his hand and gallantly escorted Vivien up onto the trailer.
“I guess I’m the first tiny house to pull into this RV park,” Vivien said. “But I hope I’m not the last. I’m new to this way of life, so I can’t tell you that it’ll stick. I’m hoping for the best.”
“Why not buy an RV?” a woman asked, a touch defensively.
“I thought about it,” Vivien said. “But I just liked the idea of a little house. I’m not planning on going from place to place in short spans of time. I just think I might have better luck finding places to stay with a tiny house than an RV.”
There were murmurs of assent.
“Can we see inside?” Wanda asked.
“Sure,” Vivien said. “But you’ll have to go in one at a time. It’s the tiniest of the tiny houses.”
Vivien jumped off the trailer and the RV community politely lined up to look inside Shrimpfork.
Vivien felt like she was being interviewed for a newscast. Everyone had questions—questions she felt would have been considered rude in any other circumstance.
“How much did this cost?”
“How long do you think you can live like this?”
“Were you homeless before you bought Shrimpfork?”
This last question caught her by surprise. Why would someone think she’d been homeless? She couldn’t resist asking.
“Only a homeless person would have so little stuff!” came the innocent reply.
Everyone also had an opinion. From the wistful “I wish I could live here” to the grumpy “You’d have to be nuts to buy this tuna can.” Finally, the onlookers appeared to be satisfied and returned to their RVs. Vivien was left standing with Wanda and Bodey.
“You caused quite a stir,” Bodey said. “You ready to check in?”
Vivien bit her lip—she’d been ready to check in an hour ago.
Chapter 7
Priscilla looked out the window into the back courtyard and smiled. Marco and Clay were just returning from a run. The dog was leaping in the air, wagging so strenuously his backside curved around to almost meet his snout.
Priscilla was grateful for Marco’s attention to her and her dog. Although she lived alone, she knew she could always count on Marco if she had an emergency. And she never really felt lonely. She had her memories.
Priscilla rapped on the back kitchen window. Marco looked up as Priscilla pointed to her watch and waved him in. It was time for her favorite show, This Old Thing? —a cable show on which the distinguished host Cornwall “The Colonel” Abbott traveled around the United States studying the offerings of locals who hoped to find out if one of their family’s castoffs was actually worth some money.
On yesterday’s episode, the Colonel dismissed a silver salt and pepper shaker set shaped like bears, was grudgingly impressed by a cut-glass two-foot vase, and practically fawned over a Civil War–era side table.
Marco had also become a fan of the show. Like Priscilla, he was from an old New Mexico family. Every time a new object flashed on the screen and the Colonel pronounced it worth thousands of dollars, Marco would be sure somewhere in his family’s storage they must have something similar. He would then plan elaborate trips to Europe, make painstaking decisions on which expensive car to buy and which house in Sandstone—or maybe even Taos—he’d buy for his father and sister.
Marco read online that This Old Thing? was coming to Taos. This took the daydreaming to a whole new level. Marco now studied every episode, trying to get a handle on what obscure object might be desirable to the Colonel.
“Do you think the Colonel would be interested in a turquoise belt?” Marco asked Priscilla.
“I don’t know,” Priscilla said. “Is it valuable?”
“That’s the point of going on the show, isn’t it? To find out if you have something worth a lot of money?”
“But didn’t you buy that belt yourself?”
“Yeah. So?”
“So you know what it’s worth.”
“I could pretend I didn’t. I’ll bet people do it all the time to just get on TV.”
“Do you really think so?”
“I don’t know. But if I get on the show, I’ll find out and let you know.”
Priscilla shook her head.
While she never thought she would find anything particularly unusual if she started digging though her attic, the show did make her itch to start rooting through things.
She told Marco that since she had no family, there would be no one to take care of her affairs after she was gone. She did not want to leave a mess. Watching that Colonel Cornwall Abbott produced fantasies for Priscilla too.
Marco turned up the volume on the TV for the familiar opening of the show. Lasers shot beams around a vast, dark space. In the center was a semi-circle of six podiums, three on each side of the platform, which suddenly lit up, revealing the Colonel himself, ready to take on—or take down—the six hopeful guests and their potential treasures.
“Hello, my lovelies.” The Colonel stretched his arms to include the entire audience, not just the guests at the podiums on either side of him.
The camera took in the adoring crowd, before returning to the Colonel as he greeted his guests. He studied the couple at the first podium.
“Let’s see what you have for me,” the Colonel said.
“We’ve brought some kind of string instrument we found at a flea market,” the bespectacled man at the podium said. “It seemed like it might be worth something.”
“I’m always so nervous for them,” Priscilla said, leaning forward toward the TV set. She watched as the Colonel examined the instrument. “He can just be so brutal if he’s displeased.”
“That’s all for show, I’ll bet,” Marco said. “It would be boring if he was nice all the time.”
“I hope you’re right,” P
riscilla said, chewing on her thumbnail.
“This is a morin khuur—the national instrument of Mongolia,” the Colonel said. “Traditionally, the two strings are made of dried deer or mountain sheep sinews.”
The camera closed in on the Colonel’s hands as he showed the two strings. He continued, “The end of the neck is designed to look like a horse’s head—an homage to their beasts of burden, no doubt.”
The camera zoomed out again to show the Colonel and the couple.
“He is so smart!” Marco said. “How does he know all this shi…stuff?”
“Shhh,” Priscilla said.
“It is played with a bow, usually made of willow,” the Colonel continued.
He looked at the couple.
“Do you have the bow?” he asked.
The couple mournfully shook their heads.
“I thought not,” the Colonel said, playing to the audience.
“He can be so mean!” Priscilla said, but she giggled.
“An antique morin khuur could be worth thousands,” the Colonel said.
The couple hugged as the crowd applauded.
“But not this one,” the Colonel sneered. “This is not much better than a toy. The strings are plastic.”
He handed it back to the deflated couple.
“I hope you didn’t pay more than seventy-five dollars,” the Colonel said.
“Oh, that poor woman looks like she’s going to cry,” Priscilla said.
“By the way,” the Colonel said. “The faint outline on the back where the ‘Made in China’ sticker used to be should have given you a clue.”
“Ouch,” Marco said.
A giant of a man appeared on screen. He had a shock of ginger hair and wore an electric-blue suit. There was enthusiastic applause from the audience. “I was wondering when Franklin was going to show up,” Priscilla said sourly. “I don’t think he adds anything to the show.”
“You’re kidding? I think he’s cool. Besides, the Colonel is getting up there.”
“And that’s a problem? Is he suddenly any less knowledgeable because he’s older?”
Marco was saved by the television. The Colonel’s rich baritone filled Priscilla’s living room.
“All right, Franklin,” the Colonel addressed the man, who appeared to be holding an intricately carved small box in his enormous hands. “It’s that time again, is it?”
Marco leaned toward the television set.
“Does the Colonel look nervous to you?” Marco asked.
“Of course not,” Priscilla said. “Why would he be nervous?”
“Do you want to remind our audience what we’re going to do?” the Colonel asked.
“Sure, Colonel,” the younger man rumbled. “This is a new segment of the show that has proven to be very popular with our audience. It’s called ‘What Is It?’”
The audience cheered.
“Every week, I bring out an item carefully selected by our staff to see if we can stump you,” Franklin continued.
“How has that been working for you?” the Colonel asked.
Marco and Priscilla hooted along with the studio audience.
“We haven’t managed to put one over on you yet,” Franklin said.
“But hope springs eternal,” the Colonel replied, holding out his hand. “Let’s see what you have for me today.”
Franklin laid a small onyx box on the table in front of the Colonel. The audience was silent as the Colonel studied the object. The sound of a clock ticking added to the tension.
“I don’t like this part of the show,” Priscilla said, holding a pillow to her eyes.
“Are you kidding?” Marco said. “I think it’s the best part.”
The Colonel picked up the box and studied it, turning it over and over in his hands. A tiny bead of sweat appeared on his temple.
“I don’t think he knows what it is,” Marco said.
“So what?” Priscilla asked defensively, putting the pillow in her lap. “I mean, a person can’t know everything.”
“I think that’s the point of the show,” Marco said. “That the Colonel does know everything.”
“Shhhh,” Priscilla said as a buzzer sounded. “The buzzer means time is up.”
They returned their attention to the television set.
“All right, Colonel,” Franklin asked. “What is it?”
“It appears to be some sort of puzzle box,” the Colonel said, holding the box to the light.
“Good start,” Franklin said. “What else can you tell us?”
“This one is Japanese,” the Colonel said as the camera played over the box. “It’s decorated in the traditional Yosegi pattern. I would say from the wood, we’re looking at a piece from the mid-eighteenth century.”
The audience applauded mildly as the Colonel returned the box to the table in front of him.
“Impressive, Colonel,” Franklin said. He looked into the audience. “But we’re not going to let you get away that easily, are we?”
The audience roared with laughter.
“I don’t understand,” Priscilla said to Marco. “It’s as if they want him to fail.”
“Of course they want him to fail,” Marco said. “He’s such a know-it-all. It’d be awesome to trip him up for once.”
“I’m not sure what else you want to know,” the Colonel said.
“Oh, I don’t want to know anything else,” Franklin said. He paused dramatically. The audience was silent as they waited. “I want you to open it.”
The audience erupted in jeers, sneers, and cheers.
“It’s like ancient Rome.” Priscilla clicked her tongue. “Everyone out for blood.”
“It involves finding just the right spot in the design,” the Colonel said, picking up the box again. “The concept was to make it impossible for thieves to get to the hidden valuables.”
“That’s very interesting,” Franklin said. “But not as interesting as actually seeing you open it.”
“I can’t watch,” Priscilla said, hiding her eyes again.
“Put the pillow down,” Marco said. “You don’t want to miss this!”
Priscilla peeked out from behind the embroidered square.
A jarring buzzer sound came from the television.
“All right, Colonel, time’s up,” Franklin said.
“This was a good one,” the Colonel said.
“Too good,” Franklin said jovially. “It looks like we got you.”
Franklin put out his hand to take the box from the Colonel.
“Oh, I wouldn’t say that,” the Colonel said as he pushed a hidden recess in the box.
The box suddenly fanned out like a lotus, displaying several small compartments.
“Holy shit,” Marco said, then cast an eye at Priscilla.
She did not tolerate that sort of language.
But Priscilla was so absorbed in the drama of the show that she missed Marco’s lapse.
Chapter 8
Vivien was exhausted. She had taken meticulous notes when Bale showed her how to hook up the power, water, and septic tank, but now nothing seemed to work. She tried to use the flashlight on her iPhone to illuminate the diagram Bale had drawn for her, but the whole thing was a blur.
When two local teenage boys, Jeff and Trevor, offered to help, she wanted desperately to put on a brave, competent face, but she was just too damn tired. She caved. The boys had the tiny house all hooked up in minutes.
“Thanks, you guys,” Vivien said.
Although the boys were at least six years her junior, she felt more comfortable talking to them than all the adults she’d been dealing with over the last few days.
“No worries,” Jeff said. “This place is off the hook.”
“I know, right?” Vivien said, simmering with pride
.
“Seriously,” Trevor added, “This place is flame.”
Flame?
Vivien suddenly didn’t feel quite so young.
“Can we check it out?” Jeff asked.
Vivien recalled seeing the two boys hanging around the periphery of the crowd that had gathered around the tiny house that afternoon. She remembered being their age and feeling that mix of curiosity being outweighed by that elusive coolness factor.
She felt positively ancient at the thought!
“Sure,” Vivien said, shrugging her shoulders. “Go in. It’s not locked.”
The boys leaped up on the trailer bed and were in the house in seconds. After hours of visitors, Vivien knew the tour would only take a minute or two. She looked at her watch. In ninety seconds, the boys were back outside.
“There’s no furniture in there,” Jeff said. “Where are you going to sleep?”
“I have an air mattress for tonight,” Vivien said.
“In the loft?” Trevor asked.
“Want us to blow it up for you?” Jeff offered.
Vivien looked at the boys. They were young, but they weren’t that young. She could just imagine what their mothers would think. Not to mention what her mother would think!
“That’s okay,” Vivien said. “I think I can handle it.”
Vivien walked outside with the boys, and was about to say good night, when she made a flash decision to abuse their good nature one last time.
Within minutes of her asking, the boys had vaulted over the side and into the bed of the truck, retrieving her blow-up mattress in no time. Jeff handed her the box.
“Sure you don’t want us to set this up?” Jeff asked. “Our mom always uses one of these when we’re camping.”
Your mom?
Feeling much older than her twenty-two years, Vivien waved goodbye, took the box, and headed back into Shrimpfork.
Compared to learning about the trailer hitch and driving the truck in reverse with Shrimpfork attached, inflating the air mattress was a breeze. As tired as she was, Vivien couldn’t stop making lists for the things she’d need to make Shrimpfork home. The biggest ticket item was a love seat. She was glad she hadn’t bought the seven-foot tufted sofa she’d had her heart set on—it would have taken up the entire living space. Vivien peeked over the edge of the loft and stared down at the empty space below her. Would she ever be able to think of that postage-stamp-size area as a living room?
Tiny House on the Road Page 4