by Lizz Lund
“Well, why don’t we find out if you’re really pregnant before we really worry about it?” I volunteered helpfully. “After all, you could have a medical problem that’s making you miss your period. And be nauseous. Hey, maybe you have a tumor!” I said brightly.
“Hey, yeah, you’re right!” Ethel smiled.
After some logistic discussions about buying pregnancy test kits – my suggesting Ethel buy her own kits, her suggesting I buy them because she didn’t think she could buy them without Ike since he insisted on driving her everywhere in ‘his baby’, my suggesting she buy them because I didn’t want to run into anyone I knew who might actually think that I might be the Pregnant One, her asking what was wrong with that, my pointing out the obvious, etc. – I got stuck agreeing to buy her stupid pregnancy kits. I finally got myself washed and dressed. I waved good morning to Ike on the sofa. I got Vinnie, Marie and the Ratties fed. And sneaked Ethel some saltines and tea while Ike washed up. Then I nuked a gallon of last night’s leftover coffee for the morning’s shift of unannounced visitors. Vito would probably be over any minute now with some other house’s jelly donuts. And he was.
“Sorry, sorry, sorry, Toots,” Vito said, letting himself in and holding a large white paper bag. “I got a little side tracked with some… ummm… errands this morning. But I got yous some jelly donuts and stuff. I figured after last night yous all could use them.” Truer words were never spoke.
“Jelly donuts?” Ethel called wanly from upstairs.
“Not for you,” I shouted back kindly.
“But I love jelly donuts,” Ethel sniffled. Yeeshkabiddle.
“Why can’t Ethel have a jelly donut?” Ike asked. He looked at me. I looked at Vito. Vito looked at me. So did Vinnie. And the Ratties.
“She, uh, had… too much party last night. Yeah, that’s it. Too much party last night,” I lied.
“BUT I’M FINE NOW,” Ethel yelled down pointedly.
“Okay,” I said. “If you’re really feeling up to it, then you come down and get it.” I was definitely not going to deal with anymore tossed cookies, much less tossed donuts. If Ethel could pass the staircase vertigo test, then she was cleared for donuts.
“Ikey, could you bring me up a jelly belly?”
Ike got caught with his arm halfway inside the bakery bag. Ike laughed nervously. “Of course. That’s just what I was just doing,” he said. He placed what looked like a jelly injected powdered pillow on a Dippin’ Donuts napkin and went upstairs. Vito and I grimaced. Hansel and Gretel and Vinnie immediately gathered around the open bag vying for sniffing privileges.
After wrestling the bag away from the pets, I put the goods on the kitchen counter out of reach of the Ratties and Vinnie. Vito had actually sprung – instead of his usual scrounging various neighbors’ houses – for freshly baked goods: jelly donuts, Bavarian cream donuts, apple fritters, honey buns, crullers and crumb buns aplenty. I was impressed. I hadn’t seen a legitimate crumb bun since moving to Lancaster.
“Where’d you find crumb buns?” I asked.
“I got connections. Besides, I figured I owe you some storage rent,” Vito said with a gaping smile. On account of because he hadn’t put his bridge in yet. But the day was young. It was only a little after seven.
“Huh?” I asked around a mouthful of apple fritter, while I poured coffee.
“For the, err… storage space in your basement,” Vito explained.
“Your house was on fire, Vito. One night isn’t a big deal.”
“Actually, it kind of might be more than one night.”
“Like, how many?”
Vito shrugged. “Until I can convince Mike I’m in the clear, and all is safe amongst us Amish.”
“A – we’re not Amish.”
“I know. But after I moved here, I found out that’s all people outside of here think about us. That we’re all Amish.”
“But you’re not Amish.”
“I know. But I’m Polish. And I’m Jewish. That’s some ish-es. And sometimes I’m a little kosher-ish, too.”
Oy vey.
Ike ran downstairs and into the kitchen, grabbed my fritter from my fingers and flung it in the sink.
“What gives?” I cried.
“THE DONUTS ARE BAD! ETHEL’S PUKING!”
I squinted. “Who said the donuts are bad?”
“Ethel,” Ike said.
“There’s nothing wrong with the donuts.” I retrieved my flung fritter and blotted it with a paper towel. I figured the 5-second rule applied. “I told you: Ethel had too much party.”
“Oh. Great!” he said, and reached for a crumb bun.
Vito caught his hand in mid-help-yourself. “I think maybe’s you owes Mina a apology. What for flinging her fritter and all.”
“I’m not going to apologize to Mina for – OUCH!” I looked at Vito with newfound appreciation. “Uh… YEAH… uh… sorry for the misunderstanding, Mina,” Ike winced. Vito let go.
“There, that’s better,” he said, and helped himself to the crumb bun Ike released with his sprained hand.
“Vito, I have to ask you for a favor,” I said.
“Sure, sure, sure, Toots. Go ahead. Name it,” he said, brushing his crumb bun crumbs off his tummy and down to the appreciative audience of Hansel and Gretel. And Vinnie. Who knew?
“Umm… I’m pretty sure I need a ride to work.”
“Your car broke?”
“It’s still at the garage at work. From yesterday. Trixie couldn’t find my pocketbook, remember?”
Vito nodded. “Sure, no problemo. I mean problem. Hey, how’s your head…” He fell short once he actually looked at my noggin. On top of my usual Technicolor nightmare, I was complete with a melon on top. Any more colors or bumps and I’d look like I’d escaped from a Star Trek convention.
I stared at Vito. He shrugged. Ike chewed. I poured some more coffee and the three of us clinked mugs absentmindedly. The upstairs toilet flushed again and we heard water running. I turned to Baron von Useless. “I have to go to work. It’s Wednesday,” I explained. Ike looked at me blankly. “It’s a school day. I have to work. I’m not on vacation,” I tried.
“Oh,” he said and munched on what looked like a life size replica of a chocolate covered tire. What kind of bakery did Vito go to? The Flintstones?
“Vito’s gonna drive me. I’m gonna leave,” I explained to my insulin challenged brother-in-law.
“Uh huh.”
“Ethel’s gonna need some things. Like Pepto-Bismol, and Maalox and stuff.”
“Uh huh.”
“She will probably need to eat something later.”
“Uh huh.”
“Like chicken soup. And saltines.”
“Uh huh.”
“And I wouldn’t give her any more jelly donuts, if I were you.”
Ike shivered and swallowed some coffee. “I still don’t see how she could get that sick from last night’s party. I’m fine,” he said, and reached for another crumb bun. Vito slitted his eyes. Ike opted for a Bavarian Cream.
I shrugged and said, “It’s a mystery.”
I sipped my coffee. I could practically feel the caffeine zinging through my veins. Even though science has disproved it, there are real-life honest-to-traffic-jam commuters who know for a fact that huge amounts of sugar and caffeine directly compensate for miniscule amounts of sleep. Especially if it’s double-strength black coffee and a humungous apple fritter. Even if it was a little soggy.
I went upstairs and checked on Ethel. She was lying in bed, at rest and perfectly green.
“Don’t puke in my bed, okay?” I asked. She nodded.
I emptied the bathroom wastebasket into an old grocery bag, tied a knot and made ready for La Garbage. I put the empty wastebasket next to my greenish sister. “Just in case,” I said.
“Okay,” she said back.
“Do you want anything?”
“Just a few dozen pregnancy test kits.”
I sighed and nodded and took the trash downstairs.
Vito was sitting on the sofa, holding the Peaceable Kingdom at bay by feeding the Ratties and Vinnie individual crumb bun crumbs. Ike sat in the club chair, clutching the remains of what looked like a white icing covered raft, staring off into space.
“Okay, Vito, I gotta roll,” I said. I dodged into the garage, deposited the trash in the garbage pail and came back in through the hallway. Vito was still doling out onesy-twosies crumbsies, and Ike’s eyes drooped while the raft o’icing leaned precariously toward the floor. I took the vanilla icing donut from Ike into the kitchen and signaled for Vito to dismiss his subjects. I automatically went to the newel post for my pocketbook. Then I remembered it got lost. I wondered how I was going to buy Ethel’s pregnancy test kits. Or get into EEJIT. Or drive my car. Or get back into my home. Well, at least I had company to let me in.
Vito and I walked across our driveways and got into his car. That is, I got into his car after we moved a medium sized dog bed, leash, collar and bags of kibble, wet food, treats, toys and a ‘How to Teach Your Dog Smart Tricks’ book to the back seat. Then I got in. I looked at Vito. He shrugged. “For Stanley,” he said simply. I took a deep breath and buckled my seat belt. I hoped that Stanley, or a really good Stanley lookalike, would be available for adoption in less than 72 hours.
We drove along in amicable silence and moved easily and non-stoppedly past only green traffic lights all along Manor Street. I frowned and silently cursed my red traffic light mojo.
Vito looked over at me. “You want I should pick up some groceries or Pepto-Bismol for Ethel?” he asked.
Now that I remembered I was without my pocketbook, bank card or checks, I nodded yes. I grimaced while thinking about spending the better part of the day on the phone with the police, the bank, credit card companies, the car dealer and a locksmith. “That would probably be a good idea,” I said out loud, regarding the locksmith and all. I also wondered if it would be too personal to ask Vito to pick up a few dozen pregnancy test kits. “Would you mind if I borrowed a little cash?” I asked. “I have some… umm… personal things I have to pick up.”
“No problemo,” Vito said, preventing me from divulging any personal information by holding up a hand. He pulled up to the drop-off at the Chestnut Street entrance, parked and reached for his wallet. It was stuffed with wads of monopoly money. Except this was genuine cold, hard cash. Well maybe it was a little warm, but that was only because Vito had been sitting on it, right?
He pulled out four fifty-dollar bills and handed them to me. “Just get what you need, Toots.”
“Thanks again, Vito,” I said. I opened the door. My leg was inches from the ground when Vito stopped me.
“Hey, Toots.” I turned around. “What time you think you’ll be done work? When should I pick you up?”
Oh. I’d hadn’t even thought about a ride home. And I hadn’t really thought about thinking about how long I would actually be at work – that is, if I had a job left.
I shrugged. “I’m not sure. I call you.”
Vito nodded and put his mirrored specs back on. As he pulled away and waited for a break in traffic, I thought I saw him look in the rearview mirror and insert his bridge. I shuddered and held up a virtual hand inside my brain to halt that image: I just didn’t want to know. I trudged off to the Armstrong Building entrance and entered.
What greeted my arrival were wafts of burnt electrical fumes and taped up ‘Out of Order’ signs across the bank of elevators. Great. I’d have to walk up the seven flights of stairs to EEJIT. Again. And work in stale smoke. Again. With How-weird. And possibly getting konked on the noggin. Again. I wondered which was worse.
I walked over to the vacant reception desk, and let myself in behind the counter. I found the phone set and dialed Howard’s extension to ask him to let me in once I climbed Mount Staircase. No dice: I got his voicemail. I hung up. I dialed Bauser’s line and got his voicemail, too. Same for Norman. Since I knew Norman would rather be anywhere, even EEJIT, than home with his step-daughters, I wondered if Effhue, Ltd. had actually closed EEJIT officially for the day.
So I tried calling EEJIT’s main number, and got a new outgoing message. “Hello and welcome to the voicemail system for EEJIT. Our Lancaster location is temporarily closed due to maintenance difficulties. If you know your party’s extension, please dial it at any time to leave a voicemail message. If this is an emergency, please press 2 for Howard Blech. Thank you for calling, EEJIT.”
I hung up the receiver and blinked. Number one: the outgoing phone message was ordinarily left by me, as part of my duties as office manager. The last time I changed it was last February because of a snow emergency. Number two: not only was the outgoing message voice not mine, it was Lee’s, which brought home that she was obviously ‘in the loop’ and I was not. Lastly, number three: if Lee was performing one of my duties, that couldn’t bode well for the rest of my job description.
I decided to call Bauser’s apartment to see if he and Norman were still there. The phone rang four times. I was about to hang up when Bauser answered.
“It’s me,” I said.
“Hey,” Bauser said back. “Isn’t it great? A paid day off after all!”
“It would be great if I had known,” I said.
“How couldn’t you know? You’re supposed to leave the outgoing message,” he said.
“I didn’t. Lee did.”
“Crap. Hey, Norman.” I heard the two of them conferring in the background. Then Bauser came back and said, “Norman said he thought How-weird got Lee to do it because of your getting konked on the noggin and all.”
“Nope.”
“Crap.”
“Well, Norman called in to check for both of us. But I stopped by early this morning to make sure, and saw the signs on the doors.”
“What signs?”
“The notices taped to the entrance, Mina.”
I looked over at the glass doors to the Queen Street entrance, and saw two letter-sized leaflets taped to the doors. I sighed. “I came in the Chestnut Street side. Vito drove,” I explained.
“You mean you’re in the lobby? How’d you get in without your ID?”
“I opened the doors and walked in.”
“Mina, the building should be on off-hours security. The lobby doors should be locked. That means you had to have your ID to get in. Where are you calling from?”
“The front desk.”
“Where’s the guard? Can I talk to him?”
“No guard.”
“Maybe you should leave.”
A shadowy realization slunk behind my forehead and I began to understand I was probably risking another bonked noggin. “Yup,” I answered, hung up, and hustled out the building and across Chestnut Street. Mostly because I heard an elevator bell ding from the allegedly non-functioning elevator bank just as I exited the lobby, stage right.
I walked across Chestnut Street, shaded my eyes and looked toward the office building’s glass lobby walls – but I couldn’t see a thing except reflections. Well, now I had a predicament. All paid off and no place to go. Especially with no car and no pocketbook. I winced, realizing there was probably another dry cleaning ticket in my wallet that needed picking up. But, since the jig was up, and Mrs. Phang admitted she was really from Hawthorne and not Vietnam, she probably wouldn’t be as persnickety about my not having an actual ticket. Especially as she might not have to fake an accent in front of me anymore. Unless, of course, a real dry cleaning customer was present.
I shrugged. The sun was shining, the air was clear, and only fluffy white clouds floated in the clear blue sky. A real break in the weather. I decided to go window shopping at the artsy stores along Queen Street. I couldn’t remember a day this perfect. What could go wrong?
I traipsed along Queen Street, feeling halfway between playing hooky and summer break. I thought about calling Howard at home and asking, “What gives?” about Lee’s leavi
ng the outgoing message. But I thought better about it, held my breath and counted to ten. There was no point in ruining a perfectly legitimate bonus day off. Anyway, I’d probably find out soon enough at work tomorrow. I highly doubted that Effhue Ltd. would sanction a second paid day off, fumes or no fumes.
I reached the corner of Queen and Lime, just across from the House of Happy. Across Lime there was an actual payphone. But then I realized I had to have actual change. But maybe I’d get lucky. I fingered the change slot, just in case – and found a forgotten quarter! Was this my lucky day, or what? I popped the quarter in and dialed Bauser’s.
“Hello?” Bauser answered.
“It’s me,” I said.
“Mina, jeez, where are you now? What happened?” Bauser asked.
“Corner of Lime and Queen, at a payphone.” A mechanical woman’s voice broke in and advised we had thirty seconds left to our conversation. “Hey, Bauser, can you call me back? I was just lucky and found a quarter to call you.”
“You can’t call back payphones anymore. Drug dealers. Talk fast.” The woman’s voice interrupted again and told us we had ten seconds left. “Why don’t you just stop by? You’re not that far away,” Bauser said.
I was about to answer when the mechanical female voice broke in again and pleasantly advised our conversation was terminated. I banged the phone a few times with the receiver for good luck and hung up.
That was when a remodeled Volkswagen bug careened the wrong way up Lime Street, cut a right onto Queen and headed straight for the payphone. And me. It ran up over the curb and onto the sidewalk and splashed a few weeks worth of stagnant puddle sludge on me. As I jumped back, it did a U-turn to go the right way down Lime and pulled up to a stop at the traffic light in front of me. The driver’s head looked like a pumpkin. Mostly because the driver wore a Halloween pumpkin head rubber mask. As the light turned green, Pumpkin Head looked at me, waved, and sped off. As the Bug screeched away, I decided to accelerate my stride and my arrival at Bauser’s before I got attacked by another vegetable.
Bauser lives in an oddly split shotgun-style apartment on Water Street, off of Chestnut Street, fairly close to both St. Bart’s and EEJIT. The building’s front door opens off Water and into a trim closed off hallway that once served as a fairly impressive foyer. The door on the left is Apt. #1A, a small studio. That apartment had seen a former life as a small dining room with a butler’s pantry. A rotating squad of art school students, mostly guys, lived here for a few semesters until the next art student moved in.