Alpaca My Bags

by Violet Patton

  Wayne swilled his beer fast. He was late for Jeopardy and loaded into his golf cart. “You guys get a golf cart yet?”

  “Got one on order,” Philly said, digging in the ice chest for beer number three. Four if you counted Wayne’s.

  “We do?” My turkey neck waggled. “Why do we need a golf cart?”

  Wayne pushed back his cowboy hat. “Bunny,” he said, getting too familiar, too fast. “It’s way too hot to walk.” He cranked over the battery, made a U-turn and honked his annoying golf cart horn. “Gotta run.”

  “Isn’t it nice, having neighbors welcome you to the neighborhood?” Philly grinned.

  “Stop by tomorrow,” Sondra said. “Orientation is at ten a.m. Amelia will expect you. It’s mandatory.” She got into her golf cart and drove away in a hushed whirl of battery power. Ann walked home. Madonna waved and went inside.

  We stood alone on the blackened streets of the Desert Oasis. The goatsuckers were watching, waiting until our guard was down, they’d attack when we weren’t looking. Across the street mini-blinds swayed in the windows and I knew we’d never have another moment of peace.

  Philly stomped back and forth between the Caddy and the park model, putting the suitcases in the house and leaving the door open.

  We were the new owners of four hundred some odd square feet of compact space, plus a carport and a tin shed on the property line. A three-foot wide veranda ran the length of the carport. Rock covered what would have been the front lawn. No sidewalks. No shade trees. No cool ocean breezes.

  Our air-conditioner cycled on and sputtered worse than the Caddy had overheating.

  I glanced down the empty black street. “We better get inside. I got me a willie crawling. It’ll be dark soon.”

  “It’s hours before the sun goes down.”

  “Yeah. No telling what the dark will bring out in this desert.” I gazed into the sizzling sun dipping lower into the horizon. “I bet there are goatsuckers in this place.”

  My Daddy put the fear of goatsuckers in me. Back when he had goats, now and then one would turn up dead with no marks or wounds. They would drain the poor thing’s blood dry. There’s nothing worse than finding a dead goat with no blood. Made the day go bad.

  He put his arm around me “Don’t worry, Hunny Bunny, I will protect you from the monsters.”

  Chapter Two

  Orientation

  Our first night didn’t go well. Philly said the place came semi-furnished. I hadn’t set my expectations low enough. It was a good thing we wouldn’t live with the furnishings long.

  “Whose stuff is this?” I asked as he showed off our prized abode. In the bathroom, the pink flocked velvet wallpaper was a valuable antique or an atrocity, even the toilet was a pasty ugly pink. I never.

  “The owners.” He shrugged. “Dunno.”

  “What year did they last live here?”

  The two pink recliners in the living area were circa 1990 if they were that new. The ancient television sitting on a shelf next to the kitchen bar had a VHS slot in the bottom.

  In the tablespoon sized bedroom, I slid open the mirrored bedroom closet doors. The small bedroom only had enough room to walk around the double bed sideways.

  “She left her clothes?” I folded my arms; something felt off about this setup. I flipped through the clothes quick, but nothing matched my easygoing style. It all had to go.

  What woman would leave her clothes? I moved and brought an army of clothes I might wear again. The key word is might. You never know when clothes will come back into style.

  “We’ll get it cleaned out quick enough. It’s only until our pack and ship container arrives.” Philly shrugged leaning against the bedroom doorjamb. “Don’t you love the shelves on the wall? You can put stuff on them.” Built-in bookshelves and a bureau lined the wall opposite the closet.

  “Huh-uh.” He worked hard to make me abhor the place and didn’t need to, I already hated it.

  He walked through the miniature kitchen. I hollered despite the short distance between us. “My bed won’t fit in here.”

  I wasn’t about to live without my six-month-old luxury foam lift bed.

  From the bedroom door, I watched him plop onto a recliner. That was a sight—my burly man happily lounging in an ugly pink chair.

  “Yes, it will. I measured it.” He looked peevish like heat stroke had set in, but I think it was reality. We had... no he had made a huge mistake. I know my man; he’d never admit to being wrong, especially a booboo this big. The Oasis was a doozy mistake.

  “We’ll see about that. You mean for us to sleep there tonight?” I pointed behind me at the ragged bed covers.

  “Dunno. Where’s my scotch?”

  “Dunno.”

  We ate our leftover travel food. Phil drank scotch, and I hatched a plan to get even. He would regret moving his bride to this asphalt jungle.

  The night lasted a long time and felt terrible. The old bed folded around us like a taco. We alternated between freezing and hotting—if that’s a word. If the AC wasn’t running full blast, we were passing out from the heat.

  Lemme tell ya, it’s November. What was August going to be like?

  Dressed for orientation, I sat beside Philly on the bed. His mouth flopped open.

  I poked his rib. “Sweetie Bastard.” He didn’t move, but I know he heard me. He ignores me when I whisper sweet nothings in his ear. “I’ll be back later.”

  “I got pickleball.” He mumbled and rolled over. “Belly aches.”

  “Sure, you do.”

  I couldn’t find the Caddy’s keys, so I walked to the clubhouse and gave myself twenty extra minutes to find the complex.

  Two park models away, I was lost. Every house looked the same, except for the random cactus or a pot of faded plastic flowers. Some people even have their names, spelled out in cutesy southwestern tiles, planted in the yard. I’m guessing they spelled out their names because each house looked identical. After orientation, Philly will buy decorative W I N T E R S tiles for our house.

  At the corner, I hesitated looking at all four corners. Left? Or Straight? I needed a community map or Philly’s TomTom GPS unit. On road trips, I took charge of the unit. He hates for me to drive, and I hate for him to fiddle with the TomTom. The unit is portable and battery powered, so I could load it with where I needed to go, if I knew where to go.

  The whirring sound of a golf cart sent joy coursing through my veins.

  I squinted over my shoulder into the morning sun, and whaddya know, Madonna was heading my way.

  “I knew you’d get lost.” Madonna flipped out a woman’s golf visor and a pair of sunglasses, before she stopped the cart. “Get in, you’re going the wrong way.”

  Believe me, I got in her cart, put on the shades and hat. “I’m so glad to see you.”

  Madonna gassed it... battery powered it. “Rule number one: Never leave home without bottled water.” She handed me the bottle of water from between her legs.

  “Rule number two: Never be late for orientation. You’ll get demerits.”

  I cracked open the water and drank. “Got it.” Demerits? Was this middle-school orientation or what?

  “That’s not all,” Madonna said. “Never, ever go to the office or clubhouse without your name tag. You’ll get—”

  “Demerits.”

  “That’s right.” She turned, showing off her name tag. The photo was a fair likeness of her, but the ID looked scratched and well used.

  “Works for me.” Tagging the children with their names so if they got lost, someone could identify them. Brilliant plan.

  “Where’s Philly? He should be going. It’ll make Amelia testy, if he isn’t there.”

  I didn’t mince words. “Laid up. Too much broccoli salad.”

  Madonna didn’t ask for details. “Try to distract Amelia, it’ll go easier for you.”

  Amelia must be a peach. Distract. I’m good at distraction. “Okay.”

  She parked outside the Desert Oasis office
complex. “Rule number whatever: Never park your car outside the clubhouse. It’ll get towed away. Golf cart parking only.”

  “Check.” I couldn’t remember the rules, much less keep them.

  “Ready?” she asked and grabbed a bag from the seat behind her. “I’m going to water aerobics.”

  “Right.” I hadn’t noticed she wore a swimsuit.

  “I’ll walk you to orientation, and afterwards... you see that bench over there?” Several benches sat under shade sails on a faux green grassy area.

  “Yeah?”

  “Sit there. Don’t you dare try to find your way back alone, you’ll get lost.”

  “I could call Philly.”

  “Not a good idea. He won’t find his way, trust me. C’mon.”

  In the complex’s entrance, canned birds chirped among the faux water falls, flora and fauna in a delusional botanical garden of serenity. The fake singing birds reminded me of Cali, and I longed for a city where I never belonged. San Fran wasn’t West Texas, but it had grown on me.

  Madonna opened the office complex door. “Now listen, Amelia isn’t one of us. You do what she says.”

  “One of us?”

  “She isn’t a resident. Corporate type.” I stepped inside, turning to look back at Madonna’s escape.

  Okay. Here goes.

  Inside the air felt cool, almost chilly. I could handle cool, but the click-clack of high heels tapping on the tiled floor didn’t sound cool. Sounded like the hangman coming to take me to the gallows.

  “Mrs. Winters. I’m Amelia. May I call you Bunny?” She stretched out her creamy unblemished hand. I cringed, Madonna was right, she was a corporate youngster, a good piece south from fifty-five plus. Wearing a silky green and floral dress, she blended with the entrance’s flora and fauna, and if she chirped, I would hightail it back to Cali.

  “Yes, please do.” I adore it when strangers call me by my first name.

  “Soon, you’ll be on first name basis with all of our members. We’re family here.”

  “You don’t say?” The Oasis brochure said there were over five hundred Oasis homes that’d make a lot of family.

  Amelia used her fake smile. That fake I don’t give a heap about what I’m saying smile.

  “Right this way. There’s coffee and donuts.” She led the way into a dark and much cooler hallway.

  I needed to spread out and this long corridor felt roomy. Last night, while we slept in the former tenant’s bed I got claustrophobic. With the wide-open expanses of West Texas coursing through my veins, this tightly knit community stuff cramped my style. On the Bay, I never felt hemmed in looking forever across the ocean.

  Her high heels click clacked, and I muttered, “I might as well get this over with.”

  She slowed and walked beside me. “Orientation doesn’t take long. It will be over with soon.” The acoustics in the hallway were excellent. “Most of our owners are a little overwhelmed the first few days. It’s my job to acclimate you.”

  “Acclimation must be tough. Everyone talks about it.” I gave Amelia a good once over. I’ve seen her before or maybe I’ve seen someone like her.

  “It takes time.” She folded her hands under her chin. “Where’s Mr. Winters?” Ah. She reminds of Carmen, my mother’s former preacher’s wife. She made judgement a scathing art form.

  “He’s slightly indisposed.” That’s the last time he eats raw broccoli salad.

  She nodded, but didn’t ask how or why it indisposed him. “We will need his photo ID. When can he come by the office?”

  “Dunno? He had a pickleball date at sunup. Had to cancel. Now he’s laid up with the--”

  “I understand. Here we are.” She waved me into an open door. “If you’ll sit in that chair, I’ll photograph you. Get you out of here fast.”

  I clutched my bag tight to my chest and fingered my hair; I have bedhead from wrestling with Philly’s restless leg syndrome. I should’ve combed my hair.

  “Right here?”

  She pointed at the chair. “Yes.”

  I sat in the lonely chair with a white screen behind it, feeling criminal. My stomach rumbled thinking of a donut, but I didn’t see a donut box or coffee pot in this room.

  She stood behind the camera and snapped her fingers. “Up here.”

  I looked up, and she took the photo. “I wasn’t... ready.”

  “Let’s try that again. Chin up.” She clicked again and looked at the photo. “Perfect.”

  “Ah. Can I see?”

  “Believe me, it looks just like you.”

  “That’s what I thought.” Madonna’s badge photo looked nice enough, maybe taken years ago, in her younger days. Mine will be from today forward a constant reminder of my fading beauty.

  She waved at the exit. “A badge is printing in the other room. We’ll see it then.” She turned out the door. More clacking and walking in another hallway, and I smelled coffee.

  She stopped at another open door. “Help yourself,” she chirped a fake happiness.

  “Ah, Starbucks?”

  “No, we only serve deluxe coffee here at the Desert Oasis.” She folded her hands at her waist, looking grimly steadfast. “Let me know when you’re ready.”

  Grumbling under my breath, I said, “Deluxe.” Wiggling my behind showing what I thought of orientation as I dashed powdered creamer into the deluxe coffee.

  I took two glazed donuts and spoke around a big bite of donut. “Ready.”

  “Great. Moving on.” She moved on out of the room.

  Next, she gave me the two-dollar tour past the billiards room, the mahjong room, the knitting club—who wants to wear knit here? — the bridge room and a library. She droned on at more doors, and I wasn’t retaining a syllable.

  “Here we are at last, the orientation room.” She waved me into another open door. “Have a seat over there.” She pointed at a seating area near a wide expanse of windows.

  “Be right back, I’ll get your packet.”

  Packet? Hadn’t Sondra given me my packet?

  After we carried the rest of the suitcases inside, I tossed that envelope onto the two-person dining table and ignored its contents. Making crackers and waterlogged cheese sticks I pulled from the cooler was more important than learning the Oasis’ rules.

  I stared out the wide windows eating the second donut and sipping coffee, which was Folgers if it was anything. The swimming pool looked nice enough, certainly not an award winner the Oasis’ brochure touted it to be. I don’t swim, but I have seen glossy magazine spreads of the Four Seasons spa swimming pools, If I were a swimmer, I’d swim in one of their pools.

  Around the pool deck sat dozens of tables covered with umbrellas. A boom box blared music. Ten or so ladies holding weights bobbed in the water to the fast-paced beat. Looked like a low turnout for such a highly publicized event. One energetic woman faced them, shouting commands and waving her hands, twirling and splashing.

  So that’s water aerobics. Unimpressive.

  Yonna, the new teacher, yelled over the music.

  I recognized Madonna’s wet head.

  I took a seat on the hard couch, dusting sugar crumbs off my T-shirt when Amelia slipped a three-pound binder onto the coffee table between us. Really?

  “Water?” she asked. She sat two sweating water bottles beside the binder and laid my printed badge face down. That wasn’t good news. My photo looked so awful even she couldn’t look at it.

  “As soon as water aerobics is over, I’ll have my assistant show you the rest of the complex. For now, here are the rules—” She puckered her lips toward the enormous binder.

  “Assistant?” I asked, reaching for the badge.

  Amelia acted quick and pushed it out of my reach. “Yes, Dan will be here soon. He’s in charge of athletics.”

  “Athletics?”

  She smiled her coy little smile that said don’t ask questions and opened the binder. That thing needed a Dewey decimal system to decipher its contents. Sondra’s measly packet hadn�
��t even scratched the surface of the community’s regulations.

  “First things first. We have strict pet policies.” She explained the approved pet policy. They allowed dogs under ten pounds. No outside cats. Litter box droppings are stringently controlled. Good thing my old tabby cat died last year, the cat pee rules would’ve cramped her style.

  She pulled a sheet of paper from my binder. “This is the release form. Sign here.” She made a check mark next to a line at the bottom. “We’ll make a copy, one for you and one for the office. Simply put, it means you understand the pet policy.”

  “I get it.” Philly was my only pet now. I wouldn’t tell Amelia, but he could pee in the wrong place. I’ve witnessed that sad fact and admit that I cannot control my pet.

  I signed off, and she breezed through the binder’s more important parts.

  There were rules for everything. Before she read off the next rule, I forgot the last. I am certain I would accumulate enough demerits to be demerited inside the week.

  “You can read the rest at your leisure.” She asked, “Do you understand?”

  “Huh-uh, sure do.”

  He knows I can’t walk a straight line sober or follow a rule which was made to be broken. I cracked off the water bottle lid, hatching a plan to dispose of Philly’s dead body. If the broccoli salad hadn’t killed him, I could fix that.

  “You can refresh your memory any time. See the tabs. There’s one for everything.” She ran a finger along the tabs and smacked the binder closed.

  Sweat trickled from my brow. Now, I’m a certified sweater.

  “Thanks, I’ll read all that by tomorrow.”

  She gave me another bored look. She knew I wouldn’t read the rules.

  Outside by the pool the jazzy music stopped. Ladies giggled. Doors opened. Wet flip-flops slapped against the tile floors.

  Seconds later, Madonna poked her head into the orientation room. “I thought I’d check in.”

  “Mornin’ Madonna.” Amelia looked relieved, but not more than me. Madonna was my new best friend and savior. I wanted to leave orientation more than I wanted to leave Arizona.

  A woman pushed past Madonna into the room, offering her hand. “Hi, I’m Judy. Madonna said you’re joining water aerobics.” She was a cute thing, maybe ninety, without an ounce of fat on her bones. I hope I look as good as she does in thirty years.