Alpaca My Bags

by Violet Patton

  Outside the security gate, she turned right. “What’ll it be? Target or Walmart?”

  I pretended to juggle balls. “Target. The aisles are wider.”

  Passing out of the Oasis’ pearly gates felt freeing. The road looked wide and cars whizzed past us going a hundred miles an hour, or so it felt that way.

  I rubbernecked looking at the many shopping centers while Ann drove gibber-jabbering. She gossiped about people. I said huh-uh and uh-uh and you don’t say for the entire time we shopped in Target. I stocked up on essentials like Cheerios, dish soap and paper towels.

  Moving on, we went to Dick’s Sporting Goods where I bought hiking boots for Philly and me. I know his shoe size and he’d rather I brought clothes to him than to shop for them himself. He won’t try anything on in the store. That’s typical. If what I bought, didn’t fit, which it always did, I’d trudge back to the store to return it.

  I bought a matching pair of backpacks, a fanny pack, two safari hats that cover the back of your neck and sub-zero sleeping bags. Who knows an oddball snowstorm might leave us stranded? After the incident on the San Juan River, I wanted my camping bases covered.

  We shopped at the vegetable stand last. The shack had blue traps flapping in the breeze covering the bins of fresh vegetables. Cars parked crooked every which way but Sunday.

  A dust devil kicked up coming our way. “Looks like Texas.”

  The car chugged and died. Ann gave me a grin. “Don’t worry it’ll start.”

  She reached over the seat and grabbed a handful of shopping bags. “Don’t let looks fool you. Tucson is still the wild west. Think Wyatt Earp is riding in with his crew, kicking up dust.”

  “Wyatt Earp.” I hadn’t seen a dust devil since the last time I left Odessa. “Did I tell you I’m from Texas?”

  She popped open her door. “Yep, you did. C’mon. This is the best place to shop for veggies. It’s a bring-your-own-bag place.”

  She was right. The vegetable stand had fabulous veggies and fruits, but I didn’t buy much. Things spoil when only two people are eating. As soon as we buy a real car, I’ll put the stand on my shopping route.

  “One more stop,” I said when we got into the Taurus.

  “Where to?”

  “Two places. The liquor store and a place to buy tiles so I can spell out Winters.”

  “I have a good place for both.” Ann keyed on the Taurus. The starter chugged and died. She smiled, and I grimaced. A ride in a tow truck with my supplies from Dick’s wouldn’t make my day. She tried again, and the starter kicked over.

  “This old junk. Wish it’d die like your car did. I don’t feel right buying another while this one is still running.

  “That’s me and Philly. We aren’t new car people.” We haven’t ever bought a new car; both of us thought buying new a frivolous waste of money. The car was used when you drove it off the car lot.

  Ann zipped through yellow lights like she was chasing an ambulance, weaving her way through traffic.

  I rode shotgun enjoying the streets of Tucson. Like the Wild West, they were wide and long, going on forever in some stretches. In San Fran. tall buildings towered over us. There was no forever stretches unless you looked out over the ocean on the west side of the island. Once you got past the Golden Gate Bridge, the ocean looked bigger and badder than any desert.

  I’m not a boat person and never ventured out onto the ocean. Once Philly took me on a romantic dinner cruise past Alcatraz. I puked Lobster Bisque. He laughed, but never asked me to go onto the Bay again.

  I thought we were a few blocks away from the Oasis when she asked, “What’s for dinner tonight?”

  “Cantaloupe. Maybe zucchini and onions.”

  “How about pizza?” She pulled into a takeout pizza joint. I didn’t argue about that idea.

  When she parked the Taurus by our park model, I said, “Oh, good grief. What now?”

  Wayne, Philly and a man I didn’t recognize stood at the end the carport. Our driveway was nonexistent.

  Back in Odessa, Mama and Daddy had a quarter-mile dirt driveway off the unpaved State Road 67. It took forever to get to their house. Long about 1980, the highway department paved the state road, but the driveway remained dirt with hay growing between the ruts. Last time I traveled the state road the thin pitted pavement made the ride rough and bumpy. We sold the place. Candy and I split the money. She bought a new car. I bought a used Datsun pickup.

  I backed out of the front seat, juggling the unbaked pizza.

  “Hey you,” Wayne nodded, sticking a pencil behind his ear,

  Philly reached for the pizza. “Pizza? No green peppers.”

  “Never, Sweetie Bastard. What have you gotten yourself... where is my Sleep Number?”

  Ann stepped up. “Let me.” He handed her the pizza, and she carried it up the steps.

  “Now don’t get riled. Me and Wayne took it to the storage unit.”

  “Where am I going to sleep?” My man can sleep on the hard floor, but I didn’t have enough padding between my bones and hard surfaces to sleep comfortably.

  “Hunny Bunny.” He fumbled in his shirt pocket. “We got a warning. A demerit.”

  Ann walked by going to the car. “I told you so.”

  Philly produced a pink slip, from a triplicate form, and handed it over.

  I snatched and opened it in one swift gesture. “Eww. Who is Mack Riggs?”

  Ann carried my bag of veggies. “He’s the main security guy... the one at the gate with the ugly face.”

  “Do you mean Security Chief?” I nicknamed him that because of the label on his pocket flap. Ann stopped to look at the pink slip. “None other. It’s about scorpions. He’s protecting you.”

  No wonder he glared at me as we passed the gatehouse, he knew about my bed.

  “Listen, Wayne’s been measuring. We think we can expedite the Arizona room. Get things moving. We’ll get a stack washer and dryer delivered in a week. Maybe...”

  He used his don’t be mad look. I handed back the citation.

  Steam billowed from my nose. There wasn’t anything wrong with sleeping on my Sleep Number outside. “I bought a tent at Dick’s. Can I put my Sleep Number in the tent?”

  Ann passed by again and giggled. “I turned on the oven and ticked down the thermostat a notch. It’ll get blazin’ hot inside with the oven on.”

  She opened the back door on the Taurus. I hadn’t moved an inch to help unload, I’d need to make up for my bad manners another day.

  Wayne stretched out his measuring tape and held it beside me. “Tents are against the rules.”

  “Get that thing off me.” I fumed and not because of the heat. Wayne backed up snickering. “You two old... I should...”

  I thought about divorce when I fumed. I stay mad at him, it’s part of my personality. Once I had a secret stash of cash in case I needed it.

  In a beauty shop in Odessa, well past being a blushing bride, I read in Cosmopolitan magazine that a girl should always have a safety net of money stashed away. How to survive a divorce had been a hot topic in women’s self-help magazines back then.

  Mama wouldn’t allow the ills of that magazine in her house. Me and Philly lived with them for a spell as newlyweds. I worshipped the sophisticated magazine and only got to read it in the salon. Odessa sets a far cry from anything sophisticated. That day after reading the article, I saved for what seemed like the inevitable—divorce American style, a rage in the ‘80s.

  Somewhere along the way in my busy life with Philly, I stopped saving for that rainy day when we’d part. Don’t ask me what happened to the stash. If I dug deep into the aging gray matter, I might come up with where the money went. Off the top of my head, I’d say I bought an emergency pair of shoes. I buy new shoes when I feel blue.

  “Oh, yeah. David picked up his box fan,” he said, from a safe distance. Wayne grumbled and measured the carport pole near the oleander bushes.

  Philly ignored my poutiness, but I think I had Wayne intimid
ated.

  “Here take this,” Ann said, holding out a sleeping bag. Philly took it before I grabbed it.

  Too bad David picked up the fan, but worse than that, I forgot to buy one. “Can you order a box fan online?”

  I don’t shop online but love when packages arrive at my door.

  Wayne said, “We pick up packages at the Amazon locker behind the tennis courts, by the trash bins and ice machine.”

  “That’s good to know,” Philly said.

  “Yeah, don’t get it delivered to your house. You’ll get written up.”

  “Can you get kicked out of the Oasis for breaking the rules?” I hadn’t asked Amelia about much before she lifted off to fetch Dan from the pool. If it wasn’t for our neighbors, the Oasis would write us up every day. How fast can I collect demerits? If I can’t force Philly to move, maybe the Oasis will kick us out.

  “Haven’t heard of anyone getting kicked out per se, but it could happen,” Ann said.

  Philly found the liquor store box in the backseat of the Taurus and said hey you.

  I huffed. “Pfft. Hey you yourself.” He talked to the liquor, and I knew it.

  “It’s those Canadians,” Ann said.

  “What’s with the Canadians?” I hadn’t met one yet. They must be mystical creatures—maybe they’re all goatsuckers.

  “They say hey you. That’s why we all say it.”

  “Oh, I see. Where were these strange beasts? I bet they talk funny.”

  Ann chuckled. “Hunny Bunny.” Since Philly calls me Hunny Bunny, soon the whole complex will call me that name. “You’re from Texas. You talk funny.”

  I smiled. “I do not. Ever’body else hears funny.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  Pizza & Plumbing

  Cooking pizza heated the place right quick. I opened the windows to let out the heat and moved the thermostat to frozen. After I went inside to futz with the pizza, Philly poured a fresh bag of free ice over the hot Sierra Nevada beers. He had prepared for chilling the beer in advance. When I came out, he was already pulling a semi-chilled beer for the chest.

  Beer was Philly’s emergency drink, using it to soothe his rankled nerves. He drank scotch because he loved its smoky flavor. Guess moving into the Oasis had finally gotten to him. Reality sometimes bites.

  “Where’s Wayne?” I asked, grabbing a handful of ice from the open chest, pushing it into my bra. Sweat dripped down all my sides, nobody would notice another wet spot.

  “It’s five o’clock.” Philly held a hot beer without a beer cozy. We didn’t have many modern luxuries here in the desert, a beer cozy wasn’t a luxury, it was a necessity. His favorite beer cozy was most probably in the Caddy. Where the tow service took our car was a mystery, and I don’t remember either of us asking. The tow company has Philly’s number, and they’ll want money.

  I grabbed more ice and crunched it between my molars. Shaped in a perfect cube, it wasn’t too big, but was crunchy and melted slightly on the outside.

  He cringed, scrubbing the veranda’s indoor/outdoor carpet with his soles. He has a mouthful of crowns and can’t chew ice. “I’m sorry.”

  That made my turkey neck waggle. Him saying sorry was a rare thing, and I knew he was talking about my Sleep Number.

  He gently poked me with his crooked pinky. “We didn’t know the bed was too big. I shoulda asked.”

  “I bought hiking boots.” That was my way of accepting his apology.

  “Okay. The contractor will be by tomorrow. Give us an estimate.”

  “Great.”

  “David Bell’s gonna do the plumbing. He knows toilets and stack washers.”

  “You met him?” Did David tell Philly about dead Wanda? I tossed another ice cube into my mouth and I let it melt instead of crunching it, so it wouldn’t bother him.

  “Nice fellow. Keeps up his plumber’s license. Does odd jobs here in the community. Wayne says he’s good.”

  “Humph. Did you see his scars?”

  He sipped beer. “Yeah. He said he had a car wreck. Barely made it out alive.”

  I squinted. “What? Don’t believe ever’thing a person says. They might be lying.”

  How many stories does David Bell have?

  “Did he mention Wanda?” If Philly had got friendly enough with the man he hired to do the plumbing, then maybe the topic of buying Wanda’s haunted house came up.

  He winced, grimacing. “No, he did not mention Wanda. I wish you’d get off that topic.” At least he remembered me asking him about her earlier. He passed my shopping list pad over. “Here. Wayne drew the preliminary specs. See what you think?”

  I glanced over the pencil drawing.

  “There’ll be steps at that door.” There was an exit door next to the refrigerator, across from the bathroom door. I hadn’t bothered opening the door, it led to nowhere, there weren’t even steps underneath it. He pointed and explained the dimensions. “We’ll attach to the porch.”

  “Veranda.”

  He hiccupped and glared. Hot beer always gave him hiccups. “With a sliding door. There’ll be an exit out the back by the lemon tree.” He drank beer to kill his hot beer hiccups.

  “We have a lemon tree?”

  “Over there.” He nodded to the tree hidden by the tree-size oleanders.

  “That’s good news. I smell a lemon pound cake coming our way.”

  An orange tree loaded with fruit ready to pick grew in his front yard. It’s not a yard, only a rocky patch until the patch meets the asphalt. Having a lemon tree, something I’ve dreamed of having, added a plus-plus in the Oasis’ favor.

  Philly grinned. He adores my lemon pound cake.

  “Where will the stack washer dryer go?” The height, depth and breadth of the room mattered little, except for one factor. “Will I be able to walk around my Sleep Number?”

  His eyelids narrowed. “Yes, Princess, you will.”

  I smiled. I hate to be a pain, but at my age, my satisfaction was more important than his vexation. Happy wife—happy life.

  He felt vexed by what I needed, but he wanted to please me.

  “On the wall next to the plumbing line, we’ll run hot and cold water. Break into the sewer over there... What’s that smell?”

  “Dang it. Pizza.” I hopped up and popped open the door.

  Smoke billowed out. Philly dove inside yelling. “Fire.”

  If we had a smoke alarm, its batteries were dead. I stood in the door, fanning the smoke. Madonna’s door opened and banged shut. Screaming fire would be an attention-getter.

  Ann flew across the furrow and onto our veranda before Madonna ran up with a fire extinguisher and hollered in the open door. “Here take this.”

  “What’d I say about the house getting hot?” Ann chuckled, her hands planted on her hips. Madonna had her cell phone ready to dial. “Want me to call the fire department?”

  Philly shrieked. “Outta my way.” He tossed the entire smoking pizza over our heads. It skidded, leaving a greasy pepperoni trail and landed in the rocks underneath the oleanders.

  “Look at that mess. Don’t call anybody, we’ll only get another demerit.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  Spit Sisters

  Madonna felt sorry for us and brought over a blowup bed. It had a leak.

  We made a nest of pillows, blankets and cushions and before sunup, I detangled myself from their grip.

  “You making coffee?” he asked. Only his foot showed from within the nest.

  “Yep.” I hunted for my swimming suit bag.

  After we cleared the smoke, we ate cantaloupe and cheese sticks for dinner. If I didn’t get Philly banked with enough calories soon, he would dissolve. Picture a Star Trek beaming up process, his molecules dissolving and morphing onto another plane. Somewhere else, he’d materialize a gaunt waft without a woman to feed him.

  After the burnt pizza melee, Madonna told me the pool had reopened. I promised her I’d attend water aerobics. Ann said she’d be there. With all the help those w
omen had given us, I figured I had better show interest in their invites.

  I found the swim shop bag and put on the green mottled swimming suit, its padded bra gave me a nice uplift. What a miracle?

  I made coffee and regretted disposing of the recliners because now we had no place to drink our morning cups of joe. The veranda’s teensy table and patio chairs were our only seating arrangement, and I did not want to sit outside.

  He sat up, stretched and took the coffee cup I handed him.

  “You got pickleball?”

  “Uh-uh.” His pasty skin scared me. He worked in the sun so much, he should be tanned.

  “Dominos?”

  “Nope. Too intense for me. They mean business. I bowed out until I can get things in order around here.” I didn’t ask who they were.

  He was lounging on the carport when I came outside, ready to go to my first water aerobics class.

  “You driving without a license?” he asked as I climbed into the golf cart.

  “Yep. Don’t tell anyone, it’s a secret.” Unless Mack Riggs cruised the streets at this early hour looking for rule breakers, I wouldn’t get caught driving illegally.

  I stood outside the pool gate, and Madonna called out, waving me over. “Hey you.”

  My photo ID badge also had a stripe on the back like a credit card which gave me access to the pool area without help. Semi-independent, I buzzed myself into the pool compound.

  “Come meet everyone.”

  “Hey, y’all.” Eventually, I’ll make the standard Oasis greeting hey y’all. It was my second mission after figuring out Wanda’s true story. I’m betting, David wasn’t telling the truth about her. Someone, somewhere will tell me the truth—all the Oasis folks can’t be compulsive liars.

  Madonna made the introductions painless. I immediately forgot the women’s names. Nobody wore their name tags on their swimsuits. Besides me, Ann and Madonna, the women were an eclectic group. Two from Wisconsin. One a New Yorker—talk about an accent. One gal named Sister sounded Texan but came from Arkansas. And the others because I can’t remember their names will go nameless.