Queen of the Oddballs

by Hillary Carlip

  I climb out and follow the crone who is wearing a sheet wrapped around her waist and nothing on top—her large, sagging breasts flopping proudly as if they own the joint. She leads me through an arch-way of stone, part of the cave, to a large slab of granite, thigh high, and points for me to lie down on it. No talking here. Just dripping, splashing, lapping, quenching water. The woman applies a slimy, smooth grit of what feels like kelp and sand combined to my body and vigorously scrubs my skin with some sort of scouring pad. At first, losing an entire layer of my epidermis is painful. But as I literally shed my skin, I begin to feel free, more relaxed than I’ve felt in ages. I want to raise my head and say, “Thank you” to the old woman. Or, “This is great, you’re great”—anything to acknowledge her, but I know that would interrupt the very intentional silence.

  After a thorough scrubbing from head to toe, front and back, the woman sprays me down with soothing warm water from a green garden hose wound up like a jealous snake until all that is left is a slippery smooth, glowing body. In a tranquil trance I can barely whisper, “Thank you,” but of course, I manage.

  The woman smiles and winks at me. “Happy Birthday.”

  What?! Does everyone know? This snaps me right back from my body into my mind. Who’s behind this? How? Why? This doesn’t seem like Danielle’s style—too thought-out and planned. But it’s not really like Nora, either—she’s far more understated.

  Nora—shit! She’s coming to my house at 7:30, in thirty minutes. I’ll never make it home in time. I need to find a pay phone, and, despite being clad only in my robe, I dash from the grotto to the lobby packed with fully dressed men and women. I step into the phone booth and pull the door closed behind me. As I’m dialing Nora’s number, it occurs to me to check my messages first. What if there’s another “destination” that I’m being sent to tonight?

  When I hear that I have one message, my heart beats quickly. Is it the excitement of the unknown, or is it, rather, the fact that I moved from pure relaxation to high panic in under thirty seconds?

  “Hey it’s me,” Nora says on my machine. “Where are you?”

  Like she doesn’t know—Ha!

  “I’m stuck at work and won’t be able to get to your house till 8:30. Hope that’s okay. I’ll just pick up some food and bring it over and we’ll have a Birthday Eve celebration. If that’s not good, call me. Bye.”

  Hmmm. She sounded awfully nonchalant for someone who just arranged a complex birthday gift. So maybe Danielle is the culprit after all? Time to investigate. I dial Danielle’s number.

  “Hey,” I say, trying to be casual.

  “Hi, Honey,” Danielle sounds excited. “What’re you up to?”

  “Like you don’t know.”

  “What am I supposed to know?”

  “You really don’t know?”

  “Know what? I might know if I knew what you were talking about.”

  “Jesus, it sounds like we’re doing some vaudeville shtick.” I sit down on the plastic seat. “Well, I’m kind of being sent on a treasure hunt.”

  “No way.”

  She really does sound clueless. “You swear you don’t know anything about this?”

  “Swear.”

  Still, I think as I pick at the threads of my new robe, Danielle has lied to me before—on more than one occasion—and she’s good at it. She’s a casting director, so maybe it’s a skill developed from being around actors all day. So I don’t rule her out completely.

  “It’s probably from your new girlfriend,” she says mockingly.

  “She’s not my girlfriend. We’re just dating.”

  “Yeah, right. So am I gonna see you tomorrow? Do I still have the three o’clock shift?” I smile when I realize it bothers her not to be the only one spending my birthday with me.

  “Yeah. I’m looking forward to it.”

  “Me too.” She pauses. “Honey?”

  “Yeah?”

  “I wish it was from me.”

  And so do I.

  I hang up and return to the grotto. I wander into the steam room. Unable to see anyone in the thick mist, I hear deep exhales. I remember being twelve and going to the movies with my friend Diane Hutchings to see Me, Natalie, starring Patty Duke. Diane’s mother dropped us at the theater a few minutes late; onscreen it was nighttime, and the theater was pitch black. In the dark I found a seat but accidentally sat down in a woman’s lap. Throughout the rest of the movie Diane and I could not contain our laughter until, finally, the manager kicked us out. I don’t want to repeat my mistake, especially now that I am in a place with all naked bodies. So I stand still, breathing in the generous gift someone—whoever it is—has bestowed upon me.

  When I go to the locker room to dress, I discover a note has been left in my locker. Written in the same scrawl, on the same yellow paper, with the same purple pen as the last one, this one says:

  I race up my street just in time to meet Nora who has brought with her a Middle Eastern take-out feast: chicken kabobs slathered with a thick, garlicky paste; baba ghanoush; falafel balls; and neon pink pickled turnips, which I take off my plate and put on hers.

  I tell her about the hunt, asking if she’s behind it, but she becomes distant. She’s convinced it’s from Danielle. I tell her that the last note I received makes me think it’s going to continue tomorrow, and she gets annoyed. She’s made a 10:00 a.m. brunch reservation, and since she only has until 3:00 p.m. to be with me, then I go off with Danielle, she wants to make sure she has her time. I assure her that even if the hunt continues, I’ll keep our plans.

  The next morning the phone rings at 8:00 a.m. and this time it’s “Mrs. Street,” a woman with an English accent. She instructs me to go to my “next destination,” the Sunrise Villa on Fairfax and Melrose, and to be there no later than 9:00 a.m. When Mrs. Street won’t tell me who’s behind this, I ask her to thank whoever it is but to inform them that I won’t be able to go. After I hang up I grill Nora and, once again, she swears she knows nothing. Then, unexpectedly, she tells me I should continue with the hunt.

  “Why? We have plans.”

  “You think I’m gonna stop you?” she says. “No way. You’d only resent it and me. We’ll go to brunch after.”

  I thank her profusely for understanding, all the while wondering if I’m being had. I find Sunrise Villa in the phone book, call back Mrs. Street, then head out to destination unknown.

  Sunrise Villa turns out to be a retirement home. All my friends and lovers are aware of the soft spot I have for old people. Those moments of vulnerability where authenticity peeks through touch me at my core. Or perhaps being sent here is to put my birthday in perspective? To show me that as old as approaching thirty feels now, it’s so young in the scheme of things.

  “You must be Hillary,” a woman says in the same British accent I heard earlier on the phone.

  “Mrs. Street?”

  “Yes, come with me.” We walk down a hallway that smells of disinfectant and burnt veal.

  “Could you just tell me who sent me here?” I ask. “Please.”

  “Sorry.”

  Before I can probe further, she throws open a door to a large, barren room full of old men and women, most in wheelchairs. They look right at me and burst into song. “Happy birthday to you, happy birthday to you….”

  A nurse wheels an industrial silver cart toward me. I start crying as I look down at a cake, candles aflame, with icing that reads: “Happy Birthday Hillary.”

  “Happy birthday, dear….” The elderly folks stumble over the name, no one quite sure who they are celebrating. “Happy birthday to you.”

  Then comes the chanting: “CAKE. CAKE. CAKE,” they demand as they tap their hands on tables and wheelchair arms.

  A tiny woman in a big yellow sunhat calls out, “Make a wish, make a wish.”

  I close my eyes. What do I even wish for? That I find out who sent me here? That Danielle and I get back together and make it work? Or that my heart forgets about her and gives itself over to
Nora?

  I know. Clarity. I will wish for clarity.

  I blow out the candles.

  I spend an hour with Lil and Harriet, Marvin and Troy, and the rest of the seniors who are thrilled to have company. I hear tales of lives lived, love discovered, and hearts broken. When I leave, I thank everyone for making my birthday so special and vow to visit again.

  Mrs. Street meets me in the foyer. “You’re to call home now,” she says. “And happy birthday.”

  I beep into my answering machine and listen to seven birthday messages—the first from Danielle, then my mom and dad, Howard, my old friend Greg, and two other friends. The last message is a familiar voice—it’s Mrs. Street, who happens to be standing just three feet away from me. Amusing.

  In her proper British accent she says, “A bear has shit in the woods. Can you find him? Try Griffith Park.” By the time I hang up, Mrs. Street has vanished.

  I call Nora and tell her of my dilemma, of the puzzling, indecipherable next clue.

  “Go ahead and just finish whatever this is,” she says, trying to conceal her upset. “But if it goes past my time, I think you should reschedule Danielle for later. Don’t you?”

  “Absolutely,” I say. “Thanks for being so cool.”

  Relieved, I head to Griffith Park. I remember seeing a statue of a bear at the Los Feliz entrance. When I arrive and find the statue, I see an envelope placed under the bear’s ass. Inside the envelope is a small key and a note:

  My heart begins to pound, my mind races. This is it, I am sure, the moment I will discover who the genius behind “The Case of the Inexplicable Birthday Treasure Hunt” actually is. Will Danielle be standing there, begging me to come back to her? Or Nora, helping me to forget all about Danielle? Or maybe it’s someone I haven’t even considered? It could be anyone, I realize, and it’s about time I found out.

  I continue up the path and approach an oak tree. I scream when I suddenly see someone I know very well—in fact, it’s someone I have been living with for seven years. It’s Sally—a child mannequin from my collection of department store mannequins. She’s chained to a tree. I fall to the ground, laughing my ass off.

  When I calm down I discover a note pinned to my old sixties Snoopy sweatshirt that Sally wears over her tasteful vintage corduroy jumper.

  I unlock the lock with the key from the last envelope, then unwrap twenty feet of chain from Sally and the tree. I drape the chain over my shoulder and continue on, carrying Sally. What a sight I must be, a stunned grown woman draped in heavy chains, carrying a child mannequin, counting paces, and staring at backwards writing, talking out loud: “TFEL KOOL. Look left!”

  And I do. There, on a fence, is a large sign written in black marker.

  I turn my head to the right, and see a pile of rocks, with another note on the top of the heap.

  I creep along, checking the bushes, waiting for someone to appear. Sally and I sit on the bench. When I look up, I see another huge sign tacked to another aged oak tree.

  I lean over, and, just as I’m about to nab the manila envelope beneath the bench, my hand touches someone else’s hand. I sit up fast.

  Standing next to me is a middle-aged man in a baseball cap, his eyes droopy. “Hey!” he says at the same time I do.

  “That’s for me,” I declare, wondering if he’s just a plant, all part of this cooked-up scheme.

  “How do you know it’s yours?” he asks defensively.

  I point to the clue in my hand, the chains draped over my shoulder and the mannequin I’m sitting next to. “DUH!” I can’t help but say.

  He looks disappointed but hands me the manila envelope and walks away.

  There’s a Dynamo label stuck on the front of the envelope that makes me shiver. It’s as if someone was listening to my birthday wish at Sunrise Villa.

  I tear open the envelope. Inside I find a pair of eyeglasses, which feature, in place of lenses, winky eyes that shift from one picture to another with each tiny movement. The first image looks like eyes until I move the glasses; then the image is a pin-up girl. Entertaining, but now what?

  I sit, waiting for direction.

  Nothing.

  I try on the glasses.

  That’s where I find the next clue—taped to the inside of each lens.

  I heave Sally up off the bench and we head uphill. Atop a drinking fountain I spot yet one more sign.

  I reach into my child mannequin’s corduroy jumper pocket and pull out a piece of paper.

  I spot it up ahead. A blanket. And there, spread out across the blanket, is a basket of biscuits and muffins, strawberry jam, orange and pink ceramic bowls filled with nectarines and figs, and in the center an enormous bouquet of lilies, tulips, and freesias. It’s all surrounded by several gifts brilliantly wrapped in Gift Wrap Option C.

  I feel nauseous with anticipation. I look around. No one’s in sight.

  Then I spot one more note tucked in the basket of muffins.

  No way! Shit. Okay, I can’t take this anymore. I can’t wait any longer. Who’s behind this? How long will it keep going? How will it end?

  I take a breath and stop myself. Why do any of those things matter when the hunt itself is so phenomenal? I breathe again, and this time, with my exhale, I release the need to know. I take a biscuit from the basket, slather it with jam, and begin to enjoy my birthday breakfast.

  Then I hear a voice—faintly at first. It’s a woman’s voice. She’s singing “Happy Birthday.” I stand, cock my head, and hear that the song is coming from the bushes. As it gets louder and closer, I hold my breath. Who will it be?

  And there, into the clearing, steps Nora.

  “No fucking way!” I screech. “Damn, you’re a good liar!”

  She laughs. I take her in my arms. “Thank you, thank you, thank you,” I keep repeating. “That was absolutely amazing. You’re amazing.”

  We share breakfast and talk about the hunt and her stellar acting job. I even open the presents—in front of her—having learned a good lesson in receiving the past two days.

  We spend a lovely day together, and later I spend a long, teary but sweet night with Danielle. But when Danielle asks if she can sleep over, I shake my head.

  “I need to be alone,” I say. And I realize I actually mean it.

  At midnight I crawl under the covers, close my eyes, and think over every detail of “The Case of the Inexplicable Birthday Treasure Hunt.”

  I can’t help but smile. My birthday wish has come true. I have clarity. As spectacular as my gift was, and as much as I want Nora to be “the one,” I’m not in love with her. We can’t make someone into our soul mate. If we could, it would have nothing to do with our souls. And maybe the person we think is “the one,” like Danielle, is just one of the destinations and gifts along the way that ultimately lead us to solving the mystery.

  I turn on my side and glance at my cowboy lamp. And then, for the first time in twenty-nine years, I reach over and turn off the light.

  1989

  Ayatollah Khomeini offers 2.5 million dollars for the murder of The Satanic Verses author, Salman Rushdie. The press claims that Yusuf Islam, who I saw perform countless times at the Troub when he was Cat Stevens, endorses the fatwa on Rushdie’s life. “Oh, baby, baby it’s a Wild World….”

  Keanu Reeves, a close friend of Katie’s, my girlfriend of two years, who filled her cupboards with groceries and endless boxes of macaroni and cheese when she was broke, scores a hit with Bill and Ted’s Excellent Adventure.

  Beverly Hills Cops are busy after Lyle and Eric Menendez shoot their wealthy parents to death in their family’s den and Zsa Zsa Gabor is arrested after slapping a motorcycle police officer.

  After two years of intense ACT UP protests over the high price for the drug AZT, proven to delay the onset of AIDS, the drug company Burroughs Wellcome lowers the price by 20 percent. Many of my friends and acquaintances die of AIDS, as does Amanda Blake, Miss Kitty on Gunsmoke.

  I mourn the loss of Lucille Ball, wh
o dies at age seventy-seven.

  Still a Knots Landing fan, I befriend one of the show’s regulars, Teri Austin, whose character turns into a psychopath and dresses in a wig and disguise to kill Valene Ewing. Teri shows up at my birthday party in the psycho murderess disguise.

  A group of friends gather at my house to watch the infamous Rob Lowe sex videotape.

  After experiencing too many headaches and bursts of energy followed by crashes of exhaustion, I give up my dessert habit and stop eating sugar, and all sweeteners, entirely.

  Teenage pop sensation Debbie Gibson, the youngest artist in chart history to have written, produced, and performed a #1 song, co-hosts the American Music Awards.

  Tyro Scribes Sell Spec for Big Bucks

  INT. GREAT WESTERN FORUM, LOS ANGELES, 1989–NIGHT

  CLOSE ON HILLARY CARLIP, early thirties, an artistic brunette woman who exudes warmth and creativity, sitting in the audience at a concert. Next to her is PAUL AARON, a movie producer with a kind, open face.