In Search of the Perfect Singing Flamingo

by Tacon, Claire;

  Cynthia is wearing a very pretty yellow blouse today and I tell her so.

  “Thank you, Starr.”

  She does notice the table and the ingredients, but she doesn’t stay to compliment me on my hard work. She goes over to Della’s room to talk to her. Maybe she will tell Della to pull her weight. Or maybe she will make Della less upset. I am getting hungry though, so I hope we can get dinner started soon. I have nothing to do, so I put on the TV and watch Oprah. It feels nice to rest my legs.

  It’s the episode about menopause again. Della refuses to watch reruns. I don’t mind – it’s like when my grandmother was alive and she’d tell the same stories over and over. But with Della it’s an argument if she thinks we’ve seen it before, even if I know we haven’t because on the commercial break it said “all new episode.” Della will roll her eyes and chant, “re-run, re-run” at the screen. It’s annoying. She could find a way to be more polite. Mom says that you have to pick your battles. Don’t sweat the small stuff; let it roll off your back. Which is a million ways to say shut up and let her not be polite.

  “Not a rerun,” I say, even if I know it is. Because Della has to pick some battles too.

  “Re-run. Re-run.”

  So I go to the website and check the airdate. If it’s a repeat, sometimes I’ll ask if we can watch it anyway. But Della always says, “We have rules.”

  Because Della can’t read, if she’s been annoying me, I lie and say it’s a new episode. But then I end up feeling guilty and don’t enjoy the program.

  Cynthia doesn’t come out of Della’s room until 5:15. I am getting hungry and I want to have a granola bar but I know Cynthia won’t want me to have one because it will make me too full for pasta.

  “Why are you upset, Cynthia?” She has a serious face on and I don’t know if I should mention her yellow blouse again and how nice it looks.

  “I’m not upset.”

  “Is Della coming out?”

  “No, I think Della’s going to eat in her room tonight. We can have a nice visit though.”

  “Shouldn’t Della come help?” I want to say that we all have to do our bit. That’s what Della says to me when I’m exhausted and don’t feel like tidying up.

  “I think we’ll give it a break tonight. Della’s had a hard day.”

  Now I feel badly for Della and wonder if we should just all eat dinner in Della’s room.

  “Della needs some time alone. Would you help me put the salad in the bowl?”

  I get the salad together and add the cucumber. The carrots are too hard for me to peel and cut, so Cynthia does that. She cuts the red pepper too. We are getting the water on the stove for the pasta when I hear Della crying. Cynthia goes back into Della’s room. I don’t know why Della’s having a bad day because her brother came over with his two little kids, Emma and Madison. Emma is four and Madison is two, almost three. They are very cute kids and we played with them for three hours. First we played big blocks LEGO and then we drew pictures with crayons and then Emma brought me a book and I read it to her.

  The book was The Cat in the Hat and I sat on the couch and Emma snuggled into me and I liked that a lot because I like cuddling. I knew the book already, but it was fun to read and Emma liked it so much that she asked me to read it twice. When they left, they gave me a hug and a kiss and called me Auntie Starr. After the door closed though, Della went to her room. I went to my room too, for a nap, but maybe Della’s been upset the whole time.

  The water is definitely boiling. I am not supposed to put the pasta in myself because I did that once and got burned. Not fun! But if the water keeps boiling it will get too steamy and the fire alarm will go off. Just thinking about the fire alarm gets me nervous, so I go look at it. I can see that it’s not going off, so I can relax a bit. But enough is enough, we have to eat, so I put the pasta in, but turn the heat down so it doesn’t foam over.

  I am too hungry to wait, so I grab a chocolate-chip-and-marshmallow granola bar. The salad is ready and the pasta is in the pot and the sauce is on the back burner. I don’t have anything else to do, so I turn the TV back on. It’s Wheel of Fortune. I like this show, but I have a hard time guessing the puzzles. Sometimes the categories are hard to understand, like Before and After. Before and after what? I do like how excited the contestants get, though, and I like the clicking sound the wheel makes as it spins. Big money, big money.

  One of the men has a tie with turtles all over it. He’s a marine biologist from the University of Miami but spends half the year in Greece protecting baby sea turtles. Too cool! I decide to bring Alex and Mallory out to let them watch. Their terrarium is too heavy for me, but I manage it. It’s time for the lightning round when Cynthia comes out.

  “Starr!” She rushes over to the stove and checks on the pasta. “Did you put the pasta in?”

  “Yes, but I turned it down so it wouldn’t boil over.”

  “This pasta is no good anymore.”

  The tears start to jump up. Cynthia and Della were supposed to help with dinner but I’m the one getting blamed.

  “No, it’s fine,” Cynthia says. “I lost track of time. It’s not your fault.”

  “Are you going to get in trouble?”

  “You don’t have to worry about that.”

  “Are we going to eat?”

  We have salad and toast. Cynthia gives me most of hers because she’s busy writing up an incident report for the agency. After she leaves, I have a bowl of ice cream just because I know Della can’t. I’m not proud of it. I wash the bowl out right away and smooth down the dent in the tub of Rocky Road, hoping she won’t notice.

  Something’s wrong when I arrive at Fresh Us because Riley’s at my table and he’s never at my table.

  “Hi, Riley. That’s my station.” Again, Riley says nothing back.

  I go right away to tell Martha. She’s talking with Chef and they’re planning out today’s deliveries. Chef winks when he sees me. “Did you need something, Starr?”

  “Riley’s in my spot.”

  Martha looks annoyed.

  “Are you upset, Martha?”

  “No, Starr, I’m fine. We’re just busy. Can you switch with Riley, just for today?”

  This is one of those things Cynthia and I try to practise, saying no. It’s easier at home, when it’s a made-up situation and Cynthia’s smiling, trying to be encouraging. Because now I can see that Martha’s irritated and it’s impossible.

  “Okay. But can we switch at lunch?”

  “Let’s see how it goes.”

  She hands me the order sheet for the day. We have ten sandwich trays to finish before eleven for catered lunches and thirty veggie, fruit, cheese and roll trays for the afternoon. Plus our usual two hundred sandwiches for the coffee shops. Summer is a busy time at Fresh Us because a lot of our clients have employee parties. We go through millions of carrot sticks.

  Normally I make the sandwiches and arrange the trays and Riley does the shrink-wrapping, labelling and inventory sheets. He has very neat handwriting. It’s one of his strengths. At my station, there are lots of little tubs with ingredients and that’s another of Riley’s jobs – taking them to Chef to get filled up again when they’re empty. On the wall next to my chair, I’ve got a list of everything we make and a picture recipe for each.

  It’s not an easy job for someone with Williams because you have to put the right number of things on each tray. When Levi worked here, he bought me three sizes of scoops and made lists for me. The large veggie tray needs one large scoop of carrots, one large scoop of celery, one medium scoop of cucumber, one medium scoop of broccoli and one small scoop of radish in the middle. After we got the system going, Martha was really happy about how much better I was doing.

  I hand Riley the order sheet and go sit at his table. I don’t like it at all. The chair is at a different height but I can’t adjust it in case it drops all the way to the floor. Even the gloves are a different size, so I have to go back to my desk to get the right ones. I don’t want
to switch the boxes because this is not a permanent change. We’re just going to see how it goes.

  The Fresh Us office used to be a house and that’s why there are so many rooms. The kitchen is at the very back with the walk-in fridge, our prep room is in the old dining room and the front has the office and customer lounge. Even though it’s a small space, it’s quiet. Chef is always in the kitchen, Martha is always in the office. Riley and I only have company when the delivery guy picks up the orders. That’s why it was so much better when Levi was here to chat with.

  I have to wait quite a while before Riley puts the first cheese tray on the rack. He should be doing the sandwiches first because we need them in a few hours. But I am trying to be a team player, so I bring the tray to my bench. Grabbing saran wrap with gloves is like trying to hold onto a cobweb. When I finally pinch hard enough, the box follows me instead of unrolling the wrap. I rip a big square off and cover most of the tray. There’s just one tiny wedge that’s open. The wrap doesn’t stick very well to the bottom but it stays put when I slide the tray into the wheel cart.

  “We are going to switch at lunch,” I say. It’s not fair that he’s messed up the routine.

  Riley’s still putting squares of cheese next to rows of crackers.

  “Riley, we need to start the sandwiches.” It’s already nine-thirty. “Do you need me to show you how to make them?”

  His hand is deep in a box of Triscuits. “Stop being bossy.”

  Dad doesn’t pick up the phone. I call again, right away. No answer. I don’t know if I should call him back or call Cynthia. Mom has strict rules about phoning and complaining about things during the day. I think maybe I should just listen to my iPod for a while because I’m upset and if I can’t talk to someone I just want to be able to sit and listen to music.

  There are four trays of cheese and one tray of bread ready to be wrapped when I’ve calmed down enough to leave the washroom. The bread is much harder to wrap because the buns stick up too much. I tear off three pieces of saran but it still doesn’t cover everything. The cheese trays are also loaded with too much product and each time I lift them they get heavier. I get the front end of the third tray wedged in the rack when it gets jammed.

  “Riley,” I say, “you need to come help me.”

  He takes his time walking over.

  Now I can’t get the tray back out. The saran on the bottom is making it stick.

  “Let me do it.” Riley tries to squeeze past me. I don’t want to be bumped so I let go of the tray and step aside. The tray flips back and bangs to the ground. “Ow!” The noise hurts my ears and I clamp my hands over them. Squares of cheese fly over my shoes.

  Martha sticks her head in the door. “Everything okay?”

  Riley kicks the tray out of his way and it bounces against the wall.

  “Stop it!” I don’t want the metal to hit my ankles.

  “Hey, what happened?”

  Riley points to me and marches back to his table. There’s a cracker stuck to his shirt.

  “Accidents happen,” Martha says, even though it’s Riley’s fault. Then she sees how few trays are in the cart. “Where are the sandwiches?”

  Chef helps us out for the next two hours. I get to go back to my station and Riley wraps everything up. Martha isn’t happy. She keeps checking in on us to see how the order is coming along. It makes me nervous. Each time, I want to ask her if she still likes me but I can’t ask that at work. Not professional.

  Chef whistles as he spreads mango mayonnaise on ciabatta buns.

  “Is that a Frank Sinatra song?”

  He pushes his glasses up his nose with the palm of his hand. “Yeah. My fiancée is making me take ballroom dancing lessons before the wedding. They were playing it last night.”

  “Did you see Ocean’s Eleven?” Riley asks. There are paninis lined up all along his prep station.

  “The new one?”

  “No, the old one.”

  “Maybe, a long time ago.” Chef is only thirty-five but he acts like he’s an old man.

  “It’s good. The new one is okay too. Frank Sinatra is the man.” I’ve never heard Riley talk so much. He’s good at talking and working. He doesn’t even look up from wrapping and labelling the food. I would forget to put on the expiration sticker, for sure.

  “Dance lessons sound romantic,” I say.

  Riley makes a face.

  “Riley, you’ve got to give it a chance.” Chef ’s got a nice smile. He’s bald, which makes his smile look like it’s swallowing up his whole head. “You could take Starr out dancing.”

  No, thank you.

  “How about it?” Chef repeats. “You two would make a cute couple.”

  “Take it back!” I yell. “Take it back!”

  “I’m just kidding around.”

  “Take it back!”

  “Riley’s a handsome guy.”

  I’m too mad to talk to him anymore. Riley’s only twenty-one – he just got out of high school. And I don’t find him handsome and we don’t get along. Just because he has Down syndrome and I have Williams does not mean that we are going to date.

  Chef nudges my elbow and nods at Riley, who is bright red.

  “You’re being a total jerk,” I shout.

  Martha walks back in. She doesn’t even ask if I’m okay. Instead, she asks again if the order is done.

  “Almost,” Chef lies. “Almost.”

  Today has been the stupidest day in the history of stupid days. The only good thing that happens is that Dad picks me up so I don’t have to take the bus home. He saw how many times I’d called and decided to surprise me. I’m so happy to see him! He drives us over to the Third Moon Cafe and tells me to order whatever I want. I always order a small hot chocolate with whipped cream.

  They have great cookies at the cafe, which they make themselves. Today they have double chocolate sandwich cookies, chunky peanut butter bites and rancher cookies. Rancher cookies are sometimes called cowboy cookies. I’ve got a cookie encyclopedia at home and it’s one of my favourite things to read.

  “When are you going to start your own bakery?” Dad asks. He picks up a sandwich from the cooler display and holds it up. “Peppercorn salami. Did you make this one?”

  I feel upset again thinking about work. “It might not be very good,” I say. “I was distracted.”

  Dad turns the sandwich over. “What was the expiry date today?”

  “August first.”

  He taps the July 30 sticker. “Should be okay, then.”

  That sandwich has to be thrown out tonight, so it should have a half-price sticker on it.

  “Honey,” Dad says, “I’d even risk listeria for you.”

  That makes me laugh. I know it’s a serious disease, just like E. coli, but it’s such a funny word, especially the way Dad says it. Like diarrhea.

  “Can I come home tonight?” After last night with Della and today at work, it would be nicer to be in my old room. “I can make you snickerdoodles.”

  Snickerdoodles are one of the recipes I can make on my own as long as I can use the stand mixer. They’re a very friendly cookie – chewy so they don’t hurt your teeth, easy to freeze if you make too many and the cinnamon sugar isn’t too sweet.

  We have two drawers at Mom and Dad’s house for baking supplies. Baking soda, baking powder, vanilla extract, cocoa and some spices, all handy for when I want to bake. The scoops are there too, along with a set of stainless steel bowls that are easier for me to lift than our old glass ones.

  I start thinking through the ingredients when Dad calls Mom to check in.

  “Well,” I ask when he’s off the phone, “is it all settled?”

  He puts his arm around me and gives me a squeeze. “Not tonight. But if you want, you can come home for the weekend. Mom will be away, so you’ll have to put up with me. I’ve got some new songs programmed into the show and we can rent some movies.”

  Dad looks glum when he drops me off.

  “It’s okay.” I do
n’t want him to be sad. “America’s Next Top Model is on tonight.”

  “Are you winning?” He always makes that joke.

  “And I’m probably going to go to bed early.” But when I get in, Della’s still not there and Cynthia’s left a plate of food for me in the fridge and I’m too weirded out by being alone to fall asleep.

  MELANIE

  JOHN, OUR DIRECTOR OF PHOTOGRAPHY, IS UNABLE TO decide whether the truck wipers are better on fast or fast fast. The rain means the location will be busier, which the store likes because having us film in front of customers makes the place look more hip. It appeals to the staging companies and Real Housewives of the Bridle Path who shop there. It’s a nightmare for audio, however. Especially since we keep the satellite crew light – just me, John and Brent, our sound guy.

  As always, the radio’s tuned to the classic alternative station, which means Nirvana will make an appearance before we arrive. Maybe it’s growing up in a house where there were huge challenges, but I don’t have a lot of patience for that brand of angst. It makes me want to reach through the radio and shake some sense into the musician – You’re talented. You’re a success. Don’t screw this up. When I told John this, tipsy, at the wrap party last year, he just laughed. I prefer music that knows whether it’s angry or happy, Ramones or The Clash, even candy pop – anything but wallowing.

  “Punk is just angst with a different beat,” John said. He’s thirty-six and still thinks the Smashing Pumpkins are the greatest band of all time. It’s my third season on Bargain Basement! and he’s a pretty nice guy to be a bitch for. He knows I want his job one day and he makes sure I get less of the P.A.-fetch-me-a-coffee work and more camera assistant tasks.