Don't Shoot! I'm Just the Avon Lady!

by Birdie Jaworski

  I grabbed the closest big melon and pulled. Oh. Damn. The vine grew thick and I could not break it free. I twisted and tugged the melon, heaving, hyperventilating, stomping on the vine, everything I could. It took twenty minutes to break. The melon weighed twenty pounds and I groaned and gasped as I climbed back through the brambles and rocks to the track. I was two miles from home and every twenty rail ties I stopped to rest. Dawn started to break as I locked Buddy back in his prison and rolled the melon inside the shack. My boyfriend snored in the tiny bedroom, oblivious of the amazing treat we would be eating for days.

  I searched the sink for the big knife, and failing to find it, went out to the barn for a small hand ax. I raised it above the melon and let the last of my strength fall into the fruit, breaking it apart in one blow. An unripe pumpkin lay split before me.

  With this memory fresh in mind, I wished Comet a life of ripe watermelons, a life brought to fruition. A mile from home I was startled by rustling in the avocado tree next to the sidewalk. I thought it was a squirrel, but a Great Horned Owl turned his head and stared at me for a moment, then spread his feathered tips and rose over the hill, into the sunlight.

  Don’t Shoot! I’m Just the Avon Lady!

  While I was out, Frankie scratched a cubist design on my laundry room door and pooped on the Mexican blankets. He didn’t seem embarrassed. He gave me a sideways glance and trotted to the back door. He sat and waited, one ear turned east, the other folded down. I turned the knob and he bolted for crabgrass and sunshine.

  I grabbed the cordless phone and yellow pages then raided the bathroom for supplies, and took a seat at the kitchen table. The phone book stuck to the table where the boys spilled maple syrup. I opened to the listings for animal shelters, and starting making calls. I dabbed my scraped knees with antiseptic, the phone wedged between my ear and neck. The only bandages in the medicine cabinet were decorated with Japanese anime characters. I stuck six of them on one knee, five on the other, and three on my left shin. If only Kilt Man could see me now!

  No room at the inn, each jaded receptionist said. No room for a small pig with a studded harness. I’ll throw in twenty-five pounds of dog kibble, I pleaded! I’ll pay for him to be neutered! I’ll donate a hundred hours of volunteer time, plus a huge box of Avon’s latest and greatest! Nope. Nope. Nope. I called the local paper and placed a classified ad.

  Gorgeous pot-bellied pig FREE to good home! He’s cute! He’s sweet! He’s smart! He’s a natural ham! Free 25 pound bag of pig food and assorted chew toys. Don’t let this awesome pig get away! Free Avon gift with pig.

  I placed an ad for my yard sale, too.

  13 Hours of Avon Madness! Free beauty consultations and makeovers! Free Avon samples! Incredible sale on products! Petting zoo for the kids! Come one, come all! Saturday, 7 am – 8 pm.

  I figured I could corral Frankie in the ancient playpen stored in my garage and let any rug rats scratch him on the head and feed him dog treats. The thought of biscuits made me hungry. I rummaged around the fridge and found a piece of old cheddar. I cut off the moldy edge and nibbled while I prepared for the train station swap. I re-counted the hand creams in Lady Mystery’s bags. Fifty-two. Yup. I tossed in a handful of samples – miniature lipsticks in vibrant reds, two tiny bottles of bubble bath, a vial of amber fragrance. I added five brochures and a square magnet with my name and number and a hand-drawn dove.

  I applied fresh rose lipstick and tried to fluff my hair, but it wouldn’t cooperate. One side of my bangs stuck out sideways no matter how much I tried to smooth them into place. It took me twenty minutes to shove Frankie back in the laundry room. I didn’t notice the greasy snout-print he left on my kilt until I bent over to adjust a flapping bandage just before I jumped into the van. Ah, who cares, I thought. I revved the engine.

  Ring!

  “Hey, you still meeting me at the train station in fifteen minutes?” I flipped open my cell phone to answer Shanna’s call.

  “Sorry, Birdie, but Joel wants to wants to go to the speedway.” Shanna giggled. She took a long drag on a cigarette and I almost smelled the smoke over the phone.

  “It’s ok, Shanna. Geeze, if I ever get a boyfriend, I’ll watch NASCAR, too.” I rolled my eyes and vowed to never get involved with mullet-headed metal rockers. Car races? Since when did Shanna go to stuff like that? I almost hung up the phone, but my best friend yelled.

  “Birdie! Birdie! I almost forgot! Remember the Mercedes? I saw it drive past your street this afternoon! I couldn’t see what celebrity was inside, but it was the same car, I swear!” Shanna took another drag. “Oops, Joel’s calling me, gotta go!”

  The Mercedes? Crap. I’d spent my early afternoon camping out on the side street. I live near the ocean on a clay rusty mesa between the celebrity meccas of Los Angeles and La Jolla. I have my brushes with fame, sure. I once saw a famous blonde actress drinking skinny latte at a chic beach-side cafe. She wore ratty gray sweatpants and a tight aqua t-shirt. I stooped, pretended to adjust my flip-flops, wanted to be sure I was right. She knew what I was doing. She smiled, gave me a curt wave. She told me she liked the Plumeria flower in my hair. But that’s Del Mar, man, a north-coast suburb of San Diego full of starfish and stars.

  My town lies further north, a quiet community of retirement homes and fading family beach resorts. No actresses park it at the local coffee shop, grab a sweet at the Chinese Donut and sun their bellies on our beach. Not until six months ago, anyway, when I noticed something odd. On a late afternoon as I peddled my Avon door-to-door, a sleek Mercedes passed me, drove up Hillside Street and turned into a subdivision overlooking the lagoon. I wouldn’t have thought twice about it, but the two people sitting in the back looked familiar. They wore large dark glasses, chatted with each other, ignored the middle-aged driver. Celebrities. A married couple. A pair so famous, so beautiful and blonde-highlighted and hip that I dropped my backpack to the cement in surprise and turned to watch the car hang a right turn. No way, I thought. No way. Can’t be. Not in this crappy town.

  A couple of weeks later it happened again. The same Mercedes, the same direction, time of day, slightly tinted windows, happy couple - but wait! It wasn’t the same married pair. It was another celebrity duo, two hot young men known for their close friendship. The car turned right. What the heck?

  I described the car and driver and changing famous passengers to my Turkish friend, Ulak.

  “So, what do you think is going on? Think it’s some kind of kinky celebrity sex parties?” I pointed a pretzel at Ulak, jabbed it to make my point, leaned back and waited his response.

  “Birdie. You are seeing things. I don’t think those kinds of people visit your neighborhood.”

  Ulak sipped his beer. He had a point. What would The Beautiful People do in my part of town, on a street full of identical oh-so-normal stucco homes?

  “Well, maybe they’re playing poker. You’ve heard about those secret high-stakes gambling homes, haven’t you?” I puckered my brows, made a mental list of activities the rich might like. Sex. Poker. Well, it was a short list. “I think it’s poker. It has to be.”

  “Birdie. Next week you’ll be seeing Elvis in that Mercedes.” Ulak laughed. He crunched a pretzel, chewed it thoroughly, swallowed before speaking once more. “I will bet you one hundred dollars there are no celebrities in Mercedes sneaking around your neighborhood.”

  I couldn’t wait to tell Ulak the Mercedes had made another appearance. Damn. If Shanna didn’t have her eyes and arms all over Joel she might have seen who was in the car. Double damn. I parked the van under the cedar and gathered the delivery bags in my arms.

  I waited on the bench. The three white tote bags filled with creams and samples and the fanciest Thank You card I could find sat next to me. I watched my nemesis Ms. Railway Clerk change money and dispense small square tickets. She wore the same mustard-stained shirt, and her right hand was stained with black ink. I wondered if she alternated weeks with the young man, if she attended her church regularly, if she h
ad a husband or a lover at home, if her work satisfied her, where her Watchtowers went. The train whistle blew, and I turned around, watching for Lady Mystery to disembark.

  As the passengers clanged down the uneven steps, I saw two police cars out of my peripheral vision. They parked next to the fountain, and a uniformed officer stepped out of each vehicle, hands ready by hips, So Cal vice, but the station seemed too quiet for police action. And then I saw her, my strange customer, in low slung jeans ripped at the knees and a v-neck t-shirt displaying bronzed cleavage and six gold chains. She wore the same little girl pigtails and barely any makeup, and she strode toward me with deliberation and speed. Her black leather boots tapped on the brick walk, my personal Avon High Noon.

  “Here you go, no change, ok? I appreciate this, you’re great.” She grabbed the bags and ran for the train, leaving me counting two-hundred fifty dollars in tens and twenties, and I stood there, Avon clutch shoved under my armpit, organizing bills to fit my wallet, the train pulling from the station when the loud paternal voice of the police behind me barked like bullets.

  “Ma’am! Drop the purse! Drop the money! Put your hands up in the air and turn around!”

  What could I do? I extended my arms in the air, my clutch fell to the ground, and the bills floated to the bricks under my feet. As I turned, I saw Ms. Railway Clerk leaning out of her window, giving me an evil grin. One policeman stood two meters in front of me, arms on hips, one hand near his gun, head slightly cocked to one side, and I heard the crackle and pop of his walkie talkie.

  “Ma’am, please step away from your purse and toward my car. Let’s go!” His bald head shone in the sunlight, and I noticed a part of a blue tattoo on his wrist below the shirt cuff. I moved sideways, hands still raised, scared for my life, scared out of my mind, and I worried over who would make my kids dinner and tuck them in bed that evening.

  “Please, sir, I’m just an Avon Lady, I didn’t do anything, I just sold some hand cream to a girl. I don’t even know her name. Please, sir, can I put my hands down, please?” I pleaded with him. My shoulders burned and I started feeling dizzy. “Please, sir, I think I’m gonna barf. Please.”

  The policeman picked up my clutch and the bills, squatting down, keeping one arm by the gun, both eyes on me. “Yes, you may put your hands down. What is your name?”

  I told him my name, I told him my birthday, my age, my home address, answers to all the questions he asked, but he still didn’t tell me why he took my things, took this action, made me squirm and sweat and try not to vomit. He motioned for me to sit down on the wood bench next to his car and he wrote scratch marks and letters on a pad of paper attached to a metal clipboard. He used his left hand, the arm with the tattoo. His eyes never left me.

  “Wah wah wah wah brrrrsskk crackle crackle.” The walkie talkie shook into life, someone slapping a message, an important message, asking for a response.

  “Yes, I have her here. What’d you get?”

  The little black box uttered more words, but I couldn’t make half of them out, only heard “woman, Avon, bag, nothing.” The contraption rattled on and on, but it took ears of practice and steel to make sense of the warble. The policeman grunted, answered a few questions with sentences I didn’t understand, finally ending with “matches her story over here. Wrap it up.” He clipped the walkie talkie back onto his belt and lifted his hand away from the gun.

  “Sorry, ma’am, seems we’ve made a mistake. We received a tip that a drug deal was going down at this station today involving two women, and your exchange with the bags and money was suspicious. Your friend was apprehended on the train, and she’s clean. She’s carrying Avon, like you said. You’re free to go.” He handed me the purse, the bills, and shook my hand with a kind smile. “I’m very sorry to bother you, but we have to take these steps.”

  “Oh yes, sir, I understand.” My voice cracked with relief and I started to cry. I ran to my car and drove home, drove too fast, realizing I didn’t ask the policeman for the name of my alleged accomplice. I thought about the drug sniffing dogs at the local schools and how children go through metal detectors and submit to frequent backpack checks. Life in Southern California. Life near the border. What’s up with this world anyway, I thought. What’s up with this world?

  Stigmata Avon

  I stuffed Lady Mystery’s tip money in my back pocket. I packed one of those paper grocery bags with blood oranges from my backyard tree, a handful of shelled walnuts in a plastic baggie, a few cans of good ginger ale, a bag of homemade corn chips, a package of fig cookies, and I stuck it in the back of my van. I told the boys to grab a garden trowel and a hammer and a chisel from the bamboo shed, and I piled those in the van, too, along with five gallons of water and two empty Avon boxes. The boys clambored into the middle seat with a jumble of comic books between them and the dog and the pig shared the floor beneath their feet. I wanted to leave the pig at home but I thought about the furniture and baskets of Macademia nuts drying in the sunroom and the toys, oh man the lusciously chewable toys, covering every available surface.

  And we hit the morning road! Hit it hard, rolled south with salsa music blasting from a tin radio. I glanced in the rear view mirror and watched the boys reading, dog sleeping, and pig pressing his body against Louie’s legs and his snout against the side window, watching the rocks ribbon beside us and leaving a coat of thick drool along the window gasket.

  The ranchlands slowly gave way to roll-top mountains covered in graffiti-scribbled boulders. It felt comfortable and small, sort of a desert-lite, with cacti and succulents gently replacing chaparral. It felt friendly and kind. It felt just the right amount of expansive, a safe amount. I could count every bush in sight given one good lazy day. And then the road dipped and burped and we turned a corner around a seemingly insignificant hill. An alien world.

  I’ve traveled this road many times now, and each time I am transported to Mars or Europa or someplace off-planet and wild and scary and breathing myth and pathos. The hill you innocently lurch around is but the top of a mountain of death and fire; covered in so many boulders and rocks it would take every lazy day of your life to count. And as far as your eye can see are more mountains just like the one your car is thundering down, rising out of badlands, rising out of ocotillo and juniper.

  The boulders perch like a house of cards, looking like a chain of dominoes waiting for an eight-year old, and ominous signs reading “watch for rock slides” dot the road in an uncomfortable number. Louie stared wide-eyed for a moment and then said “Jeeeeeeeeeesus!” followed by silence, followed by a sheepish “Sorry, Mom.” I’d never taken him here before, and though I kept saying “wait till we turn the big corner, just wait, you won’t believe it!” he rolled his eyes and muttered under his breath how boring the ride was, until this moment, until the landscape held him mental hostage.

  We barreled down the road. We could see the Salton Sea in the far distance, beyond the mountains, beyond the badlands, a jeweled expanse of green, like an emerald buried in sandstone. Marty asked me if we really were on a different planet and I said no, no, our planet has many faces, some gentle and inviting, some desolate and aching.

  I consulted a map as I drove, can of ginger ale between my legs. I bought the map at a junk shop in Escondido, from a comic book man with deep-set eyes and thin fingers. He took a green ballpoint pen from his shirt pocket and circled areas on the map.

  “The best marine fossils are here. Mounds of ‘em. You can scoop them up with a shovel. Nothing else like it in the county.” His breath smelled of coffee and alcohol and his eyes sank deeper into his head as he looked at the map and wrote off-road directions along the side. “Now here you’ve got your petrified wood. Just grows right outta the ground like cabbage. You can only take twenty-five pounds a day, that’s the law. Sometimes Border Patrol is out in that area so don’t mess around with that.”

  I pulled the van off at Ocotillo Wells and dove south, into the remnants of an ancient seabed and followed those hand-written
descriptions for four miles across a desert wash caked with dried mud and drying spring grasses. I drove until I knew my van would drive no more in the soft sand. We got out of the van into the cool dry air and hiked down a crusty ravine into the oyster beds of many millions of years ago. The comic book man was right. Fossils littered the ground in every direction, fossils of hard rock oysters and chevron shells and delicate brain coral, some dark split black, some opalized into a gemstone hint of pearl and glass. The boys used small trowels to dig for the best specimens and I sat on a flat piece of granite and watched them pick and dig, pick and dig. The dog lay on the tailgate of my van, curled into a tight ball. Frankie the pig followed the boys and his fire engine red harness stood out among the dull rock and our earth tone clothes.

  Oysters. Frozen in time. I held a fossil and ran my hands over the rocky ridges, the smooth underside, imagined myself under hundreds of feet of water, an oyster in some otherworld sea. I’m alone the way I’m always alone though I share a house with kids and birds and dog and now a pig. I’m alone like these, buried under years of neglect. I left a newborn daughter to be raised by an unknown family. I held an oyster in front of my face, tried to trace what I remembered about her in the gritty pattern. I know you, I thought. I remember you. I remember you. And something broke inside of me, broke and spilled on the sand below my body. I don’t know what it was, felt past-life heavy and useless. I jumped the last mental maze hurdle.

  The boys filled the Avon boxes with their treasures. I swung the van toward a lookout point featured on the map. We stood at the top of a sheer cliff, and in our view, as far as our eye could see, were the badlands. It was our second alien planet in one day. It spread, small and colorless, as devoid of life and light as anything I have ever seen. Thousands of striations and hills and mesas, all gray and brown, like the Grand Canyon of Hell. We only stayed a few minutes, somehow the sight of it was disturbing, and our minds were saturated from the desert. The sun was setting and as we left the desert, a small drizzle began and followed us home.