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

by Birdie Jaworski

“Oh My God! You guessed! Ok, you have to be my best woman, ok? I don’t want a maid of honor, I just want a best woman. That’s you! You’re the best! Oh, I gotta go - Joel, stop it, hee hee hee – ‘bye Birdie!”

  I stood, dead phone at my ear, for a long, long while. Congratulations, Shanna, I thought. Wow. Wow. Way to go! What the heck do I wear to a Metallica Mullet Wedding? I hope I catch the (sure to be black roses) bouquet!

  One hundred drops later, we were done. My mind still shook from Shanna’s surprise. I opened the back hatch of my van and scooped out Huge Hair Deidre’s books - the ones she left along my street - and ran them to her very own porch, left them wilting in the afternoon sun.

  Big hair. Mullets. Trains. Daughter. Big Hair. Mullets. Trains. Daughter. My boys ran through the sprinkler the rest of the afternoon. I watched them from the kitchen window as I filled the sink with soap and hot water. Big hair. Mullets. Trains. Daughter. Too many people, events, things I couldn’t control invaded my mind. I let the dishes soak and found my purple meditation pillow.

  I bought the pillow at a yard sale when I was seventeen years old. I forked over fifty-cents to a middle-aged woman. She wore tight Jordache jeans and an oversized navy-blue sweatshirt cut around the neck like a television dancer. Heavy silver rope earrings dangled near her neck, and I noticed the line of her back reached from her feet to a spot just above her head, as if someone pulled an invisible string through her spinal cord toward central heaven. I hugged the pillow to my belly, swollen with my daughter, and I turned to walk home, the hand of the tiny girl I babysat in mine.

  “Hey, miss? Miss? Do you know what that is?” Jordache Woman pointed to my purchase and I shrugged my shoulders.

  “Yeah. It’s a floor pillow.” My charge’s hand slid from mine and she ran behind a heavy oak. I watched her body cast bent shadows along the grass as she collected acorns in her tiny fists.

  “Yes. It is. It is also an invitation to not think.”

  I pictured her grin as I walked home, one hand holding the pillow, the other a leash of exhaustion and sunshine spasm. The little girl didn’t notice the pillow, but my unborn daughter kicked it, meridian over nerve, until my belly became a soft practiced drumstick.

  I gave birth to my daughter, gave her up for adoption. I was empty and painful, wistful and exhausted, like my womb. I took a walk one morning, left my new boyfriend in the kitchen, left the negative words he uttered that morning, found myself across the street from a place called a “zendo.” I didn’t know what it meant, only knew strange people with the scent of incense and quiet walked the steps each morning as the birds called, and each night as the street lights flickered to life.

  “Hello! Miss! Are you here to learn about your floor pillow?” I smiled at Jordache Woman, this time dressed in sweatpants and a t-shirt. She carried a small basket covered with a woven cotton towel, and I smelled cinnamon and vanilla.

  “You use those pillows here?” I raised my eyebrows in surprise and disbelief, but Jordache Woman nodded her head carefully, looked straight at my belly as if she wondered why it looked different.

  “Yes. We use those pillows here. Do you have a free morning? Please come sit with us.” She didn’t wait to hear my response. She slowly walked to a double door carved with delicate Japanese designs. I followed her, felt something leap inside my belly though it was empty and tired.

  I watched a small group of eight pull floor pillows like mine off a mahogany shelf. Tall sticks of incense sparked in each cardinal corner of the room.

  What is this place? I wondered. It smells like the sky, like a place I used to know. I grabbed a pillow and arranged my legs to match the cross-legged position of the others. A woman dressed in a gray kimono with pajama pants walked to the center of the room. She didn’t speak, didn’t move, stood and waited, and I heard the breath of eight people roll around the corners of the room, reaching the incense, making it burn brighter, higher, sending some kind of secret message to the stars.

  I made it a habit, this butt-on-pillow-stuff at the simple stick structure they called a zendo. They called it sitting, called it zazen, called it meditation, called it quiet. I called it impossible, felt arms and neck and head and legs and belly fall asleep, raise some kind of primal alarm, felt my thoughts race through a mind muddied with disappointment and fear. No one gave me direction. No one helped. It’s not Zen, they said, when I asked for assistance. Just sit, they said. That’s Zen. You sit.

  “I feel like I’m dying!” I cried to the pajama leader, a women they called Sensei, and I asked her to help me understand, asked her to tell me why I sat in a practice called zazen even though I didn’t know what I was doing, even though I hadn’t taken Buddhist vows.

  “Maybe it’s time you take those vows,” she said. She didn’t say more, let me cry, let me hate it, the unknowing, the coldness of it, the decision I made to take Bodhisattva vows.

  I promised the universe I would stay on my pillow until the last of the last reached Nirvana. Even if it takes a million million lifetimes, I said, and I meant it with my heart, though my mind told me it was ridiculous, untraceable, a myth.

  “You took those vows for something other than yourself,” the Sensei said after the ceremony. “You will take them again someday, when you are truly ready.”

  I hated her for saying this, hated the sitting, the first day that turned into a month turned into a year, turned into decade that saw the Sensei die. My relationship died too, I moved, and another Sensei took her place. I saw him transferred to a monastery, saw another decade disappear, a failed marriage, changes at my new zendo.

  “Birdie, let’s talk.” He cornered me after zazen one day. I set my pillow on the zendo table, grabbed a cookie and took a bite. I smiled at Sensei, wondered what I did wrong this time. Did I look like I was sleeping? I was. Did I look bored, tired of sitting? I was. I finished the cookie and took another. He continued to look at me, at the place between my eyes, didn’t flinch or stutter, let his eyes tell me a story, then he spoke.

  “Birdie, you need to leave the zendo.”

  I dropped the cookie to the table in surprise. “What are you saying?”

  “Birdie, it’s in your posture. You aren’t present in the practice.”

  I knew he wanted me to tell him I would be more present, I would work at my detachment. But I left the cookie on the counter, waved goodbye, carried my pillow home.

  He doesn’t get me. He doesn’t understand that I sat zazen for sixteen years. Sixteen years! I am thirty-six years old, and I have sat zazen for almost half my life. I left my pillow in a closet and sent it dirty looks every now and then. Damn pillow. Damn Sensei. I was getting somewhere! I was going to get enlightenment. Damn them.

  I pulled the pillow from the closet now, as my boys raced false drops of rain. I placed it in the center of my living room, lit a stick of Japanese incense, bowed in the way I was taught, and chanted a verse from an ancient text. I sat. I sat for ten minutes, twenty, my mind forgotten. I sat without thought, let the images of past talk and regret pass through my skin, my heart, my bones, my blood, let them pass. I let them pass. Let them pass. I don’t know how I did this, only knew I recognized something new, something simple and funny. I let them pass.

  A gate opened. A mind gate, a gate of perception of love. I felt the rush of the universe pour into my mind, my heart, felt at one with sand and otters and Aloes and chain-link-fences, felt the atoms crusting my body carry the rhythm of the stars, the moon. It only lasted as long as the recognition.

  I stood, looked at my pillow, and strode to the kitchen to finish washing the dishes. The boys chased Frankie through the waving wand of water. My daughter will chase them soon, I thought. And the Avon, my friends, everything will fall into place.

  Hush Money

  Sixty Avon brochures, three odd customers, two unruly old ladies, two spazzy little boys, several packages mailed at the post office, and two extra-strength aspirins later, I stood at a neighborhood corner, foggy and full of tiny paper cuts,
still waiting for a call from my Turkish friend. Where could he be? I sent him to the train station yesterday, carting two over-stuffed bags full of hand cream, to meet the Mystery Lady of the Liniment Express. He should have called by now, it’s practically 24-hours later, I wondered.

  I rang the police station and spoke to a brittle woman with an alligator under her breath.

  “Um hello? I’m just wondering whether you arrested a Turkish friend of mine at the train station yesterday afternoon? He was carrying Avon?”

  “Excuse me, ma’am?” I heard something slap hard against metal behind her words.

  “Well I have a friend who ran an errand for me. And when I ran this errand a few weeks ago, I almost got arrested. I didn’t do anything wrong! I was just delivering Avon, a lot of Avon, at the train station. He’s tall, over six feet. With big bushy eyebrows, black. And an olive complexion. He’s Turkish, with three Avon bags.” It struck me how ridiculous I sounded, a poor mother whose marbles lay in white lunch bags with a red logo all around town.

  “Ma’am, if your friend has been arrested, it’ll be in the papers tomorrow morning. Good night.” She hung up the phone and I caught the word “nut” under her breath before the click.

  Where is he?

  My boys and I continued walking our beat, knocked on our regular doors and collected our regular small orders for blush and soap and deodorant. I realized I didn’t get a single call from Big Hair Deidre’s neighborhood. She must have discovered my dastardly deed and removed the evidence, I figured. It would have ended there, plain and simple, but the Avon Gods intervened. I received a gift certificate to Denny’s in that day’s mail - a thank you gift from the PTA for my volunteer assistance over the school year.

  “Hot dog! Boys, we’re going out for lunch! You’ve been such excellent helpers!”

  The Denny’s sits at the corner of the biggest boulevard in town and the I-5. Queen Palms separate north from south. We shuttled past the Japanese restaurant and the Albertson’s grocery and pulled in to the parking lot the Denny’s shares with the Motel Six. I carried an Avon purse stuffed with brochures and my gift certificate and I hustled the boys inside.

  “You guys can pick out whatever you like! This is going to be a party, ok?”

  An older waitress wearing a white and black smock escorted us to a booth along the picture windows bordering the restaurant. I sat against the glass and noticed a hundred tiny palm prints from someone’s loose toddler. The boys perused the menu and debated the fine points of burgers versus pancakes and I glanced around the room, happy to be able to treat my boys as well as have a meal requiring no dirty dishes. Three waitresses leaned against the counter. I could barely hear their gossip about a co-worker and her hot fling with the Tijuana man who makes homemade tortillas. I smiled, thought how a man who kneads dough for a living must have talented hands. I turned to see what might be behind me, and then I saw her. Huge Hair, Deidre, the Big Bad Avon Lady. With a yuppy customer, drinking coffee and eating apple pie a-la-mode, and demonstrating Avon eyeshadows and lipstick.

  “Boys. Figure out what you want to eat. Let’s order. And then we’re gonna take that woman down.”

  I picked up a menu and checked out the shiny photographs of simple foods with tacky names. Hmmmmm. Should I get the Grand Slam? Or the Rooty Tooty Fresh ‘n Fruity? Louie broke my concentration, poked my menu and whispered sotto voce.

  “Uh Mom? That lady is like three times bigger than you! And she looks mean, too. I don’t think you should beat her up.”

  I set the menu next to my paper napkin. I looked at both boys. They looked from Huge Hair Deidre to me with fear in their eyes. Our waitress hovered near our table, saw us in deep conversation, retreated to the long Formica bar.

  “Uh, ‘take her down’ is just an expression, boys. Have I ever beat up anyone before?” I asked the question with one eye raised and a laugh in my voice but Marty answered with a wavering yelp.

  “How would we know? We’re always in school.”

  He had a point.

  “Well boys, this Denny’s is our own private starship. And I’m the Captain. You know how when the ship is in trouble, they don’t always fight back with photon torpedoes? You know how they use their noggins and try to outsmart the alien enemy?” I used images my boys would understand. They knit their brows in unison.

  “Too bad we can’t just remodulate the dilithium matrix field,” Marty muttered.

  “Or teleport her to the moon,” added Louie. I had to agree.

  I waved Madame Denny’s back to our table. The boys ordered club sandwiches with piles of fries and I opted for a piece of coconut cream pie and a banana milkshake. The waitress dropped a basket of crayons in the center of the table and the boys chose their favorite colors and began coloring their combination placemat-menus. I watched them fill in a rinky dink crossword puzzle and complete a word search, kept my eyes glued to the colors swirling across the page, and it gave me an idea. I opened my purse, took inventory, grabbed a bag of rose lipstick samples and stood on the edge of my booth seat. My boys didn’t notice.

  “Attention, ladies! Gentlemen, too, if you know what’s good for ya!”

  I swooped my arms in the manner of all great carnival barkers and bowed at the waist.

  “Allow me to introduce myself. My name is Birdie. I sell Avon. And not just ANY Avon, but the very best in lipcolors in this known universe! Lipstick can change your life! Who needs a touch up? Come on down. Don’t be shy.”

  Every eye in the joint was on my teetering body, on the shimmering plastic package I held high over my head. My boys continued coloring, and I noticed Louie squirm a bit in embarrassment.

  “Like I said, Lipstick can be a savior! It gives you confidence! It gives you flair!” I continued hawking the joys of Avon lipstick as a crowd formed around my table. All the waitresses gathered around, too, and I saw a cook with stringy hair under a black net peek around the delivery counter. I didn’t dare look in Deidre’s direction. I handed out book and sample after book and sample, passing my compact around so each woman could freshen up, look her best.

  “Behold the power of lipstick!” I added a few more phrases I remembered from my Gramma’s passion for Benny Hinn, and considered pressing my hand against a forehead or two but thought the better of it. I had their attention, so I moved in for the kill.

  “And anyone who places an order with me today, gets the lipstick of her choice, for free!” And that, as they say, was that. I collected a few hundred bucks in orders, and swapped contact info with nearly every woman in the house. Deidre slunk out the side door. I caught a glimpse of the hair squishing against the doorframe, and noticed her customer was now standing in MY line! Whoopee!!

  I organized the orders, and sat down to eat, and aw, man. The boys finished their sandwiches, fries, cokes, and MY pie and milkshake. Well, serves me right, I figured.

  As I piloted the van past the Catholic Church, Ulak called. He took the train, boarded a car behind Ms. Mystery, and followed her to a seaside city destination.

  “Birdie. I have the information you seek. Meet me at the diner. 7 pm. Don’t be late, Birdie. I cannot be late getting home again. I do not wish my mother to suspect anything between us.”

  Between us?

  “Ulak, what the hell are you talking about? Between us? There is NOTHING between us!” I snarled into the phone and saw Louie jab Marty in the side in my rear view mirror.

  “Birdie. The fly is small, but it is big enough to make one sick.”

  Sheesh. Men.

  I swung the van one street north of my own, into the drive of a simple ranch home with the same number as mine to meet my customer, a woman with expensive copper highlights in her dirty blonde hair. Kelsey orders her Avon like clockwork - a neat e-mail arrives every other Sunday night, with a detailed list of products, numbers, sizes, and colors. She likes deep red lipsticks and cocoa eyeshadows and considers Avon’s Imari her signature scent. She pays on time, too, leaves me a check written in neat loop
ing script, always rounded up to the next dollar. It’s like getting a tip for twenty-nine cents, or thirty-eight cents, sometimes just a penny or two. I like her as much as I like any other customer, I guess. She isn’t a warm huggy sort, likes to keep a friendly business distance, leaves me the check under a braided sisal welcome mat, and I leave my crisp white bag behind an overgrown potted jade.

  I reached behind my seat and Louie handed me my backpack and a bag containing two lipsticks, a Naturals Gardenia shower gel, a pair of gold dangly earrings, and two roll-on deodorants in Imari fragrance. Typical Kelsey order. A fat tabby cat ran out from under an Aloe, snuggled past my legs, followed me up the walk. The boys tickled each other and wrestled over a new comic book while they waited.

  Kelsey’s Beamer sat out front, all black and blue and radiating heat. Wow, she must be home, I thought as I ran my hand along the length of her car, swooping it up and over the passenger compartment, letting it gently fall with the slope of the hood. A pick-up truck sat in the drive next to Kelsey’s car. Two industrial lawnmowers rested in the bed, and a magnetic sign stuck to the driver’s door clung at an angle to a bad paint job covering what looked like recent accident damage. “Baja Beauty Lawncare.” I ran my hand along the sign, tried to push it back into alignment, but it slipped back to its comfort spot. I pulled a brochure from my pack and a handful of samples and slipped them through the open window, onto the worn vinyl seat.

  I walked up to Kelsey’s porch and as I climbed the few stairs I listened for the gardeners. They must be weeding in back, I figured, and I stooped to lift the doormat to retrieve my check. The sisal shed dust mites and caked mud onto the tile deck, but no check fluttered to greet me. I dropped the mat and rang the doorbell.

  Rustle! Rustle! Bump! A flurry of panicked whispers, hurried noise, came from somewhere inside the white stucco home, and I began to panic myself. Maybe I should run! Maybe those gardeners are robbing her house! Maybe they tied Kelsey up with weed-whacking wire! I held my breath, nearly sprinted away but the door shot open with a bang against the outside wall, and Kelsey peered from around the corner, hands in front of her chest, holding a royal blue bath towel tightly around her body. Her streaked hair stuck out in porcupine spikes and as our eyes met she breathed deep, a sigh of relief, and she closed her eyes.