Rowena's Life, Part 1
Rowena Cooks A Meal
Fiction by S. D. Youngren
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Rowena invited her parents to dinner. She was not doing this because she could think of nothing better to do with an evening, but because she intended to prove, once and for all, that she was managing by herself.
"Do you use those cookbooks I gave you?" her mother asked. "What were they called?"
"Cooking For Morons and How Not To Incinerate Your Dinner."
"Yes, that's right. Do you ever use them?"
Rowena shut her eyes. "They were so helpful," she said, "that I can now use normal cookbooks."
"Oh, that's good to hear." Sarcasm was lost on Rowena's mother. "I do worry about you, Rowena; I know how you young people are. But you just can't live on Big Macs."
"Whoever said you could?" Rowena asked.
The afternoon of the dinner looked promising. The weather was good, the apartment was in perfect order, including the bouquet Rowena had remembered to buy for a centerpiece, and the food--which she had made from scratch, right down to the breadsticks and the salad dressing--was perfect and, unbelievably, on schedule.
Her parents were only twenty minutes late. Rowena jumped when she heard the doorbell, stopped quadruple-checking everything to let them in.
"Hello, Rowena," said her mother. "Something smells good. Dear, your hair is a mess." She gave Rowena a peck on the cheek. "You look like you've been through a wind tunnel."
"Hello," said Rowena at last. Her father shoved his wife out of the way, charged past his daughter. "Your TV in here?" he asked, and turned it on.
"Daddy?"
"I'm afraid you decided to have your little dinner in the middle of a football game," her mother explained. "He was not happy."
Rowena's father turned the volume up. "Well--" said Rowena doubtfully.
"Child, do something about your hair. Let me have a look at the food."
"It's just about ready; it doesn't really need--"
"Oh, I almost forgot. Here." Her mother gave Rowena a big smile. "A hostess gift."
"1001 Things To Do With Velveeta," Rowena read.
"I was looking for Any Fool Can Cook!, but they were out." Rowena started thumbing through the book's index, was disappointed to find that all the ideas seemed to involve eating the stuff. "Then I thought, Recipes For Tiny Tots, but I was afraid you would think I was pressuring you. You know, nagging you to get married and have babies so they could cook." She laughed brightly to show she didn't mean it. "Though, of course, if you're going to go around with your hair like that..."
Rowena excused herself and hid out in the bathroom. She undid what was left of her chignon, brushed her hair out, and put it up again. She took her time about it. As she finished she could hear her father swearing at the football players, and decided to check her supplies of toothpaste, soap, and everything else she could think of.
"I thought this main course thing needed something," said her mother. "So I put in some salt, but it seems I put too much."
"Mom--"
"Do you have any potatoes? You can remove excess salt with a raw potato."
"All my potatoes went into the soup."
"Already cooked?"
"Already cooked."
"Oh, well. I don't suppose it matters."
From the living room Rowena's father swore and stamped his feet.
The building shook.
"The soup is cold," her mother said.
"It's vichyssoise. It's supposed to be cold."
"Oh. Vichyssoise." Brief silence. "I never could understand that sort of thing. Nothing wrong with good old potato soup, but people have to do strange things to it just to be fancy."
"Well--" said Rowena.
"Anyway, men don't go for all this complicated stuff. You're going to have to learn to broil a steak; that's what you're going to have to learn. Cold potato soup--that's no way to get a man."
"I'm not trying to get a man," Rowena said. "Do you see any potential husbands here? Do you?"
"Now, Ro--" But Rowena's father, whose attention had never once left the television except when he had to unplug it to move it into the kitchen, let out a roar. Rowena and her mother sat quietly as a dozen "bums," eight "bastards," and eleven "idiots," all in the form of one unfortunate football player, were consigned to hell for all eternity. Eventually her father paused for breath, and Rowena became aware the phone was ringing.
"Daddy, could you--Dad, I'm on the phone; I can't hear a word--Daddy, please . . ."
The quarter ended and her dad sat quietly through the beer commercials--so quietly that Rowena got a perfect earful from Mrs. Frobisher upstairs. "I'm sorry," Rowena told her, once she could speak. "It's my dad watching football. I've been trying to keep him quiet, but--well, that's--but--Look, I really can't do that to my father."
"What about Ferd Frannon?" her mother asked when Rowena hung up.
"Ferd?"
"You know--the one you kids used to call `Ferdie the Fink.'"
"We still do."
"Rowena! That is not very nice."
"Neither's Ferd Frannon," Rowena said. "But the cheesecake is. How much would you like?"
Rowena Gets A Haircut
Fiction by S. D. Youngren
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Rowena went to get her hair done. Her mother, in despair over Rowena's "cheap" haircuts, had given her a gift certificate for her own, more expensive salon, to see the only man she trusted, her Mr. Jonathan. Rowena's mother, very excited, wanted to go along, but Rowena put her foot down. She was going in order to keep the peace and because it was free, but she did not want them outnumbering her.
But Mr. Jonathan, as it happened, was home sick. The receptionist directed her instead to a Mr. Roger.
"Hello," said Mr. Roger. "How are you today?"
"Fine," said Rowena. "I'd like--"
"Now then," Mr. Roger said. "Let's take a look at you." He peered at Rowena from various angles, frowning slightly. "What we have to do, you see," he continued, "is discover your Personal Style. You see what I'm saying, dear?"
"Well, I--"
"What we want to do is let out the true you."
"Uh-huh," said Rowena.
He disappeared behind her, then drifted back into view. "You have red hair," he said. "This is the natural color, isn't it? It's lovely; it's a lovely red, and you know, that makes you a high-energy person. Quick, impatient, maybe a bit impetuous."
"Look--" said Rowena.
"We're going to set you free, dear," said Mr. Roger. "Free to be yourself; free to follow your impulses. Your Personal Style, you see." He looked at her again, his head to one side. "Tell me, what is it you really want?"
"I want my hair cut," said Rowena. "I want you to leave as much--"
"Headstrong," observed Mr. Roger. "Tending towards short-tempered."
"I want as much of the length left as possible. Just--"
"Long hair is nice," said Mr. Roger.
"Yes, it is. And I want mine long. So--"
"Short hair is nice too."
Rowena spent three hours with Mr. Roger. By the time she got home, she and her hair were both frazzled.
She told her mother what had happened.
"Oh, dear," said her mother. "Mr. Roger is really not a very good stylist."
"Why didn't you warn me about him?"
"Rowena, how can you be so angry with Mr. Roger? He may have ruined your hair, but he's such a nice man."
Rowena rolled her eyes heavenwards, pul
led her remaining hair up on top of her head and held it there with both hands. "Can I borrow your hat?" she asked.
Rowena Becomes A Proto-Aunt
Fiction by S. D. Youngren
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Rowena received a phone call from her sister. "What's wrong?" she asked.
"Wrong?" asked Maralynne. "Why should anything be wrong?"
"Nothing should be wrong; it's just that you only call me when you're upset."
"Oh, Rowena," said Maralynne. "You're such a pessimist."
"Well, it seems that every time you call, you're mad because Brian just moved out, or because Brian is refusing to move out, or you think you're pregnant again, or you've had to change acting coaches or psychics or--"
"I haven't changed my psychic for over a year. Madame Zelda is wonderful. I'm sticking with her to the end of this life. Speaking of which, do you know she was my twin sister in Egypt and my mother in Atlantis?"
"How nice," Rowena said.
"It's all so exciting. I wish you would just accept the fact that it's a New Age now and you will never achieve true happiness and fulfillment until you are willing to seek Enlightenment and--"
"And change the way I spell my name?"
Maralynne sighed patiently. "I explained that to you when I did it. When I become a Star, I will want to keep my own name so that everyone I ever knew--all the little people and everybody--will know it's really me, but I won't get confused with Marilyn Monroe."
"Nobody is going to confuse you with Marilyn Monroe," said Rowena. "No offense, but not even her impersonators get confused with Marilyn Monroe. Besides, if you're really that big a Star--"
"Well, I want to make it clear I'm not a bimbo; that I'm serious, a real Star with a formidable talent, and not just another gorgeous little piece of fluff who--"
"Maralynne--"
"Besides, Madame Zelda, who is a very gifted numerologist, explained to me that as long as I kept our last name I was never going to get anywhere as `Marilyn', even with all the talent in the world."
"So what's she think of my name? Should I become R-H-O-W-E-E-N-A?"
"I don't know. I'll have to ask her. But she's just wonderful. And you know, she says it's a real honor to work with me."
"How much does she charge you?"
"Really, Rowena, how vulgar. I'm surprised at you. But I'm not going to let you get me aggravated on account of the baby."
Rowena took a deep breath. "What baby?"
"My baby." Maralynne was proud. "This time it's for real. And this time I'm ready for it. It'll be a small strain on my Career at first, but according to Madame Zelda this particular baby--"
"Have you had a pregnancy test?" Maralynne had four or five false alarms a year.
"Oh, I don't need a test. Madame Zelda told me all about it. I have to be very careful or I may lose him in the next couple of weeks, being as how Saturn--"
"Maralynne, how far along are you?"
"Three weeks. But Madame Zelda gave me her word."
"I see."
"It's going to be a boy, and I'm to name him Percival Bruce."
"`Percival Bruce?'"
"It's very sound numerologically. And it has kind of a ring to it, with two C's and, you know, different numbers of syllables and stuff."
"Couldn't you make it `Bruce Percival,' then?"
"No, it's got to be `Percival Bruce.' Madame Zelda was very firm on that."
"But, really, Maralynne--"
"Please don't argue with me, Rowena; there are Forces at work which you just don't understand."
Rowena looked at the ceiling. "There certainly are forces at work," she said. "Oh, I believe that all right. Money, for instance."
"Rowena! Madame Zelda is helping people. She does this because she enjoys it."
"Oh, I suspect she loves it."
"I am not going to let you ruin everything. You--God, Rowena, you're such a close-minded reactionary little idiot sometimes. You--" She caught herself, suddenly. "I mean, you should really try to be more accepting. I'm sorry about the outburst, but you're such a--anyway, Madame Zelda keeps telling me not to be so negative, so I'll forgive you once again."
Rowena shut her eyes. "Good for Madame Zelda," she said.
"It's good advice for you, too."
"Maralynne, I would love to continue this argument, but my fortune cookie last night told me I should drop everything else and start learning to knit baby booties. Talk to you later."
And Rowena hung up.
Rowena Goes To Work
Fiction by S. D. Youngren
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Rowena began to feel odd as she turned off the freeway. Somehow everything seemed strange, unreal--the music from her radio, the colors outside; even the way the other cars moved. Rowena frowned, tried to concentrate on her driving. But the other cars were weaving oddly, the asphalt seemed to shift around when she stopped at a light; and the lights themselves seemed all out of sync. She reached for the radio, switched to a different station, and found a woman speaking in a language she didn't quite recognize, though it sounded almost familiar . . .
She managed, finally, to pull into the parking lot and scamper to the front door. The building too looked odd, but she tried not to let this bother her. She dodged inside--and failed to recognize the place.
It should have been Rorschach & Schmed, whatever that was.
It must have been Rorschach & Schmed.
She went back out and looked at the sign over the door, which said, "Rorschach & Schmed."
Rowena took a deep breath. "If this is really where I work," she thought, "my desk will be here somewhere. Somewhere."
She went back in and looked for it. She passed desks, hallways, doors. A man at one of the desks picked up a phone. "Good morning; Rorschach and Schmed," he said into it. "What a silly name," Rowena thought. She was not quite sure after all that this was really where she worked, or, if it was more or less where she worked, that she wasn't dreaming the whole thing.
And then she found a desk with a little nameplate on it that said simply ROWENA. She stopped and looked. To the left of the nameplate was a vase with no flower in it. There was a stapler, a notepad, a telephone. There was a filled In box and an empty Out box. There was a framed picture with its back to her. She picked it up--a photo of herself and her family, ten years old.
Or was it fifteen?
And why would she keep such a picture on her desk?
Rowena sat down. Her chair was wobbly. She pulled out the long top drawer to see what was inside. By now she was not even sure what she was supposed to be doing. She wanted clues.
Paper clips. Scotch tape. Paper with the company logo embossed on it. She pawed through all her supplies, found nothing that really told her what to do.
She couldn't just sit there all day.
It occurred to her to tell her boss she was too confused to work and just go home. But who was her boss? And where? She had no idea.
Someone was walking towards her. Rowena snatched up a box of staples and, as busily as she could, tried to reload her stapler, only to find that the staples were the wrong size.
Rowena hoped this was a dream.
"Hi," said whoever he was, stopping and smiling at her.
"Hi," replied Rowena. She hoped she was on good terms with him.
He started to fidget. "Uh, Rowena," he said. "I need some advice. It's like--well--um, Melanie is . . . I mean, last night she told me--only Bob said that Carolyn and Beth--you remember Phil, the one who lives across the hall from Ted? And the way Melanie spends money, I'm not sure I even--"
Rowena tried to make some sense of this. She tried to remember who all these people were, or at least one of them.
She hoped this was a dream.
"Uh-oh," her coworker said. "Here comes trouble. Look, just tell me quick--what should I do?"
"Well," said Rowena.
"You've got to help me."
"Give her a home-cooked meal," said Rowena quickly, "and have a serious talk with her and don't listen to anything Phil says." She looked nervously up at him, still wondering who Phil was and what he may have said that shouldn't be listened to.
"Home-cooked meal . . . Yeah. Yeah. I'll try that. Thanks, Rowena. And you're right, of course; I never did trust that Phil ever since--uh-oh." And he literally ran away.
S.D. Youngren - Rowena 1 - Rowena's Life.txt Page 1