Chapter Eight
Car Shopping
Yawning, I sat on the veranda nursing a decent glass of icy sweet tea, alternating between pressing the cool glass to my brow and sipping. Philly might drink scotch to soothe his frazzled nerves, but syrupy sugar tames what ails me.
It was a long night.
After Poochy peed twice near the oleanders, pooped tortillas in the rocks between the park models, I scrambled her a batch of eggs. Energetically spurned by the fatty eggs, she spent the rest of the night wiggling and piddling. I ran out of paper towels. About 4:30ish, after Poochy whined and wiggled with a scrambled egg poop caught in her tracks, we ventured outside for one more potty break.
At that time in the morning, dark was especially dark. She waddled and piddled in several places while I kept one eye out for goatsuckers. They aren’t particular when choosing their victims, a weird-shaped wiener mutt might pass for a goat in the gloaming hours.
Before sunup, I gave her a bath in the kitchen sink, squirting dishwashing liquid and scrubbing her until the hot water ran cold. Her coat turned out to be a mottled white with blue-gray spots. Towel dried, since I was as wet as she was, we bundled together and slept in the recliner.
Philly grinned at my attempt to gather my wits, handing Wayne his measuring tape.
They were at it first thing this morning while I nursed my Poochy hangover. Nothing takes the wind outta your sails faster than a crying baby.
Good ol’ chipper Wayne arrived at sunup telling jokes and getting on my nerves. Philly took over Poochy’s care, and I hid underneath the pillows in the bed wishing Wayne would shut up.
“Hey.” Philly said, climbing the three veranda steps.
Boots, beer bottles and building materials cluttered the tiny area. He was breaking an Oasis littering rule, but keeping an illegal puppy out of sight might land us both in the Oasis jail.
He hunkered on one knee beside my throne. Poochy lay in the shade next to Wayne on the carport. When he scratched her head, she turned over asking him to scratch her belly.
“You think the Oasis has a secret jail? A place where they torture rule breakers?” I lifted a brow at his growing pile of loose building materials. They must have a hidden dungeon somewhere for the nonconformists and no-gooders like me and Philly.
He thumbed his nose, thinking too long before he said, “I read in the binder, if you don’t confess to owning a dog, you’ll get sentenced to thirty days of dog poop duty at the dog park.”
I didn’t chuckle at his attempt at humor and iced my forehead. “You don’t say?”
“I’m borrowing Wayne’s truck. I found a car I want to test drive.”
“Where?” Was he car shopping without me?
“Online. But we gotta test drive it first.”
“I ain’t going.” It was about time he shopped for some wheels. Being without wheels, bumming rides from our neighbors got old quick.
I shook my head, making him believe I wasn’t car shopping. “What are we gonna do with Poochy?”
“Take her with us. I wanna get and get back. No sense wasting time. I made an appointment.”
“An appointment?” Wasn’t he going to kick tires, gaze at engines and smell the new car smells for days on end until he made a car decision?
I gave him a cutting glare, hot enough to slice through him like molten lava.
“Have it your way, then.” I had to make Philly believe I didn’t want to buy a car, so he’d want to buy one even more. Grunting, he eased up. His new titanium knees work better than his worn-out knees, but he still made noise anytime he rose from a hunkering position.
“What about breakfast?”
“Me and Wayne ate at the pickleball snack bar.”
Snickers bars and Cheetos. Like I said he couldn’t feed himself properly, and Wayne’s belly was a testament to his knowledge of nutrition.
“You gotta buy me lunch. Can’t shop for a car on an empty stomach.”
He stepped off the veranda. “I was hoping you’d say that.”
Chapter Nine
Crystal Ball
Philly’s an idiot, but he’s my idiot.
He had his checkbook laying on the salesman’s desk ready to pay cash for a brand spanking new Chevrolet which cost ten times more than our first house in Odessa. It wasn’t much of a house, but buying an expensive car felt like a dead pony ride.
“Nope, I’m not having it.” I snatched my purse/Trader Joe’s shopping bag, which I had converted into a Poochy carryall and walked out. At the door of the dealership, I sashayed my tushie, because I felt the hostile salesman’s eyes piercing my spine.
Inside the dealership, Poochy had played nice because she was full of bacon from my Elmer’s bacon, lettuce and tomato sandwich. She laid in the bag like a good girl, gnawing on my wallet. The moment I cleared the dealership door, she whined asking to walk. Even without a leash, she followed, sniffing and squatting regularly until I found myself a few blocks away from the dealership. At the entrance of a second-hand store, I peered in its dusty window and saw faded Halloween costumes covered with real cobwebs.
Just my kind of place.
Philly would hunt for me soon. I put Poochy into her bag and ducked into the shop to get out of the heat and off the sidewalk. I needed more time to cool off before I got back into Wayne’s dusty truck.
The little shop smelled funky like dirty sweat socks. I browsed around the racks of used clothes, taking in the mountain of treasures and castoffs lining the many shelves and tables. It was a bargain hunter’s dream come true.
“Hey you!” I called using the standard Oasis greeting.
“Oh, hey there.” A man flopped toward me slopping his shoes. “You looking for something special?”
“Naw. Just getting away from a shady car buying deal.”
His belly shook as he ducked behind the counter. Wheezing, he climbed upon a ‘70s style barstool. “Happens a lot. Their prices run off lots of people.”
“Outrageous prices.” I checked his price tags on the broken dishes, his weren’t too bad. “Cars are so expensive.”
“Huey.” He held out his hand over the counter. Poochy sneezed, and the bag cut into my shoulder and I grabbed the bottom of the bag, taking the weight off. “I’m catching a hint of Texas in your manner.”
“Born and bred. Wish I was home now.” I shook his hand, but didn’t give him my name. “Cars don’t cost that much in Texas.” We haven’t shopped for a car in a decade, but I’m certain everything from gas to cars was cheaper there than here in Tucson.
“I hear ya. I’m from Milwaukee.” He pretended to shiver. “Can’t take the cold.”
“Me neither.” I pursed my lips understanding cold. The cold in San Fran was a special cold damp and consistent even in August. In Odessa the cold acted like the devil in disguise, cutting through you like a sharpened machete. “Weather’s nice.”
“By January you’ll be acclimated. I can’t travel much anymore but when I do, I make sure the weather is warm.”
“I bet.” I’ll never acclimate to the Desert Oasis. The oppressive heat, the nice people, so much chitchatting socializing, parties and clubs grates my nerves. Who can be so sweet and that interested in Others? Not me. I’m a loner, a West Texas misfit who loves wide open spaces and long stretches of empty highway with clean bathrooms.
“Do you buy containers full of junk?”
“Sometimes, depending on what the junk is.”
We should donate our excess belongings to Huey, it’d be cheaper than paying storage unit rent. Even after the Arizona room was finished, we’ll never be able to cram all our packed junk into the small space.
“Where do you live?” Huey wanted to visit; I wanted to blow off steam before I saw Philly again.
“Desert Oasis.”
“Nice place. Ritzy.”
I hid behind a shelf and rolled my eyeballs. Muttering, I whispered, “Bout as classy as a Ritz cracker.” I peered over the shelf. “Think so?”
&nbs
p; “I’ve known a few people over there. Used to play pickleball. Don’t no more. Bad ticker.” He thumped his chest imitating a heart attack as I walked around the shelf.
“I heard Dan met an untimely end.”
“Yep, happened on my first day in.” I say in like I had been sent to prison. “His girlfriend had a fit of jealousy. Cold-cocked and drown him in the swimming pool.”
“I heard. That Dan.” He tsked, shaking his head. “He loved the ladies.”
Milling around, I found Huey’s used craft section, a graveyard of former artsy fartsy craft projects. He’s got Michael’s craft store beat by price and almost quantity. Since I was coerced into taking knitting class, I would need yarn and knitting needles.
Fingering different doodads and whatnots, I noticed a dingy yellowed bag filled with wild, wooly hair. I poked the bag checking to see if the thing was alive, but it didn’t budge. I passed on it because it looked like a bag of hair clippings swept off the beauty parlor floor. Unfinished embroidery and needlepoint projects jammed into zipper bags were a dime a dozen. I don’t poke thread through fabric because it’s too slow and tedious.
“Dang, I haven’t seen one of these in years.”
Another zipper bag held a plastic loom and loops exactly like the one Santa—Mama—put under the Christmas tree caught my eye.
When I was seven or eight, I got crafty. It was the year I knew Santa was my mother. No sane jolly old man would deliver such a terrible gift to a seven-year-old. Mama wrapped the loom and put it under our sparse little tree like Santa Claus had thoughtfully delivered it. For several months, I dutifully wove brightly colored loops of cloth into potholders my mama adored. She used those old things until they were rags. One time when Candy came to visit, she tossed the stained ratty potholders out and bought new ones from Walmart. When she left, Mama dug the old potholders from the trash and kept them. Before Candy visited next, Mama would switch out the burned, stained potholders for the new ones. My sister was so dumb she never wondered why the new potholders never seemed used.
Seeing the potholder loom made me long for the old days when Mama took care of me, and I didn’t have a crazy man for a husband. Blinking, I held back tears and shoved the loom behind the other bags on the shelf so I couldn’t see it.
The yucky bag of hair clippings caught my eye again.
“What’s this?” I held it up over the shelf.
“Alpaca wool.”
“Hmm. Okay.” I opened the bag. “Whew!” I strangled the bag to keep the smell inside.
“It’ll make a great sweater.”
“I’m a knitter.” I’m a master liar. Fibs come flying out of my mouth like flies heading for a pigsty. “I’ve donated twenty something afghans to the children’s hospital. I’ll give you five bucks for it.”
“Done deal.”
I sashayed up to the counter, catching a flash of Army green through the shop’s glass door as Philly drove by.
We will have more than one word over the car buying situation. We’re headed for the used car lot next, only he doesn’t know it—yet. He’s looking for me. He can wait. I’m shopping and he knows how much I hate shopping.
“You don’t look like a knitter.” Huey’s beady gaze followed me over the rim of his reading glasses.
“Looks can be deceivin’.” I dug around the sleeping pup for my wallet. “Can you make change?”
“But... I think I have what you need.” His beady eyes got beadier.
“What’s that?” I asked, peeling a twenty from my chewed wallet.
Huey’s pudgy little face went mushy. “I knew someday the right person would walk into the shop—and when they did—I’d give them a gift.”
“Ain’t me.” I did not want Huey’s gift unless it was the new car Philly wanted to buy, I’d take it in a heartbeat.
His beady eyes glinted. “I know it’s you. You’ve got a vibe I can feel.”
“Nope, I don’t vibe.” I backed up a step.
I might have to pay twenty bucks for a bag of stinky alpaca wool because Huey wasn’t interested in making change. I did vibe though—my nerves ticked up a notch seeing Huey’s new glassy-eyed and crazed expression.
Might know I’d stumble upon another Tucson crazy.
He climbed off his stool and bent over behind the counter. “Please, I know it’s meant for you.”
All my gray matter churned the possibilities. Don’t let it be a jackalope. I hate those silly made-up creatures. Sheesh. A jackrabbit with antlers. Every gas station and café between Odessa and Amarillo has a stuffed jackalope setting beside its cash register.
He sat a dusty box on the counter like it contained a crown. I grabbed the bag of alpaca wool, glancing at the door, timing my exit from the shop.
“Give me one minute. You’ll change your mind.”
He blew the dust off the box lid. Despite my desire to run, I stayed put, mesmerized by the dust twinkling in the ray of sunlight that Huey stood in which made him look almost angelic and not dangerous at all. Slowly, he lifted the box lid and crinkled a layer of tissue paper. I stepped closer, drawn to his poignant expression and the mysterious box.
Murmuring, he unwrapped the object and sat it on the counter.
“What’s that?” The ray of afternoon sun Huey stood in earlier hit the crystal ball square on. A scattering of diamond shaped lights flickered across the dear old man’s face.
A sparked light shard bored straight into my eye. I shaded my eyes. “Wow! What did you say it was?”
“It’s my grandmother’s crystal ball. It’s meant for you. You have the gift. She whispered in my head.” He pointed at his hairy ear.
I backed up. “No. No. No. I don’t have no gifts.”
What in tarnation was this all about? I got mad at Philly, stalked off in a huff to teach him a lesson and walked into a second-hand shop where a crazed loony crazy wants to give me his grandmother’s crystal ball.
Nope. Bunk! I ain’t having this BS. “I’m dreamin’, ain’t I?” I’m in a coma in the ICU because I had a stroke over the new car prices.
Huey pushed the orb toward me. “You’re not dreaming. It has powers only you can use. I promised her.”
“What d’you promise who?”
“Grandma Johnson. She was a gifted fortune teller.”
Outside the shop, cars passed. Philly was hunting for his woman; I sensed his frustration over not finding me waiting, begging for his forgiveness.
I stared into the orb, hoping beyond hope I wouldn’t see anything in its crackled glass. “I gotta go.”
Who invented a crystal ball? A wizard? No wizards have magic walking sticks. A witch? A witch rides a broom and boils eye of newt in a black cauldron. Witches and wizards don’t use crystal balls.
“I’m no witch.” Goatsuckers were as farfetched as I would go. Even those don’t exist. I’ve had plenty of fun believing my daddy’s ol’ wives’ tales about vampire goatsuckers stalking children at night. He was only trying to get me to behave and not play outside after dark.
I gazed at the light inside the ball. “Put it back in the box.”
Huey minded me and gently replaced the orb into its box. “You will do good filling Grandma Johnson’s shoes.”
“I’m no good.” I shook my head denying everything.
He made change from his clunky antique cash register and pushed it across the counter. “I’ll bag it for you. Easier to carry.”
With my change in one hand, the yellowed bag of alpaca wool in the other, I edged toward the door and caught another flash of Army green slowly rolling past.
Thank goodness, my Sweetie Bastard would rescue me. I am a damsel in big-time distress.
Huey bagged the box, walked around the counter and held it out. “I wish I had something wise to say. I never thought this day would come.”
Without a meager flicker of hesitation, my fingers closed on the bag handle. I couldn’t stop my digits from having a mind of their own. “Me neither.”
“Well.�
� Huey opened the door. I wanted to say well was a deep subject, but held back. Whatever had just transpired between us, it needed a better closing statement than just well.
I paused inside the open door, shading my eyes from a burning ball of orange in the sky.
Huey smiled. “Poochy was a gift from your angel.”
A chill climbed my spine, much deeper than a regular willie, heading for my brain stem. I’m dead certain I hadn’t mentioned Poochy’s name or presence. “That right?”
I hotfooted it out of Huey’s place. Philly eased the truck beside the sidewalk, glaring at me through its dirty windshield and pointed with his middle finger.
Air caught in my clamped windpipe and I skidded to a stop on the sidewalk. I glanced back at the junk shop’s closed door. Philly’s glare pierced my soul, but I turned on my heel, pushing back into the door. Huey sat at the counter but only lifted a brow as I barged past him into the shelving, rummaging until I found and snatched the bag of loops and the potholder loom.
It was something I needed, not wanted.
I pulled Poochy from the bag, and I shoved my purchases and his horrid gifted crystal ball into the carryall. Winking at Huey, I shoplifted the potholder loom, but he didn’t tackle me as I ran out the door.
“Where have you been?” Philly snarled, irked and hangry; he wasn’t leaning my way in the car department.
“Nun ’ya.”
I am always right about money and sex. These days, sex wasn’t much on either of our minds, but spending wisely was important. Seeing how, we weren’t employable and would live on a fixed income until death do us part. Philly better go first, he won’t survive without me.
“I’m gonna miss dominos.”
“Hush ol’ man. I’m gonna domino you.” I climbed in, sat Poochy on the seat, and Philly gunned it before I settled the bag, put on my seatbelt or complain again.
Chapter Ten
Tarot Cards
We rode home in silence. Philly pouted, but he’ll thank me later when he realizes I saved him from an incurable case of buyer’s remorse.
Wool Over Your Eyes Page 5