by Lorraine Ray
So the lonely young writer arrives home in the afternoon, a day after robbing his best friend, Marsha, and telling his next best friend, Rodney, all about it. Key in the door. Wave at the crazy lady from Apartment 5.
“Hello, hello there? Marc? Oh Marc. Is that you?” calls one of the old lady Canasta nuts who plague me, who swarm around the outside of my apartment building looking for young people to invite to their tourneys. She and all the other old ladies insist on calling me Marc, which no one else does, and I’ve corrected them so many times. I made the mistake of joining them in a game a few weeks ago and they won’t let up on me. That’s what I get for feeling sorry for them. At least I didn’t tell them about Marsha. Yet.
“Oh crap,” I say quietly.
“It is you! I see you.” Index finger pointing shakily in my direction, the pouncing neighbor trots in a crooked line like a listing ship toward me from the bottom of the stairs. Disintegrating black sweater, orthopedic shoes and loose purple nylon slacks. “Goody, at last. I’ve caught you when you’re coming home. Yes, oh, I’m so glad I caught you. Relief!” The thin palms clap three times. “Relief. You see, I thought something had happened to you, mijo. Heavens, I kept looking for you all this weekend. I haven’t seen you in days, dear. Not hide nor hair of you and…I’ve been looking out the front window to see…wondering if…perhaps…you’d liked some more of our candy? We’re still cooking it and selling it, you know. And we finished a big batch this weekend. Divinity. More than we’ve ever made. The type you like…” Her painfully thin arm holds out a paper plate of sickly white bars wrapped in plastic wrap and tied with a faded green ribbon.
“Hmmm, my,” I say despairingly. I plaster a smile on my face.
“Oh, a new leather coat! Isn’t that nice on you, mijo.” The old woman pinches the leather at my elbow as though she’s testing its quality. She grips the lapel playfully and smiles up at me.
“Thanks. Goodwill’s best,” I reply, hoping she will get the hint that I’m poor. Terribly poor and without prospects.
“And you’ve been grocery shopping, too.”
“Yes. Yes I have.” I transfer the bag to the arm farther away from her.
Hard sell. She tempts me with that hideous homemade candy again. The stuff with all the salt that destroyed my taste buds for several days. Ick. What the fuck. The last batch had so much salt I drank a gallon of water later that night and I still felt thirsty. “I have some money now. I’ve been a little low on funds. I had to make some emergency arrangements from friends.” But I ought to save my money and not buy crazy old lady candy! Don’t want to be preserved in brine, ma’am.
“Oh, that’s too bad. I didn’t realize…maybe you still want some…candy? Now that you have the money?”
She hangs onto me like a fucking Gila monster. Hey, that would be a great story! Old persistent lady turns into a Gila monster. No letting up on me!
“Um, sure. I guess I can…”
“You like your candy. I can see that.”
“Oh yes.”
“Didn’t you like this type? Divinity? You took it last time?” asks the desperate lady, thrusting the plate closer to me.
“Sure, sure, Mrs. Hernandez, that white stuff of yours looks pretty good. I need Divinity. More than most. I need it a lot today.”
“Oh, I think you do.”
“More than you know. More than you can imagine. Four dollars, isn’t it?”
“Six. I had to raise the price. We’re playing Canasta Thursday. You’re welcome to join us, mijo.”
“Ahhh, you’re tempting me.”