My phone rings often Warm, ‘How ya doin’s, ‘Want to have lunch, see the new flick at the Rialto?’ The calls keep coming and I keep answering by rote. ‘Doin’ fine.’ ‘No thanks, I’m busy.’ ‘Lots to do. Maybe some other time.’ Lying bothers me but the truth will bother my friends more. My dressing table mirror shows my image. My words fall roughly on my psyche, hit me like the piece of falling sky hit Henny Penny’s ass. My sallow face must be the beginning of jaundice. The Asian looking lady has red, teary eyes. I speak to myself. ‘Wipe them away, fool. They won’t help.’ Damn, I pull out two blue Kleenexes and the box is empty.
‘Good. Now I have something to do. There are four new boxes stacked on the bottom of the bathroom cabinet. When I take off the top one, the other three fall out on the floor. ‘Shit!, what the? Ha !’ Behind the boxes are the Atra razors that had disappeared. Biff had asked me many times where they are and I would always say, ‘You used them all.’
‘Christ, wouldn’t I know if I used them, Cluckhead?’ Of course he would, but I simply had no explanation of how they disappeared. ‘Use
your electric razor or grow a beard. Let’s drop the subject, shall we?’
The memory fades and I start emptying the entire cabinet. A lousy hair dryer that had no oomph is in the back corner. It goes in the trash can. Why did I buy so many bottles of nail polish when I get my nails done at Millie’s? Wow, cotton swabs, enough for far more ears than I have and I pile them next to the Kleenex boxes. A white unlabeled plastic bag rattles. It is full of samples, samples of skin lotions, eye shadow colors, insect repellants, little pink bottles of eye glass cleaners. They go en masse into the trash can with the hair dryer. No, no, there are the little devils. Two mirrors that magnify on one side are used when I travel. One still fits in the plastic bag. A dozen bottles of various shades of nail polish, several dried out, most never used, start a new plastic bag with the moisturizers.
My back hurts. Charley horses are on the verge of crippling my legs. I stand and stretch. Good timing. The phone rings. ‘Hello, Doris.’ Irena gets right to her point. ‘Don’t tell me you are fine or you are busy. Feel like going to Walmart with me?’ This time I can answer truthfully, ‘I’m busy. I’m clearing out the junk from the bathroom cabinets. Why did I ever save so much crap? Some other time, Irena.’ She does not say goodbye. I can hear her heavy breathing. ‘Irena, are you there?’ Her wavering voice only says, ‘Yes.’ ‘Well, hang up. I told you I’m busy.’ The phone does not disconnect. ‘Irena, what’s wrong?’ I ask. At last she replies, ‘Yes, yes, something is wrong with you, not me.’ Silence again.
‘Either tell me what’s wrong with you or I am hanging up now.’ I am edgy, ready to turn her off but can hear my friend crying, hear a deep sigh escape from her semi-glued mouth. ‘Okay, Doris. Nothing is wrong with me except I miss you. Your bravery, your strength is a bunch of crap. I see through it. You aren’t busy. You’re sad and lonely so stop telling your friends you’re fine. Admit it to yourself and then you can get on the road to really feel better. I’ll be over to pick you up in exactly twenty-five minutes. Get dressed! We’re going to Jackson’s Poor Boy for their great cabbage soup and potato latkes. Jill will meet us there. We can all share a piece of their six layer strawberry sheet cake. Get ready. I’ll be over in twenty-two minutes.’
Damn her. I don’t want any soup or latkes. I look into the bathroom, see the pile of stuff I have to get rid of and toss them into the empty clothes hamper. The scatter rug is clear, the cabinet is neat and there is lots of room for a new collection. I need every one of the twenty-two minutes Irena has given me. Darn, I smear my lipstick just as the doorbell scares me. ‘ Let’s go, let’s go, Doris. Jill is such a fanatic about time, most likely she is tapping her toes and has emptied the bowl of sour tomatoes already. ‘ I picture that and start to smile. ‘Irena, you are a godsend. I may not be fine but am getting finer.’
We hold hands and walk into Jackson’s Poor Boy. The place is always busy but we don’t have to wait. Jill is seated. The sour pickle bowl needs refilling. A heavy cloud begins to lifts slightly from my shoulders. Jill pats her chair and asks Irena to sit with her. I face the two of them not ready for an Inquisition.
That is when I see him. Biff is sitting with an elderly woman. Her hair is dyed almost orange. She has three chins. I know who she is, Biff’s boss’ mother.
So what? I am going to be fine.
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