by Valerie Clay
I thanked Ronald for the coffee, tried to look worried about poor, unfortunate Ramone, then took off for Bellevue Square to buy a pink sweater and generate some neurons. Okay, he was a very nice guy, but I just don’t want to date someone whom I’m not attracted to, and who can’t afford to buy a cup of coffee. Is that really too much to ask? Call me superficial.
At the mall, leopard print flannel pajamas on display in the Victoria’s Secret window beckoned to me, so I made a quick pit stop inside to pick them up, then moved on towards Macy’s. Did I really need leopard PJs? No, but it was a reward to myself for my earlier, dismal attempt at left-handedness. I feel it’s important to celebrate the “nice tries” as well as the victories.
As I meandered past the kitchen gadget shops and upscale clothing boutiques, I was suddenly overcome with the uneasy feeling that someone’s malevolent eyes were focused on me. Watching. Waiting. My scalp prickled as I paused a moment, turned and studied the mélange of shoppers. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary. Jack the Ripper wasn’t standing there in a trench coat, ready to strike. The most threatening thing I saw was a runaway toddler squeezing a mustard-oozing hotdog in his gooey, little hands, teetering dangerously close to my black pants. Right behind him raced his mother in hot pursuit. Get a grip girl, I told myself. I was obviously still wigged out over the breather calls. Let’s not allow paranoia to set in.
Continuing on into Macy’s I found a mint green cashmere sweater on sale. It wasn’t pink as I had planned, but we must be flexible. Maybe it’s my destiny to have a green sweater, I don’t know. One shouldn’t box oneself into rigid ideas. On my way out, I took my usual stroll past the designer handbags and drooled a bit. Can’t afford one yet, but someday, when my credit cards are paid off . . . . At the rate I’m going, I should be totally debt free in about two-hundred years.
Exiting the mall, I crossed the sky-bridge to the parking garage, contentedly humming along with Muzak’s orchestral version of Foreigner’s “Hot Blooded” streaming from the overhead speakers. Just as I entered the busy garage, not more than five yards away, a car door opened and I froze. Shuffling out in in his plaid shorts, faded orange polo shirt, and Birkenstocks was Ronald Schrencker.
I was trapped like a rat.
I made an abrupt U-turn and speed-walked back across the sky-bridge into Macy’s. The closest hiding spot was to the right of me in the men’s underwear department. I took cover behind a well-endowed mannequin wearing black designer briefs and a matching V-neck T-shirt. Keeping my eyes on the door, I made a show of feeling the fabric, which by the way, was amazingly soft and probably worth the high price tag I pretended to examine.
After a short interval Ronald entered, paused, and looked around. I dropped down out of sight and prayed he wasn’t in the market for new boxers. As the seconds ticked by, I felt increasing confidence in my hastily chosen refuge until a large pair of black wingtips came around the display table and stopped in front of me. Very slowly, I lifted my head and looked up to find a store clerk with his arms folded, staring down at me.
“Helloooo,” he greeted me.
“Hi.” I waved my fingers up at him.
“Can I help you with something?” He raised an eyebrow.
“Not right now, thank you.” I gave him a sunny smile. “Got a pesky little leg cramp. Can I just crouch here for a while?”
“Sadly, no.”
He regarded me for a moment and pursed his lips. “Perhaps I should call 911 for you.”
I replied, “You know, I think it’s feeling better now.” Bit by bit I stood up, shook out my leg, and searched for Ronald out of the corner of my eye, but he had vanished. I thanked the clerk for his concern, then head down, scuttled out of there as fast as I could. Yes, I cut it too close that time. I need to come up with a new exit strategy.
~
A dazzling pink and golden sunset filled the western sky as I nosed out of the parking garage, so I decided to take the scenic route home through downtown Kirkland, a lovely beach town on the shores of Lake Washington. The decorative mini-lights adorning the trees and lampposts were just beginning to blink on, twinkling softly in the dusk and casting a charming glow onto the town. Out on the lake, two die-hard jet skiers in wetsuits raced around Moss Bay, getting in some last-minute water time as the remaining rays of filtered sunlight slipped silently behind the Olympic mountain range.
After a short drive to Redmond, I pulled into my garage and parked. I grabbed my purse and shopping bags containing my new sweater and pajamas, and felt pleased with my purchases. Directly across from my garage sits a row of grey mailboxes, lined up like little metal soldiers at attention, and I walked over to them to collect my mail. In the gathering twilight, I did a cursory glance through the pile of junk mail, bills, and magazines. Nestled in between was a small padded envelope with a neatly hand-printed address but had no return information. Curious to find out what was inside, I turned and quickly walked the short distance to my condo.
As I started up the stairs, pondering the mystery envelope, I couldn’t help overhearing a conversation my neighbor, Steve, who lives below me, was having with another guy. Steve is a very sweet, very shy, computer technician; the perfect, quiet neighbor whom anyone living in a condo covets. Steve’s come to my rescue more than a few times when I’ve encountered the dreaded blue screen of death. The two men stood just outside Steve’s front door and the other guy was loud and razzing him pretty hard—a real jerk.
“Thanks for fixing my laptop, man,” the jerk said. “It’s awesome having a computer geek for a buddy. I’d have invited you to my party last weekend, but it was a couples thing, you know? You should see this hot new chick I’m dating.” He blew out a low whistle. “When was the last time you had a date anyway? Years I bet. Dude, you still like girls don’t you?”
“I have dates,” Steve said in defense.
I winced.
“Yeah, right. In your dreams,” said jerk. “Name one date you had in the last year.”
Something told me to mind my own business, stay out of it, so I continued on my way up the stairs. But, at the top, I hesitated, turned around, then descended the steps midway and hung over the railing. “Steve! Hi honey.” Both of them turned and looked up at me.
“Hi,” I said, smiling sweetly at the jerk. I couldn’t tell who was more stunned. Turning back to Steve, I continued, “Sorry to interrupt, but I couldn’t remember what time we said—eight-thirty?”
“Ummm,” Steve started.
I jumped in before he could say anything more, “We could make it earlier if you’d like—say eight o’clock? Okay?”
“Sure,” Steve managed to say.
“I bought a little something for our date tonight.” I dangled my shiny, pink-striped Victoria’s Secret bag over the railing. “You’re gonna love it. See you at eight.” I gave him my warmest, sexiest smile, then turned and flounced up the stairs. Good thing they couldn’t see the flannel PJs inside the bag. I strained to hear their conversation, but there was complete silence. I think they were both speechless.
My automatic porch light had already come on, welcoming me with a friendly glow as I reached the top of the stairs. The soft mist of moisture that developed during my drive home evolved into a steady sprinkling of rain as I unlocked my door. Perfect timing. I let myself into my condo and deposited my packages on the dining room table. Still wearing my rain jacket, I flipped on a brass table lamp and sank down onto the floral sofa in my living room to open the mysterious envelope.
Ripping off the top edge, I peeked inside, then slipped my fingers in and pulled out a CD. It was the soundtrack from the movie, Blue Velvet. The plastic case was scratched and worn. Hand-printed on a yellow sticky note taped to the front of the case, again in small, neat letters was the message:
This is one of my favorites, Victoria. Knew you would enjoy it.
A feeling of foreboding slithered through me. Could this be connected to the breather calls? If so, the caller also knows my address. Maybe it’s j
ust a gift from a friend of mine who forgot to sign his name. There’s probably a reasonable explanation. But just for the heck of it, I double-checked that my front door and the sliding glass door to my balcony were locked. I’m on the second floor, so my humble abode is not easily accessible, but even so . . . .
A glass of wine was definitely in order. One great thing about being single is that you can do whatever you want, whenever you want. You can be a slob, and no one yells at you. You can eat ice cream for dinner, and no one yells at you. Basically, no one yells at you.
I decided to fix a spinach salad, make some popcorn, and watch a movie. You’ve got your greens, your corn, and of course your grapes, so all in all it was a nutritious meal plan. From the cabinet above my stove I pulled my popcorn popper, and as I lifted it out, a bag of pasta came tumbling out along with it, thunking me in the forehead. When I pushed the pasta back in, a bag of potato chips took a dive, so I relocated the chips next to my protein bars and cornflakes in the oven.
I congratulated myself on my newly reorganized kitchen, popped the popcorn, covered it with a smidgen of butter and dusting of parmesan cheese (your essential dairy family, and who doesn’t need calcium?) then headed into the living room to watch Ghost for the thousandth time. The combination of a nice merlot, the steady rhythm of rain tapping against my windows, and the hunky Patrick Swayze lulled me into a state of relaxation and I slept like a baby.
How was I to know I was headed for class six rapids?
CHAPTER THREE
“A journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step.” —Confucius, Chinese philosopher
*******
Sunday began with the familiar drumbeat of rain on the roof. The weatherman on the local news predicted rain showers this morning, heavy rain this afternoon, and steady rain tonight. He ended his forecast by saying, “Hang in there.” Weather-related encouragement is important around here.
In light of that, my primary objective for the day was exceedingly appropriate. Working out for as little as thirty minutes a day, three times a week, can increase your energy, your sense of wellbeing, and enhance your immune system. With tremendous self-discipline and multiple cups of coffee I resisted the urge to climb back into bed and resumed my quest for self-improvement.
From beneath Spencer’s bed, I pulled my royal blue, five-pound weights and did a series of upper body moves. Then I progressed to the bench for a few chest flies and military presses. Every girl needs a workout bench for optimal chest fly results. Also, it’s one of the few pieces of exercise equipment that fits into my microscopic condo. Squeezed into my second bedroom between the bed and the wall, it also doubles as a handy suitcase holder for guests, or most often, Spencer’s dirty laundry.
My goal is to eventually progress to fifteen-pound weights, but that may take some time, since I can barely handle five pounds, and it’s been six months since I started lifting.
I finished my reps, set the weights down on the floor, and did some stretches. That’s when the phone rang, reminding me that I was expecting a call from potential boyfriend number two, Bladerunner. When I whirled to run to it, I kicked my bare foot into the weights I’d left there in my path.
Snap.
Not a good sound to hear when accompanied by intense pain. Blade left a message on my voicemail about where and when to meet, while I hopped around clutching my battered foot, wailing like a wounded hyena.
Within the hour, I was sitting in the crowded waiting room of the local urgent care clinic, brooding over my swollen toe. I frowned. My vacation was not off to an auspicious start. Where was I going wrong? Maybe I wasn’t thinking enough positive thoughts. Maybe I needed to watch The Secret one more time.
Two People magazines and one Sudoku puzzle later, a young nurse led me to a small examination room, measured my height and weight, then left me alone to contemplate my miserable existence. After a short wait, I heard a soft knock on the door and I turned to politely greet the kindly, old physician. My jaw dropped. Into the room stepped the man of my dreams, Dr. Feel-Good. He was probably in his late thirties, had short sandy-colored hair and could have been Harrison Ford’s younger brother. Silently, I cursed myself for not getting a pedicure on my way to the clinic. I can’t have this cute doctor looking at my hideous, swollen toes and chipped red polish.
A stealthy peek at his left hand revealed he wasn’t wearing a wedding ring, and I laughed hysterically at anything he said that was even remotely humorous. He advised me to buddy tape my toes and to stay off my feet for a few days. “Buddy tape—that’s so cute,” I said. He glanced up briefly from his chart, gave me a pained look, then returned to writing his notes. Apparently that’s all you can do for a broken toe. I thanked him profusely and lingered as long as I could, asking all the various toe related questions I could think up, in case he wanted to get to know me better and ask me out. He didn’t bite however, and quickly moved on to his next patient.
It was my toes. I know it was my toes. My toes did me in. From now on I vow to always have a perfect pedicure. They warn you not to leave the house with torn underwear in case you get in an accident, but nobody warns you about your feet.
Limping across the parking lot to my car, I applauded myself for avoiding a puddle, then stepped ankle deep into the next one. I glanced at my watch. There was just enough time to get to the drugstore, buy some toe tape and new socks, then head off to my luncheon with the girls.
We’d decided to meet at our sacred gathering ground, the Nordstrom shoe department at Bellevue Square. I arrived late and limped up to the group: Colonel Julie, Laini, Amanda, and Carl. They were multitasking: chatting, exchanging photos, and furtively glancing around the tables for the perfect shoes. In unison they stopped and asked why I was limping. I explained, we hugged, Carl sneezed, then Amanda and Carl made a beeline for the designer shoe section.
Carl is Amanda’s constant companion and confidant: a black and tan, short-haired miniature dachshund with an attitude. Small but fearless, he has the self-assurance of a Serengeti lion. I’ve seen him stare down German Shepherds and intimidate dogs twice his size with his menacing glare. His head poking out, Sphinx-like, through the open zipper, he traveled like royalty in a beautifully textured, Italian leather carrier that Amanda had slung over her shoulder. The carrier has two pockets on the side where she keeps little freeze-dried steaks and mini sushi snacks, although truth be told, Carl would eat anything that wasn’t nailed down.
We followed Amanda as she zigzagged through the tables of exclusive designer shoes. Feeling a bit intimidated, I attempted to act as though I shopped there all the time. Amanda tried on a pair of Manolo Blahnik strappy sandals in black and dark green that screamed ‘chic.’ As she paraded back and forth across the floor checking the fit and deciding what level of pain she could live with, I picked up a red, sling-back, patent leather stiletto pump which I really, really needed, turned it over, and winced at the price of six-hundred-fifty dollars. Let me think—mortgage or shoes, mortgage or shoes—it was a difficult decision.
A slender young salesman in an elegant black suit and paisley lavender tie approached me. His friendly smile revealed exceptionally white teeth and the name badge on his lapel said Thomas. “Hello, miss, how can I make your dreams come true today?”
“Well, Thomas,” I began, “if dreams were shoes, then mine would be these red beauties.”
He nodded knowingly and took the shoe from me. “These are sooo comfortable, and they would look fabulous on you.” He urged, “You really should try them on. What size are you? I’ll bring you a pair in every color.”
“Wish I could, Thomas,” I said, “I’d love to buy a couple of pairs, if it wasn’t for my recent foot injury.” That’s the beauty of a broken toe. It gives you an out. Thomas handed me his business card and told me to come back when my feet were ready for glamour.
After a few minutes of browsing and lusting after shoes I couldn’t afford, Colonel Julie broke in impatiently, “Guys, I’m starving, let’s get som
ething to eat before I faint.” Julie is a US Army colonel, martial arts expert, and built like a brick house. She’s five-foot-two on a good day, has spiky black hair, a pretty face, and a demure appearance. But don’t let her fool you—she’s all fire and hustle. Kind of like the proverbial steel fist in a velvet glove. Solid muscle and tough as nails, she’s brought more than a few men to their knees who underestimated her.
Julie was in commando attire today: black jeans tucked inside knee-high black boots, and a clingy black tank top. Topping it off, a ruffled jacket in red, her signature color, softened her look with a feminine touch.
Following her prodding, we shuffled off to The Barking Cricket, our default spot for lunch, looking forward to our usual banter and the sheer high spirits of our mini-reunions. The hostess showed us to a roomy, hunter green padded booth and we sat down and picked up menus. Amanda unzipped Carl’s bag and the little dog emerged wearing a shiny black bomber jacket with a faux fur trimmed hood. He shook himself out, looked around, then climbed into her lap and lifted his head over the rim of the table. His head swiveling slowly, he eyed each of us.
“Hi Carl, you look so cute today! Love the jacket,” I said. Carl sneezed and drooled on Amanda’s sleeve, as he furiously wagged his little tail.
“Carl’s just getting over a cold, so I had to dress him up warmly,” Amanda explained as she offered Carl a mini sushi. “He’s been such a good boy today, haven’t you, Carlsie?” she asked, adjusting his jacket. Carl took the sushi in his mouth and chewed on it thoughtfully as Amanda dipped a napkin into her water glass and carefully sponged dog drool off her emerald green silk blouse. Unbuttoned just enough to show a heavy gold chain and jeweled pendant, it beautifully complimented her silky, auburn hair.
Laini, a petite blonde doll with long hair that she straightens with a flat iron, reached over to pet Carl’s head, and sniffled softly. She had just returned from an extended spiritual journey to India, and I wondered if maybe she’d picked up a bug along the way.
