Alpaca My Bags

by Violet Patton

  All the carts were creamy white, emblazoned with tastefully done stickers or Mickey Mouse antenna thingys, or a flag as an identifying factor. Otherwise, they can’t distinguish their golf cart from anyone else’s.

  I hoped Philly ordered a flashy cart, maybe printed with the Texas flag.

  A concept sprouted—I could become a golf cart decorator. How much should I charge for custom work? If everyone in Tucson was crazy about sunsets; I could paint sunsets on golf carts. Does Philly love jiggly sunsets? I’ve never questioned his feelings about sunsets. To test how much he loves sunsets, I’d paint one on his backside.

  Now, I do something—I’m a psychic sunset painter. I’d need business cards printed.

  I wadded my trash. Madonna reached across before I disposed of it. “I’ll take care of that.”

  I let go. Anytime a friend wants to clean up after me was fine with me. “Thanks.”

  Thirty minutes later, Amelia, Gale and I limped back to Bob’s Burger Bar. The place looked deserted. Amelia pulled three bottled waters from Bob’s wash tub water dispensary. “Time for water.”

  Gale gathered three chairs into an intimate setting underneath a shade sail.

  It didn’t take me two shakes of a lamb’s tail to sit. I gladly accepted the water. I felt dried to the bone. A few years back, Philly made his own beef jerky. In San Fran, the jerky never completely dried, even in the second-hand dehydrator he lugged home.

  By the time I find my Sweetie Bastard, I’ll be beef jerky and bone.

  Dehydration had worked a miracle of sorts, for several seconds Amelia and Gale sat quiet chugging life-saving water.

  The Desert Oasis has more clubs, events and parties than a girl could shake a stick at. Although, the woodworking shop caught my attention. The man-elves working there proudly showed off Christmas designs for next year’s Santa’s Toy Shop.

  Mind you, it’s November... but never mind.

  What intrigued me were the saws, hammers and drills. Before Amelia dragged me from the shop, I picked out a hacksaw to saw my man’s dead body into manageable pieces. Unfortunately, Mike the head wooden elf designer, wouldn’t let me leave with it.

  Guess he figured I had ulterior motives.

  Amelia didn’t tour or mention the domino hall—room. Only the lucky, like Philly would get the passcode to the secret speakeasy.

  After several sips of cool, clear water, I asked, “Where’s the domino room?” Getting the terminology correct so they wouldn’t misunderstand my question.

  She adjusted, wiggled and twinged. Asking about that room was naughty. “Why do you ask?”

  Gale squirmed. Neither woman wanted to talk about dominos.

  “Madonna thinks Philly joined the club.” I stated the fact, but I wanted to scream how Wanda kidnapped my Sweetie Bastard and made off with him.

  It made sense that after she had her way with him... most likely after the pickleball tournament and the next natural progression would have led him to an exclusive and hidden illustrious domino dungeon. I bet she wears a dominatrix leather outfit, whips and handcuffs. I’m trying hard not to pass judgement like mama’s preacher’s wife, but she looked like a woman with leanings toward leather.

  Philly sat shackled and whimpering as I sit gabbing with these women. Maybe, Amelia and Gale were Wanda’s cohorts keeping me occupied while she finishes her prey. She’d suck him dry, wrap him in a cocoon and hang him as decoration in her web of deceit.

  “It’s by invitation only,” Gale said. “It takes years to get in.” She glared and lifted her chin, I suspect choosing her words carefully. “Unless... somebody dies.”

  That did it. Wanda killed Dan to get my man into a bondage domino game. Philly wouldn’t look sexy in leather chaps, he’s too knobbly. Kinky stuff happened here at the Oasis. Murder. Naked dominos. Bob’s Burger Bar. It was all tied in together.

  “Where is the domino room?”

  The girls shared another look. Gale said, “You don’t want to go there.”

  Amelia sniffed and sipped. “Listen, I’ve got tons to do. See you later. Remember, the sign-up sheets are online and posted on each class door. You better get going—acclimating yourself.” She got up and dismissed the topic.

  I waved my hand wishing I had my Jesus fan. In the shade, Gale zoned out with a moony love-struck gaze and I’m guessing she’s reminiscing about life before the Oasis.

  During Amelia’s tour, Gale chatted me up.

  She had a doozy life story. Unbelievable but I listened anyway. Back when, she waitressed in a truck stop in Tucumcari. If you’ve never been to Tucumcari, don’t go. The truck stop food is terrible. In our former life together... now a past tense situation, Philly and I took several road trips between San Fran and Odessa. Tucumcari was Philly’s all-time favorite place to pee and eat. Me... I didn’t care where he peed or ate, as long as it wasn’t in the car.

  To make a long story short, after Gale’s career as a truck stop waitress, she got a wild hair. She decided she wanted to be a bush pilot—in Alaska. She filled my ears with the most ludicrous stories about flying fisherman to remote locations in Alaska. She said she shot a bear that tried to eat a wing off her pontoon airplane, hiked up Mt. McKinley and had a wild love affair with Walter Cronkite.

  Give me a break.

  Mt. McKinley hiking, I could believe after those other two doozies. Why was delivering a bear in her airplane? Walter died umpteen years ago. It did not happen. Besides why would she? Yuck.

  Everyone has a story. Mine will go down in infamy—Deranged former San Fran socialite throttles domino dominatrix with wallpaper scraper.

  It had a ring to it. Socialite was a stretch. Let’s change that to spiritual counselor... better yet... spiritual advisor. I adore giving advice.

  “You ready?” Gale asked. “It’s nap time.”

  If I had lived her life, I would need a nap.

  “Sure.” No one would direct me to the domino room... hall... whatever. Going home sounded great.

  Gale flew low in her golf cart and deposited me outside our humble mini abode.

  Chapter Seven

  Nap Time

  The sound of Philly’s wheezy snore thrilled me to no end.

  I leaned against the doorjamb adoring his splayed-out body, hairy legs and stubbled chin.

  I eased down next to him so I wouldn’t wake the sleeping prince. People look so innocent in sleep.

  “Wake up.” I smacked his sunburned arm.

  “What? What?” He opened an eye. I sniffed, getting a whiff of what he had been up to. Was that beer scent? Was that Wanda perfume? I sniffed again. Cigar. He smelled like a domino hall—a smell so heady and obnoxious he had given himself away. He should’ve taken a shower to wash away the evidence.

  “My bride is home.” He curled around, pulling me close against his warm chest, snuggling his nose under my ear. Smelling delicious for an old fart, he smacked down my neck.

  I winced away from him, pretending to be mad. “Where have you been?”

  “I got invited to play dominos.”

  The truth hurt. Smacking into me like an eighteen-wheeler hitting a bridge piling. My gut lurched. Madonna had been correct. Dominos shanghaied my Sweetie Bastard.

  He fell back to sleep. That was like him; sleeping through my problems.

  I lay in his arms wondering. Had he had lunch? No, probably not. He didn’t eat unless I fed him. It was too hot to eat, much less cook. He’s getting a bowl of Cheerios for dinner. That’ll punish him for running off with a domino dominatrix.

  At three o’clock, Philly’s cell phone pinged an incoming message. I opened an eye. He lay curled across the bed—across Wanda’s bed, so I grabbed his phone.

  Your PODS was delivered. I read the text message, disappointed it wasn’t the domino dominatrix.

  “Wake up.” I pushed on his leg. Nothing. I stood up and shook the bed. “Get up. My Sleep Number has arrived.”

  At the staging area, the security chief frowned. “Sorry. No can do. Y
ou must have your photo ID and a copy of your PODS contract and permission from the office to enter the area.”

  Where was our PODS contract? No telling.

  I gazed longingly across the fenced and secured staging area at my PODS. Inside were my precious belongings—everything I couldn’t live without. The contents of that box were twice as big as our park model.

  “Couldn’t you...” I started, but Security Chief put up a hand. His quick movement told me he had turned down beggars before. “Just once...”

  “Nope.”

  I pleaded my plight by telling him our excuses—not divulging that Philly hadn’t bothered showing up for our orientation session interrupted by Dan’s untimely drowning. If he hadn’t drowned, I wouldn’t have forgotten my badge and wouldn’t need to beg. I can see the badge. It’s sitting beside the binder Amelia put on the coffee table between us. I forgot the binder, had I not forgotten it, I could’ve read the staging area rules and regulations before we loaded into the blazin’ hot Caddy to trek across miles of black asphalt to find the staging area.

  Hindsight. Go figure.

  “Can somebody else help us?” Philly asked. He looked grayer than usual. Pickleball and dominos in the same day was too much for the old fellow.

  “Like how?” Security Chief asked.

  “Somebody with a photo ID?”

  Huh? Was he thinking of asking his domino dominatrix for a favor? Wasn’t that too soon in their budding relationship?

  “Nope.” Security Chief shut that idea down. “Everything has to match. What part of identification do you not get?”

  Philly stared into space. Where was his mind? I backed out of the security hut. Outside the hut, I leaned against its wall pouting. Not a single thing had gone right since we left San Fran.

  “C’mon.” I hitched my shoulder toward the Caddy. “Let’s get.”

  Texas seeped from my pores. I worked hard at keeping Texas at bay. Any minute I would teach the entire Oasis complex what I knew about cussing a Texas blue streak.

  Philly got in the Caddy, turned over the key. Nothing. He looked at me; I looked back. I slammed my foot into the dashboard. Texas jumped out of me like a hoard of hopping horned toads.

  Chapter Eight

  Sweet Iced Tea

  Luckily, we got home safe.

  Security Chief called Security Subordinate to ferry us in the security golf cart back to our house. I still don’t know its official address. Security Subordinate had to call inner security, give them our names—we didn’t break Madonna’s number two rule—never leave home without our photo IDs, because we didn’t have nary one, to get our address, of which, Security Subordinate did not reveal. Everything was super secretive in the Oasis, including our own address.

  He dropped us at our carport, which looked voluminous without the Caddy. “Don’t forget to get your photo ID.”

  Philly saluted, and I held back an obscene Texas gesture.

  Blinds frittered. Doors snapped shut. We were not playing well in the sandbox.

  Inside, he collapsed onto Wanda’s recliner. I got out Wanda’s glasses and made iced tea. My sugar levels had dropped to insufficient levels, and I direly needed a fix.

  “Where do you get the nice ice?” I asked, holding open the freezer door. Condensing cold air fell in waves over the fridge’s door. Any moment a snow storm might happen in the kitchen. Snow would be nice and it would close the swimming pool.

  “Over there.” He pointed. “It’s free. Everybody uses that ice.”

  I looked where he pointed and shrugged. “I know.” Free ice was the only perk for living here.

  Philly flipped on the old television, but it was well past time for Jeopardy.

  “I don’t think there’s cable.” He mumbled, flipping through the channels. I handed him a glass of frosty sweet ice tea and squatted on the edge of the other recliner. Leaning back and relaxing in Wanda’s furniture didn’t feel right. No telling who she had tied to that recliner with leather straps and handcuffs before I sat in it.

  He drained his tea and rattled the ice in the glass. I got up and refilled it for him.

  He polished off his second glass of iced tea. “Can you remember what’s in the PODS?”

  “Not really. How about you?”

  “Kinda.”

  “Our new bed.”

  Weeks before we put up the house for sale, we bought a new bed. If I could’ve predicted the future, I wouldn’t have bought one of those Sleep Number jobbers. The kind that lifts and separates. It cost as much as our first house in Odessa. I insisted on bringing it. Its sheets cost more than four tanks of premium Cali gas.

  I gazed at a rerun Philly settled on.

  I missed Guiding Light. Mama listened to it on the radio until we got a television. Yes, I’m old enough to remember when we didn’t have a television. She loved her Guiding Light. She didn’t miss an episode. Even if she had, they rehashed everything for months on end. Later, in my college days, I switched to General Hospital. I went to Permian Junior College—as in Permian Basin, the richest oil field on Earth—hoping for a nursing degree. But alas, Philly happened, and I dropped out. My story wasn’t as exciting as becoming a bush pilot in Alaska, but it’s my story, like Mama had hers, and it was more believable.

  Mama ironed Daddy’s white Sunday shirt watching Guiding Light. I can still smell the starch cooking into his threadbare shirts. I never told her I betrayed her Guiding Light with my General Hospital because it would have devastated her.

  “Guess the golf cart will arrive soon enough,” he said.

  “We’re without transportation.” I couldn’t get into the soap opera. No telling how deep the back story was.

  “Yep.”

  The Caddy had served us well. I blame the Arizona heat for her early demise. We could’ve gotten a few more years out of her in San Fran. The road trip out had drained her will to live. Chugging around looking for the staging area in 100+ degrees sapped all she had left. Security Chief nearly had a meltdown because she sat dead, blocking the entrance to the staging area. The tow truck driver hadn’t batted an eye at hauling her out of the staging security’s gate

  Ann needs to share her chill pills with Security Chief.

  “Was there anything in her trunk?” I went back to that first day at the Oasis, recalling Philly unloading our belongings from the trunk.

  “Don’t think so.”

  “What color cart did you order?”

  “Cream.” No sense bucking the golf cart rules.

  The golf cart’s arrival proved we were thoroughly indoctrinated. A wicked thought bubbled from deep within my gray matter. The art supply store will have acrylic paints and paintbrushes.

  “You think Wanda could teach me to paint sunsets?”

  “What d’you have for lunch?” he asked, surfing the channels, ignoring my question about the woman.

  “Bob’s Burger Bar.”

  “Where’s that? They got takeout?”

  I missed San Fran takeout. There was something good on every corner. I missed Zhi Ruo, Yin’s granddaughter who took over the noodle shop. Her soup was the best. I bet there wasn’t decent Chinese food in this town, maybe they might have good takeout in Scottsdale. I’ve heard Scottsdale was posh.

  “Why didn’t you pick Scottsdale?” That’s a stupid question. He didn’t pick Scottsdale because Wanda lives here.

  “Huh?” he asked. “What kind of food do they have?”

  “Why didn’t we move to Scottsdale?”

  “We’re not rich.”

  “Nuevo rich.”

  “What’s to eat at Bob’s Burger Bar?” He flipped the channels until they went snowy. “Let’s buy a smart TV.”

  “Okay. I’m all for that.” We had ditched our old television. Literally we put it out on the street, thirty seconds later, somebody snatched it. They hadn’t gotten a deal.

  “Burgers. You’re having Cheerios for dinner.”

  “Fine by me. Get me a scotch.” He pulled out the footrest on W
anda’s recliner and reclined. Seconds later, he snored.

  Stashed in a cubby-hole between the fridge and the cabinet I found a TV tray. I got it out, set it up next to his chair and put a bowl of dry cereal, the quart of milk I bought that morning and a highball glass of scotch on it.

  “I’m getting a shower.”

  “Huh-up.”

  Standing in another woman’s bedroom, looking at myself in the mirrored closet doors, I understood his infatuation with the woman. I’m flat-chested, knock-kneed, with a waggling turkey neck and a protruding collar bone lump. I broke my collarbone; it healed crooked. Mama said it gave me character. What’s character when you don’t have jiggly boobs? Diddly.

  Then there was my big scar. The one that kept me out of a bikini. It was hush-hush. The Big UC. Philly couldn’t talk about. I shoved it so deep it still hurts. The doctors scooped my uterus out with a backhoe. Doctors said they got it all, but because of the size of the tumor they insisted on more treatment. Six weeks of chemo. No hair. It never grew back like it had been—lush, so thick a rubber ponytail holder wouldn’t hold it up for long. Last time I had a scan, they found a hot spot next to my bladder. I called it a hot spot because on the monitor in the oncologist’s office; it looked like Daddy had touched me with a hot welding torch. The doctor said wait. Come back. We’ll scan it again.

  I’m in the desert now. Here there’s no such thing as uterine cancer, right?

  Scottsdale would have good Chinese, plastic surgeons with opulent offices in high-rise buildings, hills and people who weren’t nosy. I lifted my left pancake shaped boob. I’d look terrible with jiggly boobs, my knocking knees wouldn’t support them.

  Daddy adored Dolly Parton because of her over-endowment and tiny waistline. He’d smile when she sang on television, his eyes sparkled. He wasn’t a religious man. Mama tried to save him, but when Dolly sang like an angel on high, he’d holler, “Jesus.”

  Made Mama happy.

  I let the water run in the shower, but it never heated up. I had to put on my robe even though it was too hot. I couldn’t sit on the pink toilet naked waiting for the water to warm up. It never did, so I got in a cold shower. It was what I needed. I came out refreshed and ready to rock-n-roll.