Notes From the Underwire: Adventures From My Awkward and Lovely Life

by Quinn Cummings

  #1.

  Flee.

  #2.

  Wait at old house for real owners who are taking an unaccountably long time at the grocery store.

  #3.

  Be kidnapped by Horrible Stranger who takes you to new house with canine idiot.

  #4.

  Eat Horrible Stranger’s kitty stars while plotting the next day’s escape. Fill time by taunting canine idiot.

  #5.

  See 1.

  After about three weeks, I went to the back door to invite Lulabelle inside as I had done every night since she’d arrived. I had no realistic hope she would be out there. I was about to get my coat to make the trip around the corner when I noticed a sharp glittery light out in the darkness of the yard. It was the illumination from the laundry room window reflecting back from Lulabelle’s yellow eyes.

  She was lying on the ground. Something about half her length was trapped under her paws struggling desperately to get away. Lulabelle glanced down for a second, put her paw firmly on its head, and glanced up at me as if to say, “Is this urgent? I’m a little booked up right now.”

  I shut the door delicately and waited. If this kept up, maybe we could create a system: a sock on the doorknob meant she was in the middle of preparing dinner and expected a little privacy. A half-hour later, I opened the door and the whiskered angel of death slithered in, feeling especially good about life. She sauntered to our bedroom, jumped on the Bench of Random Objects, curled up between a stapler and a Christmas wreath, and slept the sleep of the just until well into the next morning.

  In the years since then, we came to learn that not only is Lulabelle an excellent ratter and mouser, she is a superlative birder, a more than competent squirreler, and probably a talented destroyer of untended Chihuahuas. Anything weighing less than five pounds with the poor luck to rest on the ground even briefly is a potential entree. Out of some feline sense of honor, Lulabelle usually tithes tails, wings, and heads to me, her landlord of record. I measure the advent of spring not with the first crocus but the first bird skull. I long to explain to Lu that we only wanted the ugly and verminous eaten, but that would have been like asking Godzilla to stomp only Tokyo’s less popular neighborhoods. I attached a little bell to her collar but the body count didn’t seem to diminish. The only noticeable effect was that for scores of small creatures in the vicinity of our yard, their last thought was: Say, what’s the odd ring—

  If I could keep her inside forever, I would. But that would involve none of the rest of the family ever opening a door or a window, not even for a second. Eventually, we must buy groceries or sign for a package and Lady Death will slip through any open portals relentless and stealthy as a Mossad enforcer. In truth, were we to never open the door, I’m convinced she would amuse herself by killing and eating us…When I hear about domesticated cats being introduced to Australia and decimating local populations of birds and small mammals, I imagine maybe five or six of Lulabelle’s cousins methodically stalking an entire continent, eradicating anything smaller than a mature wallaby.

  Rupert and I stared at the tiny dead mouse under the Bench of Random Objects. Not wanting to play mouse corpse tug-of-war with the dog, I shoveled the little carcass onto a shirt cardboard and carefully walked it through the house toward the trash bins outside, Rupert prancing at my heels the whole time. Crossing the dining room, I noticed Lulabelle curled up asleep on a chair—a benign vision of shiny fur and plump, pettable rump. The night before, she had allowed Alice to dress her in doll clothing. Rupert continued to angle for the new chew toy in the cardboard dustpan. I sharply commanded him to “Leave it” and he looked abashed. In the end, I thought, dogs are domesticated, cats are appeased. I stopped for a second to enjoy Lulabelle’s peaceful aura, her sweet sleeping silhouette. Then I dumped her rent check in the trash bin.

  In the Criminal Justice System

  IF YOU HAVE RUN OUT OF REASONS TO BE GRATEFUL IN your life, try being grateful that I am not currently trying to help you. I am very bad at helping.

  I was dropping Alice off at school one morning when I mentioned to my friend Veronica that I was heading to a nearby neighborhood to buy a particular kind of embroidery thread. My destination was a sweet, bucolic little village that managed to retain its midcentury charm while Los Angeles sprawled around it like a rash. Let’s call it Mayberry.

  “Oh, I love Mayberry,” Veronica said. “I have to go down there at some point this week and put up fliers for my son’s soccer team pancake breakfast fund-raiser.”

  “Do you have to do it, or does it just have to get done?”

  “It just has to get done, I guess.”

  My heart swelled. I could be helpful! “Let me do it. I’m going there anyway.”

  Veronica looked pleased but doubtful. “Are you sure? You’d just have to put a few up in the coffee shop and the bookstore, but it’s still a hassle.”

  “It’s nothing, I’ll be there anyway,” I said, and hugged her in a way to indicate I live to do pancake-based errands. “Put a flier in the coffee shop. Put a flier in the bookstore. How hard can it be?”

  Yeah, I said this out loud. I think the universe might have actually soiled itself laughing.

  If I had done only what she asked me to do, it would have been just that easy. Everything started out so well. I found street parking with money left on the meter; that always puts me in a good mood. The employees at the local coffeehouse motioned me toward a cork board over which was a handwritten sign that read “Neighborhood Events.” How easy could this be?

  I love Mayberry for many reasons, but one of them is that the people here liked 1962 so much they never actually left it. There is a nonchain pet store. There is a nonchain family-owned bookstore. The bank is part of a chain but it’s a relatively small chain and they hand out candy at Halloween. The main street has a sewing-machine repair shop, for heaven’s sake. I might be alarmed by sewing machines but I’m charmed that people out there still use them enough to require a repair shop. When I walk around this village all I want is a pillbox hat and a purse that snaps closed. Not surprisingly, they also have a needlework store, which is why I had come here to begin with. I got my embroidery thread and I tacked up another pancake flier. I was so pleased with my general goodness that I might have beatified myself, if such a thing were possible. That’s when I noticed a tiny ballet studio across the street.

  You know, I thought virtuously, I’ll go that one extra step and put a flier in the ballet studio. Mothers sit in ballet hallways for hours, some of them are sure to want to support a local soccer team by eating carbohydrates.

  Glowing with the blended sensation of accomplishment and errand-combining, I trotted across the street and approached the front door. The lights inside were off but the door was unlocked. I stepped inside.

  “Hello?” I warbled.

  There was no response.

  I walked farther down the dark hallway, figuring someone was teaching a class in the back studio. I located the reception desk and saw no one. A cool breeze swept up my spine. It occurred to me that either someone had forgotten to lock up the night before or I was about to become the first scene in an episode of Law & Order. At best, I’d be the innocent bystander who discovers the tutu-clad corpse; at worst I’d be the innocent bystander, strangled by toe-shoe ribbons, who is later described by the detective as “dying for a career break.” Either way, I decided that outside the building was a good place to be.

  [Let it be noted that before I left, I carefully tacked a flier to the bulletin board.]

  Back outside, I weighed my options. There was no emergency number on the door and no security system to call. I walked into the lingerie store next door. In keeping with the general tone of the block, this was not a shop packed with ribbony bits of silk underwear hinting at depravity. It was the place that answered the question: “Where can I possibly get a huge pointy-cupped bra and a holiday-themed housecoat?” I asked if they had a contact number for the dance studio. They did not. They did, h
owever, tell me that there was a police annex just around the corner.

  Police annex? Doesn’t “annex” mean extra bit? This is an extra bit of a police station? Like a third nipple? That couldn’t be right. Here in Mayberry “annex” probably meant small yet perfectly formed offices filled with clean-cut young people eager to walk into dark buildings. I walked briskly over to the police station, which not only wasn’t a station, it wasn’t even big enough to count as an annex. If it ate a lot of protein and got enough sleep, it might grow into an annex. Right now, it was a deep closet, a place where you could pay a meter ticket or get fingerprints done for security reasons. Still, it was an official police station. I got to the door and noted a sign that read: “Open from 11:00 a.m. to 3:00 p.m.” I tried the door; it was locked. I checked my watch; it was 1:00 p.m. I knocked a few times and waited to see if Deputy Fife would emerge from the back room rubbing his eyes, but no luck. I’d have taken Otis the Town Drunk by this point. I walked into the shoe repair place next door. The cobbler smiled welcomingly.

  I gestured to the wall he shared with the police.

  “Do you know why the office might be closed?”

  He thought.

  “Sometimes, if it’s quiet, they don’t come in.”

  I guessed the local hooligans, whippersnappers, and roustabouts must have been in the pokey. I walked back to the ballet studio and paced outside a few more minutes, then determined that calling 911 was in order. I was promptly routed to a phone system that asked me to “Press one if this is an emergency.” Standing there on the street, I faced one of my civic conundra. Was this an emergency? Was arterial blood clotting on the sprung floor six yards away from where I dithered? I didn’t know. Was it not an emergency? Did I want to be one of those people who clog up the 911 system with calls complaining about how the neighbor is stealing my newspaper again?

  I did not. I just wanted someone to walk into this dark building who wasn’t me.

  I didn’t press 1 and waited in the silence.

  I walked back to the bookstore while I waited and bought a cup of tea. After five minutes or so, I checked my cell phone. I had been disconnected. I redialed 911 and again I didn’t press 1. But this time, being familiar with the subtleties of the 911 hold signal, I kept an eye on the readout. Almost instantly, I had been disconnected again. Apparently, admitting you weren’t trying to remove an icepick from your own sternum meant the 911 system kind of wanted you to go away.

  I called 911 again. This time, I pressed 1.

  I waited.

  I waited.

  I waited. The silence was piercing. On 911, no one thanks you for your patience or lets you know that you’ll be taken in the order received. No one ever even hinted our call might be monitored for quality assurance. I guess when your life is unpleasant enough to require a call to 911, you just want to take it for granted that everyone knows what they’re doing.

  I checked the phone; I was still technically on hold, which was something like an improvement from before. For fun, I checked my watch; I had walked in the ballet studio twenty-five minutes ago. All I wanted to do was run away, but of course I couldn’t, because no one else seemed to know this stupid door was open, and there was still a chance that some innocent ballerina was being defiled with a leg warmer, and would no one pick up my emergency call?

  It was at that moment that I saw a police car head down the street. Finally, a good guy with a gun! I raced after the police car, yelling like some sort of deranged do-gooder, spilling tea all over myself, saturating the one flier I had left, and managing somehow to disconnect myself from 911.

  Of course, the police car sailed on, and disappeared. But at least I had a new piece of information. The police car had the name of a nearby city. Mayberry’s peace and stability were the responsibility of an adjacent municipality. All it took was one call to information, and I was connected to that city’s police department.

  And put on hold.

  I waited.

  I waited.

  I waited.

  I was disconnected.

  Of course, between holding the dregs of my tea, my cell phone, and the pulpy mass that was the last flier, I hadn’t actually written down the number so I had to call 411 again. They put me through.

  I waited.

  I waited.

  I…wait, I got someone!

  I gabbled in relief, “Hi, I’m standing on a street and I walked into a building, which shouldn’t be open but it was, and it was dark, and I think maybe someone didn’t lock it last night, or maybe there’s been a crime, and who wants to be the person in the first scene of Law & Order, right? Anyway…”

  “Where are you located, ma’am?”

  I told her.

  “That’s not our jurisdiction, ma’am.”

  I spluttered, “But I just saw one of your cars drive past here!”

  She waited that extra second, which lets the speaker know she’s said something stupid.

  “Ma’am, I can’t tell why the police car was there. Maybe they were going to lunch. It’s not our jurisdiction.”

  “Then whose jurisdiction is it?”

  She told me. I called. I was placed on hold. Ten minutes later a dispatcher got on the line.

  “Hi,” I said dully. “I’m in front of a building that is unlocked, and probably shouldn’t be. Could you please fix it?”

  She asked the address. I told her, and held my breath.

  “Can you wait for the police officer?”

  “Hell yes, I can wait!” I crowed happily.

  I had reached that magical stage in my helpfulness ritual where I slid so far into a secondary problem that I had completely forgotten the original task. As far as I could remember, I had been born on this corner waiting for someone to arrive and walk into a dark building. The police officer appeared a few minutes later. He was reassuringly big.

  I explained: Dark building…nobody inside…came right back out…called for help.

  “Yeah,” he said, matter-of-factly. “You don’t want to be the person who finds the body, like on Law & Order.”

  I swear, I heard angels singing.

  And the Livin’ Is Easy

  I HAVE READ ABOUT EVERY CAMP OPTION IN SOUTHERN California, and I’ve noticed a couple of patterns. First of all, the people who write camp brochures are crazy for exclamation points! It’s as if they worry we might not understand how much fun their camp is unless they’re shouting at us! Really! Second, I’m convinced they are all using the same picture of the same three children, carefully chosen for diversity and attractiveness, smiling blissfully and holding up a frog. It could be a hiking in the Sierras camp or computer camp in the basement of the local vocational school, but it’s the same three kids and that same damned frog.

  And there are so very many camps. At first, I was swamped and humbled by all the wonderful and enriching ways that Alice could spend the summer. Seventy or so brochures later, I noticed they had other things in common besides that damned frog. There were definite types. In case you haven’t gotten around to finding the right camp yet, here are some of your options:

  • CAMP UTOPIA: Now in our seventy-fifth year, Camp Utopia provides the ideal environment for children to grow into young adults and future leaders. Our activities include archery, horseback riding, swimming in our very own lake, toasting marshmallows while singing under a starry sky, and making memories to last a lifetime!

  Some former campers have called Utopia “The finest hours of my childhood” and “The place that taught me how to be a person of honor and integrity.” All of our camp counselors have a Master’s degree in Childhood Development, and our Camp Leader, Mr. Robby, received a Presidential Commendation for his work with children!

  Camp Utopia is currently accepting wait-list applications for the week of August 20–24, 2017. Siblings and children of former Utopians and U.S. senators will receive first priority.

  • CAMP ACADEMIA: It’s summertime, and the living is easy…for losers! Here at Camp Academia w
e know that a month not spent boning up on standardized testing skills is a month other kids leap ahead of your child. We will make sure your five-to thirteen-year-old spends a productive day memorizing prime numbers, practicing their Chinese vocabulary, crafting the perfect essay, and boning up on the periodic table!

  But it’s not all #2 pencils here at Camp Academia! Each afternoon, campers have an hour of Yoga for Stress Management and Excellence! Our cafeteria serves only high-Omega 3, 6, and 9 foods! And each week ends with a camp-wide game of Junior Jeopardy. Camp tradition says the first child eliminated has to wear a T-shirt printed with “I’m on my way to community college.” Our kids are wise and wacky!

  Camp Academia has a few spots left for the most motivated students. Please note on the application whether your child is prone to nervous tics, uncontrolled weeping, or stress-related skin conditions.

  • CAMP EXHAUSTIA: Does the thought of having the kids around the house all summer make you crazy? Let us help! From nine to three every day, our campers run up and down a sand dune carrying heavy weights. At lunchtime, we challenge campers to eat their lunches while doing push-ups: good exercise and good coordination!

  For a small fee, we have before-camp and after-camp programs where your child will learn teamwork by helping excavate a new swimming pool for the campgrounds, or building electric transmission towers…all by hand! If you think your child needs even more goal-oriented physical activity, this summer we are offering a special program: Camp Persona Non Grata, where we pick up your child directly from his last day of school and take him to work on a logging operation in Oregon until the Sunday before Labor Day. Our lucky campers spend all day, every day, in the forest, hauling cut trees over to our very own sawmill. Mother Nature meets noisy machinery! The kids have a ball!