The Queen of Bad Decisions

by Janel Gradowski

  “Wow. You always take politeness to a new low. It’s such a pleasure to live with you again.”

  Daisy was trying to wrangle the store’s vacuum cleaner back into the small utility closet when Mary hurtled through the back door. The woman was as subtle as a hurricane and stored the same amount of energy as one. She dropped her collection of overstuffed tote bags on the floor and turned to Daisy, “Please tell me you haven’t been here all night.”

  “Nope. Just a few hours.” Daisy held up two fingers. “Scout’s honor.”

  Mary planted her hands on her hips and raised an eyebrow. “And why are you here so early?”

  “I like hanging out with books more than my brother and his trashy girlfriend.” Daisy sighed. How much longer could she live under the same roof as him? Her tolerance level was already dangerously low after only a week. “Is that offer to stay on your couch still open?”

  “It’s negotiable.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “You can sleep on my couch, but only if you apply to the artists’ colony.”

  “I don’t belong there. I’m not an artist . . .”

  “Then my couch is not available.”

  “Come on. Are you serious?”

  Mary draped her arm around Daisy’s shoulders. “Absolutely. I can see you are fed up with staying with your family and I’ve been told my couch is very comfortable to sleep on. I know you belong at the artists’ colony and I have no problem using blackmail to get you to apply.”

  “You’re ruthless.”

  “I am.”

  “I’ll think about it.”

  “Wrong answer, unless you secretly like hanging out with your family every . . . single . . . night.”

  Making strange hats and scarves didn’t make her an artist. Although the colony would be a fun place to live. Much better than bunking with her parents or a low-life scumbag like Gary, but she would feel like an impersonator trespassing in a world where she didn’t belong. It’s not like she had ever wanted to be an artist. When she was a little girl she dreamed of being a zookeeper. In high school, she just wanted to graduate and find a job so she could live on her own. How had she gone from living in a dump with a cheating boyfriend to being pressured to apply for an apartment in an artists’ colony within a week’s time? Karma was weird.

  That evening Daisy stared out the bus window. She tried to keep her mind occupied by counting the number of restaurants along the route, but the diversion wasn’t working. The day had been exasperating and strange. Mary had made dozens of copies of the colony’s application and scattered them throughout the store. Everywhere she turned, there was an application sandwiched between two romance books or taped to the mirror in the bathroom. Somehow Mary had also organized another “Wear Daisy’s Things” day among the store’s employees. Brightly colored scarves, too warm for summer hats and devious smiles were the theme for the workday.

  Daisy’s cell phone chirped in the depths of her purse, again. Gary was drunk dialing her every five minutes, leaving voice mail messages begging her to come back. He was hungry and lonely, in that order. She didn’t answer any of the calls and only listened to the first couple messages. Interacting with him would be a stupid mistake. She wasn’t that masochistic.

  The bus slowed as it approached her stop. She gathered her bags and scanned the nearby parking lots for Gary’s pickup truck. He was an idiot, but his drinking binge might have produced a sudden flash of brilliance that allowed him to figure out she was staying with her parents. The rusty monstrosity was nowhere in sight.

  The day had been an exhausting obstacle course. She had worked at the book store for over two years. There was one thing she knew without a doubt about her boss. Mary was stubborn. The pestering and blackmail wouldn’t end until Daisy filled out the application. Knowing that didn’t make it any easier, though. She felt like a teenager trying to sneak into a club with a fake I.D. What if she somehow got in? Wouldn’t the other residents eventually bust her for being a fake artist?

  She trudged up the apartment building’s stairs. A sounds of a heated argument filtered through one of the apartment doors and careened down the hallway. As she got closer to her parents’ apartment, she realized it was them. Daisy stood outside the door and blatantly eavesdropped. They were arguing about how long she was going to stay. The heavy bags slipped off her shoulders and thumped onto the worn carpet, scattering books and balls of yarn everywhere. They wanted her gone as much as she wanted to leave. She continued to eavesdrop while she picked up the things from the grimy carpet. Maybe their marriage had deteriorated since she moved out seven years earlier, but she had never heard them argue so vehemently. Or maybe her presence had pushed them over the edge.

  The rest of the evening passed more quietly than usual. Her parents’ argument stopped as soon as she opened the door, after jiggling the key in the lock more than necessary to announce her presence, but the aftershocks continued. There were no conversations about cheap customers or weird blue plate specials. Just lots of silence and dirty looks. It was a relief when they both disappeared in the bedroom. Daisy collapsed onto the couch. She hadn’t realized she was torturing her parents as much as they and Bobby were tormenting her.

  Bobby and Tina skulked in earlier than usual. Daisy was positive her parents had no idea the woman they couldn’t stand was pretty much living with them. The couple was always either drunk or horny and both modes were annoying. That evening they offered a combo deal. The stench of cheap beer filled the room while Bobby stretched out in the recliner with Tina straddling him like a porn star. Daisy relocated to the bathroom. Even though the couple was drunk, she hoped they weren’t stupid enough to screw each other a few feet from their parents’ bedroom, especially that early in the evening. She sat on the edge of the tub for a few minutes. It was quiet in the other room, no mumbling and moaning, but she hadn’t heard any footsteps pass by the bathroom either. She slowly opened the door and peeked into the hallway. Bobby’s bedroom door wasn’t closed, so they hadn’t squirreled up in there. She tiptoed toward the living room and gasped. Tina was rummaging through Daisy’s purse. There already was a wad of Daisy’s precious money in her fist, but she was still looking for something else.

  Bobby jumped as Daisy rushed past him. She snatched the money out of Tina’s grasp with one hand and grabbed the purse with the other. Tina’s eyes bugged out like an insect’s as she backed toward Bobby. She really was stupid if she thought he could save her. Daisy stuffed the money back into her purse and pointed at the door. It was like they were trapped in some kind of surreal, silent movie. Despite the storm of emotions, they all instinctively knew that waking their parents would escalate the situation to nuclear meltdown status and everybody would suffer.

  Tina grabbed Bobby’s hand and dragged him to the door. “We need to get out of here,” she whispered.

  Scalding hot tears streamed down Daisy’s cheeks the moment the door shut behind them. She couldn’t handle it anymore. It was time to get some balls and take control of her life, instead of letting everybody use her as a doormat after they stepped in dog crap. She fished her phone out of the ransacked purse and checked the time on it. Mary was a night owl. She would still be awake. Daisy slipped the apartment keys in her pocket. She would rather make the phone call from outside the apartment building and shiver a bit from the chilly night air instead of whispering and repeating everything half a dozen times. Bobby’s car roared out of the parking lot as she stepped out of the building. She dialed her boss’s number and took a deep breath. “Hi, Mary. I know it’s late, but I was wondering if I could come over so you can help me fill out that application.”

  The End

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  Bonus Stories

  The next two stories are little bites of fiction that you can read during a coffee break or wheneve
r you have few minutes to spare.

  Fabulous Opportunity

  A fog cloud formed above the plastic basin as Mary filled it with water from the kettle. She dropped a cloth bag full of herbs into the hot water then slid the sloshing container onto the old towels laid out on the floor in front of the rocking chair. A nice foot soak would help warm her up as the old furnace struggled to bring the apartment back up to a comfortable temperature. She always turned down the thermostat when she left for work, to save money. The old house featured spectacular built-in bookcases and ornate woodwork. Lovely to look at, but her second floor apartment had so many cold spots a paranormal investigator would think she lived with an entire extended family of ghosts.

  Mary settled onto the thick pillows that cushioned the wooden rocker and peeled off her socks. She dipped her toes into the fragrant water, scented with mint and eucalyptus. Just right. Not risk of first degree burns hot, but not worthlessly lukewarm either. The door bell rang. Patsy and Cookie, her cats, scooted to their usual posts on each side of the door, waiting to greet the visitor. More like an intruder, Mary thought as she abandoned the perfectly warm water to pad across the frigid floor. Her smiling brother greeted her when she swung open the door.

  “Mary! I have a treat for you,” he said as he squeezed past her, oblivious to the fact that she hadn’t invited him in. What did she do to deserve the universe’s wrath? She had just commiserated with one of her employees about crappy little brothers earlier in the day. Apparently talking about George rang his karmic doorbell. He waggled a plastic bag full of what appeared to be crackers in front of her face. She never took anything he offered at face value. “You’re going to love this stuff.”

  “You drove two hours to bring me crackers?”

  He pulled apart the bag’s seal. The distinct scent of peanuts filled the foyer. “Noooo . . . I brought you peanut butter and cracker sandwiches.”

  What kind of crazy scheme had he come up with now? It wasn’t like him to waste gas money to drive half way across Michigan just because he wanted to bring his big sister a treat. He was up to something.

  “Dry crackers give me hiccups.” She wrinkled her nose as he waved one of the crumbly sandwiches under her nose. “What is so special about these? Why should I risk feeling like I’m going to explode for the rest of the evening to eat your little snack?”

  He pasted on his trademark creepy smile. A sure sign a sales pitch was on its way. The big question was how long the windup would last. “Just taste one, Mare. I promise you won’t get the hiccups.” He handed her the suspicious morsel and moved from the foyer into the galley kitchen beside it. “I’ll even get you a glass of water.”

  “No need for water. I just made a mug of tea.” Mary sniffed the brown filling that glued the two, square saltine crackers together. It smelled like normal peanut butter, but couldn’t be. Not if George was excited about it. The spread was probably made out of hemp seed with a few of the plant’s leaves thrown in for “taste” or some exotic nut that could only be found in one rain forest in Brazil. Off the wall ingredients hijacked George’s attention and sparked his weird entrepreneurial spirit. Looking for funding from her was always part of his cockamamie business ventures. She licked a bit of the brown goo off the edge of the cracker. Tasted like peanut butter, maybe a touch sweeter than normal. “What’s so special about this stuff?”

  George plunked down on the corner of the couch. “I’m glad you asked. You are the first person, besides me, to try George’s Gourmet Cinnamon Honey Peanut Butter. Freshly made organic peanut butter mixed with pure, raw honey and imported Ceylon cinnamon.”

  “Any other ingredients? I’m not going to wake up two days from now and have no idea what I’ve done for the last 48 hours, am I?”

  He rolled his eyes. “I’m deeply offended by that comment. This is a legit gourmet treat.”

  Legit was a word George liked to toss around to try to lend credibility to his oddball ideas. Apparently repeating the word was a self-imposed penance for the highly illegitimate idea of adding powdered marijuana to an arthritis pain relief balm. That business venture landed him in prison. He was busted for growing the herb after the grow lights lining the ceiling of his basement caused a neighborhood-wide power outage. Thank god she had been smart enough not to lend him any money for that one, even before she found out about the illegal special ingredient.

  Mary settled into her rocker again and took a small bite from the sandwich. “I’ll admit, it’s very tasty.”

  “I’ve worked hard to develop the spread. I make the peanut butter fresh in my food processor. The honey comes from an apiary near Saginaw where the bees are only offered organic pollen. I grind the cinnamon, imported from Sri Lanka, fresh every time I make a batch of spread.”

  “Sounds expensive.”

  “The quality is extremely high.” He sealed the plastic bag and tossed it at Mary. The parcel landed in her lap. Patsy sidled over to examine the strange package and decided it was a fine pillow. She jumped up then settled in for a nap as George continued to ramble. “It’s the beluga caviar of the peanut butter world.”

  Mary ran her fingers through the cat’s soft, gray hair and was rewarded with a throaty purr for the effort. She wasn’t stupid. There was no way she was going to make it easy for her little brother to even ask for more of her hard-earned money. He could work a bit to get around to the imminent request. Payback for interrupting her reading time. “It is very good. Thank you for bringing me the little midnight snacks. I’ll enjoy them with my new book this evening.”

  George cleared his throat. “As you know, anything gourmet isn’t cheap to buy or make. I was wondering if you could float me a small loan to get more supplies? I’m sure the peanut butter will sell like gangbusters. I’ll pay you back before you know it.”

  “You need more than recipe ingredients for a food business. Where are you going to make the peanut butter? Your rat hole apartment isn’t a commercial kitchen. Have you researched large-scale production? How much is that going to cost?”

  He fluttered his hand in the air, like the questions were annoying bugs he needed to shoo away. “No, but those things are inconsequential at this time. I need to make samples to woo suppliers and those can be produced in my kitchen if I have all of the ingredients. I am currently out of everything except the cinnamon.”

  Mary carefully relocated Patsy to the floor. The all out begging would arrive next, followed by whining. His usual routine. She ran her fingers through the water in the basin. It was barely lukewarm, but salvageable if she added more hot water. Time to end the brotherly invasion before she had to start over with her foot soak. She stood and pointed at the door. “Sorry, but I’m not loaning you anything. You’ve proven many times that your schemes are a bad investment.”

  His face turned crimson. He stomped to the door, but whirled around before opening it. “If you loved me, like a good sister is supposed to love her baby brother, you would lend me a thousand dollars.”

  Nice try, but she wasn’t falling for his ploys again. Playing the guilt card wouldn’t work. She glared at him as she slowly walked into the kitchen. She filled the tea kettle with water again and set it on the stove to heat before responding.

  “Why don’t you use some of the other money I’ve loaned you over the past fifteen years? I think your tab is somewhere around $7,000 at this point.” She grabbed a wooden spoon out of the stoneware crock near the stove and swished the utensil back and forth like a sword as she said, “In fact, how about you pay me back all of the money I’ve loaned you, like a good baby brother? I want to put a gas fireplace in at the book store. The money you owe me would easily pay for a nice model.”

  George took a step backward. He grunted when the door knob poked him in the kidney. “The peanut butter will be so successful I’ll be able to pay you back with interest. If you loved me, you’d help me out now.”

  “Sorry, Georgie. I do love you, but it’s time you got a taste of tough love. I’m not funding your
drinking binges while you pretend to play entrepreneur. Why don’t you get a real job and save up your money to start the peanut butter business?”

  He shook his head. “Do you know how hard it is to find a decent job when you have a prison record?”

  “I suppose it isn’t easy, but I’m sure it’s not impossible, either. I guess you should’ve thought twice before becoming a weed farmer.” The kettle’s shrill whistle cut through the thick tension. “Now if you would, please leave. I would like to enjoy the rest of my evening. Alone.”

  Turning The Page

  Take a sip of tea from the yellow mug adorned with a cheerful smiley face.

  Look out the window, search for a mane of black hair among the people on the sidewalk.

  Go into the bathroom and stand over the toilet. Take slow, deep breaths to tamp down the nausea.

  Repeat.

  The circuit around the studio calmed Anita as she waited for Alex to arrive. Of course, her only child didn’t want to be called Alex anymore. She and her painfully formal father deemed Alexandra a much more appropriate moniker for a law student and the daughter of a hot shot lawyer. The boyish nickname was not to be used at any time, buried in the past like a shameful secret. The sweet little girl who read the entire Little House on the Prairie series three times during one summer vacation, while munching on countless bags of pretzel sticks, was gone, replaced with a serious young woman who rarely felt the need to visit a radical, insane mother. A mother who filed for divorce from an esteemed lawyer then turned into a hippy, starving artist wasn’t thinking rationally - the sentiment was broadcast loud and clear through Alex’s snipes and snarks. Never mind that Anita had put all of her dreams aside to raise a child and host dinner parties for her husband’s clients.

  Anita chugged the rest of the tea. According to the clerk at the health food store, the blend of herbs was supposed to be calming. Nervous energy still propelled her around the room like a frenetic puppy. She refilled the mug with fresh water and put it in the microwave to heat. Filling the tea kettle and heating it on the stove was too much effort for her overloaded mind. What would her daughter think of the changes to her appearance and the new, Bohemian abode? Hair color was not a topic that ever came up during the infrequent phone conversations. The switch from fake honey golden blonde to clown wig red would surely shock her fashionable daughter. Insomnia had set in a week earlier when Alex called to say she was coming back to town for a high school friend’s wedding. She would have a bit of spare time to visit with her mother. The conversation had the tone of a queen granting villagers the right to see her for a few seconds while she passed through town in a carriage. Or maybe she had just imagined the haughty note in Alexandra’s voice. It could have been a bad cell phone connection.