by Eva Sloan
It’s alive! It’s alive...
I was suddenly gripped by the fear that I’d end up killing the thing again. What if I forgot him again and he just died all the way this time. I didn’t think I could bear that.
I looked down at the little green speck and pushed the pot closer to the windowpane. “You’re not going to die on me, are you?” And suddenly the damn plant had a name. “Ozzie.”
*****
Ozzie’s new found greenness grew slowly at first. For a while I thought the miniscule stem was more a figment of my imagination than an actual part of the plant--dead potted plant denial. But then suddenly, just as the little guy suddenly had a name, I started talking to him. At first it was just some straight forward questions. Is it time for me to water you? But that would have to be answered by the calendar on the wall, not by Ozzie. Every time I asked he’d say yes. Obviously he didn’t know what was good for him. I could relate. Would you like me to turn your pot around for you can get some sun on your other side?
Whatever it was, nature or my talking to the little guy, before I knew it that speck of green started growing longer like a thick blade of grass. By the end of the week Ozzie sprouted a second blade. I was suddenly filled with pride, both for Ozzie and for me.
How bad could I be? I was nursing a plant back from death.
You were the one who killed it! My mind snapped at me.
Almost! I snapped back. I almost killed it. Almost doesn’t count.
Two weeks later not only had Ozzie’s two shoots grown over an inch a piece, but I had started drinking my coffee by his window in the morning. Telling him what I had slatted for the morning, what the weather was doing outside. But never that I had a date lined up. No, not that. I was still holding onto the thought that love, lust, whatever, would come to me on its own.
But Ozzie never seemed bored that I had nothing interesting to tell him in this department. Sometimes I thought I saw him grow a little as I spoke to him. Sometimes I would swear his little frond would shake in laughter when I’d tell him that even my fat pants were so tight I couldn’t button them. Monthly bloating was always funnier to those who didn’t have to endure it.
Then one morning I awoke, poured myself a cup of coffee and found Ozzie’s brightly painted clay pot lying on the hard wood floor of my apartment, broken in three pieces. I dropped my coffee cup in my haste to get to Ozzie. Dropping to my knees I started sifting through the debris, my fingers raking through the soil until I finally found Ozzie’s two tiny green shoots. His roots were far bigger than his body, but both seemed so limp in my hand.
Don’t die, please don’t die! I told him over and over.
I ran to the kitchenette and grabbed another coffee mug and deposited Ozzie in it. I ran to the front door of the apartment, setting Ozzie down to throw on my raincoat and to slip my feet into an old pair of flip-flops. I grabbed my keys and headed out the door, not thinking twice how my hair looked--probably had some severe bed head. And I didn’t want to think about the fact I’d run out of my apartment wearing nothing under my raincoat except an old Nicks t-shirt and my underwear.
My flip-flops made rapid fire slapping noises as I speed-walked down the hallway, but tripped me up something fierce when I started down the three flights of stairs to the street below. I stumbled yet caught myself, but Ozzie shot out of my coffee mug and sailed through the morning air to the next flight of stairs.
“Shit!” I flew down the stairs to him and scooped him up off the dingy stair. God, I was the worst parent in the entire world!
Without thinking I shot out the front door of my apartment building and raced down the street, heedlessly heading straight for the botanical shop and the guy I so hated. He’d know what to do.
But the door was locked. I pulled and pushed at the door, but I had no effect. I saw the sign in the window and it said closed. It also said the shop wouldn’t open for another hour. I felt the blood drain from my face, and the back of my neck started to tingle. Panic stricken I started pounding on the wooden frame of the door, then I rapped my knuckles against the glass.
Suddenly the guy I so hated appeared in the doorway, looking cross until he saw the panic in my eyes. Or maybe he was stricken by the mere sight of my hair in jumbles and knots. Either way he stopped looking cross--instead he looked scared again as he pointed down to the closed sign and then stuttered, “I-I’m not open yet.”
I raised the coffee cup up to the window and showed him Ozzie’s limp, soiled encrusted body. “He fell and his pot broke. Please help me ... please!” I didn’t like the desperation in my voice, hated that I had that desperation for this guy to help me ... but I was so afraid Ozzie was dying in my hands.
The guy almost smiled, which just thoroughly pissed me off! Where did this guy get off! But then he unlocked the front door and ushered me inside before locking it again. I followed him back to one of his plant covered countertops and then handed him the coffee mug with Ozzie inside. He looked down and there was that smile again.
“Is this the same one?”
I nodded my head miserably. “His pot fell off my windowsill sometime last night.”
“I was sure you couldn’t save it. Huh ...”
I felt tears welling up in my eyes, making them sting. “Please, he can’t die.’
The guy had a strange look on his face. He just stared at me for a few beats and then he pulled out a simple brown clay pot, scooped up some potting soil from a container. The deep dark soil had specks of white and green in it, some kind of fertilizer the old soil in the now broken flower pot was lacking.
I watched as he scooped up Ozzie and gently rinsed him off under the faucet at the workstation, and then watched as his thick fingers dug a hole in the soil and then tucked Ozzie’s roots into it, patting down the dirt around him. Then the guy watered Ozzie and then stuck a plastic stick into the dirt.
“This tells you when he needs watered.” he said. “When you see yellow raindrops, that’s when you water ... not before.”
I nodded again. “Is he going to be okay?”
“Probably. He still looks better than he did.”
Suddenly, just for a split second I hated him again. But he had saved Ozzie twice now. I had to put this feeling behind me.
“And this should keep him from falling.” The guy plucked a long woven thing from the wall behind the counter. He scrunched and pulled at it until it opened and I realized it was a plant hanger made out of some sort of sturdy twine. He pushed Ozzie’s new digs down into the holder and then opened a drawer in the counter and pulled out a metal hook with a screw base.
“Just turn this thing into the wood of that window of yours, probably the top of the windowsill, and then hang the basket on that.” He smiled at me, but this time I didn’t think he was doing it to make fun of me. It confused me.
“How much do I owe you?” I suddenly realized I’d left the apartment without my purse too.
“No charge. I didn’t think you’d save him.” He shrugged his shoulders and I hated him again. I swallowed what I wanted to say to him, pushed it all deep down inside me until I couldn’t even taste it anymore, then I worked up a smile and said “Thank you.”
I turned around and started for the door, peering down at Ozzie. He no longer looked limp ... already recovering from his ordeal.
“So what’s his name?”
I froze on the spot. Great, I thought, more embarrassment. I shook my head. “I don’t know--”
“You kept saying ‘him.’ So you probably named him ... right?”
I could feel the blood rushing to my face. The bastard.
“Nothing wrong with it.” he said wiping off his counter top with a wet rag. “I name all my Plants ... the ones at home that is. I can’t bear to name the ones I’m going to sell.”
It was my turn to smile. This jerk had a soft side. Granted it was for flowers instead of human beings, but I had room to talk.
“Ozzie ...” I mumbled. “I named him Ozzie.”
*
****
Chapter 3
I was dreaming of strong hands sifting through dirt, digging through it, pushing down into it, then bringing the discarded mounds back together, smoothing them down. When I woke up I felt warm all over, and strangely satisfied. And for the first time in years I was starving when I woke.
I showered in a rush and pulled on a t-shirt and jeans. On a whim I donned an old pair of red cowboy boots I’d picked up on a long forgotten tropical spring break, and then pulled my wet hair back into a ponytail.
I started walking down the street, the rush hour traffic and pedestrians just starting to take full swing. I knew this place a couple blocks down. They served breakfast all day, if you wanted. I swung through the greasy spoon’s doors to the aroma of hot coffee and pancakes on the grill. The scent of bacon and sausage permeated the place. And just seeing all those people happily foregoing their diets, stuffing themselves full of the artery clogging cuisine, just made me hungrier.
The waitress was about ten years older than I was, about twenty pounds heavier and those ten pounds were all curves. She jiggled when she walked and she swung her ass with a vengeance.
“Hey honey, what can I get for ya?” She winked at me and smiled. Usually I didn’t trust people who winked. Usually I hated strangers that smiled at you immediately too--usually made me feel that I had to smile back at them whether I wanted to or not. But this waitress’s smile was freaking contagious.
“I’m starving,” I confessed. “Everything looks good.”
“Then you’ll want our He-Woman breakfast. Two eggs, bacon, sausage, home-fries or hash-browns, two pancakes, toast, juice and coffee.”
I liked that she’d called it He-Woman instead of he-man. Made me like her even more. I had a feeling I’d be leaving her a huge tip. I imagined with her personality and curves, and the way she swung her ass she probably made a killing in tips each day already.
“Sounds good.”
After she asked how I wanted my eggs, Hash-browns or Home-fries, and my preference of toast and juice, she swung her ass back to the kitchen area and hung my order on the wheel.
That’s when I noticed the man staring at me--the hot young man with the prettiest blue eyes staring at me.
I gulped.
He was seated one booth over and a smile played at his full lips as he studied me. I could feel the blood rushing to my face, embarrassed. But the worst part was with just the look he was giving me I was getting turned on. The back of my neck was getting hot. I absently rubbed at it and returned the man’s smile.
Suddenly there was a man standing by the guy’s table. He looked up from staring at me and a radiant smile shot to the stranger. He stood up and pulled the other man to him, kissing him on the spot.
Oh great! I thought, hanging my head down into the palms of my hands. The first time in months I get turned on by a man and he’s freaking gay!
The two guys broke off the kiss, oblivious to anyone watching, then the one that was staring whispered something to his boyfriend. The boyfriend turned and looked at me, then smiled. I knew there was a reason I didn’t trust smiling people.
He looked back to pretty eyes and nodded, and then they both walked over to where I was sitting.
“Hi,” Pretty eyes said. “I don’t mean to be forward or anything, but you’re so pretty. You know, pretty in that natural way.”
I suddenly had the feeling this guy wanted to make me over. Maybe he worked for a TV show -- a talk show, or some reality television program -- and had decided I would be perfect for an extreme make over.
I frowned at him.
“Talk fast Mr. Smooth,” the boyfriend said. “You’re losing her.”
Pretty eyes checked his boyfriend with his elbow. “I was just thinking you’d be perfect for my friend Charlie.”
I felt stupefied. Here I was with no makeup on--not that I ever wore it, or even owned lipstick -- but I was wearing an old t-shirt and jeans. How was I perfect for any guy?
“I don’t know.” I had to smile. So much for my theory about the spider plant. I was getting set up on a date without putting in any effort at all. Guess all I really needed to do was leave the apartment once in a while. I shook off these thoughts and tried to think practically. “Blind dates are hard enough, but I don’t even know the guy fixing me up.”
“Oh, sorry, I’m Berry and this here’s Ron.”
I shook their hands and that’s when the waitress swung her ass to my table, her tray heavy with the feast I’d ordered. “Can I get you anything else, honey?”
“I’m fine.” I watched with admiration as she swung her ass down the aisle, checking in on her other customers with the same friendly demeanor.
The boyfriend elbowed pretty eyes this time. “You’re right,” he said. “Charlie’s definitely her type.”
I shook my head at this, wondering what they meant. “So tell me, what’s he like?”
“What’s who like?” Pretty eyes shook his head.
“This Charlie guy. What’s he like, what’s he look like. “
Both guys’ jaws dropped and the boyfriend coughed uncomfortably.
“Oh my god,” Pretty eyes’ voice cracked. “I’m so sorry. I just saw the way you were dressed, and the way you were staring at the waitress ...” he looked down at the plates of food heaped on my table. “I just thought --”
“Just thought what?” but then I got it, like a thunderbolt I got it. “You think I’m a lesbian?” I sounded a little irate. The guys backed away a step in unison. I looked down at my clothes, and then stared at the two guys with open-mouthed shock.
“We’re real sorry,” the boyfriend said, dragging pretty eyes back to their table. “My friend has no gay-dar at all.”
I dropped my head into my hands, thinking Oh god, I look like a lesbian! How pathetic is that?
“Honey, is everything all right?” I looked up to find the waitress back with a steaming pot of coffee in her hand. “You haven’t even touched your meal.”
I looked down at the eggs and bacon and pancakes. Suddenly I was depressed and there was only one thing to do.
I handed the waitress my pancakes. “Can I get some ice cream, chocolate syrup and whip-cream on top of this?”
*****
I’d eaten the eggs, the hash-browns, the toast, the sausage and bacon, and I demolished the ice cream, chocolate and whipped cream covered pancakes. I was now on my second cup of coffee and a piece of pecan pie.
The two gay guys were long gone, leaving after only a cup of coffee, looking scared of me as they exited. A deranged woman bingeing--they probably thought I was just in the closet.
The pecan pie did the trick. The warm syrupy sweetness and the extra whipped cream hit the spot. I was so full I sat there for a half hour just trying to breathe. All I could think was, they thought I was a lesbian. Over and over, they thought I was a lesbian.
Did I look that bad? Granted I never wore make-up and I always had my hair pulled back, but I always thought I still looked feminine.
I gulped as I thought the word “Butch.”
Across the street from the greasy spoon I spied a beauty parlor, and something in my sugar coated brain clicked. I needed a professional make over.
*****
“Nothing too drastic,” I told the pretty blonde lady with the ashtray grizzled voice. “And I don’t want my hair cut.”
“No problemo, sweetie.” she said as she ran her fingers through my hair. “Just let Mona work her magic. You won’t even recognize yourself.”
Good, I thought, I didn’t want to recognize myself anymore.
First Mona washed my hair and slathered it with some kind of conditioner, then wrapped my head up in a towel. Then she smeared my face with some green goop that smelled like cucumbers. A half hour later the goop was washed off, my hair was rinsed and then set in these huge rollers, and Mona started tweezing my eyebrows. This hurt and I didn’t like it, but Mona just kept telling me that “There should be two eyebrows, not one.”
She turned me away from the mirror as she started to apply the makeup. I kept my eyes shut as she whisked brushes across my face, penciled my eyebrows and worked on my “thin lips.”
As Mona set to work brushing out my hair and spraying hairspray in fits and starts, another woman, an older Asian lady with deep creases around her eyes started filing my nails. I told her I didn’t want fake nails and she huffed her disapproval. She shaped my short nails into ovals and then lacquered them a frightful blood red.
An hour and a half after I walked into the joint Mona finally spun me around to see the finished product. My breath caught in my throat, making a strangled animal sound. I lurched forward not believing my eyes, my now huge looking candy apple red lips open in a shocked O.
I looked like Melanie Griffith in Working Girl, before the makeover. Or Peg Bundy from Married with Children.
She’s speechless!” pronounced Mona, fluffing up the back of my already enormous head of teased and tortured hair.
I wasn’t speechless. I just didn’t know what to scream about first. The rat’s nest that used to be my hair, or the clown make-up she’d applied with a putty knife. I felt tears welling up in my eyes.
“Don’t cry, honey. I know ... you look gorgeous!”
I was thinking GRUESOME!
I just wanted to run home and take a shower. Hoped the makeup and hair spray would wash off, eventually.
*****
Moments after I left the reputed beauty salon--my head down, speed-walking through throngs of business suites, whipping past slower cell-phone toting pedestrians--I heard a clap of thunder and was suddenly bombarded by squalls of rain. I started to run, trying to get back to my apartment, but the rain soaked me instantaneously. And just then I ran right smack into my ex-boyfriend, Thomas. The UPS Guy.
The mascara the lady at the salon had caked on me was running in my eyes, making my vision foggy, so I ran straight into his chest, knocking myself backwards and then right on my ass on the rain soaked pavement.
I was swiping at my eyes when I heard his voice. “Lucy ... is that you?”
