Do you know what poor people do when they have time to think? They dream of things that they never think they’ll have. At least I did. I liked to look at cast off magazines, to pretend that I would walk in rooms that they had in their layouts. I liked to think of ways of making good rooms look better, and better rooms look great. Even the dumps we lived in, I tried to liven them up with what I could: candles, rugs, things I could scrounge here and there.
There’s so much potential here. Like the sofa. It’s all right. It’s massive and thickly cushioned; very comfortable to sit on, or lounge on. But the color is this burnt red. It should have been all the way brown, or all the way red, not this muddy, in between color. Worse yet, there was an unattractive throw on it, that I’ve removed and folded into one of the many empty drawers. And I found some really nice Mexican style pillow to put on it instead. It’s not great, but it looks better.
I had the cleaning people help me to move some of the pieces, too, creating two sitting areas that are separate from each other, yet add intimacy to the room. I’ve also taken a rug from another room and brought it in here. It’s got some nice tones in it that make the wood floors gleam like honey. And then there are the plants. Ivies trailing on the mantle, a spider plant in the window and some potted orchids on the massive, glass topped coffee table.
Not great, but an improvement.
I wonder if he’ll notice.
There’s a chicken roasting in the oven. I hope he likes chicken, and I hope he likes chicken stuffed with rice. I don’t know when he’ll be home, so I couldn’t risk timing potatoes of any kind, and I don’t want to be boiling pasta at the last minute. There’s a tossed salad, too, and some very large, crusty rolls. If he ends up arriving late, or having eaten out, he can have a chicken sandwich later, or tomorrow.
Tish and I are having our own chicken. She likes rice stuffing and the way that I drizzle orange all over it. It was a special meal that I used to make on special days. Today’s not particularly special, but I thought that it would be nice to have. And I was making one for Mr. M anyway.
I’ve hung up his clothes from the dry cleaner. There’s no system to his closet, some things are just mashed together, while others are spread out all over the place. It’ll probably take me the better part of a day to straighten it out, so I’ve decided to do it a bit at a time. I’ve cleared some of the racks and rods, and hung the cleaned stuff up on them, separating shirts and pants, golf clothes and casual clothes. I can’t find anything dressy, although I have seen some things that look very, well, Hollywood. I would swear on a bible that some of the items jammed in there are women’s clothing, but who am I to say?
It’s late in the day, and I’m tempted to just pack it in. I feel a little tired today from all the running around and furniture moving. Tish is alone down at the pool house and I’m wondering what she’s doing there, or if she minds being left alone so I can see to things here. I don’t think so, she’s pretty vocal to me when she’s not happy with something. Besides the sixth grade gossip update today, she’s asked if Kim can come over on Saturday. I have no objection, but I want to clear it with Mr. M. He might have plans that don’t include two small girls in his yard. And even if that’s not a problem, I want to go shopping with Tish anyway. Not that Kim couldn’t join us, I think that might be a good idea to have a local show us around a little bit.
I need to meet Kim’s mother, too. I don’t like ‘mystery parents’ in the background and I’ve always made an effort to meet the parents of whoever Tish was friendly with. Just so they could get to know me, just so we were recognizable to each other. Maybe I’ll ride the girls to school tomorrow, and that way I can introduce myself.
In the middle of a thought I hear the front door open, because it trips the alarms. The dogs, who have been quiet up until then, set up a howl as loud as the alarm. The air is punctuated with a ‘shit’, and a ‘goddamn’, delivered in a voice that is now familiar to me. Then I hear him make the phone call to the neighborhood security and slam down the phone. The alarm goes off.
“Whoa.”
I think he’s seen the living room.
~~**~~**~~***~~**~~**~~
~~**~~**~~***~~**~~**~~
Why in the HELL does she keep putting the fucking alarm on? No one comes in here, no one. It’s one of the most secure, patrolled neighborhoods in this area, which is one of the reasons I bought the place, so I don’t need this damn thing going off every time I walk in the door.
“Whoa.” I stop where I stand. For a flash I think, shit, this isn’t my house, no WONDER the alarm went off. Then she comes into the living room and I know it’s my house.
“I hope I didn’t...” she begins, but I cut her off.
“This looks okay,” I say, because it does. I like the way the sofa is facing the fireplace now, and how the chairs are turned around the opposite way. I like everything about the room. She moved a rug in here, and, I don’t know, it looks more, I don’t know, cozy or something. And the pillows, they’re cool, I don’t remember pillows like that being here. And I got plants. Shit, well, they’ll be dead in no time, unless they’re plastic, or something like that. I touch one. Nope. Real. I forget about the alarm. I don’t really care about the alarm. I like this. “Nice.”
“I took a few liberties,” she tells me. “I thought, while it was getting cleaned and all, a little change of pace might be...”
“It’s good,” I tell her. It is. I told her before, I like surprises. This is a good surprise. I sniff, and something smells good, too. She must notice it.
“It’ll be a little while before the chicken is ready,” she tells me.
“Good, I’m gonna grab a shower.” I stink, myself. I ran out of the house, running a little late like I always do, and need to shower big time, I reek. I turn out of the living room and go back into the hall to go upstairs. Things have changed here, too. There are a few potted palms and a chest of drawers that had been in the living room is out here now, with a light on it, some lamp from somewhere else. It makes the hall seem, seem less long, and wide. There are even two chairs here, too.
Damn.
The bedroom looks like I don’t live here. Bed’s made, sheets are clean, again, I guess she’s changing them every day, because they were white this morning and now they’re a sort of yellowish color. No chocolates, though. That makes me smile. I wonder if she’ll put them there later. Or at all. I hope so. I strip off the sweaty clothes I was wearing and drop them down the laundry chute. Seems like the thing to do. My bathroom no longer looks like a bomb hit it, and there are some new towels folded for me near the shower.
I never had a housekeeper who did all this. Never. No one has ever had the house like this before. Not a single person that I’ve lived with has ever been this, like, into details.
I turn on the water and wait for it to get hot. It’s not a long wait, but I check myself out in the mirrors again. I got sunburnt. I’m all red across the top of my nose and cheeks. And I shoulda shaved, ‘cause I look like hell right now. If I let it go another two days I’d have a full on beard, and a crappy looking one at that. Oh, I got facial hair. It’s just spotty and it grows in funny. I wish I had facial hair like Howie. Howie, another long lost friend who won’t call me anymore. You sing with a guy for ten years and when things go to hell, they go with it.
I miss Howie. Even though he was always kinda hard on me, I miss him, because he was hard, but he was fair. Sometimes he was even right.
I step into the shower and let the water run over me. Feels good. Feels real good. My shoulders ache from hacking the ball all day, and I adjust the shower heads to pound on my muscles, to work out the knots there. I could stand here like this for a good hour, but I’m hungry, really hungry, not just craving, and the smell of the chicken Shi is making is making it’s way through the house, right into the bathroom. It’s making my stomach growl.
I wash, tell myself that maybe I’ll soak in the hot tub later, or even in the bathtub. I like baths, I used to take them all the time, but I don’t so much anymore. Well, not at all. I’m usually running late, and all I have time for is a shower.
I make quick work of it all, get out, and dry off. That’s when I notice something new on the counter, a huge bottle crammed with small, golden capsules. Cod liver oil. She remembered. I open the jar and give it a whiff. Fishy. But the capsules are small. She’s left me a note, too. “TAKE FIVE OR SIX A DAY”.
Damn. That’s a lot of fish oil.
I take one out and lick it. Tastes like nothing. I can do this. And I do, washing them down with that rotten tap water again. I gotta remember the bottled water.
Dried, I go into my closet.
My ghost has been in here, too. Things are a little ‘arranged’ in there. The empty poles that I had tried to fill have been emptied again. I had purposely scattered my things to take up the empty spaces left when Sarah moved out. Coming back from a golf tournament in Palm Springs and seeing all that empty space had me close to a breakdown. Thank god I had Marcus with me. Marcus is my sometimes bodyguard and most times friend. He’s good people. I wish he was here now, but he has to work, and he’s out there, working with some other celebrity. But Marc was with me that day and even helped me to make the closet mine, moving things here and there, filling in the gaps.
The ghost seems to have a system for doing things, though. I see my clean clothes lined up, my golf stuff on one rod, my shirts on another. Other cleaned and folded laundry is stacked in neat piles in the cubbies and drawers, and on the built in shelves. I pull on some baggy shorts and a T-shirt. That’s as formal as I’m gettin’ tonight.
I’m hungry. I want my dinner.
~~**~~**~~***~~**~~**~~
~~**~~**~~***~~**~~**~~
“Mom, he’s sitting all alone up there,” Tish says to me.
I know that he is, I laid his table for him out on his patio, under one of the pergolas. It was a nice night and he seemed to like the idea of a little al fresco dining. So I set him up on the patio before I came back here, to our corner of heaven to eat with Tish. But he’s been up there the entire time, watching us.
“He wanted to eat outside,” I say to her.
“This is weird.”
“Just eat your supper,” I tell her, although I agree with her, this is weird. I’ve never eaten a meal under scrutiny. I’m only glad that I have my back to him.
“HEY!”
I roll my eyes and get up to see what he wants.
~~**~~**~~***~~**~~**~~
~~**~~**~~***~~**~~**~~
This is stupid. She’s down there and I’m up here and we’re both eating the same food and I don’t get it. She seemed to be getting used to me, seemed okay with me. I mean, she left the candy on my pillow and now she won’t eat with me?
“HEY!” That’ll get her attention. Yup, here she comes.
“Yes sir?” she asks, and boy, she is pissed. Too bad.
“Are you eating dinner down there?” I ask her.
“Yes, is there something you need?”
“Why don’t you eat up here?”
“Because you’re up here, sir.”
“Jesus, don’t call me sir.” I put my fork down. The food is incredible, and I’m not that big a fan of chicken, but this is good. “I mean, isn’t it kinda stupid for you to be down there and I’m right here and we’re, like trying to ignore each other?”
She drums her fingers on the table.
“I think that’s the way it’s supposed to be,” she says.
“You mean, like, if you lived in the house, and I was having dinner here, you would eat down there?”
“I would eat in the kitchen,” she tells me.
“That’s fucked up.” Now, I let that slip because it IS fucked up, but I can see that she’s biting the inside of her mouth trying not to laugh at me.
“Si.., Mr. Mc..., A.J., I really don’t know the actual protocol for eating arrangements, but I’ve got a pretty good idea that you don’t eat with the hired help.”
That is cold. Cold AND fucked up. I think for a minute, trying to put the right words together.
“Yeah, I know what you’re saying, but this is making me uncomfortable.” My doctors would be proud. I’ve used a good word there. Uncomfortable. And it’s exactly the way I feel about it. “I don’t know. Maybe when it’s nice out, and I’m here, we could just, you know, eat together.” I look at her and I have to squint, because the sun is coming down in that direction. “If you, like, don’t mind.”
She hesitates for a while.
“Okay.”
~~**~~**~~***~~**~~**~~
~~**~~**~~***~~**~~**~~
© 2003 Chandrah, Inc.
© 2003 (*> Baby Bird Productions, Inc.
