Ginger Krinkles (2 page)

I live right around the corner from Yogasm. The five-block drive took more than ten minutes and I was starting to cut it close. “Oh, I see.” It was going to be an every red light kind of day.

I finally made it to my street. I was the end unit of a four-plex single story beach complex, built in the 1950s. It reminded me of those old-timey woodie station wagons, and was painted funky beige with light green trim. Aw, nuts. My landlady was out front. I pulled up to the curb and jumped out and landed right on top of a snail. Squish, crack, splinter, destruction, smash. Splat. The violence vibrated up my leg. I bent over and twisted and turned and shivered. I lifted my homicidal foot and kicked. I may have shrieked.

Olive winced but couldn’t hide her laugh. “I’m sure he didn’t know what hit him.” She smiled at me. “Sometimes life does feel like we’re stepping on snails, doesn’t it?”

“Or like we are the snail,” I said. I tried to shake it off and went and gave her a hug. “Give me that. I told you I would do it.” She let me wrest the handle of the garbage bin from her, the size of which could contain Olive, her knitting, and ancient TV. “What do you have in here, dead bodies?” I manhandled it to the street.

“You are something else, Ginger.” She laughed.

“I notice you didn’t answer me.”

“Thanks for helping me. Why aren’t you at work?”

“I’m actually going to help Frankie with his new food truck.” I didn’t tell her I lost my job. Remember, I used to work in PR. It’s all in the presentation. Besides, she never saw me cross my fingers.

“You are just the sweetest girl, always helping people.”

“Not really,” I told her, feeling as low as the snail I had just leveled. I wasn’t ready to tell anyone what really happened at my job. Getting fired is horrifying enough, but going out the way I did left me deep-fried mortified. If anyone knew the real reason, Lauri, Olive, or even Frankie, they would all try to make me feel better. And I knew I didn’t deserve it.

A few weeks ago while I was still gainfully employed, I was at lunch with some co-workers and we were shredding our Creative Director, Violet. Violet Hickle, to be exact, who, for reasons unknown, went by V. Hickle. The name on her door, desk plate, business cards and email address, read V. Hickle. Come on, she was asking for it.

I don’t think I started it, but I sure spent a lot of my time contributing. “Car was riding her broom today,” I would begin the pile-on. Another day, it might have been Sedan, Low-rider, or Edsel. She once nearly caught me as I whistled after her, as if hailing a cab. I know the defense of “we all did it” is no excuse, but still.

Once again, my mouth got me in trouble. She heard me talk about her behind her back. Actually, it was behind my back, because I obviously didn’t see her when I had been upset with her for trashing one of my campaigns. “She makes my butt itch.” My friends laughed until they realized, she heard me. Thinking back, it had felt exactly like smashing that snail. Though it was an accident, I hadn’t meant for her to hear me, (in fact I really liked her) it didn’t mitigate the collateral damage.

My humiliation had been complete when she was the one who “let me go” and had to terminate me for my crime against humanity. She acted like there was no poetic justice there, and said that she was genuinely sad. I bet anything she was doing the equivalent of joyous donuts-in-the-parking-lot on the inside.

When “Bucket of Bolts” called me in to give me my last paycheck, I wasn’t prepared.

“Miss Krinkles,” she said, as I started to become even more upset. “While I am aware that I am the source of unending amusement to you and your little friends out there, I truly had expected better from you.”

I gulped. Turned red. Wished I was dead.

“You’ve had your fun, but when all is said and done, this
Lamborghini
,” she pointed to herself as she stood up and came around from behind her desk, “is all gassed up and ready to go.”

I couldn’t help it, I was nervous and upset and got the giggles, as if she really had farted or something. Yes, I’m the one who laughs in church and at people who fall down.

She folded her arms across her chest, her turquoise Diane von Furstenberg wrap dress did make her look like some powerful sports car, revving down upon me.

“I hate to see Jeff let you go,” she said, waiting for my gulping hiccups to stop. I covered my mouth with my hand and spit out a few strangled coughs. It really wasn’t funny; I was pretty panicked. My meditation app picked that moment to chime in.
Is something bothering you? Can you inhale and exhale and release your fears?

“You’re smart, when you’re not being a smart ass.” Violet handed me my check. “You want my advice?” I opened my mouth but she didn’t want to hear from me. “Why don’t you try using your powers for good, not evil? It’s not about always being in the spotlight. Sometimes it’s good to be part of the audience.”

And then she told me why I was really being fired. It wasn’t for gossiping. It wasn’t for teasing her behind her back. I deserved it. I had grabbed my check and doubt that she even heard my “so sorry; so, so sorry” as I left. If she did, I’m sure she didn’t believe it. I had been sincere, too.

I wrote her a note and sent her flowers but never heard a word back. I couldn’t blame her; I would have fired me, too.

I took Olive’s arm and helped her over a cliff-sized crack in the sidewalk. I didn’t want to worry her yet that I most likely had to move out. Because what if there was some kind of Christmas miracle and I could end up staying? I didn’t want to stress Olive out before I had to, or worse, have her find a new, better tenant. Hope is for dopes. I am the last person on earth who deserved hope.

Olive is old. She’s pretty frail. But she only charges me $800 a month rent to live in a sweet neighborhood near the beach. All I have to do is listen to her talktalktalktalktalktalktalktalktalktalktalktalktalk. I know, pot calling the kettle black.

She has great stories, a great spirit, a crush on Adam Levine and over three thousand followers on Twitter. I think her secret sorrow is that she doesn’t get to see her grandsons as much as she wants, and though she stays busy, I know she is lonely.

“Do you have time for coffee, Ginger? I made some scones.” I wish she was my grandmother. I gave her a quick hug and promised her next time.

($2,200.00 November rent)

I watched Olive in my rearview mirror and smiled. I headed to work, inland up through La Jolla to the mall, and I couldn’t help but think about my grandmother, Busha, who had just passed away. It wasn’t like I missed her or anything. Please don’t get me wrong, she was a horrible woman. She looked like that crone picture in the Highlights Magazine, but you could search until your eyes crossed and never find the beautiful woman. I, fortunately, was too boring to ever attract her attention so she pretty much ignored me, but I was only around seven years old when she said my sister looked like a two-bit whore. Hey, now. I remember standing up straighter and sneaking a peek out of the corner of my eye at Melissa, who was wearing lip gloss and her fancy new B-cup bra. I held my lips together tightly and looked back at Busha. Respect.

Busha thought my brother was a pot head, even though he tried to tell her, “It’s called weed. I guess I’ll put that in my pipe and smoke it, huh, Busha?” My brother was a jerk, though my Busha was all about the cliches. Mike even had a short-lived garage band called, “NINE WHAT?” referencing my grandmother’s warnings about stitching in time.

She never once, ever, said my mother’s name, and always stared my dad down in a whatever-happened-it-was-your-fault sort of way. He was an amazing son to her, though. I once asked him why she was so mean, meaning why was he so kind to her? He laughed. “She had a tough life,” meaning he had no idea; he operated in a default manners mode, go along to get along. I always thought her tough life could have been improved by giving better gifts than holy cards and lectures on piety.

My biggest fear (insert scary music here), is that I will turn out like my Polish grandmother. We can inherit eye color, lip shapes, and curly hair; of course descendants can be shafted with personality traits. Bah-hucking-fumbug. I am petrified that I drew the short end of the stick and she passed on her mean gene to me. I don’t want to be like her. I flushed, and could practically hear the fog horn blaring on a ship long set sail.

So as I descended into my seasonal slump, my navel-gazing snagged upon a lint ball that looked suspiciously like my grandmother’s hair. There’s only one thing worse than dying old and alone, and that would be, to insert another one of Busha’s cliches here, “Adding insult to injury,” dying unloved. Trust me, it’s no fun being the lone, cynical, grumpy torch-bearer. I want to be giddy and silly and starry-eyed, filled with goodwill toward my fellow man. I can put on a decent show, unless you know me and can see the dark edge of my soul. I just couldn’t seem to shake the shadow of my Busha’s dour, ominous personality. I wasted an incredible amount of time worrying that I inherited that from her. “We despise in others what we fear about ourselves.” I think my grandmother made that up. She hated everybody.

Busha had two henchman, Ming One and Ming Two, Siamese cats who let you know that, despite their ludicrous names, they were not to be trifled with. My brother learned that the hard way when he taunted them and called them Thing One and Thing Two. They went all Dr. Seuss on him, grabbed onto his arms with their front paws, and hung on for dear life while they frantically clawed, kickstarter style with their hind legs. Terror turned to laughter as Busha walked in the room just in time to see Mike backhand both cats to the floor. She knuckled him in the head with her middle finger, and had my dad not shown up I was sure I was finally going to get to see the infamous ear-boxing. Dang.

The more Busha’s memory started to go, the nastier she became. I’m ashamed to say I wish I had taken notes. She was breathtaking in her filterless state. “Your hinder’s out a mile,” she used to tell my mom when she disagreed with her which was always. A couple of falls (instigated by Ming One or Ming Two, if my brother is to be believed), and she spiraled into needing twenty-four hour care. Dad went into a series of “lasts” … the last picture taken in her own home, and possibly the last one with him. The last time checking her mail, the last time noticing how loudly her kitchen clock ticked. We took her house keys out of her purse, she didn’t need those anymore. We threw away her ketchup, a vinegary sludge that must have been in her refrigerator since 1999. (My brother had his biggest hit with his song,
Catch Up, Ketchup
.)

About a month ago, my dad made us all come along for the long goodbye. We stopped at a fountain and, Dad, who was trying so hard to squeeze every moment of “now” out of the day, held his mom’s arm. He gave her a penny and told her to make a wish. She jerked her hand away from his and put the penny in her pocket. She didn’t have any wishes left anyway.

My dad and I both tossed a coin and I’m pretty sure his wish matched mine, which was “don’t let
me
end up like her.”

When I said goodbye to my grandmother she grabbed onto my hand and said her last word, “Good,” and then died a little later. It wasn’t as scary as it sounds. I felt special. I think in her weird way, she liked me best. Do you know she once even told me I was an elf?

($2,195.00 I stopped for coffee on my way to work.)

“Order up!” screamed Frankie.

“I’m not deaf!” Yet, I thought, nudging my shoulder up to my ear. “Calm down, Frankie.” I grabbed the paper plate off the counter and swiveled to the front opening pass-through of the food truck.

“Say it,” he warned me.

I faked a toothy smile. “Tood Fruck up! Good food with attitude!” I passed the plate through to the guy next in line. Good news, the line was only about ten deep. Bad news, it had been a long morning. First day on the job. Have I mentioned I can’t cook? Have I mentioned Frankie is my ex?

Hors d’oeuvres make up my entire food pyramid, the mighty triumvirate of cheese, carbohydrates of any kind (must contain flour and butter), and grapes (wine counts). I have a mad pash for food trucks. Different samples of food from around the world, served up quick and easy with no clean-up, and the only participation required from me is digestion. Can do. From cupcakes to wraps, I consider myself something of an expert.

Frankie is in a grilled cheese phase and doing really well. Cheese, cheese, cheese. I like cheese. I could do that. I just needed a little time to get used to this new world of mine. I needed to retrain my brain, and my nose. His truck doesn’t really smell like a decaying-baby-rattlesnake-clobbered-to-death-in-the-bottom-of-my-brother’s-baseball-bat-bag-undiscovered-for-a-whole-season. It’s just stinky cheese, I told my nasal membranes who acted so offended they were threatening to quit, or to tattle on me to vomit central in the back of my throat.

I took a deep breath and surveyed my station. We were parked by the mall outside of La Jolla. Ten-to-two, every day. It’s in an area called The Golden Triangle, surrounded by businesses on all sides. We worked some weekends whenever Frankie felt like it, and any other hours; his call.

“Did you memorize the menu?”

I nodded. “Girl Cheese, Guy Cheese, Gay Cheese. Krill Cheese, which is the shrimp with Pecorino, and Grr Cheese.” Frankie smiled at me and wiggled his eyebrows. He claims his Grr Cheese is an aphrodisiac, and it is one of his most popular sandwiches. His secret is in the ingredient he leaves out, he just doesn’t use garlic in the pesto sauce, which he smothers with fontina and goat cheese. And,
voilà
! Grr. You can now make out on a date without fear of any garlic reprisal.

Frankie was so proud of his menu as he yammered on about how each sandwich was grilled with a “lot-o-butter,” something he insists is a true professional measurement. To my credit, I pretended to listen with nary a Paula Dean insult. I nodded my head as he extolled the virtues of sourdough bread, wraps, and his famous no-bread Naked Grilled Cheese that he invented.

I widened my eyes and placed my hand over my heart like I was impressed.

“I roll it in gluten-free breadcrumbs then deep fry it,” he explained.

“Well aren’t you cute?”

“So I’ve been told.” He fluttered his eyelashes and answered with a southern accent. He is totally cute.

Tood Fruck, if it didn’t have such an obnoxious name, would be heaven on earth. Frankie, middle name Doofus, was a good cook. Surfing and sautéing were his specialties. He served up sides of french fries and apples with his grilled cheeses, and every condiment known to man. He also had the best tomato soup on the planet. I had been super impressed until I discovered his secret. Jumbo sized cans of rhymes-with-Wampbell’s tomato soup, except he uses whole milk instead of water, fistfuls of sugar, and, once again, a lot-o-butter.

He also created a cheesecake, but it’s not what you think. It’s savory, not sweet, and fulfills your whole cheese intake for the week, it’s that rich. He uses some proprietary (as if I care) mix of asiago and cream cheese atop a crust of crushed almonds and pecans. It is amaze-balls, and I promise never to use that word again.

“I can’t believe how busy you are,” I managed to toss over my shoulder as Frankie manned the grill. I heard my meditation app, “doodoodoodoodoo,” try to get my attention. I really needed to quit that thing. It was like a fortune cookie, written by Yoda:
Peaceful you are not.
Frankie threw his spatula up in the air in a spin and caught it.

“This is a slow day,” he said. “Be warned.”

The masses finally fed, I closed the counter and went up front to sit by Frankie. He handed me the order slips and told me to reconcile.

“Not with me,” he added with a cheesy grin. What other kind of smile could the man possibly possess? I shook my head. What a waste of blue eyes. He could have been a poster boy for surfing. Oh, wait, he was.

“You’ll get better,” he said.

“What do you mean? I thought I did a good job. And my feet are killing me.” I plucked at my top and took a whiff. “And I think I smell bad.”

“Job hazard.” He leaned over to ruffle my hair.

I pulled back. “Stop that. I know where your hands have been.”

“Cheesus, crusty much?”

“Come on, Frankie. Knock it off.”

“Don’t you mean ‘thank you’ because I hired you?”

“Yes, thank you. I do appreciate it. And hopefully it won’t be for long.”

“Why not? Once you learn the ropes and smile a little more, the regulars might learn to like you.”

“Thanks.” I shook my head at him. Frankie was cute, if you like Golden Retrievers. He liked to play ball, eat, and loved making new female friends. I unzipped the deposit bag. And apparently he makes a lot of money.

“Wow.”

Frankie shrugged. “I told you. And today wasn’t even that busy.” He leaned over and took out twenty-five dollars and waved it in my face. “Here’s a tip.” I started to thank him, but he continued. “Go get some new tops or something,” he said. “And boob it up.”

($2,220.00 I will not go shopping.)