Ginger Krinkles (3 page)

After Busha’s funeral, Mike and Melissa overheard me ask my mom what my grandmother had meant when she said I was an elf. Their hooting and hollering made me feel like I was being fitted for my dead Busha’s black orthopedic shoes, as I focused my every drop of loathing and insecurity onto their effing perfect heads. Good thing I wasn’t truly telekinetic is all I have to say, or SERVPRO cleanup services would still be looking for their brains.

“Ginger,” my brother said, putting his hand on my shoulder, “you’re the Elf on the Shelf. I really thought Frankie was going to marry you.” Mike, of course, is married, but he lives in Ohio, so ha ha, joke’s on him. Melissa lives near LA, only about an hour and a half away from me, but we don’t see each other that often. She’s an attorney and married to a good guy, Angelo, who is a dermatologist, and whom I have a crush on. It’s okay, everybody knows it, including Angelo, who plays along. Angelo would be a Greek god, except he’s Italian. He’s super smart, with the best skin in all the land, as one would expect from a dermatologist, and always takes my side. He has just enough of an accent to send shivers up a girl’s spine. Oh, knock it off, it’s not incest if there’s no blood connection. Melissa doesn’t mind, either.

Angelo, unfortunately was around for the elf comment, and pushed Mike away to hug me. “Your-a
nonna
, God rest her soul, saw the beauty and compassion inside you, Zhinger,” he said to me. “And to her, you were a sweet, little elf.”

Sigh. Angelo did hug me, but he didn’t really say any of that. He was too busy laughing. Melissa laughed too, of course, but tried to tell me she was laughing with me, not at me. For all of her perfect life, all Melissa wanted was a baby, but she wasn’t having any luck. I have volunteered to be a surrogate. It’s a joke.

“I guess an elf is better than being The Lady,” Mike had continued. My eyes widened.

“I would rather be an elf,” I said. Anything was better than The Lady.

“Busha’s neighbors used to call her The Lady,” Mike explained to Angelo. “The Lady who yells at people. The Lady who calls the police.”

“The Lady who told the seven-year-old girl next door to do herself and the rest of the world a favor and stop with the piano lessons,” Melissa added. “She was the Queen of Complainers.”

My mom hissed “Stop it,” at us and jerked her head at my dad.

Melissa changed her tune. “Remember those Sunday dinners?”

I shook my head. We had stopped eating at my grandmother’s house ages ago. I remembered plowing through a meal of mashed potatoes and pork chops just to get a piece of the delicious cake my grandmother had baked. It was a round, double layered cake with chocolate icing, and sat on the counter near the stove.

“Ginger wanted that cake so bad, she was willing to eat Busha’s mashed potatoes.” Mike and Melissa couldn’t stop laughing.

I folded my arms. “Really?” I remembered picking fibers out of the worst mashed potatoes ever, and staring at that cake. My napkin had gotten full. I’d batted at my tongue with my left finger and thumb to remove more of the strands. I’d even asked, “Busha, these potatoes aren’t like my mom’s. Do you have any salt, please?”

Mike had burst out laughing, and I’d noticed neither he nor Melissa were eating any potatoes. He’d pointed at the cake. There sat Ming One or Two, licking its paw, swishing its tail over the cake. “Cat hair is the only condiment served here, Miss Ginger.” Thankfully the memory fades because I’m sure it went downhill from there.

I made a half-ass attempt to ask my dad about Busha. “Are you doing all right, Dad?”

“Ginger. We all stand on the shoulders of our ancestors.”

“Some of them just had more rickety shoulders than others,” my brother chimed in.

“Mike,” my mom warned.

“It’s true. Convicts, crooks, con artists—their grandkids are all running the world right now. Busha was nowhere near as bad as that. I thank the woman. Didn’t want to hang out with her, but she did all right by us.” He finished his beer. “Say what you will, she was on our side.”

On that touching note we went our separate ways.

Because in my mind Ohio may as well be the North Pole, I had skedaddled for warmer climes the first chance I got. I ended up in San Diego, California, about six years ago, and please, for the record, we do too have seasons, two of them—flip-flops and Ugg boots—a time for pedicures, a time for hairy legs.

So there it was, the dark of my night, Yuletide upon me, no career in sight, no money for the season, and my siblings, who I’m not really close to, want to “go together” to get my parents a gift. Someone always forgets to pay—though that’s usually me, and someone else always picks out stupid presents. Honest to baby Jesus, no one needs a second freezer in their garage. I didn’t know my parents had become survivalists.

In addition to worrying about my bad attitude and fearing I inherited my mean ol’ grandmother’s personality, I was scared to death about my finances, and future.

It was almost time to pull the plug. I knew it; just didn’t want to face facts. I would be out of money soon, and I wouldn’t be able to stay in San Diego. I cringed at the thought of telling Olive. The sun was shining down as I sat at the beach and contemplated a future without being able to sit at the beach. At least I had a place to go. I tried to appreciate the safety net of being able to move back home and in with my parents. Maybe it wouldn’t be that bad.

My face crinkled. My body answered its own question. Yes, it would be that bad. I never told anyone the results of an eighth grade career aptitude test that indicated I would be a great farmer’s wife. The feminist side of me even back then railed against why in the Sam Hill they would have that category.

I crossed my arms in front of me and pouted. I hadn’t even moved back to Ohio yet and was pulling out goodies like “Sam Hill,” while wondering what traits make a good farmer’s wife. If the farmer is like a Ryan Gosling good ol’ boy maybe, but no farmers I knew back home were like that. And the weather. Oh, shoot me now. If I died and was U-turned at heaven, it wouldn’t be the flickering flame. It would be an eternal midwestern winter, though aren’t they all? I do not believe the malarkey that cold air is good for you, and the adjective “brisk” surely is not a positive attribute. I’m pretty sure the Supreme Being, who obviously has a sense of humor, has something a little more hellish planned for me, and it will be frozen over. Bronchitis, tonsillitis, optional. I was getting a sore throat thinking about it.

Midwesterners are the kindest people on the planet, with no problem too big to sweep under the carpet. They show their love by freakishly trying to outdo each other in the calorie content from their kitchen. “I like you,” comes out as “eat my pie.” “You’re sad,” ends up “Have a cookie.” “What’s wrong? No, don’t tell me, none of my business, I don’t want to know,” becomes, “Here. Just have some cheesy-potatoes with a sugar-butter-flour chaser.”

I stood up, grabbed my flip-flops and shook out the sand. I had to get ready for work on Tood Fruck. I knew I needed a better job, but it wasn’t looking good. There was no time left. Unless I was getting that miracle I had on my wish list, I would have to head back to Ohio right after the holidays. Where the sky is both cloudy and gray.

Yet, I fall prey. Every season, I gloom and doom and stomp around, but there’s this little piece of hope, the size of a turtle-eye, if you will, or a silver metallic dragée ball used on my grandmother’s frosted cut-out cookies, if you won’t, that stubbornly insists maybe this Advent will be a season of miracles.

As in, it will be a miracle if I find a boyfriend I don’t have to exchange, a job that’s fulfilling enough to pay the bills in sunny San Diego, and most importantly, a trust fund. Not that kind of trust fund, rather, a bank of internal trust for me to rely upon in the belief that there is rhyme and reason in the universe which will lead to harmony.

Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. It has been a zillion years since my last confession, let alone the fact that I would probably cause the big California earthquake by even setting my little toe in a church. In spite of that, I loved it when my mom said she would pray for me.

($2,200.00 Self-soothing trip to CVS)

My brother Mike called. Never a good thing. But as the youngest, I always felt a small thrill of hope. “Hey, Mike.”

“Are you sitting down?”

“Why? What’s wrong?”

“You’re getting an inheritance.”

“What?” Oh, damn ye, fertile brain, slow down. How quickly my psyche conjured up all sorts of hidden treasures. Untold riches I couldn’t wait to spend, a new car, my own condo. I could quit Tood Fruck.

But Mike was laughing. “I can hear your pitiful thoughts from here. It’s not what you’re thinking.”

“So tell me.”

“Ah, you’ll be fine.”

Now I was petrified. “What is it? What’s going on?”

“Just be home this afternoon.” Click. Love you too. Although I wasn’t really sure about that. He was such a selfish cow. The kind of brother who would spit in the soda bottle to make sure no one else would drink any.

Lauri came over to my place to wait with me. “What do you think it is?”

“Well, as far as I know, my grandmother didn’t have anything. I think my parents had to help pay for her care.” I couldn’t keep the small smile off my face. “It’s still kind of cool. And how sweet that she remembered me. Mike said he and Melissa didn’t get anything. I need to honor her last wishes, and accept her benevolence. You know, my Busha always kind of ignored me, and since she was so mean,” I paused.

“Did you just make the sign of the cross?” Lauri asked me.

“You can take the Catholic girl out of the church.”

“So, if you make a holy gesture you get a special dispensation to speak ill of the dead?”

“That’s the way it works, yes. Since she was so mean, I was always glad to escape her notice. Now, I think that means she loved me best. What do you think it could be? A priceless ring? A long lost savings account? If it’s really good, I will even deign to share it with Mike and Melissa. I wonder if their feelings are hurt they didn’t get anything?”

“Nice try, Ginger. You guys win the competitive siblings tournament, hands down.”

“If you recall, I never win. Sooooo.” I tried not to get my hopes up.

“Don’t get your hopes up.” We were both laughing when the doorbell rang. “Take a cleansing breath.”

“Sometimes it’s really hard to have a yogini for a best friend.” Of course she just had her hands folded at her heart.

I slowly opened the door, head held high, stately even. Sorry for the adverbs here, Stephen King, but I’m not a hooligan, and I think that’s important to mention.

I read my text from my brother. “Cat Ass Trophy. Get it?” Sometimes I really hate him.

My inheritance had arrived. In the form of one mangy, old, bad tempered reincarnation of my Busha. Her surviving familiar, her cat, Ming. Nobody knew if he was #1 or #2. Lauri was trying to make nice while I called my parents in outrage.

“Sorry, Ginger,” my dad said. “She wanted you to have him.”

“Ouch!” Lauri had just taken one for the team. Ming yowled, withdrew his claws and stalked around my apartment.

“He will be good company for you,” said my mother on the extension.

“Thanks, Mom. What have I ever done to you? I hear you laughing.”

I looked at the cat. I couldn’t believe it.

“This is ridiculous. I would have preferred the money it must have cost to drive him out here.” I still held a small bottle in my hands. “And what’s with the molasses? There’s a rubber band around the bottle with this old note in her handwriting. It looks like it’s in Polish. I can’t read it.”

“No idea. She wasn’t in her right mind, you know.”

“Bazinga! That means I can contest the will!”

“No one contests a will to deny an inheritance. Just accept her gift and be glad she thought of you with love. She was your grandmother.”

“We don’t know what she thought of me. This could be some sort of final revenge.”

“Ginger, you better get over here.” Lauri held a scratched hand over her mouth.

I said goodbye. “Later, traitors,” and ran over to see what was going on. “What’s it doing? Ming. Stop that.”

Ming was sitting there, on my rug, wheezing as if my brother Mike was torturing a balloon by releasing bits of air stretched into screeching noises. Wait for it. The grand finale. “Oh.”

“That must be a hair ball.” The smell was enough to knock the smile right off of Lauri’s face.

“I am not keeping this cat.”

“Ginger, your grandmother wanted you to have her most beloved possession. I think you need to honor that.”

“Zero cares given.”

($2,130.00 I had no idea how expensive cat food and kitty litter is.)

The days rolled on. I was shocked at how hard my job was. “You mean how bad you are at it,” Frankie said. He paid me well and rarely yelled at me, even though I think his restraint was causing a deep furrow in his forehead.

I still dropped things from time to time. “If you weren’t such a cheap bastard and would invest in better paper plates we wouldn’t have that problem,” I yelled at him occasionally.

After my four-hours of daily toil, I was expected to make grocery store runs and keep the truck stocked. We even expanded into nighttime hours downtown in San Diego’s historic Gaslamp Quarter. I’m not sure what it’s historically famous for, other than the amount of alcohol consumed. Which was all good for business. There’s nothing quite like a grilled cheese sandwich to sop up all those cells saturated with one-too-many-tinis.

It was after midnight when a group of girls darkened our truck stop. Caroling at the top of their voices, something about resting merry gentlemen, it appeared to be a bridal party. I sullenly served them, they all ordered Girl Cheeses, except one customer who ordered the Grr, and insisted on thanking the chef
personally
, and per lips and tongue. Their kiss was disgusting.

I couldn’t get that stupid song out of my head, especially the “let nothing ye dismay” line. I didn’t want Frankie, yet apparently didn’t want anyone else to want him either. And after paying December’s rent, even with Frankie’s generosity, I was sliding into a sucking abyss of depression.

“Good night, gorgeous!” Frankie called out as the girls clickety-clacked away down the sidewalk. “I’ll call you!” He jumped back inside, closed the window and squeezed me in a tight hug. “Good job, Ginger. Great night.” Obviously he was fired up from his little encounter with Miss Save Us All From Satan’s Power. Don’t know what my problem was. Except it felt really good to be in his arms again. My pity party was believing its own press about misery loving company, and somehow, that hug maneuvered itself into a full on assault. I was the sloppy seconds and didn’t even care that I could taste that girl’s cheap berry lipstick. Frankie pulled back first, a big dopey grin on his face. When I looked up at him, an angel didn’t get her wings, she flat-out dropped her undies.

Frankie swiped my hair back off my cheek—I never said he wasn’t sweet—and grabbed my hand and pulled me with him up to the front of the truck. He drove straight to my apartment in Pacific Beach, about ten minutes away. He found a parking space only a few streets down, jumped out and opened my door. It is not as gallant as you may think, the passenger door sticks from the inside.

He swung me down and led the way to my front door. One-two-three steps in, the wood floor creaked its welcome home. Every day after work, as soon as I hit that floor board, Ming would sprint in front of my path, surprisingly spry for a geriatric cat. He was someone to talk to, and while he had a permanent feline frown, he never disagreed with me. I may have posted a few photos of him on Instagram. In some lights he looked just like my grandmother.

“Not now, Ming,” I said.

Frankie knew his way to and around my bedroom. He slammed the door in Ming’s face and flipped me onto the bed, and MYOB. Mind your own beeswax.

($1,330.00 December rent)