Her Wild Oats (10 page)

“Well, look what the cat dragged in,” Dickie drawled when he spotted Oats. “And he’s got hisself a chickie, too. WE’RE not allowed but the KID can hunt pussy. I don’t call that fair, do you?”

Oats could feel his face blush beet red and fever-hot. He whispered to Melody to ignore Dickie, but she just wasn’t that kind of baton-twirling girl. She stepped right up to their table in her fringed marching-band uniform with the brass buttons and high-heeled boots, without any apparent sense that she wasn’t dressed like everyone else in the place.

“Hey, mister,” she said, “we’re not hunting those pussies. They’re God’s creatures just like you and me. We were watching a miracle of life occur, that deserves respect.”

There was a startled silence all around the table, then all four of the grown-ups started laughing so hard you’d have thought they’d split a gut. Apparently, Melody had been so intent on practicing her baton twirling that she’d neglected to brush up on her required middle-school raunch vocabulary.

Desperate, Oats motioned for her to sit back down. He had completely lost his appetite, but he’d promised this girl a burger and wasn’t going to back out.

Dickie, Willie, and their new friends made a noisy show of getting up and leaving the restaurant. As they passed by, Dickie pulled a Trojan out of his wallet and dropped it next to the sugar bowl.

“Enjoy your miracle of life,” he chuckled—and they all cracked up once again. Oats buried his head in the big plastic-coated menu and pretended to ignore him. Talk about feeling like the runt of the litter.

*

They sat for a long time, silently chomping on burgers and fries and slurping milkshakes. He had no idea what to say to her, and he’d never seen her be so quiet for so long. Finally they were finished; he paid the check and they walked back across the pool area to the hotel part of the building. Voices drifted from over near the hot tub that sounded like Dickie Jaspers and Willie Jones, along with a woman laughing softly and the sound of water splashing, but Oats couldn’t really see them in the darkness. Something about that sound made him feel awkward and stupid and homesick. He was too lame to make conversation with the most talkative girl in the universe. He was hopeless. So what if those guys had been really trying hard to embarrass him? Oats felt he should have been able to ignore their attempts, even brush them off with a witty comeback. But instead he’d sat there like a stupid kid and let them ruin the night. And he was too dumbfounded by Melody’s ignorance to make a joke out of that, or—better yet—to find a clever way to clue her in.

They walked up to the side door of the hotel, and both fumbled for their card keys. Then there was a blast of cold air-conditioning as they stepped into the hallway and an army of gnats bunched around the outside light, too dumb to figure out whatever gnats are supposed to figure out at night in the summer. Melody finally broke the silence.

“Can I ask you something?” she said.

“Sure,” Oats answered, still trying to figure out a nice, polite way to explain the whole pussy thing, which seemed like the least he could do.

“Have you ever accepted Jesus Christ as your Lord and Savior?”

“Um…”

“Because in my family we have a close relationship with Jesus on kind of an ongoing basis,” she continued. “And I’m not supposed to hang out with anyone who doesn’t.”

“Well,” Oats stammered, stalling for a little time, “I was very close to the minister of a church back home. He was the guy who first taught me how to play. But we spent a lot more time talking about Little Walter than Baby Jesus.”

“So you’ve never been saved?”

Compared to this conversation, the whole “pussy” issue suddenly seemed like a walk in the park. Honestly, Oats wasn’t sure what he believed. His grandmother was Jewish but his grandfather was raised Baptist. His dad’s parents described themselves as “Recovering Catholics” and they had become, respectively, a stripper and a nightclub owner. They were not what you would call religious but in a funny way they were the most honest and good-hearted people you’d ever meet, so what if they didn’t always wear clothes in public? His great-aunt loved hanging out with a guru up in the hills who based his spirituality on a combination of Buddhism and Beatles lyrics. His best friend went to powwows with his Pomo family, and occasionally communed with his ancestors in a sweat lodge. Oats had been taught, ever since he could remember, that religion was a personal choice and there were lots of options, all more alike than different in terms of their lessons about how to be and how to treat others, and that whatever path a person chose, music was a fine way to get you there. He had avoided the Jesus issue.

“I love gospel music,” he said, “especially the African-American call-and-response stuff.”

Melody sighed, looking at him like a project she was just starting to work on. “You know who Jesus is, right?” she said. “His dad is God. He loves you and wants to be your Lord and Savior and friend. And so do I.” She smiled one of her big adorable Melody smiles. “I mean the friend part, of course.”

“Well, thanks,” Oats said. All he could think about was how good it felt when Melody smiled at him, even if she turned out to be a religious nut.

“I have this really cool book I want to give you, but it’s in my room and I’m already out past curfew. Will you be around tomorrow?”

“We’re leaving in the morning and our bag pull is pretty early…”

“Rise and shine! I get up early.” She grinned her cute wide grin. “Meet ya in the lobby at six-thirty. They have jelly donuts and orange juice.” Then she turned and ran up the hall, her uniform’s heavy fringe banging against the back of her thighs as the bells on her boots jingled softly. Oats reached in his pocket for his cell phone, and for the first time since being on tour he was the one to call his mom, instead of the other way around. He needed someone to tell him he wasn’t crazy.

Gainfully Employed

9

Arizona Rosenblatt’s days slipped into an odd, uncomfortable routine. She’d wake up on top of the bedspread in her room at the motel, shower and dress, and get in her car with every intention of hitting the road. Instead, though, she’d drive across the parking lot to Murphy’s Corned Beef ’n’ Cabbage Emporium and wander inside for some little item, which turned into a 2,000-calorie breakfast and people-watching fest. After breakfast, she’d spend some time organizing her purse in the third stall from the left in the ladies’ room, then wander back to her car where Gertrude directed her across the parking lot to the motel. Every now and then she’d receive a frantic call from her office, and somehow find the mental resources to deal with whatever question or problem was presented to her, though whenever she tried to address the looming issues in her personal life, her mind seemed to go blank. Then she’d lie on her bed, holding Madison in her arms and staring at the ceiling for hours at a time. Occasionally she tried to watch TV, but the energetic shouting and predictable drama made her head hurt. It took all the physical energy she had to go to the bathroom or take a shower. By day three she had stopped checking for messages from Jerry.

Toward the end of her first week, the usual large green-uniformed waitress handed her the usual huge laminated menu, then plunked herself down in the opposite seat of Arizona’s usual corner booth.

“Can I ask you something?” the large woman asked. The name tag on her uniform identified her as “Millie.”

“Sure,” said Arizona. “Whatever you want.”

“Well then, why are you still here?”

“What do you mean?”

“Most people come in because they’re on their way someplace else. They need a bathroom or a meal, or both—or they stop for gas and to stretch their legs. Some folks even come in for dinner and stay overnight over at the motel; then pop in again for breakfast. But you’ve been here all week. I’ve worked at Murphy’s a long time and it’s unusual for a visitor to come back all these days in a row.”

Arizona didn’t know what to say, because she couldn’t explain it herself—the daze she was in, her inability to leave the bizarre comfort zone of a motel room, a bathroom stall, and a daily heaping platter of corned beef hash. Ever since she could remember she’d been on the go. Now she couldn’t move, and she was stuck in the middle of nowhere. It didn’t make any sense to her, either.

“I guess…I guess you’d say I’m in a transition, Millie.”

The waitress looked startled for a moment, then glanced down at her name tag and chuckled quietly.

“My name is actually Helen,” she explained. “My name tag says ‘Millie’ because the manager was once married to a woman named Millie. She left him for a race car driver years ago, but he never got over it. We all have to wear name tags that say ‘Millie’ so he can feel better about bossing us around.”

“You’re kidding! We’d never get away with that at my job.” Arizona smiled. “They are really big on credentials there.”

“Where is it you work?” Helen asked. “Sounds like a well-run organization.”

“I’ll say! I work at…” Something stopped Arizona from telling Helen where she really worked. She felt like a fugitive. “I work at, um, a department store—Bloomingdale’s. In ladies’ lingerie.”

“No kidding! Well, at least you must have some nice underwear in that bag of yours. It seems like whatever happened to drive you away from home, you’ve got more going for you than it takes to be hanging around a place like this. Are you OK? Do you want to talk about it?”

“It’s a little hard to explain…”

“Well, hon,” Millie/Helen said, “I know life can be tough. Lord knows I’ve seen some hard times, too.” She gave Arizona a look that suggested she knew more than she was saying. “If you change your mind and want a shoulder to cry on, you know where to find me. I’ll bring the coffee and the eggs over easy.”

“I appreciate that,” Arizona said softly. “At least that’s one thing I can count on.” The waitress looked at her kindly. Helen hesitated, then said,

“Do you have a place to sleep, dear? I get off my shift at three, and you’re usually still here, either wandering around the gift shop or in the ladies’ room.”

“The ladies’ room?” Arizona said, surprised and embarrassed.

“Those are some pretty unusual boots you’re wearing,” Helen chuckled. “It’s hard to miss the red eelskin.”

“I guess it would be. Well, thanks for being worried about me, but I’m really OK. I’m just…”
What am I doing?
Arizona wondered. “I’m just figuring some stuff out, I guess. And I have a room over across the parking lot, so don’t worry about that.”

“All right then, that’s a relief to me. Would you like a refill on that coffee?”

“Yes, thanks, Helen. And my name is Arizona; Arizona Rosenblatt.”

“Pleased to meet you, Arizona.” Helen shook her hand. “I imagine I’ll see you later—or those boots anyway.”

Arizona was struck with a deep sense of her own pathetic life, hearing that.

“Every now and then we get some lonely sort who gets stuck out here for some reason or other,” Helen continued. “It seems after they’re here a few days they’re always itching to hit the highway. I can’t quite put my finger on why, but you’re a different story.”

“I think every day that I’m going to move on, but somehow it doesn’t ever happen. I don’t understand why,” Arizona confessed.

“Well, honey, maybe there’s some reason you need to be here. I tell you what, though. Our counter girl just announced yesterday that she’s leaving—running off to Vegas to get married. There’s a job open if you can work a cash register. It doesn’t pay much, but if you’re interested I’ll introduce you to the manager.”

“Cashier,” Arizona said dreamily, as if this was the offer of a lifetime. “You know what? I might like that,” Arizona said. “What’s the girl’s name who’s leaving? Will I have to wear a name tag that says ‘Millie’?”

“Would that be a deal-breaker? If so, I imagine you’ll be able to negotiate for your own,” Helen smiled. “You’ll have to fill out an application, of course, and go through a quote-unquote interview, but just between you and me I know he’s in a jam. I bet he’ll hire you on the spot.”

Arizona stood up and brushed a few crumbs off her blouse. Things were looking up.

“Lead the way,” she said. “If I can’t figure out a way to get out of the parking lot, I might as well make myself useful. Oh, and Helen?”

“Yes, honey…”

“What do people do for fun around here?”

“They leave,” Helen sighed.

*

“OK, hon, first you log on and then you sign in with your password…now push that button to open the drawer. No! Don’t pull the key out, if you do we have to call a locksmith to get it back in; it’s a little warped. Here you go…that’s the way we open the change drawer, by clicking the mouse like so. Heavens, you’ve never used one of these before, have you?” Helen was trying to teach Arizona how to handle “Johnny Cashregister,” one of four machines connected to Murphy’s corporate online server and designed to ring up sales, track inventory, and probably launch a space shuttle.

Getting the hang of the cash register turned out to be way harder than it looked. It was an enormous, computerized machine with special buttons and key codes for different item categories, and the ability to compute the amount of change due the customer. Arizona kept confusing the keys, having to void sales and start over again. A woman walked over with a souvenir key chain and a tiny ceramic leprechaun figurine.

“Why don’t you ring this one up?” Helen suggested. “I’ll be right here if you need help.”

“Do you take Discover?” asked the woman.

“Yes, of course,” Arizona replied. She ran an electronic scanner over the bar code on the ceramic doll, and a number appeared on the display screen. Then she scanned in the keychain and clicked “total.” Johnny Cashregister made a whirring noise, and came up with an amount that included sales tax.

“Your total is twelve eighty-seven, with tax,” Arizona said cheerfully.

“But this item was on sale,” the woman complained. “The sign over there says thirty percent off at cash register.”

“OK, here—let me try this again.” Arizona somehow found the key that voided a sale, and clicked. Helen pointed discreetly to the “discount” menu, which dropped down to offer a choice of percentages off, and Arizona clicked “30.” After more whirring, the register came up with a new total.