My Lost and Found Life (15 page)

When I stepped inside the camper, I was surprised at how small it was. Standing there, I longed to walk out and say, “Forget it. Bad idea.” I had to remind myself that I didn't have a backup plan.

At least it was clean. Someone had given it a good scrubbing. To put it mildly, the accommodations were austere. Squeezed nearest the door was a padded bench with a hinged table that could be raised or lowered—my new combination living room/dining area. Overhead were some cupboards for storage. More cupboards were mounted atop the sink, refrigerator, and stove area. I put clothes in all these places since I would be depending on fast-food joints.

At the back of the camper was my new bedchamber: a platform with a mattress on it. The door in the corner opened to a bathroom so small that turning around while inside was next
to impossible. But I wouldn't have to worry about that. Without any water or electricity, that teeny bathroom's only purpose was to provide a mirror. I would have to sneak into the station's ladies room and shower at the gym. There was one pathetically small closet. Sleeping and changing was all I would or could do at the camper.

I decided I would sleep in sweats. September and October are usually the warmest months around here, but the temperature always drops at night when the fog rolls in. Dressed in sweats I would be ready for whatever might happen. What if someone walked over and tried to look in the windows? Thankfully, the exterior door locked from the inside. Still, I couldn't let myself forget for one minute that I was sleeping in a flimsy little camper behind a gas station.

Before long, I would discover that it wasn't possible to forget. There's nothing exactly homey about sleeping in an un-heated camper behind a stinky gas station. Even late at night I could hear horns honking, tires screeching, and the occasional whine of a fire truck or ambulance siren. I also heard the whistle of the train and sometimes even the jets of the planes preparing for takeoff at the nearby San Francisco Airport. Quite a chorus, all put together. The uninviting atmosphere was not enhanced by the ever-present aroma of gasoline drifting in the air and oozing into the camper. Only a heavy rain washed the smell away and then only temporarily.

That first night, as I sat in that dismal little tin can, the awfulness of the situation finally pierced the cushion of denial I had created around me. This was my new home. My mother was a thief who had vanished without a word, and I might
never see her again. I was living on my own like the kind of person I had pitied in the past. My life as a person who was admired and envied was finished.

My chest felt as if a large rock were lodged somewhere below my rib cage, and I had to swallow hard to vanquish the nausea welling up in the back of my throat. Welcome to hell, Ashley, I told myself bitterly. Get used to it. I felt drained and resigned to my imprisonment in this metallic cage. I had only one plan for escape: to create a new life and a new Ashley.

By sleeping in the camper rent-free, I would save enough money to eventually move into a real apartment. I would need at least $3,000 for first and last month's rent plus a security deposit; I already had a good start with the $2,000 left from the garage sale. Accumulating the other thousand might take a couple of months, but I was sure I could endure two months of discomfort to get myself on track.

Meanwhile, I planned to stay away from everyone I knew in Burlingame. When everything was going well—when I had a life, a cute apartment, and was enrolled in college—I'd reemerge as the new, independent Ashley. I'd be on my own while Mara, Scott, and the rest still lived off handouts from their parents.

Looking back I shudder at my optimism. Nothing, not one single thing, went as planned. Luckily, I had no inkling of the disasters that lurked just around the corner.

I was fifteen minutes late for the first day of my first job. It had taken ages to find a parking spot near the cafe. Dashing through the coffeehouse door, my hair flying in all directions, I stumbled on the uneven wooden floor in my high-heeled sandals.

“Dammit,” I yelped, just managing to avoid the indignity of falling flat on my butt.

As I regained my balance, I saw what was to become a familiar scene: Louis, the thin Asian guy, was manning the espresso machine with a bored look. Standing next to him, Santa Claus was leaning across the counter in conversation with a customer. That's right, Santa, or maybe his clone. Anyway, this fat man had a big belly, a white beard, flyaway white hair pulled back in a ponytail, and a smiling red face. Instinct told me I was gazing at Mad Malcolm.

“She shoved her tongue so far into my ear, I thought she would break my eardrum,” said the customer, and Santa laughed uproariously.

That provocative conversation stopped abruptly as I came to a halt in front of them.

“Hi!” I squeaked. “Sorry to be a little late. I had trouble finding a place to park.”

“You must be our new serving wench,” Santa said. “Welcome to the Madhouse, Cinderella. I'm Malcolm.”

“Uh,” I mumbled.
Serving wench? Cinderella? Is that supposed to be funny?
“I'm Ashley.”

“Of course you're Ashley. I see you took my advice about not wearing a short skirt. Still, you look fetching enough in those tight jeans. A little eye candy never hurts business. Yes, indeedy, you should make an interesting addition to our merry little band.”

“Did you say ‘the Madhouse'?” I asked.

“That's a name that one of the customers gave this establishment a few years back, and it stuck. It seems to fit, since most of the customers are as deranged as I am.”

“No one's madder than Mad Malcolm,” contradicted the customer, a tall, husky man of about thirty-five. “Hi, I'm Tom. It's a pleasure to meet you. Your taste in employees is improving, Mal. She looks much more agreeable than Nancy. She tended to be a bit argumentative at times.”

“She could be,” Mal agreed. “You don't have any strong opinions on doctors or modern medicine, I hope. Your predecessor hated doctors and insisted that they were all in collusion to keep us sick. How about vitamins?”

“Vitamins?” I said. “They're good, I guess. I take a multiple vitamin every day, when I remember.”

“One vitamin! My, you will be a change for us all. Nancy took at least thirty a day.”

Tom interjected, “She used to tell me this scone was pure poison, all white flour and sugar and chemicals.” He took a big, defiant bite out of the scone.

“Atta boy,” I said faintly. “Go for the gusto.”

Tom grinned at me. He had red hair and a friendly face with so many freckles sprinkled across it that his face had an orange cast.

Malcolm chuckled. “Tom thrives on gusto. Or do I mean bravado? Tom here is the heroic type, a fearless firefighter. We're depending on him to save us all in case of a fire.”

“Don't count on me carrying you down a ladder.” Tom gave Malcolm a mocking look. “Not unless you lose a few pounds. Now Ashley here, I would carry her with pleasure.”

“That's always the way it is with you heteros. Damning a Rubenesque queen to the flames so you can save a slender young maiden.”

“Naturally,” Tom said. “Why would I save your sorry behind when I can rescue a lovely lady? Besides, I've got my back to think about. Women and children first, that's my motto.”

“Heterosexist pig,” Malcolm retorted.

I was beginning to catch on. If I was interpreting this banter correctly, Malcolm was gay and liked to tease people, and this place was a madhouse because everyone in it was nutty as a fruitcake.

“The coffeehouse is on the ground floor, so the problem isn't likely to come up,” I pointed out.

“Not strictly true. I live in the flat upstairs,” responded Malcolm. “Well, it's time to orientate you, dear girl. Tom, go wash your fire truck or make some chili or whatever it is that you do at the firehouse with all those handsome hunks. We have work to do.”

“Yeah, duty calls. Tell you the rest later, Mal.” Tom headed for the door. “Welcome aboard, Ashley.”

Malcolm looked around as if deciding what to do first. “All right then. Now you've met Louis, haven't you? Mister Louis Ling, barista extraordinaire, is hiding behind the steamer. You'll be working with him most mornings.”

Louis nodded to me without smiling.

“The kitchen and bathroom are back there.” Malcolm gestured behind him as he came out from behind the counter. I was astonished to see he was wearing Bermuda shorts, not a great look for a man of his age and girth. “Let's sit down over here and get the paperwork out of the way. I'll explain things and then Louis can get started with the coffee tutorial.”

In between explaining the job requirements and my schedule, Malcolm exchanged hellos and banal chitchat with a steady stream of customers as they came in the door. He acted as if the coffeehouse were his living room and everyone who came in, his guest. At least his conversations gave me a chance to get a better look at my new workplace.

I counted a dozen wooden tables surrounded by mismatched chairs plus an old upright piano in the corner, its top stacked with cups, napkins, and other supplies. In the midst of all this artful shabbiness was a sagging sofa arranged so that it faced the counter and had its back to the entry.

The counter and floor were made of dark wood and the walls were half-covered with wood paneling. Fortunately, it was a corner building, so the place was saved from being a dim cave by two walls of windows. A pair of huge lighting fixtures hung from the twelve-foot ceilings, and tiny white lights were strung beneath and above the counter.

Three computer stations were lined up along the interior wall. A big hand-printed sign on the wall proclaimed the price to be $3 for fifteen minutes and $5 for thirty minutes, 50 cents a page for printouts. Over in the far corner, a rickety three-shelf bookcase was loaded down with dog-eared paperbacks—mostly discarded thrillers and romance novels, I later discovered, plus nonfiction like
You Are Psychic!
and
The False Fat Diet.
Hanging over this sad literary outpost was a massive bulletin board covered with notices of all types and sizes. If you were looking for a lost parrot, math tutor, deep-tissue massage, oil painting of your pet, or workshop for sexually violated men, this was the spot to check.

In Burlingame, coffeehouses use their walls as a kind of informal art gallery, but not here. Every inch of wall space in the Madhouse displayed a collection of demonic wooden masks, many of them carved and painted in a way that looked as if a snake or iguana was eating someone's face.

Malcolm noticed me staring at the masks.

“Aren't they wonderful?” He gestured toward the savage faces. “I adore Mexican folk art, and these ceremonial masks are imbued with the mystical qualities of the ancient Aztecs. I add one or two to my collection every year when I take my annual sabbatical to San Miguel.”

“I'm not sure what they're imbued with,” I answered, looking up at a particularly grotesque one. “Except that they give new meaning to the expression ‘suck face.' ”

He chuckled. “They grow on you, you'll see.”

Personally, I hoped not.

• • •

My first assignment was to clear tables and wash dishes. Thanks to Malcolm, that song from
Cinderella
where all the mice are singing kept echoing through my brain. Anyway, I managed to finish without breaking
all
the glasses and cups, though I did make plenty of noise.

After that, Malcolm gave me a quick course in ringing up sales on the register, but I felt slow and stupid having to look up each price. I decided to take the menu with me that night and memorize all the prices.

In addition to serving espresso drinks, the coffeehouse had a limited food menu, but nothing complicated. I could handle putting cream cheese on a bagel, heating soup, or warming a slice of quiche in the microwave.

Louis wasn't exactly Mr. Personality, but he was patient when teaching me how to make cappuccinos and lattes. I kept screwing up and managed to burn my hand in the process.

While I fumbled around learning to steam milk properly, Malcolm disappeared for a couple of hours. A steady stream of customers came in and out, a few of them looked normal. Many of them introduced themselves—Isabella, Andre, Roger—until my head was spinning. I wasn't going to remember half their names.

The hours seemed to crawl by, and I was certain I'd never survive the whole day. Maybe it's always that way when you're new and so nervous that you feel like your hands don't work right anymore.

By twelve thirty a steady buzz of conversation could be heard around the room. I was struggling to make a mocha when a tall, wild-eyed man with bushy black hair burst through the door as if a powerful gust of wind had blown him inside. Instead of moving to the counter, he stood in the center of the room and fixed an intense, laserlike stare on each of us one by one, his eyes moving around the room as if he were trying to read our thoughts or souls. He was dressed in a flowing cloak over a dark shirt and pants, and on his head, earphones stuck up like antennas.

“Beam me up, Scotty,” I muttered, and shivered.

Stretching out his arms as if he were going to begin an oration and holding a black book up high, the man asked in a booming voice, “Does this book belong to you?”

The coffeehouse fell silent as customers turned and gaped at him. The book he was holding aloft looked like a Bible, but I wasn't sure. I glanced over at Louis, but he didn't say anything to him.

Raising his voice a notch, the bushy-haired man asked again, “Does this book belong to one of you?”

Still, no one answered, although everyone was openly staring at him.

Asking a third time, he shouted, “Does this book belong to any of you?”

Then he whirled around and vanished out the door, slamming it so hard behind him that the window's glass rattled.