I started living in malls the day after Great Aunt's friends accused me of beating her. It was God's will. You see, I'd read somewhere that writing with your non-dominant hand was a great way to tap into divine wisdom. So I kept asking God how to deal with my situation, and the burning bush that was my left hand answered back: Try to be gone from 8 a.m. to 8 p.m. every day, even if all you do is sit in the mall and read.
On day two of my mall exile, I came home to an answering-machine message from Mrs. Battleaxe, who had apparently declared herself my supervisor. When I called her back, she pulled out a list and began ticking off chores.
"First of all, there's that food situation. Well, I just want to know: DO YOU KNOW HOW TO COOK?" It was deplorable for Great Aunt to be eating the TV dinners she'd been eating for decades. Now, according to Mrs. Battleaxe, "They should be for emergencies only. And about Great Aunt's skin. It looks terrible. I have never seen her skin look like that."
"Mrs. Battleaxe, I am doing the best I can."
"Well, I know you are. No one is BLAMING you. It's just that no one has told you these things before. No one has TOLD you to cook before, have they?"
I took 60 percent of the sarcasm out of my voice, then added 15 percent saccharine and 2 percent rat poison. "As much as I appreciate your instructions, Mrs. Battleaxe, I am really not absorbing them very well right now. I have had a very exhausting day. Thank you very much for calling."
God had instructed me to go to the mall. Those were the only instructions I was following.
About a week into my mall exile, Neighborhood Watch called me to apologize. He was sincerely sorry he'd accused me of hitting my aunt. And something else was on his mind. He was in love with me.
"I been wantin' to make love to you so bad, 'specially when you was wearin' all those short dresses ... Ain't no chance, huh?"
Great. He had a key to the house. And I had no lock on my bedroom door.
What I did have was a big audition. The musical Rent, which had taken Broadway by storm the previous year, was about to have its Los Angeles premiere. I was up for the role of Joanne, and I was totally freaked out. I was scrambling to find the songs, then trying to learn the songs. With a cold. In my car. While driving to and from various malls.
The nerve-wracking Rent audition happened about two weeks into my great mall escape. I gave it everything I had, but knew immediately I would not be making Los Angeles theater history.
Fortunately, I had lined up what I thought would be a well-paying day job with a completely flexible schedule. I would be a tarot-card reader on the psychic hotline made infamous by a fake Jamaican urging the desperate and foolish to "Call now for ya' free psychic readin'!"
Of course, it was impossible to work, because my aunt would wander aimlessly into my room asking if I'd seen her scissors or her checkbook while I tried not to scream. I could only work late at night, after she passed out, or very early in the morning, before I escaped to the mall. Any mall.
Three weeks into my mall-hopping adventure, I was starting to feel like a vagabond. Not surprisingly, I met a vagabond. The unattractive, smelly vagabond who became my instant lover.
2 comments:
Your aunt needs some more of those TV dinners with 75% rat poison added.
Though, she did some good to you by sending you to the malls. ;)
Kisses.
lol...wow...not "I think somebody put roots on me" psychic hotline! too funny...
why didn't Mrs. Battleaxe come and cook the goddamn meals herself...? lol...
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