New Math

I plunk my single box of $12.99 hanging folders on the counter and the cashier rings it up.

“$24.94,” she tells me.

I slide my card into the machine and then it hits me.

“Wait,” I say, “How is one $12.99 purchase with 9% sales tax $24.94?”

She glares. Gives an indifferent shrug. Tells me to remove my card. Doesn't tell me it's my fault but I know she's thinking it. I narrow my eyes to read the credit card capture machine and it's clear as day:

Hanging folders $12.99

Tax $1.95

Total $24.94

“New math?” I inquire without even trying not to be sarcastic.

A second, angry glare and a second shrug. She clears the machines and grudgingly re-rings the sale.

“$14.94,” she tells me finally but I notice that she won't meet my eyes.

No explanation. No apology. And most definitely, no “Thanks for shopping Office Depot”.

It doesn't even surprise me anymore.

Lock Down

After months of intermittent sticking and freezing and generally giving me trouble, the lock on the front door finally gives up the ghost and seizes up completely. No matter how much I coax it, the mechanism won't budge and the key won't be removed. I call the locksmith and try to focus on the fact that it's a lovely, warm spring afternoon and that the door being open is doing no harm. It's the rare optimist part of me searching for a silver lining, I suppose, while the far more powerful pessimistic part of me is screeching that it's going to cost me an arm, a leg, and possibly my appendix.

Optimism comes hard to me in these days of despair over political chaos and a country I fear is deteriorating before my eyes. I see a future without clean air or safe water, where the rich will rule exclusively for their own kind, where there will be oil rigs polluting the oceans and national parks, where the marginalized will be the majority and skin color will determine your rights, your safety, and your very existence. The criminals win a little more each and every day and we're turning numb from the commonness of it all. Racism, corruption and ignorance have taken over. It doesn't trickle down anymore, it floods from above and washes over every right and honorable accomplishment. It cannot end well.

The lock, of course, is nobody's fault but my own. It was inevitable that it would fail sometime and I should've had it fixed months ago but I'm forgetful and easily distracted by more faraway disasters waiting to happen. Still, I'll bet if I thought long and hard enough, I could figure out a way to blame it on the current administration.

At least I still have my appendix and a mostly intact sense of personal responsibility.

Midgets & She Beasts

“Where have all the pretty people gone?” Michael moans when he sees the latest submissions.

The morning's registrations are not promising, mostly a parade of midgets, she-beasts and wannabe gangsters, all feeling entitled to be models. They are tattoed and pierced, barely literate, and overflowing with fat they like to call proportion. They have bad teeth, worse skin, and grubby nails.  Farm animals would have better odds at runway careers.  I've seen flatbed trucks with better fashion sense.

Upon discovering that looks, talent, training and work are required, most will fade away. Some will have parents who will laugh at them and then rein them in with a fierce jerk. Others will be smugly confident and offended by our lack of interest. But some will come strutting in with their movie makeup, gel'd hair and boudoir heels. They'll chatter and smirk through Michael's runway demonstration and then walk like uncoordinated hunchbacks. If they can read, they'll stumble through their scripts as if their mouths were full of marshmallows and every multi-syllable word were in Arabic. As they leave, they'll offer limp handshakes, refuse to make eye contact and forget to say thank you. The call backs, what few there are, will be a nightmare.

They'll ask that we send them contracts and then ignore them. We'll leave messages and they won't have the common courtesy to return the calls. Those that do will plead poverty and want a deal. On a good day, Michael will explain the cost is what it is and wish them well. On a bad day, he'll tell them that we are not the Make A Wish Foundation and hang up. If we're lucky,

we might get one or two who are serious, who have potential, and whose families are willing to make the commitment. If we're very lucky, it will be enough.

It's a small slice of what the world is like now, I suppose, but telling. When it comes to following instructions, people don't read and if they read, they don't comprehend, and if they comprehend, they don't care. All I seem to see is lazy, entitled, spoiled kids being raised by lazy, entitled, spoiled parents. They want instant gratification and stardom but aren't willing to do the work. They've perfected the blank look. They want a free ride. And more's the pity, they all end up on our doorstep.

Nevertheless, I spend the morning organizing the audition materials and making sure I have enough of everything for the inevitable handful of too-good-to-follow-the-rules twits that will show up without having confirmed and the equally inevitable late comers who can't be bothered to be on time. When Michael tells them that “taking direction” is critical and wonders aloud if they can't be on time for an audition, what would make him think they'd be on time for a job, they'll squirm a little in their seats.  I'm a fan of comeuppance and petty and small minded as it may be, such moments make me smile.

Despite being specifically told to arrive no more than 10 minutes early, they'll start showing up an hour early.

Despite being specifically told not to bring their entire clan, they'll show up in packs.

Despite being specifically told we won't see anyone under 5'8 for runway, we'll get a dozen 5'1's and they'll all want to argue.  Others won't be able to fit through the double doors.

Despite being specifically warned about chewing gum and cell phones and crying infants, they'll have all three.

The afternoon isn't much better.

Directly underneath an ad that clearly states we're looking for women 5'9 and taller, are no less than 14 applications from women 5'4 and under. 

I have to explain to one starry eyed young mother that no, a picture she has on her cell phone is not the same as a hard copy photo.

A young Texan wants to know if he will have to come to Louisiana or can he phone it in.

Can I bring my 6 month old to the Parents Only session, another wonders.

One tells me he's his lifetime dream has been to be a "faction" model.  Another shares with me his belief that he's been called by God to model.

Lack of pretty people is only the tip of the iceberg.

Old Friends

When we got to the last house on Lovers Lane, we could see Miz Loretta on the porch that overlooked the bay. Her bare feet were propped up on a wooden milk crate and she was settled comfortably in her old rocking chair, scratching the ears of an an enormous old tabby cat who was stretched out in her lap and surrounded by a half dozen sleepy-eyed others. All except the old tabby turned tail and scattered at the sight of us. Miz Loretta just smiled and beckoned us in.

“They don't take much to strangers,” she said soothingly, “But they's good company for an ol' woman in her declinin' years.”

“You ain't no more declinin' than I am, 'Retta,” my grandmother told her gruffly and laughed,

“Age is jist between your ears anyways.”

“Mebbe so, Alice, mebbe so. But I swear, the arthritis in these ol' joints don't know that.”

“Any day above ground....” my grandmother began.

“Is better than a day below,” Miz Loretta finished for her, “Ayuh, I expect that's so.”

I was struck by how much alike these two women were. Both were short and stout, white haired and wrinkled. Both were longtime widows, prone to wanting to have their own way and testy when they didn't get it. Both liked to bicker in a companionable sort of way and both were fans of order and routine. They protected their privacy and their emotions fiercly. Neither liked to be rushed, overruled, or caught off guard. And though I didn't know it then, both would live into their 80's, independent and alone - one felled by a sudden heart attack and one succumbing to the effects of a stroke - but on that day, they were just two gossipy, old women enjoying the lazy summer sunshine and the easy conversation of longtime friendship. We ate chicken salad sandwiches and fresh tomatoes, drank iced coffee, played a rousing game of gin rummy and sensing no danger, one by one, the cats began returning. They came slowly and cautiously, peering 'round the corners of the porch, hoping for a tidbit of chicken salad which Miz Loretta would stealthily slip them when she thought Nana wasn't looking. My grandmother, who rarely failed to notice anything, witnessed each of these small favors but chose diplomacy and said nothing. It could have been her way of avoiding a silly spat but I chose to think it was a benefit of a longstanding friendship.

The sun was well on its way to setting and the sky had turned pastel when we left, leaving Miz Loretta with a porchful of cats and the old tabby still snoozing in her lap.

“Next time I'll have to try salmon,” my grandmother mused as she navigated the old Lincoln down the the dirt drive to the main road, “I 'spect them damn fool cats would prefer it to chicken salad.”

Diplomacy is a two sided street, I decided, and said not a word.

Cat Watch

It was a little before six and still dark when the tree came down. It took two to three seconds and at first I thought it was the trash truck with some serious brake issues. There was no great crash, no shock wave when it landed, just a few seconds of grinding and scraping and the little house across the street suddenly disappeared behind a massive, multi-limbed old pine tree. It slashed through the roof like a knife through butter, demolished the front porch, doors and windows, and avalanched itself across the yard and the width of the street. By the time I'd pulled on my Nikes and thrown on a sweatshirt, other neighbors were already there and Amanda was on the verge of hysteria.

“THERE'S A TREE IN MY HOUSE!” I heard her screaming, “WHAT THE FUCK HAPPENED?”

Our yardman/neighbor from down the street took a firm hold on her shoulders and gave her a thorough but not unkind shaking.

“AMANDA!” he yelled, “BREATHE! YOU'RE OK!”

She came back to herself, looking around the way you do when your world becomes suddenly imcomprehensible and you're sure you're in a grotesque nightmare.

“Oh, my God,” she moaned, “Oh, my God, what happened?”

“Where are the animals?” someone asked quietly and this, far more than the shaking, cleared her mind. Still sobbing, she began an accounting, both dogs were safely in the back yard and all but one cat was found. The yardman sat her down gently and led her through what needed to be done immediately, forcing her to concentrate and focus through the chaos. Within an hour, the city had sent an emergency crew to clear the street, the insurance company had been called, a tree service was on site and the sound of chain saws filled the air. Someone set up a circle of lawn chairs in the driveway next door, someone else arrived with coffee and doughnuts. By noon, a portable dumpster was in place and a bright blue tarp had been pulled securely over the roof. That afternoon, the vet clinic picked up the dogs for boarding and the street was clogged with friends and family coming by with offers of help, catfood and litter and plates of barbeque.

The entire block was on Cat Watch for the one still missing feline and the collective relief was intense when, 4 days later, he strolled casually through the front door, hungry and complaining but completely unharmed.

Happy Easter, one and all.