Road Trip

We’re on the road to Las Vegas in Georgie’s convertible, top down, and I’m in the back seat with my gray brown hair spiking out around my face like something in an illuminated medieval manuscript. You know, where the women have this dull gold circle around their heads. Instead of a medieval gown, though, I’m wearing khaki capris and a white polo shirt.

The desert is the color of my pants and goes on forever, with only the faded gray of the road to break the monotony. Georgie has a heavy foot on the gas pedal and everything’s a khaki blur as we streak down the highway.

“Get your motor running. Get out on the highway,” Georgie and Louie sing out. Louie looks back at me and says something I can’t hear. I smile at her and give a thumbs-up so she thinks I’m okay. They’re having a grand time, and they’re determined I will have fun, too, on this first girlfriend trip since my husband, James, died. They’re pretending it’s a trip to celebrate our upcoming sixtieth birthdays, but I know better. Really, it’s about pulling me out of the funk I’ve been in for the past eight months.

We stop for lunch at the Lucky Miner Diner and Trucker’s Haven. The little desert town doesn’t look like any miner here has ever been lucky. Nor does the diner, with its ripped green plastic booths patched with duct tape and tables flecked with garish gold sparkles. I scrape at the gold flecks with my thumb, trying to dislodge them, but there’s no way they’re coming loose. I keep on scraping anyway.

Georgie says the best food is at truck stops, but not if the Lucky Miner is any indication. I poke my fork at the brown lettuce in my chef’s salad – admittedly not the best choice at a desert diner - but end up eating three packs of Saltines from a gold painted basket on the table, even though they are stale. I do succeed in peeling off some of the gold paint from the basket, which gives me a strange sense of accomplishment. Georgie and Louie have cheeseburgers, French fries and chocolate malts, smacking their lips while they eat. I ogle the hot fudge sundae the kid at the counter is eating and wish I’d ordered that for lunch. James would have frowned at that idea, but look where all those leafy greens and acai juice got him.

In Vegas we check into our hotel, shower, change clothes and head for the bar.

“What’s scrumptious?” Georgie asks the bartender. “We need something special for our friend here,” she says, pointing to me.

I’m wearing the flowery sundress Louie made me buy for the trip, and Georgie has insisted on making me up with glittery eye shadow. Just for fun, she says. I feel like a stranger.

The bartender gives me a good hard look and says, “I have just the thing. A chocolate martini.”

I start to protest that I never drink hard liquor, but Georgie says, “Perfect! We’ll take three of those!”

What the hell, I think, I’m on vacation.

The chocolate martinis are indeed scrumptious, and after two of them, I start to loosen up. I pick up my glass and drain out the last of my martini, letting my tongue swish back and forth along the inside of the glass.

“Christ, Emma,” Georgie says. “We’ll just get you another one if you’re that desperate for more.” She’s about to order another round, when Louie pipes up.

“I’m hungry,” she says, “and if I don’t eat something soon, it won’t be pretty.” She swipes at an errant curl that has been flopping in her eyes for the past half hour. It rests along her forehead right above her nose. I watch it bounce there and think about the nursery rhyme.

“There was a little girl who had a little curl,” I say, slurring the words a little.

“Right in the middle of her forehead,” says Georgie, taking up where I left off.

“She was horrid. Are you horrid, Louie?” she giggles.

“She could be very very good,” I say.

“No, that would be you, Emma,” Georgie says. “You’re the good one.”

“I will be horrid, if I don’t get some food,” Louie says, grabbing hold of the curl and tugging it back off her face, securing it with a purple comb trailing silk lilies of the valley. Louie always has some ornament dripping from her hair.

“Okay, okay,” Georgie says and signals the bartender to bring our tab.

His name is Brandon. Georgie found this out early on and has been flirting with him ever since. Brandon is about thirty and has deep olive skin and wavy black hair that swirls around his ears. He’s wearing a bright white shirt that’s open two or three buttons to show off his smooth muscular chest. As he leans over the bar talking to Georgie, my eyes lock onto that chest, and I feel a flutter in mine. I shouldn’t have had so many martinis, I’m thinking, as I trace an imaginary line up Brandon’s neck to his strong square chin.

I’ve never known any man but James. We started dating when I was fourteen and got married when I turned nineteen. Until now I never even looked at another man. I feel like I’m cheating on James, but I tell myself that’s stupid. Brandon could be my son, and besides James is dead. I’m not married anymore. That thought makes me swallow hard, and I suddenly feel very much alone in this bar teeming with people.

I watch Brandon’s mouth forming words. His teeth are white, white, white, and his tongue runs over them once or twice. I look up to his eyes, deep brown with flecks of gold dancing there when he smiles. He’s looking at Georgie – she’s always got men looking at her – and whatever she’s saying is making him laugh. I know I’m staring at him, but I can’t move, my head resting on my hand, elbow propped on the bar next to my martini glass.

Brandon is beautiful, exotic. No one like that would ever look at me, talk to me the way he talks to Georgie. We’re the same age, but she seems young and I look older than I am. I feel like a dirty old woman ogling the beautiful young man.

He’s laughing until he looks my way. The minute his eyes meet mine the laugh fades. For a moment he looks sad, then he averts his eyes, swiping at the counter with the cloth he’s holding. My own eyes shift down to my empty martini glass. I am mortified.

I realize I’m crying. I can’t help it. Yes, I miss James, but it’s more than that. Suddenly I feel like I’ve missed so much in my life, like I never even had a life of my own. I always took care of everyone else, making sure they got what they needed and wanted. What about what I needed? What about what I wanted? In the fog of chocolate martinis I can’t even think of what it was I did want. What do I want now? I feel Louie’s arm around my shoulder.

“It’s okay, honey,” she says softly. “It’s late, and we all need something to eat. Let’s go.”

“Is it too late?” I say, making no sense at all.

“No, sweetie,” Louie says. “It’s never too late.”

I let her help me off the barstool. Holding on to each other, the three of us make our way out of the bar and through the clang of the casino toward the all night cafe beyond the poker machines and the blackjack tables. There’s so much noise, colors swirling like a kaleidoscope before my eyes, people having fun all around me.

My head is spinning but I’m clear about one thing. I’m tired of being sad, tired of holding back. And I’m sick and tired of doing what I’m supposed to do. It’s time to start living.

“I’m having a hot fudge sundae for dinner,” I say, expecting Georgie and Louie to put up a fuss about that. But I’ve forgotten who I’m with. These are my girlfriends, my childhood buddies who have been egging me on all my life to be a little crazy.

The girls are all smiles.

“Perfect!” Georgie says.

“Awesome!” Louie says.

Arms linked, we stroll into the café like three teenagers.

The Lady Business

The following is a scene from the coming-of-age novel I'm writing about 12-year-old Anne Charlotte Knight, better known to all as Charlie. Having just graduated from sixth grade, Charlie is anticipating an exciting summer before entering junior high in the fall with her best friend, Gail. The two girls have known each other since kindergarten and are so close they can almost complete each other's thoughts. Both girls are entering adolescence and experiencing the confusing and confounding physical and emotional changes that puberty brings. At the same time, both will experience some drastic events in their families that add to their confusion, creating turmoil that both must come to terms with. In the process, each often reacts to certain events in their lives with uncharacteristic and often negative responses.

At the dime store, Gail and I trolled the aisles. Everything was displayed in open bins and baskets so we could pick up an item and inspect it. In the jewelry aisle, we tried on pearl or rhinestone necklaces, clunky jeweled bracelets, gaudy brooches, and clip-on earrings, pretending to be our mothers as we preened in the mirror.

I picked up a pale pink strand of pop beads, connected it to another string of blue beads, and wound it around my waist like a belt. Not to be outdone, Gail connected several colorful strings together to make a jump rope and started jumping. I wanted to take a turn, but just then the manager popped up across the aisle and frowned at us. We quickly disconnected the strings and put them back in the bins, ducking our heads and trying not to giggle.

We scooted around the corner out of his sight and ran into the tropical fish section. Aquariums of various sizes filled with water, sand, and colorful fish lined the back wall as the fish moved through the water in a sinuous ballet.

Mesmerized by the dazzling colors, Gail and I pressed our noses to the tanks, side-stepping down the wall from aquarium to aquarium.

“I know what I’m getting. I’m getting some goldfish,” I announced. I picked out three goldfish and the clerk put them in a plastic bag filled with water and Gail and I started home.

We had a long walk home and I was worried the fish might die before I got them home and into a bowl of water. The sun was so hot I could feel the heat radiating up from the pavement through the bottom of my sneakers.

“Come on, let’s run,” I said. “It’s getting hot and the fish might die if the sun heats up the water in the bag.” I started to jog down the street, but Gail grabbed my arm.

“Wait a minute,” she said. “I have something to show you.” She stuck her hand down in her pocket, pulled out a gold bracelet, and dangled it in front of me.

I took the bracelet and looked at it. It was a gold link bracelet with red stones embedded in every other link. It was just like the ones we had tried on at the jewelry counter.

“How did you get this?” I asked. “You didn’t buy anything at the store.”

“Just magic,” she said and started running.

I got a funny fluttery feeling in my stomach, like right before the state achievement exams, when the teacher says,“Raise your pencils; you have 15 minutes on this section of the test” and you watch the teacher watching the clock, waiting for her to say “Begin” and wondering if you are suddenly going to forget how to read English or how to do long division.

I ran and caught up with Gail. “Stop right now,” I yelled at her and grabbed her elbow. Gail stopped running, but jogged in place, facing ahead. She was not looking at me, so I pulled her around and got nose to nose with her.

“When did you buy this?” I demanded.

“Hey, you keep it. I’ll give it to you. It’s for you, a gift from me.”

She tried to turn away from me again and I shook her arm. “Gail,” I said, “tell me how you got this.”

She mashed her lips together and cut her eyes at me. “I didn’t buy it,” she said.“I took it.”

And then she started laughing. “It’s just a dumb, cheap bracelet. Nobody cares, nobody will even know it’s gone. It doesn’t matter.”

“What are you saying?” I asked. “What do you mean you took it—you mean you shoplifted it?”

“Hey,”she said. “I did it for you. I’m giving it to you. It’s your bracelet now.”

"It's not my bracelet and I don't want it. You have to take it back right now. Come on. I'll go with you. You can tell them you forgot you had it. Just say it was a mistake."     

“Oh, no, I won’t,” she laughed. “It belongs to you now, not to me, so you take it back if you don’t want it.” She took off running and she didn’t look back.

I stood there holding my bag of fish and that cheesy bracelet, its red stones winking in the sun like tiny stoplights.

“Gail,” I screeched. “Come back here right now." But she was around the corner and out of sight.

I was so mad I almost started to cry. I squinched my eyes shut to stop the tears. I didn’t know what to do. I had to get my goldfish home out of that hot sun and into some fresh water or they were going to die. I didn’t think I had time to go back and return the bracelet. Besides, now the store might think I had stolen it. Maybe they wouldn’t believe me if I said Gail just forgot she had it. They'd wonder who Gail was and why she wasn't the one returning it.

I put the bracelet in my pocket and took off running for home. I had to take care of my fish first. I’d take care of the bracelet later. At least that was my intention. I had no idea at that moment just how much trouble that stupid bracelet was going to cause me.

Another Shameless Plug

I didn't post last Monday, so I'm sneaking in this link to the Traveling Litely blog today:

http://travelinglitely.wordpress.com/2011/10/30/washington/

or:

http://travelinglitely.wordpress.com/2011/10/28/deschutes-river/

Pretty pictures, fast read -- what's not to like :)

The Cassie Chronicles

For newcomers to Tasty Sauce, The Cassie Chronicles are fictional stories narrated by new home sales representative, Cassie Petersen. Here's the latest glimpse into Cassie's world.

The Way It Started

The Bella Vista models first opened on a hot Saturday morning in August of 2005. Opening a model complex is like a Broadway show. Once the date is set, there’s no stopping it. The scenery must be in place, the actors in costume and ready to emote. The show must go on as advertised.

The night before we opened, landscapers, designers and construction crews buzzed furiously under floodlights, planting flowers along the walkways, accessorizing rooms, painting, and hammering. In the sales office, Sarah, Judy and I prepared lot files, arranged displays and stuffed brochures with price sheets that hadn’t arrived until 8:30 that night. We were on temporary power, and at nine the generator blew, plunging us into darkness. The ones who were able to work by flashlights and candles kept on working. By ten the electrician fixed the generator and we were all in business again. We worked until midnight, when the project manager said, “That’s it, folks. Bring on the buyers.” We cheered with what little energy we had left, and as the floodlights clicked off, we made our way to our cars and headed home to get a few hours of sleep before we had to be back the next morning.

 

 

None of the frenzy leading up to the model grand opening was new to me. It’s always a whirlwind of last minute activity no matter how well you’ve planned. But even though the previous few years had seen a growing demand for new homes, I was unprepared for the frenzy of buyers who descended upon us Saturday morning.

Our PR releases touted ocean views and breezes, but on that opening weekend all you could see or feel was the crush of people wanting to get in on the ground floor and make a bundle of money in real estate. Over a thousand people coursed through the models that weekend. When we closed on Sunday night, Sarah, Judy and I fell into a heap on the sales office floor, exhausted, but thrilled. It looked like we had a success on our hands. Looks can be deceiving.

 

 

By the time Bella Vista opened, everyone – and I mean everyone - was jumping on the bandwagon, desperate to play the real estate game. The ultimate goal was to buy in Phase 1. As each subsequent phase was released, the prices would go up. Phase 1 buyers would be sitting pretty, making tens of thousands of dollars in appreciation before their houses were even built.

The key was getting on the priority list, and not only getting on the list but being on top, having first choice. When you had first choice, you could buy the best lot at the best price. Competition was fierce.

In the old days priority was on a first come first served basis, and people camped out before a phase release. As the market heated up and people’s emotions hit a fever pitch, campouts became unwieldy, confrontational and dangerous. More than once I found myself in between two angry buyers trying to break up a fight over who was ahead in line. I’m a sales professional, not a referee, so I was relieved when we finally went digital to let the computer sort it all out.

Here’s how it worked. The Monday following a grand opening weekend the website would go live and people could submit an online pre-qualification form. The ones who were quick on the computer ended up at the top of the list. People hired computer nerds to get them onto the website first. People devised systems to fill in the forms at warp speed. People cheated, lied, cried and connived to get higher on the list.

So, at noon on Monday we braced for the onslaught of calls and sob stories as the site went live. Immediately the phone began to ring as people jockeyed for position on the list. People called to confirm that their forms had been received. Panicked seniors couldn’t access the site and begged us to accept a paper application instead. People called to find out what number they were on the list, then yelled at us and threatened lawsuits when we couldn’t tell them yet.

At 2:05 the site crashed - overloaded, with over 300 names already on the list for an initial release of ten homes. That’s when I should have known the worm was starting to turn. Like our website, the whole system was overloaded and something had to give. But no one recognized it. We were all – buyers, builders, lenders - caught up in the excitement of a boom market that was putting money in everyone’s pockets. We just didn’t notice there were big holes in the pockets.