She turned over the page only to find it blank. Nonplussed she paused momentarily licking her finger and pinching the sheet of paper between her fingers flapping the page back and forth for more pages to no avail.
“That's odd.” she said to herself. “Although entirely typical.” She peered down into the open box of mementos nearby, and more confounding and befuddling nonsense. After a bit of pushing and shoving there were no further papers of a matching paper quality, size or ANYTHING PAPER AT ALL.
'Sheesh,' she thought to herself. Phoebe muttered “Who packed this stuff, anyway?” Each of the boxes scattered around her house in assorted sizes were labeled by number. Although she started in box ONE
It had said 'Open First!' emblazoned graphically along each of it's sides. Logically after that box 2 & 3 seemed to not have any order of succession either in quality, quantity, or even chronological order at all. So it seemed with them all to be totally unrelated material.
Trinkets mixed in with diaries, phone directories, and assorted booklets. Piles of audit sheets and manifests without corresponding contents. Occasionally an odd contract neatly in a folder. She had to wonder if they are completed or works in progress? How to get in touch with the principal contractors might be, in itself, a lifelong challenge. She assumed that given enough time she'd be able to sort it all out Utilizing every square inch of the one story ranch. Saying that the place was becoming quite cluttered would be an understatement.
In her efforts she resorted to using the card tables from storage, their primary purpose up until now was for friends and visitors to use when dining table space ran short. A real lifesaver at Yuletide or Thanksgiving holidays when 'unexpected' visitors came over. It created room where there was none and now a new tiered level to the sorting. Now every surface was covered. There was an ever growing concern that an existential crisis, overload, and call to the therapist would occur in a short while if she could not make all these memorabilia-treasures into some distinct and thoughtful sense.
It was going to have to be done. She held her breath staring at the awful texture of the popcorn ceiling that still carried the remnants of silly string from birthdays ages ago. Reluctantly she opened box 8. More trinkets, statuettes, leather penny loafers that were once hers but now too small for feet that grew up, stuffed animals that smelled faintly of smoke, and strangely a stuffed toy seal pup and a plastic baseball bat. That would be concerning to some, but as she slowly began to remember it she was saving the babies from cruel fur harvesters on the ice. It was a rousing game as she recalled details.
Her mind started to wander off to those warmer memories as she lost track of time. In the end Monty got a severe batting. He was made into the villain for this game. He had taken his role very seriously in true dramatic fashion, donning a a faux fur throw slung across his shoulders and a mismatched wig.
”Take that you nasty poacher!” Came the small screech of an emboldened child with a well placed wiffle ball bat sounding a crisp 'whappity-whap', clocking Monty cleanly to one side, making the wig spin on his head.
“Ow, ow, HEY OW!” He shouted the last out of character checking the crown of his head against what others thought had to be a developing bald spot or a receding hair line. He swore he always had a widows peak and used his thick curly hair to artfully cover two patches on either side of his temples that never grew right.
Finn glanced up from behind a book “Boooo... “ He said in a monotone condescending voice. ”You did it, you know you did it. Now you get your just desserts.” He said turning a page and making an annotation in the margin with a long and elegant pen.
Phoebe shouted “Yea! Desserts!” There was the child like pause of recognition. “Let's get some deserts now!” with child like vigor throwing the bat, stuffed animals and pillows in all directions in joyous abandon.
“No... wait. Yes, get an ice pack for starters” said Monty holding a sore ear. He moaned over-dramatically as he held a box of ice cream next to his face. It was a warm memory that came just as soon as it left.
Each item she removed sparked a similar memory. Like the cataloging of ghosts. Then set to a corresponding spot on the untidy tables. Stuffed animals and toys to a large plastic barrel bin in the corner, jewelry of a kind to a small table for costume things, and an opened jeweler's wardrobe for what seemed like the real stuff. She gently started to remove the coins from the penny loafers.
“I shouldn't let this go to waste.” she whispered wondering why she had put coins there in the first place. She couldn't quite remember putting them in there, yet. someone did. At that age, telling by the shoe size, she had a Pirates Bag for her treasures. Spattered with various patches of pirate-y things like a Jolly Rodger, jugs of mysterious brew emblazoned with the skull and crossbones, and cannons embroidered decoratively along the front, she wondered if that would show up in yet another box. “Things don't just end up like this”, she thought. Money does not come magically from shoes. Behind one of the coins was something stiff in the sewn leather.
“Hmmmm? Odd.” Using her nails and a straight pin she pried out of the stitching the very tiniest of metal keys.“Hey, what do you know! A new pile! Keys to the unknown!” Stressed and speaking now in a condescending tone. She placed it on the top of the jewelers case. Not a charm, but as small as one, a fitting size for some spare space on a bracelet.
She briefly considered a newer pile. Things that went with absolutely nothing. It had the possibility to be the largest pile of all! 'That is not helpful' she thought scolding herself. Digging to the bottom of box 8 yielded not one page of creative writing.
“Rats!” She would have to adapt a better method of sorting this stuff! Phoebe hated changing a system in mid-sort. It felt like it doubled the work no matter how logical or efficient it turned out to be in the end. Always left her with a feeling she had wasted unnecessary steps. She calmed herself with the thought she was in no hurry, using the calming method of counting her self down from ten and taking deep breaths.
Time, in this case, was NOT of the essence. If she did not mind the bother of looking like she lived in a hoarder's home. Phoebe could make it drag out until the end of her life, should she wish it. Nothing was going to kill her here, except not making it to work. Then the threat of heart attack while working could be a real danger. That's how Alberto on seventh street went. She hated to disappoint her usual customers and the tourists who would miss her working a taco cart. There was also the financial end of it. The taco cart meant independence and money and... she looked wide eyed at the clock almost half past nine.
”Oh. My. God.! I've got to get to the store and get my cart prep!” She silently swore about getting overwhelmed and side tracked by boxes. She was supposed to have been at the produce shop almost an hour ago. Racing out of the front door she locked up and ran on to her job. She was hoping she wasn't too far behind to make a good profit for the day.
Still running when she arrived at the wholesale store, Phoebe heard the cheerful greeting of an old school friend, Richard. She herd his voice rising from the crates of lined-up produce. There was a shift from behind the stacked racks full of sacks of mixed onions.
“Hey, Pheebs! Running for your health?” asked the sun weathered Hispanic man. The third son of a third son who had the store passed down to him after he got out of high-school. It looked like he was starting to acquire the familial ponch.
“No, Retch,” she would not stoop to go for the usual play on words his name offered, but a more colorful variant. “I still have a life outside of retail, unlike some drones I know.” She scooped her frizzy mop of hair up into a ponytail using a rubber band removed from a single lonely broccoli stalk.
“Your order is in the back, just as you'd like it. They're waiting for you at the register on the loading dock. You are in for a surprise.” He warned as she slowed her pace to a quick-walk, suitable for an inside stride. He tilted his brow with a laugh. “The rubber band is extra!”
“Right, thanks Wretch!” she said navigating the zigzagging racks and rows to the back of the store.
“No probs, Feeble.” He laughed chewing on the pen cap marking off a clipboard behind the tangelos. If you had replaced it with a Cuban cigar he would have looked just like his dad at the same age.
A few nearby eyebrows were raised over the seeming slurs and insults. It did not matter to either, these were childhood nick-names that hardly anyone else used anymore. To Richard it was a comfortable nod to the glory days which had long past. He had peeked in High School, young, athletic and stout for football teams, wrestling, or other rough sports he naturally excelled at. Adoring classmates would cheer his efforts. Now no one cheered his efforts except himself alone. No one would again, unless it was some woman looking for a courtesy discount. In the recesses of his mind, he knew it. Phoebe had the grace to put up with the jibes still. She knew better days were ahead for her, while his were most likely all in the rear view mirror. One bad knee away from going to the professional leagues, and a share of the family store built into the sun dried bricks made out of bodega clay and Florida sun was the end of the line for him.
Now slowing to a brisk walking pace, she wound her path to the back docks. To her own rented space where her taco cart was in a mini-storage unit at the back fence of the parking/loading area. It was a back row, behind lines of other self-storage sheds. Just a quick check out, load up, and then “El Patho” the Taco Cart and she would be off to the Square. She worked over her mental list, which had become habit at this point. She would compulsively go over and under a hundred times before starting the day's work. No one else was waiting at the counter to check out, and Sally the regular and perfect cashier was leaning back on the counter talking with another drone in the warehouse. “So then she said 'Sue me!' so now I guess he will. Life can sure get complicated!” She snapped her double bubble chewing gum like a rapid fire shot gun. “He shoulda' tossed her off the docks ages ago, but it ain't polite.”
“Yeah, another nut case to clog the courts until some wiser judge throws it out!” was the opinion of the drone. Phoebe somewhere in the back of her mind remembered he was called Ted last time she paid any attention. He had started to bleed somewhere into becoming a fixture of the store and a living personification of a forklift.
“Hi, folks!” Phoebe greeted them with a short wave. “Add it up so I can be heading out. Not much time to waste today, I'm afraid. Life got busy for me this morning”.
Ted snorted, “For you, me, and everyone else. Nothing but complications is what I'm hearing. I'm going to be your escort out today.” he said pushing a button on the recycling compactor as it made the squealing whine of boxes being crushed into massive bails.
“What would I need an escort for now? I don't have any issues. It's impossible to shoplift back here, and I mean where would I carry a crate of ANYTHING even if I wanted it?” She was mentally exasperated. Ted was as she guessed the surprise that Richard was alluding to. Another new store protocol. This would only interrupt the flow of her methodology in cart prep. Slowing her down when all she wanted to do was speed up. Ted, as well meaning as he may be, would only get in the way. Now Sally gave a huge sigh.
“It started with Bonnie, the gal with the flower shop. She ran out of here with a load, tripped and put a divot the size of a basketball in the back lot with her case order. Simon said she'd have to pay for the repair since it was now officially an 'insurance hazard” She said waving her hands around her head.
“They had it all on cameras so why argue? She must really think she's Wonder Lass or something carrying all those crates out, stacked 5 high by hand truck! Not even using a long cart. I don't see how she can even see where she's going. Should have had an accident long before this. She wasn't even hurt, but you know how she gets. Tells Simon it is all under business expenses, as if she were the head bookkeeper around here, telling him what to do.
Says he needs to either 'eat it' or make the insurance claim, He says 'no doing” She waved her hands mockingly rolling her eyes.
“So. She made the property damages, she has to pay. She may shop someplace else for a while, but well, you know how Simon gets. You've already met her. Neither will give an inch. Not good business sense, but it does give them a break from each other for a while. Also it gives two lucky lawyers a chance to earn some bucks.” She said all this, mimicking some television game show host racking up the list of what some lucky contestant has won for the day, while expertly adding up the crated goods already stacked in a long hand cart.
“So now everyone gets an escort, for a while. It's to make the insurance people happy so Ted here is also making an extra buck. Good for the economy. Good for him. Good for the resume. Good for you on the next rainy day and you have to do this in a downpour, at least you'll have company, and a spotter in case one of those big produce trucks comes lumbering back here to off load.” The total rang out at $128.95, and Sal' remembered her tax number by heart so that detail was managed. It made Sally her favorite cashier for that and many more reasons.
”So after the main part of the bickering was done, which, mind you I did not pay alllll that much attention to, she says “Sue Me.” He has the lawyer on speed dial, so that happened. Not like I gossip, but if I have to be called into court, I like to keep the details straight.” Phoebe imagined if called to court, Sally could give a credible account of her entire life, birth included. She was just circumspect on the details if she had to be. More omissions and no lies. She sang for her crowd, Phoebe realized it, and held no malice over it. Keeping your cards close to your vest is a good measure for making a more successful life run, she figured. Ted took the handle of the cart and headed for the exit ramp.
“Miss Phoebe, which locker is yours?” the young man asked polity as he stopped half way down the ramp.
“Un,....I don't know. I hate numbers if they don't rhyme or could be put into a song” She snapped her fingers a few seconds and got nothing. ”I don't think I know the number. 2nd row third in from the left.”
“Alright number 203, would be the one if you are right. Lets see if your key fits?” Phoebe was already fiddling with the keys she carried on her chain, along with charms, odd currency with holes, and a few advertising fobs which held phone numbers and a promise of percents off when 'used at the check out'. 203 sprung open obediently when the key was twisted and Ted helped pull the painted taco cart out onto the black top without being asked.
She had mixed feelings watching him do what should have been her job. It felt like it bent her flow. Stepping into her shed. she unplugged the cord from the wall socket which kept all the chargers running over night and kept things fresh and ready to run from the beginning of her route. There was a certain style she managed when doing her work. Nice that she wouldn't be hauling the dead weight cart out of the shed. She was sad that she would not get to say an audible 'hello' to the inanimate object itself while starting the prep. The cart had the logo 'Fahrenheit' in raised letters above the back wheel well.
“Good morning, Hiram” she whispered to the back wheel well. She still enjoyed that play on words: Hi Fahrenheit/Hot stuff. She liked to do that part. Even as a child, she would speak to the speechless. Well, you never knew if there would be a conversation, and it was always polite to be nice.
With the hands trained in years of experience; Phoebe stripped off the covering plastic along with the canvas umbrella over the top, flipped open all the hatches and control panel, fired up the gas burner, checked the refrigerated cooler, then opened up the first crate of goods. Everything went into their own and separate chilled compartments in an orderly fashion. Lettuce, cheese, salsa, tomato, and then onions diced all of them into hoppers. Then on to the hot side. Spiced ground meat, round chips on one side, hot nacho cheese sauce in the next compartment over from the meat filling. Tortillas next: Warming bin 1 for the large ones, bin 2 for medium ones, and the mini into spare bin.
She never had much use for this bin in the beginning, but had since learned that some wanted a mini for children...or dogs seemed to like them too.. The people paid, it was good. A variety flat of flan into the refrigerator compartment, and all the extras into the cooler for periodic restocking in the course of the day. Ted stood off to the side watching the ritual proceed in hushed silence.
Turning to the other side of the cart, she opened all three hatches along the side and stocked up cans of soda from the big refrigerator in the shed. Not her favorite thing to do. Under normal circumstances it made a cart heavy, hard to push, harder to turn. She had a secret weapon, a small piece of technology, a tiny boost motor to help roll the cart along. This was a real life saver. She was not at first convinced that she should sell drinks. Doing the math, overhead seemed to be an issue. Then after trying it for a week, the results showed when there were drinks, people would buy more food. So against her instinct she made the storage chests on the cart refrigerated.
Pheobe converted into a can holding area. She started to figure the ratios of soda product to taco production, until she has what she figured the net outcome at the end of the day would be sodas all purchased and a minimal of waste to disposal of left over ingredients. They were always the freshest she could get, since they were perishables. They would not to be kept for the next day. Selling a lousy taco was bad for business. She had business insurance, which could cover a disgruntled customer should it come to it. Cheap to buy, and she was happy to say it was never used.
“Miss Phoebe, you have that right down to a science!” Ted said in an awestruck tone.
Phoebe looked up perturbed. “I should hope so, Ted. Sell a good taco, and then you pay the bills, have a bit left over. Then you can buy the paper cups. After that you just repeat until you have enough to buy the moon.” she laughed inwardly. 'Buy the moon!' Something that Monty or Finn might have said....maybe said? Hard to tell, or remember. It suddenly seemed centuries ago.
“Uh, Miss Phoebe. Do you suppose you could teach me how these carts run? I'd like to help more, if I knew what I was doing”. He wasn't quite stammering, but there was a note of sincerity in his tone that made her look up from the Bunsen canister she was tucking into reserve. Peering into his face she asked earnestly.
“You wouldn't be looking to be a competitor for me, would you?” asking tongs in hands Clicking them like an angry crab. She clicked them two times after clicking them once as is the way of doing it. If you don't click enough times the mud crabs will chase you down from the vista parkway.
“Oh, NOOO, Miss Phoebe. I was supposing more of an ice cream cart. Summer is coming, and well, working in produce would not be the end of the line for me. Not like it seems to be for Richard. He is happy enough, but there's whole WORLD out there. I sure need inspiration to get me into it. Maybe not this year. I've only just graduated, but ya know, soon. Pay the bills, go to cooking school or something like it. Go places you know~ LIVE LIFE, as it should be. Not just parked in the driveway of existence and never starting your engine? If you know what I mean.” It all came out in a rush. He was now proper and honestly embarrassed. “I talk too much.” he ended simply and abruptly.
She kept clicking the tongs,“I guess the Square could benefit from something besides tacos. Ice cream, hmmmm? It could be fun. It is work too. Don't think it is all easy-peasy. Your unit gives out and you can't get back to your plug in quickly enough? Melted unstable ice cream. Re-freeze it and it gets bad, crunchy. No one likes that. Not productive. It's not a bad idea. You should look into it though.” Phoebe ended on an up-beat note. She would always look to the down sides first when examining a problem. A personal issue she took pains to compensate in conversation.
'So should I.' she thought to herself. Maybe it was time to expand on the business and plant some of that 'seed money' her uncles talked about. Seed money was risky, but if successful could be increase her profit by a third from just tacos alone, if the quick-math figured out clearly. Then when Ted felt at ease, had his certification and license, then he could buy her out, and then she could do it again. Not with ice cream. Something else. Perhaps pie? Snapping all the full hatches shut and checking the control panel and the temperature gauges, she was ready to roll.
“So Ted? You are going to be here every day?” She asked kicking the parking break with the side of her trainers.
“Yes, Ma'am.”He said starting to fumble like a brick of butter in the high noon heat.
“You're going to pull my produce to the sheds and watch me unload and stock the cart?” She asked pulling the big back wheels over the steel lip of the cart coral. Here is where she had more room for the last details on the cart.
“Yes, and to make sure you don't trip and fall. Until you are off property. I heard it's an insurance thing.” Phoebe stacked the straws and taco sauces into the side soda compartment neatly where she had put a box to hold them from the small refrigerator in the shed. Napkins went into a metal holder and magnetically adhered to the side of the cart. Serving tongs, one for each bin, also were magnetized, and the paper plates in a holder, she gave her tongs one last click.
“Okay. So you should be off the clock when I get back. What then?”School kids are always so indecisive on a good day, even the just graduated.
“They tell me once you leave, you are on your own time. Whatever that means.” Phoebe looked him over once again He had not quite settled into a tan or sun burn. His hair was still about one uniform color, and not bleached by the tropical zone they lived in. He didn't have the look of someone who was well seasoned to the Florida sun, or the rigors of the wet heat that summer brought.
“I suppose the insurance people know, right? See ya tomorrow, I guess.” She started up the motor assist and rolled off lot with the towering duck of a man following behind.
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“Yeah, Miss Phoebe. I guess so.” He seemed a little crest fallen as if he had been left behind on some great adventure as he stopped just short of the lot's chain link fence gate.
“EVERY JUAN LOVES TACOS” was not just a side line push cart, it was her main line to paying the expenses. It was also the official business name. Besides being embroidered on the umbrella which she had ordered specially for shade, it was colorfully pressed into the napkins she would hand out and had in the magnetic holder.
Her cart was a thing of painted ostentation. Eye-catching, yet pictorially accurate in portraying a well-filled juicy taco. It was somehow appealing and approachable. The unfurled umbrella, emblazoned with the name, was sombrero shaped and included tassels. Yes it was hokey. Still the shade it produced was attractive to tourists not used to Florida's blazing and direct sunshine.. Phoebe had a flier for reference, listing not just price and combo selections, but the calorie count and nutrition contents for every item in a tidy clear menu compartments on either side of the cart. It encouraged customers to think they were buying into a superior and healthful product. Which it was, in her opinion.
It was more than what you would get out of Drive-thru Pete's or any number of fast food options. The dubious sandwiches and bargain burgers only promised that there was bread. Between the slices it was hard to guarantee the make up of the fillings inside. That no one had died from it... as far as they knew, could be a selling issue. It was maybe not the best advertising slogan, but if used it was the truth. “
“It was a bit wayward but, it would be honest” she mused.
'OK,' she thought to herself, arriving at the end of the plaza.'That wasn't totally exhausting and embarrassing. I've had worse days'. She straightened out her cart before pushing out onto the historic Town Square Plaza just as the noon bells from the Mission architecture of courthouse tolled the hour. Not so very late, just oddly late. Close to the fountain she could see the bunch she would call her 'regulars'. Milling among them in the confines of the plaza were tourists to Florida. Looking over the scattered statues, and the Historic Landmark Buildings each having their own bronze plate describing the build date, architect, and historic significance. Most of them run by the Historical Society and open so tourists could admire the restorations. Others shop fronts were repurposed for retail and either intriguing smells or garish colors would attract attention.
Phoebe had two which were her favorites; a colorful shop which sold authentic spices and Spanish/Mexican sauces along side hand made statues and trinkets produced by the local wood carving shop. Their wives, daughters and girlfriends would provide the colorful sarape or ponchos for sale.
That it was still unnamed business, which was more a hobby group than a real business at his point, could not yet afford their own storefront here on the plaza, but the Spice Emporium owner saw that it was a good filler to sell between the jars of sealed mole, hand made tortillas, and other more exotic kitchen witchery that people did not know or care enough to ask for by name.
They would come in and be overheard to say “I want that stuff that some weird people think tastes like soap.” was once a remark Phoebe overheard while shopping for herself....TOURISTS! Their pale skin and overly warm clothing would broil in the heat of real summer.
The other shop she was fond of sold a mix of better Spanish/Mexican clothing. Some of the dance costumes could be custom made here, but also horse riding gear and costumes for parade and shows. If you were into that sort of thing. She went extravagant one year and bought herself a full set of clothing for 'Alamo Days” to fit in with the atmosphere of the weekend festival. It was the costume she wore every Fiesta since them. She kept it well, crisply ironed and waiting for the yearly usage. Alamo Days were held on the earliest weekend of March, and commemorated the battle and thetaking of the Alamo by the forces of Santa Anna on March the 6th. A very popular event for a segment of the locals, but also becoming more and more an attraction to the Tourist crowds. Featuring dance, and reenactments, an Equestrian Parade and a pony ring for the children. provided by the 4-H and Rancher's who's property laid outside of the city limits.
All of this and of course political speeches of the 'Unity and combined heritage we share since then' kind...Featuring whichever politician was in the driver's seat that season. We've come a long way' was the message. Which was the Official opening of the weekend frolic. To tourists it was food, drinking at the 'Canteena' hosted by the monks of the Alamo Mission, still willing to raise funds for charity in their coarse belted robes. Their brew was excellent. Costumes could be rented, and pictures taken featuring any landmark store front on the plaza using a photo shop technique. Rented carnival rides featured a merry go round, scrambler, and Ferris wheel. It was pleasant enough, she reminisced. Almost everyone dressed for the occasion. It was fun, she decided. Even though they were in Florida.
On the Square the regulars were a nice bunch of people, once you get used to their habits. Some were what you might call normal or average who held jobs around the mercantile area of The Square. They were the shopkeepers, stock crews, cashiers for each store front. The quirky, the neurotic, the sincerely financially insecure for whom a taco at noon would be considered a bargain when juxtaposed against getting in the car, wasting gas, driving to Quick-a-burger, losing the parking spot on the Square, and having to re-feed a meter at the new location, if you could find one. Competition for parking space was usually brisk.
Her mind started to wander as she fell into the rhythm of walking up the hill to the first work station. Last, but surely not least were the downright weird. Lurkers who had their actual address located who knows where, outright vagrants, eccentrics, or the just strange. Each had a back story. Some had changeable back stories. It would seem their memories would be as unpredictable as the weather. Phoebe smiled, there in sight was her most regular customer. She reminisced with a smile, thinking back to when she first laid eyes on what she would later call Inter-galactic Dinosaur Woman, who's actual name was Helen.
A bit on the older side, but who could truly guess, or even dare? She might have been a retired nurse or even a mental patient. All that was meaningless speculation. She paid and she ate. In a customer that would be a winning combination. She was a STEADY customer. For reasons known only to herself, kept a collection of the local iguanas in a shabby used baby buggy. Some on harnesses or leash, and at least 20 or so at a time attached to or inside the carriage . Most of them were stuffed into various costumes, usually baby clothing or rompers. She called them each a name and swore she knew the differences between them all.
Phoebe couldn't tell, and frankly doubted there was any difference whatsoever, but failed to try to correct or contradict her. It wouldn't be business like. Over time she grew to become a regular visitor to the taco cart. Although it irked her somewhat to see Helen feeding a few to her 'babies', but somewhere deep inside she relished seeing them portrayed as helpless infants, unable to escape the confines of either pink or blue ruffled outfits which made their usual unnerving scamper impossible. The horrible insufferable monsters. Currently only able to manage a flippy-flop of movement while so encumbered. Earlier that week she was introduced to the newest 'lil darling~ Percy.
Percy had been rescued from a street drain and was going to be a part of their merry band for a good long while. At least that was the plan she gathered between mouthfuls of crispy taco. He had a bandage wrapped around the left back leg, and was not well enough to graduate into proper clothing. It would need CONSTANT ATTNETION if he ever hoped to walk correctly in the future, and not be teased by the others. No worries, she knew exactly what to do. His total healing was assured in her capable hands. Phoebe marveled at her seeming sincere if downright bizarre dedication. But also her assurance that she was the expert here. A total reptile maven, who would brook no advice or contradiction.
Once she had witnessed a stand-off with one of the local park constables in regard to, as he put it .'A violation in keeping and feeding the vermin.'.Helen had no end of bringing up the ordeal as often as possible. He ended up on the scorched side of a lengthy and informative lecture on how they ate insects and scraps left on the ground. How they actually kept things pretty clean and tidy in the park for the neglectful humans to enjoy. Humans who were totally unaware the debt of gratitude they owed to these pitiful 'orphaned creatures' for their 'ceaseless contributions to the good of society!'
Seemingly as if a personality shift had occurred, or she was channeling another person altogether. She was a font of knowledge. No longer 'That Dizzy Dame with a baby carriage full of cock-eyes reptiles', but a naturalist and conservation officer bonded together into one seamless whole.
It was quite a hoot to watch, and filled with fast and possible double talk, and Thieves Cant. I was mesmerized by the onslaught. Watching the confrontation first hand, Phoebe recalled thinking that their contributions were not quite so selfless after the Fiesta as Helen might boast. They seemed to have put on a pound or two each in the clean up efforts. Not that the banquet stayed very long for the lizards tho. Helen was mindful of keeping them healthy and trim.
In any event, most of the police would cross over to the opposite sidewalk than have any altercations with her. Once this spectacle became known throughout the Department, it also became a rite of passage for the newer members of the constables. The crazies on the square hailed her as a hero and champion. Most of the force would give Phoebe a polite nod as they passed through on their safety checks. Not that much happened in this quiet parkway. Nothing she would think of as dangerous, anyway.
Normally Phoebe's first set was up across the street from the Multiplex Insurance Agency at 11-11:30 am and cater to the lunch crowd. Besides the workers who got their lunches, when the exchange for money was done, they would go back to park benches or the fountain area associating with their own fellow workers. After they dispersed, the crazies would stand in line and use what dirty pocket change they had gathered to buy something.
Early on, to her relief, she discovered they were a good crowd. Most professionals would say they were nuts. They only argued about silly things like meat content, or how mustard was a pickling agent with the hidden vinegar content and the less you used it the better you would be in life.
“Too much and it could pickle you ALIVE!!!” one customer, the rest of the crowd called Wilson; insisted it was true. It was never clear if Wilson was his first or last name, but no one used mustard in his presence. Not TWICE, at any rate.
When that group died down, she rolled on. She made her way to the other end of the parkway with a few stops in between, feeding and helping tourists in need of direction while time permitted. Eventually she would wait for the ending shift of the Welco Watch Works Manufacturing sight on the furthest end of the plaza . They had a shift change at 2 pm so they would take clear advantage of a EVERY JUAN LOVES TACOS product. Most of this group were ordinary regular working stiffs, not many crazies, and not very odd or exciting on the whole of it. Phoebe would start operations here by opening the heated compartment hatch and let the aroma of the spicy meat product waft in the air and attract those who's tastes ran to the 'here and now', rather than leave for any drive thru line. Those leaving for the day and those just arriving for the start of the shift would line up and wait for the goods. While they waited she could hear the break down of the day's business, and rumors, and gossip. Sometimes stock tips would float her way in normal conversations.
It was the 'Changing of the Guard'. Who was new, who was quitting, who was having a baby, who had a baby keeping them up all last night, and wasn't that funny! All of it the 'juicy stuff' that made this life bearable. The speculation of those who's lives were different or better seemed entertaining to them. It never seemed to strike anyone that to the others, their own lives were just as different or better to someone else. The human mind was just odd.
On that end of the parkway was another special citizen, and one more like a collection of cast offs and near rubbish disguised as a human...maybe. Today's odd bit was an over sized crocheted top hat decorated with coffee spoons from the Comet Coffee shop on the corner.
'Points for originality', Phoebe had thought. Color choice, well you could say it was an attention getting fuchsia. It certainly was that. Many who glanced over could not look away from the hat atop a circus tent shaped baggy shirt in a painful shade of green, with colorful yarn balls hand sewn along the bottom edge, each about a half inch in diameter, each also a different color. You could be forgiven if you totally missed the necktie. On the whole, this fashion statement was a busy one. Even on Alamo Days, he would be noticed. If he were only rich he could be eccentric, but unfortunately he was here and often at a loss for funds so he was only strange.
Protocol insisted he be first in line whenever he appeared. No one ever got in his way when he stepped forward. Newbies were warned. He came first, as if some sainthood waited him for whatever trauma he endured in life. They were kind.
Anyway, he would vanish as soon as his meal was done. Everyone wanted to see him out of the way before they made an order, it was practical. Phoebe had seen that shirt before, but could not recall the vertical striped pants which had bell bottoms and cuffs. It might have been stolen from some modern day pirate. Looking too close could become a chore as sewn in dangle bits could draw your eye into the wider collection and assortment of charms and bedazzled glories of a craft project gone mad.
As she parked the cart and opened up the warming hatch door a hand appeared from beneath the shirt with a crisp five getting her attention.
“One special” came a voice from under the hat, neither male nor female in tone. Drawing out the folded paper lunch box from the bowels of the hot side of the cart and a can of Local-soda from the cold side. Phoebe filled the opened box with the regular assortment for a five dollar special, exchanged those for the five which she slid it into the trough of the opened cash drawer.
“How's life treating ya, Pete?” Phoebe steeled herself for what would undoubtedly be a run down of all the ills life had to offer. Political mishaps, wild-eyed conspiracies, how the constables were only here to make sure none of us figured out who was really 'running the show'.
“They listen. They listen to EVERYTHING, so Phoebe, my child. Take my advice to heart. You be careful who you talk to. Who you talk ABOUT. What you tell to the Others! If you are not careful, they'll take you, and when you get back you'll have forgotten about everything! Even your friend, me, Ol' Pete. I've seen it with my own two eyes. Friend I've known for years, now pretend we never knew one another. Friends I've had since before the War. Makes ya feel like you never existed!” The voice ran slowly and quickly like a land slide of gravel.
Phoebe would always promise to be careful and to keep their secrets. Always be careful. Then give him some extra chips. Poor soul. She also wondered 'Which War?' How old was this coot anyway? One day she'd find out where he stayed and make sure he at least had a pillow and a blanket. Guys like that needed help. In this case tacos and chips were simply not enough. She too would be listening, just not in the way Ol' Pete would figure.
A line of people formed along the sidewalk Behind the mound of Pete to get their paper lunchboxes and head back to the building or to lounge in the park. As predicted, by the end of his lunch Pete started to wander away. It was a nice day. Early spring was known for a morning need of a sweater, and by lunchtime a genuine need for some air conditioning. Many chose the shade trees and the cool relaxation of the breeze to break the monotony of a work day, or to start or put an end to the shift. Some had called it 'depressurization' as they traded the monotony of work for the monotony of home, and vice versa.
Nothing extraordinary happened for the rest of the day. Not one juicy rumor or hot stock tip was offered in confidence. She began rolling up the cart to the center of the plaza. This is when the tourists began to take some notice. Hotter temperatures in the afternoon, and the shade trees filled with the legitimate workers on the Square, there was little shade left to shelter their delicate frames.
Thirst would urge them to get a drink. Today she and Comet Coffee were the only games in town, so to speak. Guilt or renewed hunger would have them eyeing the menu board to see which combo they would buy in exchange for the welcome sombrero shade of the fancy umbrella. Children, sweaty and tired from running circles in the plaza would rejoin tired parents and beg for 'something'. This was one of her favorite controlled interactions that she experienced.
Some would take pictures of her and the cart, themselves and her cart, their children and her cart. She would most likely find those pictures posted on the internet. When she looked them up later in the month, she would post them to her own board as a tribute to the Plaza. Most of the exhausted kids were tired and now cute-ish. Not the brash sassy kids which is how they usually started their historic and tiring Town Square adventures in the morning, a time she preferred to miss..
After satisfying the remaining crowd, when the park started to empty out; before the early evening strollers started in at 4 she would be rolling back to where she came in. Rolling over to the bank with her day's efforts clearly counted and folded into a cash deposit envelope .She was ready to end the work day. It was a pretty good day. She still silently bemoaning herself for letting time slip out of her grasp trying to sort through messy crates, and trying to find treasures mixed in with trash.
It dawned on her that she was more a caretaker, or steward to these things. She decided to find a place for them. Not just relegate them to a trash bin just because she had no further use for them. Yes, all were treasure-worthy in the right hands. Perhaps her attitude needed adjustment? Maybe? Stepping up to the Exchequer Bank's broad drive thru teller business window she tapped the button to have the cash drawer open for her deposit. In short order Joyce appeared from the depths of the building. Smiling broadly and retrieving the envelope she processed the deposit. Crisply she counted the bills which Phoebe thoughtfully faced the same direction, and the assorted change. She got her deposit slip, verified and stamped, and put it inside of her wallet, a new increased balance to her funds. Not a bad day, considering feeling rushed for most of the time.
“Thanks for your business, Phoebe.” The teller croaked out between her terse lips. She had to say that, Phoebe knew, it was banking protocol.
“Thanks, Joyce. I'll see you tomorrow.” Cars started to line up behind her in the drive-thru lanes. Sadly there was no pedestrian window at this location, and the lobby closed at 4. She always arrived after that time. Joyce was used to her late arrivals so it became a habit not to rush. Mostly because she hated being inside that stuffy building. She hated to leave the cart parked alone outside to go inside. 'It might cry' came the childish thought. After all, it was only 4 years old. Too young to leave unattended and alone.
“Tomorrow then, God willing.” Joyce had a typical response. Not really bank sanctioned, but still not forbidden. It was one step better than the old crones in the morning that hem and haw over a check list of accomplishments yet to be accomplished. They usually frequent the front end looking like a melted wax statues of their former selves as they all start to resemble toads in blazers.
'I guess it makes her feel better to live in a regular ordered world which was driven by some Cosmic Entity who knew how to make sense of it all,' Phoebe thought. Must be nice. Less personal stress when you have a failure or set back. Yeah, must be nice in a Not My Fault kind of way. She started rolling back to the Wholesale Produce Warehouse.
Parking the cart once more at her rental shed she started the clean it out procedure. She was just about empty, so nothing much went to waste. She was a good judge of sales flow. The few lingering baleful iguanas on the still hot pavement looked woefully at the now garbage-bound taco boxes. Their Cold blood still to cold to do the eerie alligator charge on their hind legs for boxed spoils.
“Nope, vermin. This is not your food....But I do know this Lady...” Almost as if on cue the two scampered away from her suggestion. Thinking back on Ol' Pete, maybe the iguanas KNEW something? Phoebe also thought there must have been some childhood trauma that left her feeling quite uncharitable to these creatures.
What could that have been? She had no conscious memory of it, besides a lingering certainty that they were UP TO SOMETHING. She just couldn't say what. Whatever it was, they knew what it was, and she would not aid and abet their Lizard Plots by feeding them. Finding even one sneaking into her house would give her a wrathful purpose: to broom them violently out the patio doors!
Facing the cart she began emptying out all that went into the shed's storage. Dry goods, paper napkins, straws all in the narrow pantry. Cold things like the sauce and sodas into the refrigerator. She disassembled the top of the cart, leaving every piece in a straight line ready for cleaning. She also started up a large pot of hot water on the exposed burner. Stepping out of the shed to put the trash into the garbage bin at the end of her row.
Boiling hot water would be used to sanitize the compartments and make the day's work complete. The water done, she took the full pot and sanitizing cleaner out the door with a roll of paper towels and disposable gloves to work through her mess. This was one of the easier parts, as long as you were methodical and diligent. She did not need to have her vendors license pulled for keeping an untidy cart.
She opened the drain valve on the cart and watched as the boiling hot water drained from each bin and out on the sidewalk taking a film of soapy water down to the street drain. Wadding up paper towel she diligently wiped down the inside. Then she used fresh sheets and sanitizer on the outside. From a drawer she removed a carton of plastic stretch film and pulled off sheets to cover the top and sides, job done. Lowering the sombrero umbrella, then popping it off the tube stand to lay across the top layer of plastic film wrap.
“Day is done for my cart” she whispered. Rolling the now squeaky clean and empty cart into its spot inside the shed. She thought of it going into it's comfortable little slot to go to sleep to dream little taco cart dreams. “Do Taco Carts dream of Steam cloud sheep?' She laughed, but said “Sweet dreams, Hyram.” She blew a kiss to the cart.
This job was done in what seemed like no time at all, almost ready for the rest of her day. She plugged in the cord for the refrigerator unit and control panel, checked the refrigerator and pantry at the back of the unit one last time and locked up for the day. Walking into the store she placed her order for the next morning in the 'Business In' Box. Lastly she picked up her purchase order neatly checked off from the morning pick up. More paperwork for the paperwork beasts.
Simon was in his office door shut, sounded like he was mad. Again. She waved as she passed his window. By habit he waved back. He had loads of customers, and it was nice he could still be pleasant to one of his tiniest ones. Out the front sliding doors in the glowing lights spelling out 'Wholesale Produce Warehouse', she was headed back home. In the distance you could just make out the stars on the darkening horizon and the smell of salt.
Back at home the air was still, but the shade also made it cooler than the outdoors. Almost perfect. Once it was sundown she would open windows to enjoy whatever breeze she could catch. She did not much like to turn on the air system so early in the year. Not if she didn't have to. Besides, come the morning time, the weather would be cool maybe even crisp again. It would be a waste. Resting on one of the kitchen chairs she waited for the microwave to finish it's cycle for her spaghetti. Glancing around the room everything seemed to be in order, just as she left it. There was still a feeling that something was not totally in place. Must be imagination, or stress from a rushed day. The microwave's ding let her know that diner was finished.
Grabbing her apple juice out of the refrigerator she smiled, “This would be a good dinner.”
There were other ways to make money. Phoebe liked this one the best so far. She was her own manager and employee. No one told her how to do her job past the constraints of the local vendor regulations, which she adhered to without deviation. She had even taken a class for it, and passed a test. Rather than be a contract vendor to someone else. Even though it seemed pretty logical to her, it was surprising how many failed the test portion and had to take the class multiple times before they could score a passing grade on it. 'Really', she thought 'just follow the steps.'
Her test was years ago, and she started in another Parkway altogether. So distant that she had to take one bus and pick up her cart in a storage locker to start the day. Newbies did not get assigned a plum location until another gave up that spot, or another one was opened up by the zoning board. As it was, she slowly and steadily put in her requests for more active sites; and was working in the Park Square Plaza as a result.
Well lit, patrolled steadily, and close to all transportation hubs, and that equaled tourists. Bus station turn-around on one end, a train platform a block away, and off-sides to the parking for the somewhat busy 6 block square of park she took her route almost daily. Active retail, a bank and manufacturing, also historic landmarks with several building sites. It was ideal. She would be happy to stay put right there. Crazies? Every block had some, at least hers were manageable and if not exactly happy, not dangerous. Luck for her. Except for tourists who spoke too loud as if she had just learned how to talk yesterday. Must be due to children who had not learned to mind a parent's directive yet, so volume was the answer to everything.
Her mind began to scatter to other stray thoughts. Being home let the tight bands of discipline shake loose. Now, if she had a motorized food van, then she could take to the road, be street legal, and sell about anywhere in the city. That was not as much fun as having those regular and steady customers she has actually grown somewhat fond of. No tourists to take pictures, ask directions back to the freeways. Children who wanted parents to use forced perspective to take pictures of them wearing the giant sombrero and sitting next to a miniature cart. Some were pretty crafty. It seemed troubling to her mind: too many thoughts. Goals were far off and then she would have to give up the car for a food truck plan.
'Maybe it would make more money,' she thought to herself as she slurped a rogue piece of spaghetti noodle, unconsciously watching the fading light through the kitchen window. More expenses to follow. It would need gas, insurance, and maintenance too. All constant and added bills. She ticked off those major ones.
It was too much a gamble, and might just be a diminished return and end up making less money in the long run than what she already had in the push cart? Perhaps that spur of the moment idea she had of fronting Ted for an ice cream cart? More thought was needed. Like initially would he have the stamina in the hot HOT summer? That was an unknown factor. She put it on the back burner of her mind.
“This is a thought for tomorrow, Phoebe.” said an inch of her brain relegated to the cautious thought process. Not often listened to, yet also often right.
“A-Hem?” said a voice sounding almost on top of her. “I don't think you heard me.” he said from the open front door Phoebe looked up, startled and saw the delivery officer who had visited with the current load of boxes she has received and were so difficult to sort through now.
“Pardon, I was deep in thought. What can I do for you?” She asked in a more pleasant tone than she really felt. Having to stop her dinner. She reluctantly put the container of spaghetti back into the microwave.
“I'm sorry, but this is about your signed shipment. The one you received last month?” He asked in a way that suggested she might need reminding of a multi-boxed hurricane that descended on her address. Like it might have slipped her mind.
“Yes?” phoebe asked crossing her arms over her chest leaning against the side counter chewing the last of a cheek of spaghetti.
“It seems there was a miscommunication from the lawyers, so I am here to make arrangements to rectify the situation.” He started in a most professional manner. He adjusted his glasses pushing them up the bridge of his nose. She had not noticed it the first time but he looked uncomfortably pinched in his three piece suit.
“No, You are not going to take any of it back. Your mistake, your error. Deal with it.” Phoebe was most irked. She narrowed her eyes getting ready for a volley of words and went over in her mind just how far the iguana chasing broom was from the far side of the kitchen.
“Miss, you don't grasp what I am trying to convey to you. There is more coming to you, not that there was an error in delivery. Just that there was more than one address of origin, and there will be more packages coming your way. I am here to see that all goes ...” He took to looking about the cast open and spread mess “Smoothly, as I noticed you do not have anywhere near the room to host so many cartons at this address. Perhaps you have some storage facility you use where these can be shipped.....?” He waited, expectantly.
“More? How much more?” swallowing hard, she thought to the ware house and started into the panic math of how much it would be to temporarily obtain a dock or more than one dock. Finn said his dad worked on boats. Oh good heavens she may have to call the Marina. She shivered at the thought.
“Oh, quite a lot, if I understand the processing company correctly. At least a semi-full I am told. They are still in the stages of packing it all according to the bills of lading already processed. It's very hard to say. Miss” He said taking out a file from his clip board thick enough to function as a school textbook
“Sweet merciful Pandora!” All Phoebe could think about was a warehouse full of boxes, none of them in any order whatsoever. None of them. At least a million to keep up the search for missing notes, stories, and a variety of papers which may hold the title to the planet, or nothing much at all besides old penny loafers with secret keys to nowhere.“How long to I have to prepare?” She sighed while taking strides from the kitchen to the door, which now she did not remember leaving open.
“It should take a week, I would think.” was his reply. “I'd like to leave my card, so you can inform me when you are ready, and perhaps a more suitable address for delivery?” He pulled out a black business card with golden lettering. A phone number at the bottom.
“Alright, I'll be right on that. I'll be in touch.”He gave a small bow, and mumbled another apology while leaving. Spinning on his heals just outside the door.
'Great. Just Great.' Phoebe turned back into the house, She firmly closed and locked the front door. Looking over the cluttered living room, determined to make more headway in these cartons.
'The nearest one then,' she decided. 'Enough with mucking around trying to do it by number'. Switching methods always made her cross. Driving the carton knife across the sealing tape, the top folds sprang open invitingly.
Papers. Crayoned papers. 'Oh, great treasures, indeed' Children's drawings of dragons, harpies and centaurs, great start to a late afternoon of work. She reached into her desk and pulled out a hole punch to skewer the works of art and put them in a 3-ring binder. Yup, they were hers alright. But a childish effort from so long ago, she could not rightly say when she had drawn them. A good while ago, by the looks of them.
“Ka-chunk” the first stack of straightened sheets were now holed and ready for clipping into a 2 inch binder. Small holes sprang from the mechanism, and littered the floor. 'Guess I'll have to get the broom too', she almost groaned at the small mess to come. She fetched the broom, and dust pan, and started making a pile, but looking down she saw that some of the holes had writing, not crayon marks on them. Narrowing her eyes, she looked more carefully at the colored pages, then slowly she turned them over.
The story...of course. It's on the other side of the illustrations. 'Why not!' She sat hard on the chair, then went digging back into the box. Not frantically, but hurriedly she started putting them into order.