Category Archives: Beatrice

1.17 Unfortunate Roommates

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So while the shadows grew long and the light turned orange, red and gold outside the Lavender Lady, inside her walls finally held all my earthly possessions and most of my closest friends. Filled with satisfaction and surrounded by the physical manifestation of our labors – disassembled furniture and boxes – we sprawled eating pizza and drinking beer (which again is the traditional “thank-you-for-helping-me-move-house-even-though-we-are-past-the-point-in-our-lives-when-this-is-fun” fare). Feeling free and breezy under the influence of nostalgia (the beer helped) we reminisced about all the horrible hovels we resided in during our twenties, and the peculiar people we shared them with. 

Here are the highlights:

Me (slowly picking off layers of pizza toppings): The guy who made up his own religion declaring the name Pete all powerful. Wednesdays were his sabbath and he wouldn’t do chores if he happened across the name on any day of the week. Meaning if someone said Pete, if he saw it in print (which was a problem since there was a giant billboard down the street advertising Pete’s Potato Chips) or a picture of a famous Pete popped up – he’d hunker down in his room to “worship”. Which entailed smoking a lot of weed and listening to jazz records featuring Pete Fountain. We never saw that security deposit back, a tornado couldn’t air out that room.

Sarah (a still mortified co-worker): My college roommate’s boyfriend decided to pee out the window one evening because Julie, his girlfriend, was taking too long in the bathroom….unfortunately someone was sitting next to the open window below and got a real surprise. They both fled when the shouting started – which left me to plead ignorance and then innocence by trying to demonstrate the leverage and physics required for me to perform said feat through a screen. Could have wrung their necks.

Beatrice (rolling her eyes at the memory): I roomed with a girl who loved my curls so much she snipped a few off one night while I slept. When I woke up and she was sitting at the kitchen table bobbing them up and down like some kind of demented fishing lure. Her defense? She only cut a couple off at the nape of my neck – not the really good ones around my face. Wasn’t that considerate? I can’t swear she didn’t made a voodoo doll from them when I moved at the end of the month, but I did sprain my ankle a week later…

Dourwood (laughing and poking me in the leg): I roomed with this girl who would get into constant arguments with the fridge, toaster, house plant, door…then would try to pass it off as “rehearsing lines” for her improve group!

I felt compelled to hit Wood in the shoulder at this point and everyone laughed (I was in an improv group…). With an air of dignity, “I no longer tread the boards.”

“Tread the boards! Ha! You just don’t want to admit you talk to yourself!” Wood laughed (as did everyone else, he easily avoiding my second punch). His phone buzzed. Looking at his watch he got to his feet and drained his beer, “Well I am off. Laney’s out front.” Getting to my feet I started to invite her in when Wood shook his head, “She can’t come in. Her Mom’s with her.”

When one person sets out, others usually follow and soon after our cozy pizza party broke up. When I’d seen the last of my friends out (I will not recount their giggled reminiscence of me doing “improv”, apparently I am caught talking to myself more than I knew) I shut my new front door. Smiling I turned and leaned against it, surveying my new living room (the upstairs of the Lavender Lady may be too stately to incorporate such an ordinary room, but the basement is not) when I spied a bit of macabre in the corner of the room…

A wood framed box with a glass front sat propped up against the wall at the end of a line of bookcases. I simply couldn’t believe my eyes, how did I miss him? He watched while I approached his box. While I scanned his bones nestled in the forest green lining, finally meeting his eye sockets – I blinked first.

Beatrice: “His name is Harold.” 

Me: “Harold? Looks like he had a rough life.” All but five ribs were cracked, broken and/or splintered. His left eye socket was scored and broken. The rest of his bones sported a number of unusual nicks and gouges, which didn’t look organic in origin.

Beatrice (unsuccessfully in keeping a straight face): “I won him.”

Me (rolling me eyes): “Where? From where, eBuy? Did a test crash dummy get tired of a human stealing his job?”

Beatrice (laughing now): “No, a publisher raffled him during a convention, for a historical thriller – a find clue to the killer in the bones – sort of thing. Harold came with an advanced copy of the book.” 

Me (still inspecting his many extra bits): “Harummph. So they really let you walk off with a real skeleton?”

Beatrice: “I liked him. I don’t think they expected anyone to really want to take him home – but they couldn’t really object when I did. Hey let me help you clean up.”

With that she walked down the hall towards my room, I followed my attention divided between Beatrice and the many parts of Harold.

Just this once I don’t think I am the weirdest roommate in the house.

1.14 Ointment Meet Fly…

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(A very civilized contract signing!)

I couldn’t hide the grin spreading across my face. The relief at landing in such unexpectedly pleasant surroundings was palpable (with this many books and the promised freedom to borrow would help save a tremendous amount of money – up side? It will keep me from actually acting on any impetuous impulses – in my defense I haven’t ever actually stolen anything – just keeps the mind limber to think how you might try). We both knew she had me, so why act coy? “I would love to move in!”

We settled on terms:

Money: a very reasonable amount.

Move in Date: as soon as I wanted – in fact I left with a set of keys.

Parking: In the alley where it was acceptable.

Schedule: Beatrice’s travel dates.

No fuss, no muss.

I couldn’t pin down the nagging sensation that I forgot to ask Beatrice something, but relief overwhelmed all other emotions quickly. If it was important I would think of it again.

One interesting fact, Old Town where the Lavender Lady resides is only a few minutes from my previous employer. Driving up to the cemetery I spotted a knot of Residents hovering just inside the wrought iron gates.

Right – ointment meet fly.

Pulling over to the side of the drive a bit farther down the lane from the gang (I didn’t want the Princess dinged by the inattentive bereaved) I flexed my toes and waited for the pins and needles to recede to manageable levels and for them to catch up. While I waited I stuck my hands free device in my ear and pulled my phone out of my pocket. When I exited the Princess the Residents started peppering me with questions.

“What is going on?”  “What’s Little Ben doing to the cottage?”  “Why are your things in boxes?”  “Why aren’t you  working in the utility shed?”  “Why did Ben make the rounds this morning?”

I leaned against the pink door letting them slowly peter out. Trying to talk over them would only mean I’d have to repeat myself (I found most people couldn’t talk and listen at the same time). I’d intentionally put this adulting step off; they don’t take change well and I didn’t know how best to sugar coat the news for them. So I just followed my Aunt Pearl’s example and pulled the bandaid off fast, “Ben laid me off last week and I have to move out of Nevermore.”

Wind whipped around us, blowing my hair into my eyes and stray leaves around my knees. Shouting above the noise, “We will work this out. Now stop!” Immediately the wind died down to a persistent (if annoying) breeze and another round of twenty questions started.

“Why?”  “Will you still visit us?”  “What will happen to Nevermore?”  “What is Little Ben going to do now?”  “Can we visit you?”  “Will he hurt my squirrel?”

We stood and talked, and talked and talked – me reassuring them I would not be far away. Yes, I would come and visit them. Yes, they could visit me. Yes, I would explain any changes Ben made to Nevermore. By the time they dispersed, only a gentle breeze blew and dusk settled in around us – I longed to take out my camera, the left-over light of a Fall day made for excellent pictures. But my heart wasn’t in it. I retreated further from the idea when an orange hybrid pulled up next to the Princess.

This should be entertaining.

1.13 Meeting The Lavender Lady

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Fortunately the call to Wood finished way before the silver Audi in front of me pulled to the curb. While I love books, and my major form of investing is tied up in paper, glue and string, I didn’t think there was much money to be had in selling them – even if Pulp (where Beatrice worked) was the largest independent on the West Coast.

Why, you ask, am I curious about her income? You need to understand that in our metropolis very few structures, monuments or companies are older than Nevermore. I had a sneaking suspicion this Lavender Lady (the house was a pale lavender with purple trim and a green door) was one of the few – I wasn’t hedging my bets here. The Lavender Lady resides in Old Town where the trees lining the streets are close to achieving old-growth status and yards are large enough to required a couple full time gardeners to maintain. My entire cottage would easily fit in the Lavender Lady’s main floor – with room left over for a nice kitchen, cook’s nook and parlor (this kind of house doesn’t have anything as common as a family room). She even sported a white picket fence and a trellis over an odd gate with creeping roses climbing over it (pale yellow if you’re wondering).

Other than greeting each other after we parked Beatrice was quiet, leaving me free to crane my neck while I followed her. She veered away from the front door onto a narrower walk which led around the side of the house, down a flight of stairs. “We are almost there.” I think she felt the need to reassure me, since this couldn’t be the short way. Finally we turned the corner and then I knew the LL was older than Nevermore. The Lavender Lady must occupy four full-sized lots, and I am saying four circa 1830 sized lots, and it was beautiful. The dominant feature was a massive oak tree in full autumn glory, much to the delight of several scurrying squirrels. The smell of flowers, decaying leaves and fermenting berries filled my lungs while a faint prickle ran across my curling toes – interesting. “Impressive” was the best description I could come up with for the LL. The complicated gate mechanism made more sense now – developers might be proving a nuisance.

However I still wasn’t ready to judge this book by its cover (who am I kidding? I’d live in a closet here before moving back with Aunt Pearl).

When I turned around, I found Beatrice waiting by an open door watching me take it all in, “Not as expansive as Nevermore, but for the city it isn’t bad.”

Smiling, I replied, “Not much around here is, but this is close. Big Ben’s family invested in land when it was cheap, before the city was more than a speck.” I pushed away feelings I didn’t want to feel and forced myself to sound bright, “Let’s see inside!”.

Beatrice’s apartment consisted of the entire basement of the grand house above, and while there weren’t any water stains, cobwebs or unidentifiable odors (the big three for subterranean living) – it did provide a certain je ne sais quoi. Nature vs. Nurture was all I could think of (or in this Architecture vs. Decorating) while Beatrice gave me the grand tour of the place. The kitchen, laundry and bathrooms all felt like a vintage 1940’s soap advert. The hallways and rooms were dominated by bookshelves meticulously arranged (I assume, though I am not sure by what method) – but each one had at least one shelf devoted to some sort of collection; stamps, shells, feathers, postcards and bones? If you wed a college library to a cabinet of curiosities you’d get the same feel. Each door made me think of a Phillip Marlowe detective novel; a brass door knob, key hole and large frosted pane of glass with bold gold lettering designating the room’s utility: Book Room (seriously), Washroom and such.

One pane, the last of the tour was blank. “This would be your room.” Beatrice stepped aside and let me turn the knob. Compared to the tidy array (neither cluttered or ruthlessly organized it felt like a lived-in museum. “Tidy” is the best I can do here) of furniture and interesting things this room felt like a shock – completely bare of anything, except for indents in the carpet (the sterling upside was it has its own bathroom). It was perfect.

“I can clear out some kitchen cabinets and space in the hall closet for your stuff and we can figure out how best to fit your furniture around the house. Anything else you can put in storage here on the property.” Still wandering around looking out the window and in the medicine cabinet, I assumed she was trying to iron out any future kinks or qualms I might have.

“So what do you think?”

1.12 Dourwood’s Days Are Numbered!

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I choked on my on the coffee. I was going to kill Wood – he’s such a liar – he never talked to her. Trying to compose a suitable answer in my head on the fly, while calculating the amount of money it would take to replace the titles of mine in his possession (I decided yelling at him would be more economical) when Beatrice started laughing.

“That was mean, forgive me. I wasn’t sure if Dourwood told you he tried to set us up the other night. I am glad he did, so I can clear the air – I am not looking for a girlfriend, I am looking for a roommate.”

Wheezing I nodded and waved for her to go on. Trying to listen, laugh and cough discreetly didn’t allow for much contribution to the subject at the moment. It also mitigated the relief I felt at the moment, since choking tends to drown out most everything else.

“You remember I told you about my break-in a few weeks back?” I nodded for her to continue, my power of speech not quite there yet.

“The thing is, the break-in made my landlady, Ms. Hettie, nervous – especially since I travel frequently. And when she gets nervous she gets cranky. Well, crankier. So I thought having a roommate might maker her feel more secure. I can offer a discounted rent; if you’re willing to grab stuff I send to a P.O. Box and coordinate your travel with mine, so we can have someone home most nights. What do you think?” She regarded me  with a hopeful look, but there was that competitive gleam as well – like this was her master stroke in keeping the house breakers at bay. Once again I wondered if she regarded thwarting them as a competitive sport.

Working past my speculation into stupefaction, I’m not sure why I thought we were meeting but I never saw this coming. My shoulders started to relax for the first time since Ben dropped by. I swear she felt my natural hesitation of moving in with a practical stranger melting under the thought of an affordable rent or in fact simply a roof over my head. Twelve days to find a place and move into it seemed daunting, “Plus all the books you can read.” She knew her audience – I wavered, “Months before they are released.” Now she was playing hardball.

Practicality replaced surprise and the odd suspicion. Buying a bit of time I hedged, ”Can I see your place and my room first before I decide?” Making sure I didn’t commit to some dark, depressing house at the end of a dank lane. Though I am not sure I would turn it down even then (later I thought this a bit rich, since I lived in a cemetery), the specter of pleading for a place with Aunt Pearl – even short term – haunted me.

“No problem. Do you want to see it now?” she asked while she got ready to head out.

“Don’t you have to go back to work?” Mirroring her movements I put on my jacket and scarf.

“The joy of my job is the built-in flexibility. As long as I get my work done on time my boss doesn’t care when I come in.”

I asked for a to go cup and we left The Altar.

I counted myself lucky when we decided to take separate cars. It allowed me to call Wood while I followed her home (using a hands-free device, of course). He verified that as far as he knew Beatrice didn’t harbor any latent axe murdering tendencies. Or mental instabilities which would again lead her towards the aforementioned axe wielding predilections. Or general flakiness which would find her trunk filled with all my first editions, heading to New York with dreams of starring in A Chorus Line inadvertently financed by me (You laugh but my early twenties were weird and expensive). Wood assured me that these possibilities were extremely remote. The most unusual thing he knew of Beatrice happened twelve years previous and featured a herd of goats, a sorority house and the staging of an epic prank. When Wood hung up I felt reassured about Beatrice’s character, despite the goats.

1.11 We Worship At The Altar Of The Bean

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The heady scents of coffee, sugar and bacon enveloped me when I entered The Altar of the Bean (or The Altar as it is known amongst the regulars, neighborhood and social media). The controlled chaos of baristas, cashiers and bakers behind the counter snagged my attention first, the pastry case came second and when I spotted the espresso machine in all its glory, I stood transfixed – I’d been absent from here for far to long. When finally I snapped out of the hypnotic reverie which gripped me, I spied Beatrice tucked in the best lit corner of the cafe reading a book with an impressively large cup in front of her.

I made my way to the marble-topped table, feeling a bit awkward. I always feel odd when meeting a friend of a another friend without said original friend there – acting as a translator or referee? You never want to put the original friend in an weird fix if it turns out you actual loathe each other (I am exceptional at borrowing trouble). Fortunately Beatrice glanced up from her book before I reached her and smiled.

“Hey. Mind if I get coffee before I sit down?” I deposited my outerwear accoutrements on the chair opposite her while she answered, “Not at all.”

“Would you like a refill?” She shook her head no and I went to wait in line. I dithered over my selection while waiting, lemon Danish? A bear claw? Croissant? Or chuck it all and get a bacon, egg and cheese on pita? I glanced back at Beatrice, sucked into her book again. Hazard of the job I suppose.

My vacillating was interrupted by the barista at the counter asking what I wanted to order – a raspberry croissant and caramel latte, please. When my order was up, I rejoined Beatrice at the table where she held up her index finger while her eyes moved swiftly over the page, “One page to the next chapter.”

“No worries.” Which was fine by me as the croissant was proving to be a challenge. The raspberry jam squished out of the end onto my chin and fingers with such precision I could only conclude the Altar some how worked out a way to turn a dollop of jam into a guided missile whose sole focus was to besmirch a shirt front. Perhaps if I light a candle and offer up a coffee bean as penance for my long absence from this holy place, my shirts will be safe again…. (Yes they have an actual altar, they’ve adopted the Greek god Dionysus as their patron. Like I said, they take their coffee very seriously, or perhaps the owners are Greek. Could go either way.).

Placing an index card in the book to hold her place, Beatrice set it aside and tried not to laugh at my struggles. I must admit the mound of napkins in front of me was impressive, but I won the day and managed to keep my shirt front free from stains.

I started with a soft pitch, “What book are you reading?” There was no cover art and I didn’t see who the author was before she put it away.

“The new Ernest Cline, due out next year. Pretty good so far.” She finished her coffee and arched her eyebrow at me. New Ernie Cline? Seriously? She’d put the book back in her bag so filching it was out of the question. Well that an our passing familiarity. I ruled out mugging her in the parking for the same reason. Curses! (You may ask why my go-to strategy for acquiring the book features a criminal element? One night of fun did not mean we were on book borrowing terms with one another – Wood and I took twenty years to achieve this level. I mean what if we stopped talking right after I lent my favorite out? Tragedy. Is theft the obvious answer? Perhaps my bibliophile priorities may need tweaking…not that I would really resorted to these methods…).

Focusing back on real life again, ”And while this is a fine book, I did ask you to meet me here for a slightly different reason.” Smiling I appreciated her directness, since the jam incident and my larcenous heart didn’t make me feel any less awkward and I was intrigued to figure out where this conversation was going. I picked up my latte and blew on it while I waited for her to continue.

“You mentioned the other night that you needed to move out your house at Nevermore rather quickly. Have you found a new place yet?” Her fingers tapped the the edge of her saucer while she spoke.

“Not yet. It’s number two on my list. Why?”, taking my first sip of coffee.

“I was wondering if you’d move in with me?”

1.10 Unexpected Invitations

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Achievement unlocked! Gainful employment! My second job ever! Aunt Pearl isn’t going to brag about this one either! Never underestimate the small bonus of annoying your nearest and dearest with life choices which don’t fit their well-placed parameters of life.

Ok, so maybe it isn’t the steadiest of jobs, but I figured I could eke it out until I could figure out a more permanent solution.

The only downside to my morning of adulting was the unfortunate issue of forgetting my phone at home (even more adult? I didn’t cross three lanes of traffic to whip a u-turn at speed on an arterial to go back and pick it up before my appointment!) which resulted in a seven day delay in starting my new means of earning my daily bread. Apparently their paperless process is batched once a week and I just missed the cutoff – because I couldn’t return their emailed forms straight away (my previous adult driving started to annoy me). However I did leave the office with my FLIT sticker, ID number, lapel pin and assurances that the Pink Princess and I have a bright future with the company. I think the interviewer had drunk too much corporate koolaid with that last one – but since they didn’t even blink at my previous employment, who am I to judge? Seriously they seemed more concerned with my criminal record -or lack there of- and the Princess’s brake pads, than in my sparkling personality.

Since I was on a roll, I ran some errands, mainly grabbing packing supplies. When I got home I found my phone right where I left it – right next to the box of Froot Loops on the kitchen counter. Ignoring everything else, I finished all the forms FLIT sent me, hoping against hope someone would slip it through early and I could start driving sooner than next week. Hope springs eternal.

When I finished with those, I delved into my other email – mostly adverts. It was my texts which held something interesting: an unknown number. Well not as unknown as I first thought…

Good morning, Phoebe, this is Beatrice.  We met the other night at dinner. Dourwood gave me your number and I have a proposition for you. Give me a call at ***-***-*****.

Curious. Three days had passed since our fungus-laden dinner. Two since Wood’d promised to talk to her. Now she was propositioning me – business or personal? Business, please be business.

Speed dial number two activated.

Me: “Did you talk to Beatrice?”

Wood (indignant): “She isn’t a vegetarian either! She agrees with you about Laney’s cooking!”

Me: “Focus! Did she think it was a date?”

Wood: “Nope. Didn’t cross her mind, apparently.”

Me: “Thanks!”

Wood: “Hey! Laney comes home on Friday, want to grab dinner on Thursday?”

Me: “Sounds good, text me where you want to go. No fungus!”

I hung up before more questions about Beatrice or his wife’s cooking came up again.

So I was free of one awkward conversation; the Cupid known as Dourwood missed his shot. So what proposition did she have for me I wonder? I gave her a call and we agree to meet a a little coffee shop near Pulp, The Altar of the Bean.

They take their coffee really seriously.

1.8 Lessons In Random Ordering

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(To Be Clear – this is not The Fungus House!)

Random ordering is not a sound strategy in a place called The Fungus House.

Beatrice’s mushroom pho looked like a pretty piece of modern art in a bowl.

Wood’s portobello burger looked like an actual burger with cheese, ketchup and lettuce – I think a special sauce might have made an appearance as well.

My lentil and mushroom shepherds pie looked like a sick topiary covered in week old snow.

While contemplating how to tackle the beige mountain that was my dinner (while eating as little of it as possible) I tried to shift the topic off my impending homelessness on to anything else. Wood beat me to the punch.

“So Bee how is life in the book world treating you?”

My ears perked up, “Books?”

A smile crossed her face, “I am a buyer and store promoter for Pulp. I just got back from a trade show in New York. Oh Wood, I got the new Neil Gaiman advanced reader copy for you”. She dug in her briefcase and handed Wood the aforementioned book.

I have never been so jealous of Wood as I was right this instant. I love Gaiman. Eight more months I would have to wait for his new book to hit the shelves. I wonder if Wood would loan it to me when he was finished. Now to the important question, “You get to see where books are born?”

“Something like that, publishers hold book expos to promote their hot, new or exciting titles. Pulp sends me to figure out what is the genuine article and what is just hype. The only unfortunate thing about the trip was my place was broken into while I was gone.”

“That’s no good. Did they take anything irreplaceable?” Wood asked while tucking the book next to his leg.

“No, that’s what’s weird, they only stole a couple old paperbacks and that painting you hate. But other than that, they just rifled through the place and left.” She leaned back in the booth, the conversation causing her to lose her appetite, or perhaps she was full – her bowl was nearly empty.

“Well that doesn’t sound too bad, the painting was hideous. Do you know how they got in?” Wood chimed in while I made sympathetic noises.

“The police weren’t sure. The working theory is that Ms. Hettie left a window upstairs open and they found her key to open the door and went downstairs. They left her stuff alone. If they cased the place, they would have known she would be home soon and the police would investigate immediately rather than a week later.”

Chiming in, “Did you change you locks?”.

“On all the doors and windows. I made it much harder to get in, should they decide for round two.” A hint of competitiveness (or annoyance, it was hard to tell) crept into her voice – apparently thwarting thieves was a sport?

Speaking of larceny, Wood knew I was eyeing his book (he did after all turn me onto Gaiman), when my hand started creeping towards the volume he and the book scooted away from me, “Excuse me for a minute, ladies, I need to use the facilities and put this in my car before I forget it.”

Drat.

It was then that the bright pins and needles sensation began pricking my toes. Curling them in my shoes I did my best imitation of Winged Victory (you know the statue), trying not to crane my neck to spot who’d popped up into the restaurant. Fortunately I didn’t wonder long – two dancers waltzed past me and started to gliding their way through the restaurant. I tried not to stare but her dress was so beautiful. It reminded me of the wedding dress Grace Kelley’s character wore in her last movie High Society, graceful lines with lace and chiffon swishing elegantly about her knees. Her partner was harder to make out, more the idea of a tuxedo giving him form than what he actually possessed. Or perhaps his partner just sucked all the light towards her, it was hard to tell. In either case, my fellow diners ate on, oblivious to the spectacle circling through them and I lost the thread of the conversation entirely.

“Her dress is lovely isn’t it.”

Startled I refocused on the woman sitting across from me, “Her dress?”

“The couple dancing, her dress is deliciously vintage isn’t it?”

At this point my mouth did a great goldfish impression, “You see them?”

Before she could answer Wood came back to the table patting his pockets, “Beatrice do you know where my keys are?”

Distracted from the dancers by Wood’s question I asked, “Why would she know where your keys are?”

“Bee always finds my keys when I lose them.” Wood looked expectantly at Beatrice.

I could feel her eyes rolling, “You are the only person I know who loses them so regularly.”

“Please?” Wood did his best imitation of a cocker spaniel.

Beatrice closed her eyes for a moment, “They are under the table over there.” She pointed an empty table near the restrooms.

Wood hustled over to where Beatrice pointed, taking the book with him (gggrrrr!), “That’s a neat trick.” I commented, relieved the dancers had left without noticing me.

She smiled, “You think so?”

After dinner we all ended up at The Rusty Hinge, drinking beer, playing pinball and shooting the breeze (where I managed to scarf down a bacon burger with Wood being none the wiser). The Fungus House was a distant memory by the end of the night.

(Above Burger Photo Credit)

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