Marilyn -- Round Three

Marilyn’s last text to me this afternoon occurred at exactly 5:02 p.m. Mountain Standard Time. It reads thus:

“I want my part of my food and I will never ever do this again. You ate all of it, didn’t you?”

At 5:40 she was back at my door again, as bright and cheerful as a summer morn. I was a bit taken aback; I figured she’d crossed me off her list for at least the rest of today. Her vagaries, of course, are becoming a large part of her charm. Just like the variation of storm and blue skies on the mountains makes for a charming view.

I did not have to question her about her volte-face; she happily supplied me with the information as soon as she sat down and asked for more cookies and m&ms.  Her friend Holly had stopped by earlier to “share” some pills with her. And, said Marilyn brightly, Holly would be back at six to take her over to her house for a sumptuous dinner.

So I unplugged the slow cooker. Soon as it cooled down I’d put the rest of the smothered pork in a baggy to pop in the fridge. (It was quite toothsome, bye the bye; what with mushrooms and chickpeas simmered with it.)

And so begins Round Three with Marilyn.

As if for my personal entertainment, she began a comic search through her purse for some Poligrip; her lower plate was coming unglued.

It was quite a routine, the kind of schtick that Lucille Ball might have performed. Punctuated by mild curses, she first opened her wallet, although how her Poligrip could be in there is beyond me. She found a discount card for Kohl’s, but alas it expired back in 2017. Then her laundry quarters cascaded onto her lap. When she had those stowed safely back in the hold she took out her cash to count it. High drama ensued as she realized she was thirty dollars short. Where had that thirty bucks gone to? Holly. Of course, Holly had stolen it. Holly steals anything that is not nailed down. No, that wasn’t it; Holly had not been near Marilyn’s purse during her brief medicinal visit. Had she spent it and already forgotten on what? She glanced over herself to see if she was wearing a new piece of jewelry or new blouse. No, that wasn’t it.

I broke into her reverie to remind her she had given me 30 dollars cash during the weekend to cover her end of our food bill. Mystery solved.

Laying her wallet aside, she dove into her purse -- producing in quick succession a hair brush, lip gloss, a book of matches, a makeup mirror, a pack of cigarettes (gasp!), a ball of crushed Kleenex, another hair brush, a lozenge of aluminum foil, and an empty container of Tic Tacs. But no Poligrip.

Next she tried her zippered side pockets. Her purse is equipped with at least a half dozen slits and pouches -- deviously placed to defy discovery (quite possibly for secret spy messages and microfiche.) One by one she inveigled the zippers open and probed with her long lavender colored fingernails. Results were disappointingly meager: more balled up Kleenex and several wrinkled receipts from various box stores. She stepped up her cursing a notch, becoming more indistinct as her lower plate continued to come unmoored.

But I had had my eye on that aluminum foil lozenge. With the keen analytical skills of a Sherlock Holmes I felt it was an Important Clue in the Case of the Missing Polident, and pointed at it and asked casually what might be in it.

“Oh, some q-tips” she replied.

“Indeed?” I queried, with one eyebrow raised. Well, okay, I didn’t say exactly that. More like “Why dontcha open it up to make sure?” And I can’t manage to raise one eyebrow quizzically, either.

She did. Voila! A nearly played out tube of Poligrip.

By now it was fifteen past six.

“Where is that girl?” Marilyn asked herself crossly. Holly was never on time; she couldn’t be counted on.

So we sat and chewed the fat some more. She recounted her brief career as a jazzercise instructor at Baileys Gym Health Club in Cincinnati. She was very hot, if she did say so herself. Men from far distances queued up to take her class, panting like airedales. But an inopportune slip on a pineapple chunk on the floor of a daquiri bar fractured her ankle in several places. That ended all her undoubtedly spectacular opportunities in the twisting world of jazzercise.

As the minutes ticked slowly by Marilyn began a barrage of texts to Holly, beginning with “Hope everything is okay. Where are you?” and ending, twenty minutes later, when there had been no response, with a profane kiss off telling her their friendship was definitely over for good.

So I warmed up some of the smothered pork for her, with a side of cottage cheese -- on which she sprinkled sugar. Holly, she proclaimed between bites, had just lost the best friend she ever had. I merely nodded, stifling a yawn. I was played out, ready to wash the dishes, take a shower, and hit the hay.

Marilyn, bless her soul, saw how tired I was and noticed the stack of dishes in the sink, so she kindly patted my shoulder as she made for the door, bidding me sweet dreams.

Now, as I hang up the dish towel to dry, there comes one last text from Marilyn:

“She has the nerve to say she’s been calling and valuing there is not one call or text from her at all and my phone is on loud . . . she has major issues that girl.”

Clearer heads and bolder hearts than mine will have to decipher that message. For me, it’s time to snuggle up in bed with my Kindle.