“Who the hell is this?”
“Bitch.”
Click.
Before I could pry my fingernails from my mattress, it rang again.
“Buffalo-butt. Cow.”
“I’ve got *69. I can find out who you are!” Nothing.
I listened to the even breathing on the line.
“What are you going to do, come sit on me?”
“No! I’m going to send my boyfriend over there to kick your ass!” Juvenile, yes, but what do you want at three a.m.?
“Well, I’m looking forward to meeting Colonel Sanders.”
Click.
*69 informed me the calls came from a phone booth. Usually, I am not bothered by crank-calls, but this one left me feeling uneasy. The Glamour magazine fiasco was still fresh in my mind. I sat up the rest of the night watching Richard Simmons info-mercials. By five I’d ordered the Deluxe Deal a Meal Plan and a Pocket Fisherman.
I used my sleepless night as an excuse to keep the spa at bay for two days. At first the thought of a pampering appealed, then I realized I would have to be naked with strangers.
I caved on Thursday morning. Ms. Leopold summoned me at ten-thirty. Mr. Oodles, sporting a leather vest with fur trim, was basking in the morning sun on my welcome mat. My neighbor, Mr. Balducci, was swearing at Mr. Oodles and waving a plastic bag with dubious contents.
“Cara Chloë, please-a tell me that is not-a your dog.”
“No, he belongs to Ms. Leopold. She moved in this week.”
Dino Balducci began to swear in Italian. “Where I come-a from, that-a sausage would be make into a nice-a stew, not dressed up-a like a Barbie doll!” He stormed away muttering about dog-based recipes.
“So glad you found him, darling. He just slips out sometimes, heaven knows how.”
We pulled up to the River Grand Country Club and Spa and were whisked inside. Three people fawned over Ms. Leopold, and by virtue of having arrived in the same car, I was at the receiving end of some strange attention as well.
“Wheat grass juice?”
“Do you need a kelp wrap?”
“Our sugar detox advisor can fit you in at noon, is that okay?”
“Would you prefer endurance or strength spinning?”
My day was spent being poked, rubbed, stretched, steamed, waxed and tortured on various machines that insisted on knowing my weight before they would work. Ms. Leopold watched from behind soundproof glass in an indoor tropical paradise with drink service.
My nap on the ride home came to a screeching halt. Mr. Balducci’s garbage can was wedged neatly into the rear wheel-well of the Mercedes.
“Shall we go to Damon’s tomorrow?” Ms. Leopold inquired.
I scrunched my face with displeasure.
“Oh, don’t worry, dear. I think you’ll find the situation has been rectified.”
Too tired to ask for clarification, I said goodnight, then limped to my door. I nearly missed the envelope peeking out from my mail-slot. It wasn’t labelled. I tore into it while flopping onto my bed. Inside was a photocopy of my last grocery bill. I’d been in the clutches of a bingeing spree and purchased more than a few items containing double-chocolate fudge. Underneath was a simple sentence. “This little piggy went to market.” Nausea washed over me. I came to the creepy realization that it had not been a crank phone call the other night. I ran through my house, closing blinds and locking windows.
How did someone get my grocery bill? And why? It must have been left in one of the numerous plastic bags I’d put out for recycling. I struggled with the strange events.
My sleep was littered with nightmares of being chased by the “Fat Police”. I barely managed to settle my nerves with several cups of camomile tea. When I went for the paper, any internal calm was sucked out of me by Ms. Leopold’s shrieking. She was standing on her doorstep, wrapped in plum chiffon and feathers, waving at me desperately.
“They’ve snatched my Oodles!”
Mr. Oodles had escaped the night before. He was inclined to do so after a stressful day. Ms. Leopold assumed he’d be back by morning. But instead she’d found his ascot with a note.
“Kiss your wiener goodbye.” It was penned in smeared red lipstick.
Mr. Balducci watched from his balcony. He wore an apron proclaiming him to be a “naughty gnocchi”.
I settled Ms. Leopold into her bed with a box of Kleenex, camomile tea and a 40-ounce bottle of Bombay Sapphire. Then I phoned the police.
In fifteen minutes three cruisers arrived, lights and sirens on. Apparently, Ms. Leopold played bridge with the chief of police.
That evening I was posting “Missing Oodles” fliers after visiting the liquor store for Ms. Leopold. I slipped into Low-Mart for new workout attire. I didn’t want to spend a bundle on clothes. I knew from experience they would not get much wear. I was led to the fitting-room by a pinched-faced woman in a blue smock. She must have overheard my grunts as I forced the waistband of the medium stretch pants.
“Another size, perhaps?” She called from just outside the stall. “Maybe a large would be more comfortable.”
Moments later, the loudspeaker announced the store would be closing. A flowered housedress was flung over my stall door. I eyed the 28XXXL tag.
“Oh, I don’t think that’s for me.”
“I think it will do perfectly.”
The store lights dimmed.
“The men will be swooning over you. You see, spandex is not your friend. It shows off all your rolls and dimples.”
That condescending, nasal voice! I’d been thrown off by the smock, but it was the sales lady from Damon’s. That bitch! Wanting nothing more than to throttle the snotty woman, I stuffed myself into my clothes, but found the change room door was locked.
“Hey!” I banged hard against the door. “Let me out!”
“Perhaps Colonel Sanders will come to your rescue. Although he may be hurt to find you’re having an intimate relationship with Mr. Christie and Joe Louis as well.”
The lights were completely out in the store. I strained to listen for signs of life over my pounding heart. A Muzak version of “La Bamba” accompanied my cries for help.
I slumped to the floor to ponder my predicament. It was hard to believe someone with such a high calibre of snobbery would be caught dead in Low-Mart. Why would she have traded her Donna Karan suits for a blue
