The Little Old Lady from Pasadena, Pt. 1

Chapter One.

The table was covered in a red-and-white checkered cloth. Atop it sat a French press full of fresh coffee, a bowl of cut fruit, and a plate of pancakes topped with a single thick square of butter. Nearby, a measuring glass steamed with hot syrup.

The table stood in the center of a combination kitchenette and dining room in the shabby little apartment where the old lady made her home. She stood by the window above the sink, peering over the dainty half-curtain at the busy street below. Cars fought for the few available spaces, while a parking enforcer made her slow and ambling way down the lane, checking meters and taking pictures of cars sitting in violation of the local meter laws.

Inhaling long to savor the smell of fresh pancakes, the little old lady turned from the sink, full of the battered implements (that is, covered in batter) she'd used to concoct her breakfast, and pulled out a chair to sit down before her morning feast. She glanced up at the picture of her laughing late husband, hanging on the wall in the living room, just visible through the door of the kitchenette.

On one hand was an oven mitt; she used it to pick up the measuring glass of steaming syrup, and pour it over her pancakes. The square of butter went rolling off to one side, and lay melting in the spreading amber pool. The little old lady reached a deft thumb and forefinger into the syrup, and replaced the square atop the pancakes. She went back to pouring. But, of course, the butter went riding a current of syrup right back off the pancakes.

When she reached down this time to replace it, it melted through her fingers. Rivulets of liquid butter spread through the syrup. The little old lady frowned at her breakfast a moment, and then stood to walk to the scarlet refrigerator jammed into one corner of the kitchen.

She swung open the door, hung with pictures of grandchildren in baseball uniforms and middle school graduation caps, and slid out a half-used stick of butter. She sat back down at the table, and cut off a hearty slice. She flicked it from the knife onto her pancakes, where it sat for a moment before rolling, like the one before it, down into the pool of syrup. Her lip twitching ever so slightly, she sliced off another pat of butter—and it, too, went rolling off her pancakes.

A few moments later, the syrup was white with butter. But she remained unsuccessful. Finally, she gave up; one had to know when to quit. More importantly, she was now out of butter.

She spent the rest of breakfast thinking about how much better it was when the butter stayed on top of the pancakes, rather than running off to one side to melt into insignificance in the steaming syrup. It all but ruined the meal.

So, when breakfast was done and all the dishes were standing at attention in neat rows in her dishwasher, she stepped on the pedal that opened her scarlet metal trashcan. She fished inside, pushing aside used paper towels and a quarter of a pancake to fish out a crushed cardboard box adorned with a picture of a serene-looking Indian girl. She flipped the box around, examining it until she found an 800 number printed on the bottom. She reached over to where the telephone sat in its cradle, and stared at the box as she dialed the number.

A single ring, and then a mechanical voice: “Thank you for calling Lake Plains, Incorporated. Please listen to this whole message before making your selection, as our options have recently changed.”

The little old lady looked at the ceiling while the mechanical woman spoke.

“If you are a distributor, press 1. If you are a retail customer, press 2...” The little old lady pressed 2.

“Please listen to this message all the way through, as our menu options have recently changed. Thank you for calling Lake Plains, Incorporated. If you are a distributor, press 1. If you are...” The little old lady's attention wandered in protest. When the mechanical voice finally fell silent, after “... press 7,” she pressed 2.

She heard two rings, and then music began to play. A moment passed, and then the music quieted to allow another mechanical voice to say, “Thank you for calling. Your call is important to us. The next available agent will be with you as soon as possible.”

This process repeated itself several times. The little old lady lost track of the minutes. But finally, when she was about to give up, she heard the music give way to more ringing. This time, a human voice answered.

“Hello, and thank you for calling Lake Plains, Incorporated. My name is Tanya. How may I serve you today?”

“Yes, hi,” the little old lady said. “I'm calling to complain about your butter. I tried to use it on my pancakes this morning, and...” The girl on the other end of the phone cut her off.

“I am sorry to hear... that your experience was anything less than ideal,” she read. “What can we do to resolve your complaint?”

“I'm trying to tell you what my complaint is,” the little old lady said. “I tried to use your butter on my pancakes, but when I poured on the syrup, the butter went rolling off to one side. I tried again and again—I went through a whole stick of butter trying to get it to stay on top of the pancakes, but it just wouldn't stay. I demand that you send me a new stick of butter that will stay on my pancakes.”

There was a pause on the other end of the line. The little old lady thought she heard papers shuffling.

“Uhh...” Tanya said.

The little old lady tapped her foot, waiting.

“I'm gonna get my supervisor. Hold on.”

“Yes, it seems like that would be best,” the little old lady said. There was a click, and the music came back. The mechanical voice had just begun to assure her that she was a valuable customer when the line clicked again and she heard a man's voice.

“Hi, this is John Barr with Lake Plains, Incorporated. I understand that you've had... an unusual problem with one of our products.”

“Yes, I have,” the little old lady said emphatically. “I tried to put your butter on my pancakes, but it absolutely would not stay where I put it. I put several pats of butter on my pancakes, but they all rolled off to one side. Now, I don't know if you eat pancakes, Mr. Barr, but breakfast is at least 90% presentation, and I have to say that my breakfast was in a sorry state this morning. The presentation was all off, and it completely ruined my appetite. I didn't even finish my pancakes, and I'm an old woman, see? It's important for my health and longevity that I consume a nutritious breakfast every morn...”

“Well, you see, Mrs...?”

“Dean. Mrs. Eunice Dean.”

“Well, Mrs. Dean, you see, butter is an extremely slippery product. We put a lot of effort into ensuring that our butter is as slippery as possible, for maximum usefulness in the kitchen. Now, just to make sure, you are using Lake Plains Maple Syrup, yes?”

“Oh, heavens no!” the little old lady said. “I would never! That's not real maple syrup, young man. That's corn syrup. I grew up in a day and age when a lady could expect a bottle labeled 'maple syrup' to have some actual maple syrup in it. I wouldn't touch that stuff with a stolen fork!”

“Well, Mrs., uhh...”

“Mrs. Dean, young man!”

“Mrs. Dean, we at Lake Plains can't be held responsible for how products manufactured by other companies perform. If you were using Lake Plains Maple Syrup, that would be one thing, but...”

“But nothing, young man! I did not make eighty-some years on this earth to some young boy from the telephone tell me that I have to start using some fake corn syrup crap on my pancakes if I want the butter to stay on top!”

“Well, Mrs....”

“Mrs. Dean! I tell you what, young man; I want you to go after you leave work today and buy a jar of real maple syrup. You put that on your pancakes, and you tell me that it isn't the far superior choice. If it isn't, then I retract my complaint completely. I'll just have to go find some butter that will stay on my pancakes. Butter that performs as advertised, in other words. And that, young man, is how you may 'serve me today.'”

“Well, I suppose, if it would resolve your complaint...”

“Yes, it very much would. You call me when you've tried some real maple syrup, and I dare you to tell me that it isn't much better.”

The little old lady gave Mr. John Barr her home phone number.

“You've got it?”

“Yes, ma'am. I'll be sure to call you as soon as I try your real maple syrup.”

“Excellent. Now, repeat the number back to me, so I know you've got it right.”

Mr. John Barr fumbled. The little old lady repeated her number, and it wasn't until Mr. Barr had successfully recited it back to her that she let him get off the phone. She put the receiver back into the cradle and stood in her kitchen, nodding with a grim kind of satisfaction.

Outside, it had begun to rain. The little old lady, however, had not noticed. But now she did, and she went running to the window, shaking her head and muttering “Oh, no, no, no,” under her breath.

“How am I supposed to go for my walk?!” she said to the street below. She got no satisfactory answer—only the gentle pelting of rain drops against her window, and the sight of the parking enforcer down below running for cover, her clipboard held over her head to shield her from the rain.

The little old lady went into the living room. It was furnished with an ornate and very uncomfortable old couch upholstered in white, a scarlet and very comfortable recliner, and a lightly carved wooden coffee table. There was an old TV, set into an entertainment center with bookshelves on either side. These were filled with tattered paperback novels and books about finding meaning in one's golden years. The little old lady tried a few different remotes from off the coffee table until she found the one that actually controlled the TV, and turned it on. She flipped channels until she saw a man in a suit standing in front of a map of L.A. county. He was pointing at some green digital clouds that seemed to hang over the entire county, coming in from the sea.

“Yep, Walter, it looks like this front began gathering at sea last night and took us all by surprise this morning. We're looking at six to eight inches of rain over the next two days. There are flood watches in effect in San Diego County and parts of West Los Angeles. This is a welcome change, Walter, from the drought that's been affecting us for the last...” The little old lady stood and went back to the window, disgusted.

“It's just not fair,” she said to no one in particular. She stood by the larger living room window, looking down at the traffic below. Little rivers had formed in the gutters already; the rain was coming down harder now. She turned back to the TV, intending to shut it off in protest, but she saw a phone number displayed at the bottom of the screen, and an idea took her.

She raced into the kitchen, snatched the phone out of its cradle by the fridge, and came back into the living room, stretching the cord around the corner to read the number off the screen as she dialed.

She heard a few rings, and then a voice answered—a human one, thankfully.

“Thank you for calling the Weather Channel. This is Chanel; how can I help you today?”

“Yes, I'm calling because it is, uh, currently raining, and...”

“Where are you calling from, ma'am?”

“From Pasadena, dearie! Where do you think?”

“Well, this is the national office—we field calls from all over the United...”

“Never mind all that. I'm in Pasadena and it's raining and I need to go for my walk. I've already had a frustrating morning, and this is just the cherry on top of my pits pie!”

“Well, I'm sorry to hear that, ma'am, but unfortunately...”

“I'd like to speak to your supervisor,” the little old lady said, remembering her success with Mr. John Barr from earlier.

But the Weather Channel employed no such kindly supervisors. The woman who took the phone this time was having none of it.

“Hello, this is Deborah. I'm the supervisor here. What can I do for you today?”

“Yes, this is Mrs. Dean. I'm calling because it is currently raining here.”

“Okay...” Deborah seemed unsure of what to say. “And... what can we do for you?”

“You're the Weather Channel, aren't you? I'm calling because the weather sucks!”

“Ma'am, we don't... we don't control the weather, here. You... understand that, right?”

“Well, who am I supposed to call?” the little old lady all but yelled into the phone. “The government? They're not going to do anything about this, believe you me—I've tried.”

“Lady, the government doesn't control the weather, either.” The little old lady thought she heard Deborah from the Weather Channel whispering something to someone else in the room with her.

“Well, who am I supposed to call about this? It is completely unacceptable. I was supposed to go for a walk today, and now I can't!”

“Can I recommend... an umbrella?” Deborah from the Weather Channel said.

“My shoes will get wet. They'll be ruined. I did not make it seventy-odd years on this earth to have some girl in a pencil skirt and shoulder pads tell me that I just have to shut up and take it when the weather turns bad. I pay your salary, you know that?”

“Ma'am... I don't know how to help you. I can't change the weather.”

“Well put me on the phone with someone who can, then!”

There was silence on the other end of the line. The little old lady's lips had narrowed until her mouth was a thin line in her face.

“Look, is this a prank call? We take that kind of thing very seriously around here, I'll have you know, and...” The little old lady stuck the receiver back into its cradle, cutting off Deborah of the Weather Channel and all of her unhelpful suggestions. She shook her head at the picture of her husband. These young people, her face said.

With no one else to complain to, the little old lady elected to head downstairs to see her landlord. Not that she expected him to be able to do anything about the weather, mind you; but now that her children never visited or called her anymore, he was her closest—if not always willing—companion.

The elevator doors opened and the little old lady headed for the landlord's office. He managed the property himself, so he could most often be found in the windowless concrete cube he called an office. It held a single pressboard desk, behind which he spent his days in an aging swivel chair. There were two cushioned office chairs in front of the desk, and it was in one of these that the little old lady plunked herself when she reached the office.

“Good morning, Mrs. Dean,” Mr. Barnes, the landlord, said. “How are you today?” He looked up long enough to greet her, then went back to staring at the paperwork in front of him. He always seemed to be doing paperwork.

“Oh, just terrible, Mr. Barnes,” the little old lady said. “Today has just been one frustration after another.”

“I'm sorry to hear that, Mrs. Dean. Why don't you go for a walk? That always makes you feel better.”

“I would if I could, Mr. Barnes! But it's raining!”

“Raining? It never rains in Southern California.” Mr. Barnes stood halfway from his chair to peer out the door of his office. Through the double glass doors of the building, just visible through his door, he saw that it was, indeed, raining outside.

“It is today! Of all days! Oh, this must be punishment for something, Mr. Barnes. But what did I do? I'm just an old lady; I never hurt anybody!”

“I'm sure this is not punishment for anything. I'm pretty sure the weather doesn't change based on your behavior.”

“But what could it be, then? It hasn't rained here in months!”

“Well, it's just... the weather, you know? Look, we all have frustrating days. Like me, yesterday.”

“Oh, nothing bad ever happens to you,” the little old lady said.

“I found out I'm going to have to sell, Mrs. Dean.”

“Sell? Sell what? Not one of your children, I hope.”

“My ch...? What?! Why on earth would I sell one of my children? No... I meant this building.”

“What? Worse! You can't sell the building! What am I supposed to do?”

“I'm sure you'll find a perfectly good place to move, Mrs. Dean. There are plenty of nice apartments around here. Nicer than this one.” Mr. Barnes looked sad.

“But I like it here! And where would I go? You know my children never call or visit me anymore.”

“Be that as it may, I just can't afford the property taxes here anymore. You know you're my only tenant. Nobody wants to live in this building for some reason. I can't seem to attract any tenants.”

“Well, just... put out more signs, or something. I'm sure you'll find some tenants!”

“I tried that, Mrs. Dean. The city came by and told me I had to take some of my signs down. Said I was 'defacing public property' or something. There's some kind of city ordnance about it. I don't really understand the whole thing. They'll do anything to keep the little guy down, you know?”

“And what about the little old lady?” the little old lady said. “They're keeping you down, but they're kicking her out!” Panic had crept into her voice.

“Look; I'll even help you find a place. But it's time for me to move on.”

“No! Who would I talk to? Nobody wants to be friends with an old lady anymore. Nobody has any respect for their elders. You should have heard the people at the Weather Channel when I called them this morning about the weather.”

Mr. Barnes frowned at the little old lady for a moment. “You called about the...?” But he decided not to make an issue of it. He had enough on his mind already without getting involved in whatever strange dramas the little old lady had perpetrated at the Weather Channel this morning.

“I will not have it. No, no, no! How many tenants do you need to make the property taxes, Mr. Barnes?”

“Well, I'd need at least three new tenants by the end of the month if I was going to stand a chance of...”

“Then it's decided.” The little old lady nodded once for emphasis. “We're going out, you and me. We're gonna find those tenants if it's the last thing I ever do.”

“That would kind of defeat the purpose if it was the last thing you ever...” Mr. Barnes trailed off. Not a debate worth winning. Mrs. Dean had clearly already made up her mind, and he'd known her long enough not to try and argue once that had happened.

“We start tomorrow!” the little old lady said. And with that, she stood from her chair and stalked out of the room. Mr. Barnes watched her vanish out his office door, an expression of resignation on his face. He made that face a lot, these days.

--

The windows are cracked, and the wind whisks through the car, lifting a tuft of brown hair from the boy's head. He's wearing Ray-Ban sunglasses and grinning. One confident arm stretches out to the steering wheel. His other hand is on the gearshift. He glances over at the girl beside him, leaning towards him with her knees together under her white skirt. Her light sweater suggests the shape of the body underneath. Her brown hair falls to her shoulders, and her eyes are adoring.

The boy turns back to look at the road ahead of him. The white lines extend in front of them unto vanishing beyond the horizon. He weaves in and out of traffic, clocking in much faster than anyone else on the highway. A Lucky Strike dangles from the boy's lip. The girl can smell it, can see the smoke whipping around the cabin in the force of the wind.

His lips open and he is grinning. The girl feels the engine thrum beneath her; she feels the vibration as the boy's foot eases even further forward on the accelerator, rocks gently forward as he pushes the clutch and shifts up.

He angles the wheel left to pull around a station wagon. Suddenly, all they can see before them is open road. A roar starts deep in the gut of the car, and they are flying, flying.

He bought the car the day he got out of Basic. He came home thick with muscle and brimming with confidence. He rang the doorbell at her house, standing ramrod-straight in his Marine uniform, the super-stock Dodge shining resplendent in the street behind him. She flew into his arms, called to her mother that she was leaving for the afternoon, and they were gone.

This is the last day of his leave, the last day before he boards a plane to embark on the odyssey of a lifetime. On the other side of the ocean, Vietnam awaits. But these thoughts are far from their minds now. In the way that only the young truly can, they are thinking about nothing at all. The world has been reduced down to nothing but the present moment by speed, by the thrill and the rapture that is their love. They are innocence, and they are smiles stolen from a world at war. That evening, they'll lick at ice cream cones, then he'll lean over to whisper that he wants to take her somewhere. He'll park the car in a remote spot high on the side of a mountain, looking out over the sunset and the lights of downtown Los Angeles. He'll lean over to kiss her, and she'll relax into his embrace, her arms first limp, then wrapping around the smooth leather of his jacket. She'll tousle his hair, she'll shift her legs as she leans toward him.

She'll remember that day until she is no longer a young girl but an old lady, until long after the day when the grinning young boy turns into a laughing old man, until even after the laughing old man is replaced by a nothing but a picture hanging on her wall, reminding her of the man she married when the war was over and he was finally home.

She'll remember the car, too. He'll part with it in a few years, when he wakes up to realize that it is time to put away the things of childhood. But he'll do it sadly. One day, they'll tell their children about that car the way religious people talk about the eternal joy that awaits in the Kingdom of Heaven. Because for them, Heaven could never be anything more than tearing down the highway in a brand-new super-stock Dodge with the scarlet paint waxed mirror-bright.