Don't Shoot! I'm Just the Avon Lady! - Part 1
Southern California is the land of crappy mass transit. My town sports sporadic busses that never stay on schedule and one lone train station guarding the site of the old hot springs, the spot which gave my town its German name. Two months ago, on a June gloom migraine day when my daughter confiscated my van because her Zilchmobile lay in pieces on my driveway, two Turkish men hovering above it, my two young boys and I walked two miles to that station to take the Coaster two towns south. I sat on the metal bench outside the station, watching my boys chase a hungry red-eyed pigeon, wishing my headache would disappear, wishing the train would hurry, wishing the stupid busses traveled to my part of town, wishing I could think of another business to try, anything but Avon. It was one of those days.
I once traveled to London, and though the British spoke the same language and looked just like me, I felt lost and alone the entire length of my visit. I made new friends, hiked through the farmlands of Wiltshire, placed my hands on the monoliths of Stonehedge, and began to feel the underlying current of humanity that fills every part of our Earth. Yet I knew it would take me months to adjust to this country if I were to move there. I remembered this feeling, kept wishing for the train, and thought how much Avon was like England to me. A place of pretty things, a world of exploration, but nothing like home.
The train station loomed over my head, all oak beams and new green plastic panels, a tiny window for purchasing tickets behind which a woman with buck teeth and a greasy pony tail stood. A splotch of mustard decorated the collar of her forest green uniform shirt, and she spoke under her breath to herself but I couldn't make out any words. A stack of Watchtower magazines, the recruiting arm of the Jehovah Witness church, rested in a wire rack next to my bench, a thin coat of white sand covering the top book. Oh, right! I thought, and opened my purse to retrieve five Avon brochures. I placed them in the rack next to the Watchtowers and snapped my purse shut. Ms. Railway leaned her head from under the Buy Tickets Here sign. Her breasts smooshed against the wood counter and I worried a button would pop.
"Ma'am! You can NOT leave soliciting materials at the train station. This is government property. Please remove those at once!" One palm pounded on the counter, keeping time with her tirade.
"Well, hey, that's not fair! The Jehovah's Witnesses have their religious tracts here, did you see these Watchtowers?" I stuck my hands on my hips and raised my eyebrows in my best liberal beach town hippy common sense way, and kept my butt firmly planted on the bench.
"Ma'am, do you want me to call station security? We are under a terror watch and I can NOT allow any materials to be left at this station. Those Watchtowers have undergone a security check. They belong to me." She closed her mouth, leaving two twisted teeth peeking out over her bottom lip and picked up a cordless telephone in a threatening manner.
I picked up my brochures and stood next to the bench, ignoring Ms. Big Crooked Teeth Railway, and stared into the distance, down the pea gravel-surrounded rails, past the quiet center of town, hoping the train would blare a welcoming siren. The clerk continued muttering to herself and I heard the ring of the telephone. I sat down on the bench once again, brochures in my lap, and watched her talk on the phone, laugh once, twice, turn around and rifle through an ivory file tower.
The sea breeze ruffled the cover of the top Watchtower magazine, the train wailed from a half-mile away, and I had a sneaky Avon Lady idea. I snuck back to the wire rack and shoved an Avon brochure inside each Watchtower, plumping them higher, brushing the top cover of each one, leaving a stack twice and high and a million times more interesting in its place, as if God himself blew pregnant beauty possibility into each evangelical leaflet. Ms. Railway laughed again, and I saw her slam the file shut as I gathered my boys and finally boarded the railcar.
Two weeks later my phone rang.
"Hello! This is Birdie! May I help you?" I used my professional order-taking Avon voice, bright and cheery and articulate.
"Yes, you can. I need fifty tubes of Moisture Therapy hand lotion." A woman's voice, low and sultry, ordered the products, and I sensed a slight hesitation as if she were afraid of someone listening to her speak.
"Wow, fifty! You must have really dry hands, ha ha ha!" I joked, writing down the product number and the quantity of fifty on my order pad. "Now, do you need anything else? What's your name and telephone number and address, please?"
"No, this is all I need. You don't need my name. I'll meet you at the train station where you left your brochures. When will the lotions be ready?"
She refused to give her name, even when I explained that I would never divulge it to anyone, ever, nowhere, nohow, nowhy. I wondered if she were a celebrity, or perhaps she was Ms. Railway playing a practical joke, upset that I left heathen Avon in her heavenly literature. But it didn't sound like the buck toothed gal, didn't sound fake or unsure. I figured at the least it would be a good story, so I ordered fifty hand creams and set a train station delivery date for the following Thursday.
To Be Continued....
6:02:11 PM 
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