Don't Shoot! I'm Just the Avon Lady! - Part 2
I packed forty-eight tubes of Moisture Therapy hand cream in three large Avon tote bags, sprinkling samples and two crisp new brochures over the top like parmesan cheese. Avon shorted me two tubes, so I stuffed a conciliatory bottle of Orange Delight bubble bath in one of the bags with a backorder note. And I drove, alleluia, I drove, to the train station that Thursday to meet my mystery customer. I wished I knew her name, or what she would wear, or whether she'd wait on the bench or in her car or whether she'd stand, arms folded on her chest, in front of the ticket counter. She sounded delicate and cultured, and I pictured her wearing a slim linen pantsuit with black open-toed heels and carrying a hand-tooled pink leather clutch.
I wanted to wear my best short sleeved Asian-print dress, but the previous night my boys, laughing in the kitchen, splashing water on me, on themselves, gave me a temporary Looney Tunes tattoo, and I couldn't wash the blue and red face of Elmer Fudd off my forearm. I wore long-sleeved black velvet sweats instead, feet in Avon flowered flip-flops, mauve lipstick, and a heightened sense of awareness. I parked under the Lombardi pine and rolled down my window. I stuck my head out to see if Ms. Railway held ticket window court, but a short young man with a fleshy face and bushy sideburns stood watch instead, the low hum of hip hop rumbling behind him. He read some kind of science or adventure magazine, and his eyes traced the full-page illustration of a fantastic flying robot machine. I took my perch on the bench and waited, three tote bags of creamy goodness beside me. I noticed with surprise that the wire Watchtower rack no longer collected dust under the ticket office. I glanced around the station, eyeing the worn paint of the restroom doors, the locked utility closet, the rows of filled parking spaces, the round-about where cars roamed, waiting for tired husbands home from work, harried wives home from work, exhausted children home from the zoo. No wire Watchtower rack.
Mystery Lady said she would arrive at precisely four-ten, and I waited, fifteen minutes early, watching mothers push strollers down the boulevard, some stopping to rest by the fountain, most chatting on cell phones, all so close to each other but occupying different kingdoms of thought, invisible threads spraying from their phones like the fountain spray, watering the people with news and comfort and indignation. I counted the tubes of hand cream again, making sure I had the forty-eight. The wail of the train pierced my thoughts, and I glanced at my watch. Four-ten.
The aqua blue Coaster rolled to a screeching stop at the station, a two-level tour train of San Diego business commuters and hot, soiled tourists returning from beaches and ballparks and panda bears and the wet rustle bustle of Sea World. I kept my eyes locked on the entrance to the parking lot, waiting for a Cadillac, or a Lexus, maybe a limousine, at least a Lincoln, but only family cars pulled up to the curb, and a steady stream of train-weary passengers departed once again.
"Excuse me? Are you Birdie?" A finger tapped me on the back, and I whipped around to see a tall, lithe, barely legal woman in a short orange mini-skirt and a cropped lime halter not quite containing two perfect cantaloupe breasts. Her hair stuck out from the sides of her head in two pixie pigtails fastened with yellow elastic yarn. She wore a purple crystal belly-button ring with a hanging cross, and it swung back and forth, back and forth, as she continued to speak.
"Here's your money. I calculated it myself. I've done before, so I know the amount, including tax and the customer charge. I'm paying in cash, and I don't need change." She held out two hundred dollar bills and a fifty dollar bill with one hand and picked up the three Avon totes with the other.
"Uh, that's too much, that's like thirty dollars extra, but I don't have any cash on me. We can ask the ticket man over there for change, how's that? I don't take tips, we don't do that in Avon." I stumbled over my words, the woman wasn't what I expected, the breasts and lime and orange and purple crystal disoriented me, a kaliedescope of a grown girl, a mystery of a mismatched voice and body, and I took the money and jumped up to walk to the ticket counter.
"No, I don't have time. It doesn't matter. Thank you!" She turned and ran, ran for the train, jumped on as the last call for departure came, and I watched the train rumble north for Los Angeles, San Francisco, so many places in between. I didn't remember to tell her I shorted her two tubes.
I figured this was the end. I put the incident in a file in the back of my Avon mind, deciding to pull it out and tell you about it some day when there was nothing much else to say, and we'd all laugh and wonder why a voluptuous pierced goddess in lime and orange would buy so many hand creams, why she would pay cash, why she would disappear with the seagull sea wind. I thought of sexy illicit reasons why she would need vats of lotion, thought of horny male customers, perhaps, or maybe something innocent, smart, like horse care, or lama research, or art, sweet moisture rich art. I thought I would never, ever hear from her again. But I was wrong, oh so wrong.
To be continued....
3:11:46 PM 
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