Sixty Avon bags later....
Sixty Avon bags, three odd customers, two unruly old ladies, two spazzy little boys, several packages mailed at the post office, and two extra-strength aspirins later, I sit here, foggy and full of tiny paper cuts, one sprawling blue black bruise gracing my shin, still waiting for a call from my Turkish friend. Where could he be? I sent him to the train station, carting two over-stuffed bags full of hand cream, to meet the Mystery Lady of the Liniment Express. He should have called by now, it's four hours later. I'm worried. Nervous. I even rang the police station and spoke to a brittle woman with an alligator under her breath.
"Um hello? I'm just wondering whether you arrested a Turkish friend of mine at the train station this afternoon? He was carrying Avon?"
"Excuse me, ma'am?" I heard something slap hard against metal behind her words.
"Well I have a friend who ran an errand for me. And when I ran this errand a month or so ago, I almost got arrested. I didn't do anything wrong! I was just delivering Avon, a lot of Avon, at the train station. He's tall, over six feet. With big bushy eyebrows, black. And an olive complexion. He's Turkish, with two Avon bags." It struck me how ridiculous I sounded, a poor mother whose marbles lay in white lunch bags with a red logo all around town.
"Ma'am, if your friend has been arrested, it'll be in the papers tomorrow morning. Good night." She hung up the phone and I caught the word "nut" under her breath before the click.
Where is he?
8:48:35 PM 
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