Marlon Brando, Pocahontas, and Me - The End!
Avon + sneaky cowboys + (??) Scientology = The Great P.O. Stand-Off!
Please read Part One, Part Two, Part Three, Part Four,Part Five, Part Six, Part Seven!
The desolate New Mexican Post Office where I met Ms. Hollywood
A young Latino boy with jet hair and ripped jeans wandered down the Post Office road. He carried a dish wrapped in foil under his left arm and a gallon jug of water in his right. He walked carefully, with small steps, and he kept looking at the dish under his arm, slightly adjusting it so that it remained perfectly level. A cloud of dust followed his feet, swirled in mysterious patterns that rose into the sunlight. He didn't match my wave, just kept walking, passed me, turned onto the highway and kept walking toward the Corazon Ranch.
I let my engine idle, tried to brush my teeth with my index finger and smoothed my Princess Leia buns down as best I could. I wasn't sure what kind of customer my strange maybe-Scientologist was, but she sure sounded cultured and beautiful on the phone. I glanced at my reflection in the rearview mirror and decided I looked a bit cow-worn but good enough for rural Avon. I shifted into first and headed for the Post Office.
I drove the dirt road like a jaded old lady, as if I'd seen it all already and didn't want to see it again. I mentally calculated how much money I would have to deduct for the Avon Bug Guard spray that was ruined in my offroad jaunt. With the diversion I was fifteen minutes late for my meeting, but I breathed deep, let the gritty air erase the cows, the cowboy, Neil Young, the despair I felt at life in general. I glanced at Leo's simple business card. What would it be like to wander the mesa on horseback? I tried to put the thought out of my mind.
There's only one road in to this Post Office, I thought. I can take my time, gather my wits. A jackrabbit sat on the sidelines, stared at me thought one eye, furry antennas posed, ready for transmission.
The Post Office jumped into view as my car rounded a clump of scrawny juniper. It looked like a simple stucco home, a salmon-colored desert ranch home with small windows and a utilitarian sign with the town, zip code, and official Post Office title. I rolled to a stop, next to the only other car in the drive - a smooth black Lexus with tinted windows. Red clay clung to the wheel walls, and the exhaust sputtered as if the car had just been turned off. I stuck my head out my window and waved at the driver. She opened her door.
"Hi! I'm Birdie! I've got your Avon!" I grabbed the bags from the shotgun seat and jumped out of the car.
"Hi. Thanks for driving all the way out here. Hope it wasn't too much of an inconvenience."
The woman stepped out of the car, and I froze. Her hair gleamed copper and gold and artificial silk, artfully arranged in a messy updo fastened by an aqua and silver clip. But it wasn't her hair that I stared at, or her tight trendy jeans with the fashionable rips, or the off-the-shoulder teal peasant blouse that swayed with the rhythm of the mesa winds, or her diminutive height. It was her unique face, her wide-set eyes, the nose and mouth that I thought I might know from the movies, from the gossip-ridden web sites that chart celebrity nonsense. I wasn't sure. A flicker of silver flashed along the ridge of the mesa beyond us, and I jerked my head to see Leo riding his horse. He was only a wee bit bigger than a dot, but his hair enveloped his body like a Senor Godiva.
"Oh my gosh. It's you! At least I think it's you! Sorry. I don't mean to babble! Here you go. Um. The invoice is in the bag." My hands shook as I handed the Avon to Ms. Hollywood. She didn't crack a smile. Her lips remained rigid, swollen with perfection or collagen, I couldn't tell which. She turned sideways, set the Avon on the hood of her Lexus, and handed me an envelope containing cash. I wondered whether she was a size zero or two. Certainly no more. I sucked in my stomach, tried to look like a ten instead of a twelve. I tried to glance casually in Leo's direction, but I couldn't find him, his shadow, his hooved companion.
"I left you a little extra in the envelope. I hope you accept tips." She titled her head and the sun reflected off her carefully made-up skin. Her face didn't animate as she spoke, told me that she took cosmetic snake oil, believed in the power of eternal youth.
"Yes, I do. Thank you so much, you didn't have to go to that trouble." My voice stammered. I tried to gain composure, tried to recall the list of known celebrity Scientologists, but Ms. Hollywood wasn't on the list. I had to find out. She returned to her car, slid inside, and I ran to her window, leaving my Avon cash sitting against the windshield of my car.
"Excuse me! Excuse me! Are you a Scientologist?" I blurted the question as Ms. Hollywood gunned her engine. Ms. Hollywood didn't laugh, didn't answer, and as she drove away I saw the deranged expression of one clay-coated sorta Star Wars Avon Lady mirrored in the rear window of her Lexus. Rats. I waved to the mesa, to invisible Leo, waved goodbye to the Scientologists hiding behind the red and green.
I stuffed the money in my glove compartment and headed home. Why didn't I ask her why she bought so much bug repellent? I cursed myself for ignoring the obvious, for falling for celebrity, for the idea that one is better than another, one is prettier, more important, that I am somehow less. Who the hell was she, anyway? I flicked on my CD and let Neil Young sing about Pocahontas.
And maybe Marlon Brando
Will be there by the fire
We'll sit and talk of Hollywood
And the good things there for hire
When I got home I stuck Leo's card on the fridge. It sits there still, a memory, a gift, a reason to haunt the mesa sometime in the future.
10:50:41 PM 
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