A Small Matter by M.M. Wilshire Page A

going.”
    “Thank you, Bob,” she said. “Please hurry--my
time is running out.”
    She realized that while talking to Bob she’d
managed at the same time to finish up the churro. How she’d
accomplished both actions simultaneously and unconsciously was
beyond her. She needed another churro; she made the buy and admired
the form of it, the way it’s ridged, sugar-coated body projected
itself from the paper bag as if to say, “bite me”. She did, and was
surprised to find this second helping not as good as the first, as
was the manner of all things of its kind which began, like the
universe itself, with a rush of heat and molding.

    Chapter 10

    “My background,” Mary-Jo said, “prior to Real
Estate, was in Advertising. After graduation from USC, I went out
and did my bit for the Ad industry, but I got out seven years ago
when I grew tired of being covered in slime. My last advertising
gig was pushing gourmet popcorn for a certain famous old geezer who
couldn’t keep his buttery fingers off me. I repelled his advances
and he complained--next stop--Real Estate.”
    Vickie and Mary-Jo, her new real estate
agent, sat talking over drinks on the patio at Chillers on Santa
Monica’s Third Street Promenade--a large European-style open air
mall, wherein the City of Santa Monica had simply closed off a
street, added a few topiary dinosaurs and a couple of fountains,
and rented out the whole thing to an eclectic assortment of
eateries and shops. The trendy eatery had been chosen by Vickie
based upon its featured hit-list of over thirty kinds of frozen
drinks which ascended in appeal as the October day heated up
briefly during a lull in the Santa Ana breezes. A nice mix of oldie
rock-n-roll overlay the conversational buzz in the background.
    Mary-Jo, in a basic blue power suit, bore a
striking resemblance to Pamela Anderson. Vickie mentioned the
resemblance as, she knew, countless others must also have.
    “I get that a lot,” Mary-Jo said. “Especially
from the tourists. Mine are real, by the way.” Mary-Jo worked in a
town and in a profession where she had to maintain a certain level
of appearance which required the help of a strong hairdresser, a
good physical trainer, and a staff devoted to making sure everyone
was paying attention and nobody was taking anybody to the cleaners.
With her styled, short blonde hair and muted makeup, she presented
the essence of class, grace, and a certain psychic dexterity
demanded of those who spent their working hours assisting wealthy
home buyers on and off the financial roller coaster of the Santa
Monica real estate market.
    The waiter took drink orders--a White Russian
for Mary-Jo, and a Strong Buzz--a frozen slush of tropical punch
spiked with vodka--for Vickie. Mary-Jo flipped open her notebook
computer and brought up a clever electronic picture-book of
available properties.
    “So tell me--,” Mary-Jo said, “--what are you
looking for?”
    “As Bob, my accountant probably told you, I
need you to sell my home in the Valley and help me find a suitable
place here in Santa Monica.”
    “My people are already working on your Valley
house,” Mary-Jo said. “We’ve already got it listed and a sign will
be in the yard by late this afternoon. If it doesn’t sell for top
dollar in ten days, my company will buy it from you at five percent
back of appraisal. But what I want from you now is to get an idea
what your dream house looks like.”
    “My accountant probably told you I’m dying,”
Vickie said. “It’s funny in a way, because I had always planned on
retiring someday here at the beach. My dream after my husband died
was to keep myself busy until I hit my early sixties, at which
point, I’d buy my dream beach house and live near the water and
spend many idle hours in pursuit of happiness. But yesterday I
found out that a nasty little tumor has made other plans for me.
So, to make a long story short, I’m buying my dream beach house for
my brother. It’s probably my way