taking them anyway.
“I’m so sorry, Mrs. Hurlbut,” I said. “I’ll be happy to pay for some more bulbs.”
“Okay,” she said, somewhat mollified. “I got ’em from a catalog in Holland. Cost me forty-nine bucks.”
For crying out loud, I could buy them at Home Depot for $4.99.
“I’ll write you a check in the morning.”
“Don’t forget the ten dollars I paid for shipping and handling,” were her cheery words of farewell.
With a sigh, I got into the rustmobile.
The less said about the drive over to Aunt Minna’s place, the better. I waited for Vladimir to offer to pay for the tulips, but I waited in vain. Instead I spent the entire ride listening to him yak about his goat, Svetlana, and enjoying the view through a gaping hole in the floorboards.
But at last we arrived at our destination.
Lucerne Terrace was a run-down apartment building in the Mid-Wilshire area, devoid of any interesting architectural features, including terraces. It had definitely seen better days, I thought, as we made our way up the cracked cement pathway to the front door.
Vladimir pressed a grimy button on the intercom and seconds later we were buzzed in.
We rode up to Minna’s apartment on a rickety elevator festooned with graffiti, one of which Vladimir pointed out as his own handiwork.
“Look!” he said. “I wrote that!”
There among the colorful compendium of four-letter words was:
Vladimir & Jaine & Svetlana
4 Ever!
Just what I always wanted. A ménage à trois with a goat.
Our creaky chariot screeched to a halt on the third floor. As we walked down the threadbare hallway, I smelled something delicious. Beef stew, maybe. Or London broil. Unfortunately, it was not coming from Aunt Minna’s apartment. No, when we reached Aunt Minna’s, a strange smell wafted out into the hallway. A heady aroma of cabbage and Clorox.
“Aunt Minna!” Vladimir called out, knocking on the door. “We’re here!”
Seconds later the door was answered by a short, squat woman with beady eyes and a most disconcerting mustache. She stood planted in the doorway, her arms crossed over her chest, an old-fashioned bib apron covering her printed housedress. Her feet were clad in sneakers with holes cut out for her bunions, and her coarse gray hair, I was fascinated to see, had been hacked into a cut last seen on Moe of The Three Stooges.
Never again, I vowed, would I complain about my own bad hair days.
“Aunt Minna,” Vladimir gushed, “this is my beloved Jaine.”
I wished he’d stop calling me that.
“So nice to meet you,” I said, managing a smile.
Her beady eyes raked me over.
Clearly she did not share Vladimir’s enthusiasm for yours truly.
Then suddenly she grabbed me by the chin.
“Open wide,” she instructed.
Incredulous, I opened my mouth and stood there like a horse on an auction block as she inspected my teeth.
“They all yours?”
“Yes,” I managed to say.
“Good.” She grunted, satisfied.
Having passed tooth inspection, I followed her and Vladimir into the living room, where I couldn’t help but notice an enormous portrait of Stalin hanging over a fake fireplace.
A dark-haired, mustachioed fellow about Vladimir’s age sat on a rumpsprung tweed sofa, eyes glued to a soccer game on TV. Wedged into a nearby armchair was a refrigerator of a gal, somewhere in her thirties, hard at work cracking walnuts in her fists.
“The American tootsie is here,” Aunt Minna announced before shuffling off to the kitchen.
“Jaine, my beloved,” Vladimir said, ushering me into the room. “Say hello to my cousins Boris and Sofi.”
Boris barely glanced up from the game to grace me with a curt nod.
Sofi, on the other hand, eyed me with great intensity. She had her aunt’s coarse hair, but unlike Minna’s “Moe” do, Sofi’s was caught up in a tight prison matron bun.
Lucky for Sofi, she had not inherited the family mustache. Unlucky for her, she had inherited a most forbidding unibrow. Which was now
“I’m so sorry, Mrs. Hurlbut,” I said. “I’ll be happy to pay for some more bulbs.”
“Okay,” she said, somewhat mollified. “I got ’em from a catalog in Holland. Cost me forty-nine bucks.”
For crying out loud, I could buy them at Home Depot for $4.99.
“I’ll write you a check in the morning.”
“Don’t forget the ten dollars I paid for shipping and handling,” were her cheery words of farewell.
With a sigh, I got into the rustmobile.
The less said about the drive over to Aunt Minna’s place, the better. I waited for Vladimir to offer to pay for the tulips, but I waited in vain. Instead I spent the entire ride listening to him yak about his goat, Svetlana, and enjoying the view through a gaping hole in the floorboards.
But at last we arrived at our destination.
Lucerne Terrace was a run-down apartment building in the Mid-Wilshire area, devoid of any interesting architectural features, including terraces. It had definitely seen better days, I thought, as we made our way up the cracked cement pathway to the front door.
Vladimir pressed a grimy button on the intercom and seconds later we were buzzed in.
We rode up to Minna’s apartment on a rickety elevator festooned with graffiti, one of which Vladimir pointed out as his own handiwork.
“Look!” he said. “I wrote that!”
There among the colorful compendium of four-letter words was:
Vladimir & Jaine & Svetlana
4 Ever!
Just what I always wanted. A ménage à trois with a goat.
Our creaky chariot screeched to a halt on the third floor. As we walked down the threadbare hallway, I smelled something delicious. Beef stew, maybe. Or London broil. Unfortunately, it was not coming from Aunt Minna’s apartment. No, when we reached Aunt Minna’s, a strange smell wafted out into the hallway. A heady aroma of cabbage and Clorox.
“Aunt Minna!” Vladimir called out, knocking on the door. “We’re here!”
Seconds later the door was answered by a short, squat woman with beady eyes and a most disconcerting mustache. She stood planted in the doorway, her arms crossed over her chest, an old-fashioned bib apron covering her printed housedress. Her feet were clad in sneakers with holes cut out for her bunions, and her coarse gray hair, I was fascinated to see, had been hacked into a cut last seen on Moe of The Three Stooges.
Never again, I vowed, would I complain about my own bad hair days.
“Aunt Minna,” Vladimir gushed, “this is my beloved Jaine.”
I wished he’d stop calling me that.
“So nice to meet you,” I said, managing a smile.
Her beady eyes raked me over.
Clearly she did not share Vladimir’s enthusiasm for yours truly.
Then suddenly she grabbed me by the chin.
“Open wide,” she instructed.
Incredulous, I opened my mouth and stood there like a horse on an auction block as she inspected my teeth.
“They all yours?”
“Yes,” I managed to say.
“Good.” She grunted, satisfied.
Having passed tooth inspection, I followed her and Vladimir into the living room, where I couldn’t help but notice an enormous portrait of Stalin hanging over a fake fireplace.
A dark-haired, mustachioed fellow about Vladimir’s age sat on a rumpsprung tweed sofa, eyes glued to a soccer game on TV. Wedged into a nearby armchair was a refrigerator of a gal, somewhere in her thirties, hard at work cracking walnuts in her fists.
“The American tootsie is here,” Aunt Minna announced before shuffling off to the kitchen.
“Jaine, my beloved,” Vladimir said, ushering me into the room. “Say hello to my cousins Boris and Sofi.”
Boris barely glanced up from the game to grace me with a curt nod.
Sofi, on the other hand, eyed me with great intensity. She had her aunt’s coarse hair, but unlike Minna’s “Moe” do, Sofi’s was caught up in a tight prison matron bun.
Lucky for Sofi, she had not inherited the family mustache. Unlucky for her, she had inherited a most forbidding unibrow. Which was now
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