United States. He read about it in the Los Angeles Times, he said, six out of ten kids in the fourth grade have a weight problem, and Avon has something that can help. He opened the bottle, squeezed out a dollop, lifted his shirt and applied the product, reciting a litany of the lotion’s benefits. Get that six-pack girls love! Good for love handles too! Now everyone at school can be trim, he explained, and passed the tube around the class. Miss Linda sat still, a young substitute statue, mouth hanging open, as amazed at Louie’s eloquent discussion of childhood obesity as she was at the product demonstration. She confiscated the tube, held it for Mrs. M to see at lunch.
“Frankly, I’m happy to see children have an awareness about childhood obesity issues, but your son should not be bringing adult products into the classroom.”
I apologized, promised I would talk to Louie, make sure it would never, ever, happen again, and hung up the phone. I walked to my Avon storage pile and grabbed a stack of unlined paper and a red marker. Keep Out! Private! Mom Only! No Kids and That Means YOU Louie! I covered my boxes with warning signs. I picked up the new Avon Men’s Catalogue and looked at the Ab-Firm model, tanned flexed abs rippling and oiled, and pictured Louie leading Mrs. M’s fourth grade class to the next flag assembly, shirts raised in solidarity, not a speck of baby fat among them.
I rolled out of bed and opened the window.
“Ok, gang, let’s get dressed! We’re making deliveries today!” The boys groaned in unison. Marty stuck out his tongue and I gave him a sharp warning glance.
We drove to the train station 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 my forearm still featured a temporary Looney Tunes tattoo thanks to the boys, and I couldn’t wash the blue and red face of Elmer Fudd off in time. I wore long-sleeved black velvet sweats instead, feet in Avon flowered flip-flops, mauve lipstick, and a heightened sense of awareness. The boys leaned against each other in the backseat of the van, eyes rolling from one side to the other as they read comic books.
I parked under a gnarled cedar and rolled down my window. I stuck my head out to see if Ms. Railway Clerk 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 and technology 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. The boys stayed in the car and every now and then I saw one push the other. At least they weren’t screaming, I figured. 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
“Frankly, I’m happy to see children have an awareness about childhood obesity issues, but your son should not be bringing adult products into the classroom.”
I apologized, promised I would talk to Louie, make sure it would never, ever, happen again, and hung up the phone. I walked to my Avon storage pile and grabbed a stack of unlined paper and a red marker. Keep Out! Private! Mom Only! No Kids and That Means YOU Louie! I covered my boxes with warning signs. I picked up the new Avon Men’s Catalogue and looked at the Ab-Firm model, tanned flexed abs rippling and oiled, and pictured Louie leading Mrs. M’s fourth grade class to the next flag assembly, shirts raised in solidarity, not a speck of baby fat among them.
I rolled out of bed and opened the window.
“Ok, gang, let’s get dressed! We’re making deliveries today!” The boys groaned in unison. Marty stuck out his tongue and I gave him a sharp warning glance.
We drove to the train station 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 my forearm still featured a temporary Looney Tunes tattoo thanks to the boys, and I couldn’t wash the blue and red face of Elmer Fudd off in time. I wore long-sleeved black velvet sweats instead, feet in Avon flowered flip-flops, mauve lipstick, and a heightened sense of awareness. The boys leaned against each other in the backseat of the van, eyes rolling from one side to the other as they read comic books.
I parked under a gnarled cedar and rolled down my window. I stuck my head out to see if Ms. Railway Clerk 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 and technology 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. The boys stayed in the car and every now and then I saw one push the other. At least they weren’t screaming, I figured. 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
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