which came crashing down around me. The cacophony of a hundred boxes of crumb cake hitting the tile caused every customer from Bakery to Hot Bar to turn and stare.
“So that happened,” the redhead said, before sashaying off toward the exit. But at the sliding doors near the checkout lines she paused and turned to wave at me, flashing a smile that was more conspiratorial than triumphant. I found myself raising my own hand to wave in return. Then she slipped through the doors and was gone. What a baffling woman! While I initially took her for a West Austin pedigree, perhaps she is trailer trash or a military brat cursed with good looks and recently realized aspirations of wealth through marriage.
It was then I heard Dirty Steve’s voice. He must have seen the whole thing as he headed out, probably for an early lunch of surf and turf at The Yellow Rose strip club. “Poxy Roxy!” he thundered. “I told you to keep a smile on your face, not incite an assault! Be in my office at ten tomorrow!”
Given that tomorrow’s meeting could very well result in termination of my employment, I’m now more worried than ever about money.
All this to say, Everett: it’s the 24th of June and you’ve been living in my house for almost two weeks, so by any measure your rent is WAY. PAST. DUE. I understand you are underemployed right now. In this town, aren’t we all? (I speak only for those of us with a shred of integrity, artistic or otherwise—the “new Austin” tech assholes are making billions as I write.) But I let you move into my spare bedroom on the condition that you would pay rent each month. The time has come for you to follow through on that promise.
Your frustrated landlady,
Roxy
P.S. I’m leaving this note on the kitchen counter so that you’ll be sure to see it when you sit down to eat my purloined yucca fries and tofu nuggets (in clear violation of #3a! Do rules mean nothing to you?).
June 25, 2012
Dear Everett,
I made it to work early today, so I’ve ducked into the coffee shop of BookPeople to sip an iced matcha latte with almond milk and let the air-conditioning cool me down from the sweltering heat as I prepare myself for possibly being fired. I’m also going to take this time to write to you about an indignity that just happened to me, an indignity caused by your failure to fork over your prorated June rent. I need that money to pay down my credit card a bit. And if I don’t make a payment in the next few days, my interest rate will skyrocket. I’ve begun to doubt you will hand over the cash in time. So as a last resort, I decided to hit up my parents. I’d planned to call them after my shift today, but as usual, my mother had her weird mom ESP turned on.
I was riding my bike to work and had just passed by that hideous new artisanal water shop—certain to sell $6 asparagus-essence water—that’s going in on the corner where the Pronto Mart used to be, when my cell phone rang. Since you refuse to get a cell, you’ve never experienced this inconvenience yourself. I answered it while pedaling and put it on speaker. A precarious move, but I pulled it off with grace. And then I could hear my parents’ voices, in unison, on speakerphone, which is annoying. Either they talk over each other, or to each other, or else one of them leaves the room without telling me and I don’t know who’s on the phone. Sometimes I’ll start telling a story meant mainly for my mom, but she’s wandered off to start a load of laundry or something.
“Hello, darling,” my mother said. “We are just calling to see if you are going to be able to come to Peru with us.” Have I informed you, Everett, that in late September my parents are planning on visiting my brother for a month at his Peace Corps outpost in Peru? “I think we are going to stay at an eco-lodge,” she continued. “No internet, no cell service. Just long hikes and majestic mountains. But we need to know if you’re coming so we can get our plane tickets and book rooms. We’ll cover lodging if you’ll pay for your own plane ticket. There are some great deals on tickets right now for fall.”
If there’s one thing my parents