Billie
The one-hour copy shop said they could have cards ready by 2. Ok that's two hours but who's keeping track. Certainly not the skinny tattoo'd guy with all the piercings behind the counter - he was barely verbal.
Never seen somebody so carved-up and inked! Debbie Standfield had a tiny moon tattoo on her left ankle, her mom made her wear socks to cover it up, even with sandals! And Tony Dirk had that port-wine stain, had it from birth, but we all pretended it wasn't there even though it covered half his face.
The only piercings I knew about were guys who worked at the fabrication plant, and they were all accidental. This guy had so many rings in one ear, they jingled when he shook his head. Didn't know whether to say something about it, or ignore it like with Tony. So I said nothing.
I typed up a simple ad card on their machine, "Billie's Recovery Service", stuck on a bit of clipart from a sample book. Was gonna use a lost-dog cartoon but thought it'd look like an "I lost my dog" notice. Folks throw those away; I know I do.
So I used a magnifying glass and an empty doghouse. Says it all. A short description of services and payment. Greg's phone number. And a dumb slogan - "Finding your treasure is our pleasure!"
Greg is out doing whatever he does. Promised to look for an answering machine. As he left, just handed me a roll of cash from his sock drawer, so I could get started.
I avoided blubbering that time, took it without counting and stuffed it in my shorts pocket. Cool as you like, sure I walk around with money like this all the time.
Of course it occurred to me I could take it and run, go somewhere else, start over with that wad. Leave Jillian and Gregory to regret the day they met a snotty kid just off the bus.
Being trusted was a new thing for me, and I couldn't get around it. If I had any self-respect then I was gonna make good on that. And self-respect, that was my whole deal, the reason I was here and not back in Idaho.
Sure I was raised as a goody-good girl. I rebelled against all the other crap, the marrying-my-cousin plans, the shut-up-stay-pregnant-and-barefoot life they had chosen for me.
At the core though I had morals, standards. That part had stuck. Being a thieving little shit was not how I saw myself.
How did I see myself? I didn't know when I left, just knew I needed to be somebody else. But almost as soon as I got here I started getting ideas. I wanted to be a cool smart cookie like Jillian. I wanted to have enough so I could trust people without blinking, like Greg. I wanted to be radically honest like Nick, no pretenses, no hiding behind words, say it all plain and proud.
Maybe I wanted to be a cool bartender that feeds a stranger just because she asked nicely, and really needed it. Gotta make that up to Trevor sometime.
But right now I saw mysef as hungry. Greg's breakfast had barely filled in the gaps after a week of random bus-station snacks until my money ran out. Sleeping so long last night, I'd missed a meal. Now I was behind again and it was past lunchtime.
The copy shop was behind the strip, close to downtown if I had figured this out right - the courthouse flag was just visible sometimes, up the hill. There would be food downtown, between here and there.
Two more blocks and I had more choices that I knew what to do with. Idaho had cafes, diners, steak and burgers and fries and that was about it. This town had Mexican, Indian, Thai! And what the fuck was Hellenic? Had a picture of a butchered goat in the window, gonna give that a pass for now.
Should I go cheap, settle for a burger and fries? It wasn't my money, it was Greg's. But the devil on my shoulders says, you own a business, you are a woman of means! You should act the part, sit down somewhere and eat like hardworking business owners do.
So into a Chinese place I go, like I do this all the time. On the outside like a pagoda, red and black, jutting beams and steep tile roof and all. Inside - colorful fabric sashes around the ceiling, scrolls on the walls, wierd green carved dioramas in frames. Black laquered tables.
This place had a hostess, and she looked like a picture from National Geographic! Some colorful silk duds, goofy raised shoes, hair done up with chopsticks stuck thru a bun.
Chinese! They have real Chinese people here! The joint in Ketchum was run by Mrs. McGully and her son, their food not much different from the cafe down the street. She put soy sauce on Uncle Bens and peas and called it fried rice.
The lady smiled and said "One today?" in real English, don't know what I expected but not that. I nodded, followed her to a booth with a tall back, slid in, took the menu.
It had foreign writing all over like chicken scratches but fortunately some English words, enough so I might figure it out.
She was gone, but came back with a teapot and an adorable china cup. Poured for me - was this really tea? It was green! And smelled like grass!
I grinned at her, and she grinned back.
"What do you think? This is new for me." I didn't have any idea what to do next. Channelling Nick, I was just blurting out the truth fearlessly.
She eyed me critically, like it really mattered what I got. Smiled suddenly and said "I suggest, today, sweet and sour pork with dumplings!"
Sounded good to me, so I handed the menu back. She clattered off on those strange shoes, taking small steps in her silk sheath of a skirt. Did she wear something else at home? I sure hope so.
Looking around, late for lunch the place was mostly empty. Only me and a Chinese guy pushing a cart around, wearing all white, clearing dishes. Somebody in the back was swearing in Chinese, I don't know Chinese but I know swearing. I heard a game on a tv back there, his team must be losing.
Almost immediately my waitress returned with a plate of slimy steaming dough crescents arranged in a circle, a tiny pot of brown sauce in the middle. Dumplings? Soy sauce? I dipped a finger, tasted - vinegary! Some sesame seeds floating there!
She grinned, got some chopsticks from somewhere in her dress, held them out. I took them, looked blankly at her.
She gently took my right hand, put the sticks between my fingers just so, pressed one finger so the sticks opened and closed. Cool!
I smiled at her, made my first attempt to pick up a dumpling. It slithered out, plopped on the table. I tried again, got it as far as the sauce pot and oops dropped it in. She clapped happily! "You are getting it! Very good!"
Her enthusiasm was catching. I grinned back, fished it out, got it as far as my mouth. Hot! Tongued it carefully, huffing in and out to cool it off. Finally chewed a bit - some kind of meatball stuff in there! Salty and sweet and yummy.
"Ummmm!" I grinned around the bite, tried to keep my mouth closed as I chewed, it was really too much for one bite.
She approved, returned to the kitchen smiling.
I got thru two more before the pork came, steaming on a plate with a bowl of white rice. Sticky rice! Back home when you made rice it had to be loose, individual grains. But this stuff was one big wad in the bowl?
I found out why - so you could gouge out chunks with those sticks. I managed to get some on the plate, started in on that.
