It was our semi-annual trip to New Jersey and I was miserable, sitting in Duckie’s dark and dreary living room. Duckie is my partner’s 89-year old mother and her house never sees a bit of sunlight because she is afraid that it will fade the shag carpet that was installed in 1969.
I was sweating profusely in the heat of a Jersey summer because Duckie feels her un-air-conditioned house stays cooler with the windows closed. (It doesn’t.) Hot and miserable, I was debating if it would be faster to open a vein or stick my head in a plastic laundry bag but before I could come to a definitive decision I heard Duckie say, “I can’t see you boys tomorrow. I have to help Lenore with her garage sale.” Lenore is Duckie’s best friend and neighbor; they have lived across the street from each other since 1945.
Personally, I thought this was excellent news but one look at my partner and I knew exactly what he was going to say. I was not wrong.
“We come all the way from Florida and you’re going to go see Lenore?” he said.
Duckie shrugged. “I can’t live my life wondering when you two are going to show up,” she said, ignoring the fact that this trip had been planned since January. “I’ll see you on Sunday,” said Duckie.
For my part I was imagining a pleasant Saturday spent in our bright, clean hotel room with the air conditioner on high. But my partner had other plans. “Guy and I will come to the garage sale with you,” he said stoutly. I gave him my “WTF?” look but he ignored me.
Saturday was what I call Sahara-hot. Lenore’s driveway was an inferno mainly because several years ago the Township cut down every one of the magnificent, 70- year old oak trees that once lined the street because they were uprooting the sidewalks.
We found Lenore in the driveway haggling with a Pakistani lady over an ancient percolator marked at 50 cents. We went looking for Duckie and when we found her we were seriously alarmed; she was the color of a lobster, breathing heavily as she tried to push a snow blower marked at $19.99 out of the garage and onto the driveway.
“Ma,” said my partner. “You need to sit down. Do you have any water?” Beyond speech, Duckie shook her head “no.” I went over to Lenore and asked if Duckie could have some water.
“She should have brought water from home,” said Lenore who, at 90, is pure trouble. “I can’t supply water to everyone who comes to the garage sale.”
“This is for Duckie,” I said, perplexed. “She is your best friend.” Lenore shrugged; she was clearly ready to let her best friend shuffle off this mortal coil if it would save her a bottle of water. .
“Well,” I continued, “can I at least take her inside to cool off?”
Lenore shook her head. “I can’t let everyone who comes to the garage sale into my house,” she said. “If I let Duckie in I have to let everyone in.”
“She’s been your best friend for 70 years,” I said and Lenore shrugged again.
“She’ll be fine,” said Lenore and walked off. The Pakistani lady wanted a price reduction on a fondue pot marked at $1.50.
It took a while but reluctantly Duckie acquiesced to my partner’s demand that we go home now. On the way home he was outraged.
“I can’t believe that Lenore was willing to see you die of heat stroke,” he said, adding, “I can’t believe that you would rather spend your time with her than me.”
Duckie shrugged. “Lenore is my best friend,” she said. “I can see you anytime.”