Mexican Stand-Off Style. I had to hand it to him. He
might have retired to Lancaster from Philly like he said, but he had all the
tenacity of a Jersey guy. Huh. Go figure.
At
last, I grimaced. “Okay, Vito, here’s the deal.”
“Yeah!”
he said, patting my shoulder in thanks.
“Okay,
I’m not really in a position to drive right now, what with my foot hurting and
drinking wine and Tylenol,” I said, emptying my glass into the planter next to
me.
Vito’s
brow furrowed. “Okay.” Clearly he was worried about the sobriety of my zinnias.
“So
I’ll pick up your laundry, but I can’t drive there. You’d have to drive me
there. And by the way, since you’d already be there, wouldn’t it make more
sense for you to just be polite to Mrs. Phang and pick up your own dry cleaning?”
Ha.
“No!
No! No! Mrs. Phang hates me! She’ll put scorch marks in my best shirts!” Vito
whined. I could totally empathize with his fear of Mrs. Phang. And ironing. I
hadn’t ironed a piece of clothing since 1982.
“Okay,
look, I’ll do it but you gotta get me there. And back,” I added.
“Sure,
sure, sure, Toots,” he said.
I
limped inside while Vito retreated. I turned off Tom Waits, put my raincoat
on over my jammies and gimped out of the house and into Vito’s Towncar. On the
ride into town I readied myself to be dropped off in front of Lickety-Split
Laundry. But Vito drove right past it, and parked in the lot near Central
Market.
“Vito,
don’t you want to drop me off in front of the cleaners, and not a block away?”
I asked.
“Ummm.
No. I can’t. On account of Mrs. Phang knows what my car looks like and I’m
afraid she’ll close up early once she sees it. She’s done it before,” Vito
mumbled.
I
wasn’t buying it. “Vito, let me get this straight. You’re so afraid of Mrs.
Phang that it’s okay for me to limp around the block with a sore foot and your
dry cleaning because you’re afraid she’ll hurt your laundry?”
Vito
gulped. “Yep.”
“Here’s
a little clue: MAYBE IT’S TIME TO USE A DIFFERENT DRY CLEANER!” I glared at
him.
Vito
gulped and looked down and started the car. “Uh, maybe you’re right, Toots…
sorry… didn’t realize your foot hurt you so bad,” he mumbled apologetically.
Hrumph,
I thought. Vito pulled up in front of the cleaners, gave me the cleaning
ticket and I gimped inside. Mrs. Phang was waiting for me, adorned with one of
her best sneers. “Why he park here? What he want?” she snapped.
I
was in no mood. “This!” I answered, equally as snappy, slapping the cleaning
ticket on the counter. Mrs. Phang jumped back a bit.
“No
need shout,” Mrs. Phang sulked, and she disappeared into the back room. I
heard her rummaging for Vito’s shirt amidst a lot of Vietnamese expletives.
Then she returned with the usual shirt box and handed it to me. I took it and
stared at her. “I know, I know, he regular customer, he pay by check.”
Yeeshkabiddle.
Mrs.
Phang nodded brusquely, folded her arms and stared at me. “You go home, you
put on cream! Get rid of rash!” she advised with a shout.
I
stepped out of the building and walked over to the curb where Vito’s car had
been idling. Except neither Vito nor the Towncar were anywhere in sight. I
rolled my eyes and wanted to do a Mexican hat dance on his shirt box. But I
figured that would hurt my sore foot more, so I calmly slammed the box against
a nearby lamppost. Something rattled from inside it. Great. It sounded like
I’d knocked all the buttons off his shirts. I stood on the corner in my
raincoat and jammies, leaning on the lamppost, watching all the tourists pass
by.
Just
then Vito pulled up to the corner and waved at me to hurry into the car.
“Where’d
you go?” I asked, sliding into the car as Vito sped away from the curb. “What
are you in such a hurry for?”
“Sorry,
Toots. I was afraid I got spotted by a traffic
might have retired to Lancaster from Philly like he said, but he had all the
tenacity of a Jersey guy. Huh. Go figure.
At
last, I grimaced. “Okay, Vito, here’s the deal.”
“Yeah!”
he said, patting my shoulder in thanks.
“Okay,
I’m not really in a position to drive right now, what with my foot hurting and
drinking wine and Tylenol,” I said, emptying my glass into the planter next to
me.
Vito’s
brow furrowed. “Okay.” Clearly he was worried about the sobriety of my zinnias.
“So
I’ll pick up your laundry, but I can’t drive there. You’d have to drive me
there. And by the way, since you’d already be there, wouldn’t it make more
sense for you to just be polite to Mrs. Phang and pick up your own dry cleaning?”
Ha.
“No!
No! No! Mrs. Phang hates me! She’ll put scorch marks in my best shirts!” Vito
whined. I could totally empathize with his fear of Mrs. Phang. And ironing. I
hadn’t ironed a piece of clothing since 1982.
“Okay,
look, I’ll do it but you gotta get me there. And back,” I added.
“Sure,
sure, sure, Toots,” he said.
I
limped inside while Vito retreated. I turned off Tom Waits, put my raincoat
on over my jammies and gimped out of the house and into Vito’s Towncar. On the
ride into town I readied myself to be dropped off in front of Lickety-Split
Laundry. But Vito drove right past it, and parked in the lot near Central
Market.
“Vito,
don’t you want to drop me off in front of the cleaners, and not a block away?”
I asked.
“Ummm.
No. I can’t. On account of Mrs. Phang knows what my car looks like and I’m
afraid she’ll close up early once she sees it. She’s done it before,” Vito
mumbled.
I
wasn’t buying it. “Vito, let me get this straight. You’re so afraid of Mrs.
Phang that it’s okay for me to limp around the block with a sore foot and your
dry cleaning because you’re afraid she’ll hurt your laundry?”
Vito
gulped. “Yep.”
“Here’s
a little clue: MAYBE IT’S TIME TO USE A DIFFERENT DRY CLEANER!” I glared at
him.
Vito
gulped and looked down and started the car. “Uh, maybe you’re right, Toots…
sorry… didn’t realize your foot hurt you so bad,” he mumbled apologetically.
Hrumph,
I thought. Vito pulled up in front of the cleaners, gave me the cleaning
ticket and I gimped inside. Mrs. Phang was waiting for me, adorned with one of
her best sneers. “Why he park here? What he want?” she snapped.
I
was in no mood. “This!” I answered, equally as snappy, slapping the cleaning
ticket on the counter. Mrs. Phang jumped back a bit.
“No
need shout,” Mrs. Phang sulked, and she disappeared into the back room. I
heard her rummaging for Vito’s shirt amidst a lot of Vietnamese expletives.
Then she returned with the usual shirt box and handed it to me. I took it and
stared at her. “I know, I know, he regular customer, he pay by check.”
Yeeshkabiddle.
Mrs.
Phang nodded brusquely, folded her arms and stared at me. “You go home, you
put on cream! Get rid of rash!” she advised with a shout.
I
stepped out of the building and walked over to the curb where Vito’s car had
been idling. Except neither Vito nor the Towncar were anywhere in sight. I
rolled my eyes and wanted to do a Mexican hat dance on his shirt box. But I
figured that would hurt my sore foot more, so I calmly slammed the box against
a nearby lamppost. Something rattled from inside it. Great. It sounded like
I’d knocked all the buttons off his shirts. I stood on the corner in my
raincoat and jammies, leaning on the lamppost, watching all the tourists pass
by.
Just
then Vito pulled up to the corner and waved at me to hurry into the car.
“Where’d
you go?” I asked, sliding into the car as Vito sped away from the curb. “What
are you in such a hurry for?”
“Sorry,
Toots. I was afraid I got spotted by a traffic
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