Exactly The Way I left It

Articles

Holly Winter
Living The Life Of Holly

Exactly The Way I left It
Apr. 15, 2003

I tunneled into my cupboard for the first time in four months and was astonished to see that everything was exactly the way I’d left it. How could that be? I suspiciously unscrewed the lid to my mayonnaise and found that the only dollop missing, was the one I had dished out myself, last December. Wow. I felt as if I had never left my other home.

A flight attendant walked into the crashpad’s kitchen.

“YOU’RE here?” She sobbed, little tears rolling down her face. “You are the last person I expected to see.”

No. They weren’t happy reunion tears. She had just gotten off a three day trip and was exhausted. Her body was begging for sleep, but the wall-banging argument next door had suspended any possibility of rest.

“I AM THE BOSS OF THE KITCHEN.” Slam. Crash.

“NO, DAVID SAID THAT I WAS THE BOSS OF THE KITCHEN, SO I AM THE BOSS OF THE KITCHEN, FOREVER.” Slam, slam, slam.

There was a time when our building enjoyed peaceful days and nights because the whole building was rented to airline personnel as crashpads. That was such a wonderfully quiet time for us, because there was never anyone around.

Oh. Sure. You could count on one or two pilots sitting around watching TV, while waiting for a flight; or a few sleeping flight attendants with little patches over their eyes catching up on some rest. But now that so many airlines have been downsizing, the landlords have been leasing these apartments to anyone willing to pay.

The apartment next to ours has been rented to some mentally challenged adults. Well. The only problem is that they are always home with their TV blaring, arguments flaring, and cigarettes glaring as they learn how to survive in our world of vast confusions. Unfortunately we are finding that their arguments get to be intolerably mentally challenging for all of us, almost every day.

We could hear our neighbors pushing each other around, in what sounded like more than just a little fist fight. The flight attendant let out a sob. “I have to fly again in seven hours.”

“Oh. No. Do you want me to shut them down?” I offered, not sure how I could do that, but willing to try.

“No. It won’t stop them. Nothing stops them. You know that.” She said, crying. “Are you back to work, yet?”

“No. Not yet. I’m just returning from a wedding reception.” I said. “The doctor hasn’t released me yet.”

“You don’t look that sick.” She said. “You look good.”

“Yeah. Thanks.”

“When will you be back?”

“Don’t know. Still fighting meds.”

“I am going to take some Nyquil.” She resigned.

“Sweet dreams.”

“It is my birthday today.” She cried, quietly.

“Oh. Girl. Can I take you to lunch? Can I buy you a pedicure? Can I stop an argument? How can I make your birthday better?” I asked.

“You could fly for me tonight… Just kidding. You can hang out with me when I’m getting ready to fly. That would be a great birthday gift.” She said, drying her tears.

“I’ll be there. Seven work for you?”

I rushed out to get my favorite NYC delight, a ten dollar pedicure. I know. There aren’t any supermodels lining up for this treat, but, hey, it is good enough for me. There was a man getting a pedicure in the chair next to mine. They were using a tool that looked like a vegetable peeler to remove his calluses.

“Doesn’t that hurt?” I asked him.

“No. You’ve got to try it. It is the greatest. Your feet will be soft for weeks.”

I looked at the pile of dead skin falling from his feet. “You aren’t going to have any feet left.” I worried for him.

“Nah. I do this every month. Try it.”

So I did. Other than the fact that you have to watch someone carving away at your feet as they re-sculpt them, it was an interesting experience. I wonder if it would be better if I had some anesthesia before I let them peel away layer upon layer of my feet the next time. I think that I would find it more relaxing that way. And. You know. Other than the little sore on my heel from too much peeling, my feet are the softest they have ever been.

I picked out the Million Dollar Red nail polish and let them add layer upon layer to my toes. Man. They were glistening in a way that no toes should. I let them talk me into a quick manicure too, mostly because they were worried that I would walk out of their nail shop with fingernails that needed attention. Yeah. I know. But. I am a writer. My nails get banged against the keyboard all day long. Ok. Fine.

Before they would let me leave, they wrapped my toes in cellophane so that my pedicure wouldn’t be ruined. Then they put on my sock and shoe, so that my manicure wouldn’t be ruined. They even put my coat on, and handed me the key to my apartment. I was wondering if they were going to feed me my dinner, but thought it best not to suggest it.

I went back to the crashpad. One of the pilots who lived there hadn’t seen me in so many months, that he had forgotten who I was.

“Hello. I am Bob. Welcome to our crashpad.” He said, reaching out to shake my hand.

Ralph started laughing. “You know Holly.”

Bob blushed beautifully. “Sorry…”

“You didn’t recognize me because I just got a pedicure…” I said removing my shoe and sock to unwrap the cellophane and show off my wet toes.”

“Plastic?” Ralph gagged.

“Why is it wrapped like that?” Bob asked.

“So it doesn’t smear.” I shrugged.

“No wonder I didn’t know you.” Bob said, using his hands to cover his red face. “I will never know women.”

About the author: Holly Winter is a teacher and a writer and a flight attendant living in Denver, Colorado, USA. She can be reached at her website or email: Holly@livingthelifeofholly.com

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