Chapter Reads

Alpaca My Bags 

The Desert Oasis

I stepped from Philly’s ‘04 Cadillac dreading the rest of my life.

To quote my man, he said, “Hunny Bunny, pack your bags.”

I hadn’t had a choice. He sold my home right out from underneath us. The Salvation Army picked up our sofa. Philly carted my mama’s broken Texaco gas station china to Goodwill, and I tossed out my winter underwear.

Driving from California, Philly touted Tucson’s merits. He claimed the place had enough swimming pools, mountain hiking and desert flora with all the pickleball a man with two knee replacements could stand.

When we drove through the community’s security gate a newer sign pronounced this joint as the: The Desert Oasis. Passing through its pearly gate wasn’t a feel-good moment. The place wasn’t my vision of an oasis. Uprooted like an oak in a tornado, I felt dashed into the desert with no hope of reestablishing myself.

Driving through the Oasis, the sun abused us, heat rose off the car like a boiling kettle. She chugged, wheezing like she was on her last leg.

“You think the Caddy’s overheating?” I asked as a tiny prickle of dew formed on my brow.

“Naw,” Philly replied rubber necking at the houses on the left and right, the houses—excuse me trailers—look identical.

The Oasis came complete with a swimming pool, a clubhouse, a community center and enough activities to entertain two old codgers like me and Sweetie Bastard. That’s my pet name for Philly, when I’m angry. I’ve been angry for months now, ever since he announced his decision to move east. We couldn’t get any further west, unless we moved to Hawaii, and I knew that wasn’t going to happen.

“Whaddya think?” he asked, putting the Caddy in park.

“Dunno.” I didn’t want to dash his dream of a new lifestyle. Lemme tell ya, this place ain’t what I call homey. The narrow streets were paved in black asphalt right up to the window sills.

He had said San Francisco wouldn’t miss me. Now, standing outside my new home—the brochure called it a park model—I had a peevish sinking feeling in my belly knowing I would miss the cool breezes blowing off the San Francisco Bay.

Frozen in place, I sweltered in the heat unable to move and felt like a dried petrified prune.

Philly stuck his head in the trunk unloading our suitcases. “It isn’t all that bad, is it?” He set a bag underneath the carport and swatted my behind.

“Stop it. Sweetie Bastard, this is no oasis.” I didn’t giggle like I usually did when he patted me affectionately. Tears welled as I stared at our dated home. 

Coming here, sight unseen, was a bad move. Moving here made it official, we were drained of blood, pumped up on formaldehyde, our coffin lids were closed, the undertaker had his hammer ready to nail them shut—we had arrived at our final destination.

This is the living end. We’re doomed. I hope I look good in my coffin.

Behind me, a door clicked closed, but I didn’t turn to look around.

He set another bag on the asphalt. “Well, look who’s here.”

 “Who?” I looked over my shoulder at the two women crossing the street, smiling like beasts stalking prey.

Goatsuckers? Maybe. I didn’t see horns sprouting from their heads.

The first one shoved a covered bowl at me. “Hi, I’m Ann Turnbull. Right across the street.”

She crooked a nod over her shoulder in the direction of her mini mansion. “Broccoli salad. We knew you were coming. They post a list of new arrivals on the bulletin board at the club house.”

She looked fifty-five plus with an all-over suntan that hadn’t come from a spray bottle. She wore what we used to call hot pants—a pair of short shorts so short—well I won’t say what, but her shorts weren’t decent.

“Why thank you.” I took the bowl so she wouldn’t disembowel me with it.

The next neighbor wedged in between me and Ann. “I’m Madonna. We’re so excited. We read your bio in the newsletter. The house was empty a long time. Your hubby is a darlin’, isn’t he?”

She winked at Philly, and he gave her his best ah’ shucks grin. “Does he square dance?”

“Bio? Ah... ah, no he doesn’t square dance.” Philly must be entering his second childhood if he’s going to play pickleball and square dance.

Flirtatiously, Ann examined my husband too closely. “We get dressy for dance. I have a shorty square dancing dress.” She needed varicose vein makeup for those blue veins.

Philly crooned. “I adore square dancin’.”

My hackles stood like an overheated cat. “Honey, he’s got square feet. Can’t dance a lick.”

Ann grinned. “Well, we’ll see about that.”

“You taking water aerobics? We got a new instructor... Yonna... last week. She works us too hard—I’m Madonna.” She repeated, holding out a hand and saving Ann from a bad case of cat-scratch fever.

“Ah no, no water aerobics.” I failed swim class a couple of decades—a half-century ago—I hate getting wet. We shook hands, not knowing if I had signed up for swim class or not.

Philly chuckled because he knew about my water phobia. “Water aerobics? Huh, Hunny Bunny?” He picked up his ice chest from the trunk. Inside it, icy water sloshed and beer bottles clanked together. He carried the ice chest over to the porch—the Oasis brochure called those ten square feet of porch a veranda. Everything in that brochure was mightily exaggerated.

Back in San Fran, I grew a little garden out back of the house filled with orchids. I air dried clothes on a clothesline. Where would I hang my clothes line on that porch?

Before leaving Cali, I had given away my orchids, mostly because I didn’t trust the Caddy. Once we left the Bay Area, headed south along Interstate 5, if the car broke down in transit, the orchids would’ve fried in the heat while we waited for a tow truck. Giving them up was far better than watching them fry.

Philly winced, heaving up with two suitcases. “Be right back.”

Me and my new neighbor ladies stared at each other. Madonna wore decent shorts—not that I’m passing judgement or anything—and a perky pageboy hairdo. She’d do in a pinch for a new girlfriend, but I had my doubts about flirtatious Ann wiggling in her unsuitable attire.

No telling what they thought of me. “Guess y’all already know my name?”

Madonna grinned. “Of course, you’re Bunny Winters.” Instead of my heart, I left my privacy in San Francisco.

“We knew the minute you signed the paperwork on your house,” Ann added, nodding at our new luxury home. They must’ve gotten a pony express email from the title company.

A golf cart screeched to a halt saving us from a long uncomfortable pause. Out climbed a Kenny Rogers knockoff, complete with the suntan, pot belly and straw cowboy hat.

“Here I brought you a gift.” He held out a melting ten-pound bag of ice. “Ice is provided free of charge. Hi, my name is Wayne.”

He wore cargo shorts and stood on a pair of bare toothpick legs stuck in worn out cowboy boots. Shorts behooved Wayne less than Ann’s shorty shorts complimented her varicose veins. I picked up a hint of his Texas twang. Wayne might not be a looker, but he sounded homey.

“Nice to meet you. Free ice?” What a nice surprise!

Ice would be an important factor in our life, more so now that we live in Hell. I thumbed over my shoulder at the ice chest. “You can put it in Philly’s ice chest.”

Wayne grinned. “Okay, sure can.” Water dripped from the ice bag and when a drop hit the asphalt it sizzled and evaporated.

“Philly! You better get out here. Your boyfriend is here.” I hollered because I could tell from the get-go, Philly and Wayne would hit it off.

Philly’s a Texan. No past tense in that statement. So am I, but I figured after so many years in Cali, I couldn’t claim being an Odessa native anymore. My papa was a wildcatter—that’s a man who drilled oil wells the hard way, digging with a post hole digger and dynamite. My mama said she was an Indian maiden, until she married Papa. It didn’t take him long to change that status, I was born nine months to the day after they married. Although, her blond hair made me highly doubt her Indian story, but it was hers to believe and tell.

Philly had made one trip inside, and he came back sporting flip-flops, cargo pants and a sweatband around his bald head. Philly doesn’t wear open-toed shoes, and we don’t sweat.

“What are you wearing?” His button-down shirt flapped open over his white concave chest that looked like a hairy gray headed lily.

“What?” He looked at his knobby toes. “Is something wrong?”

“Here’s your broccoli salad.” I shoved the knockoff Tupperware bowl at his bare chest.

We had lived in San Fran for twenty-three years, not a one of my neighbors brought broccoli salad as a going away gift.

“Yum, my favorite.” He hates broccoli.

Wayne stuck out his paw. “Nice to meet you neighbor. Wayne’s the name.”

“Likewise,” Philly said, sharing the shake.

Wayne sat in his golf cart and leaned on its steering wheel, chewing a toothpick. “Dude, you better use sunscreen. The sun’s gonna kill you.”

Philly grinned. “I adore the sun. It was always cold in Cali. Time to warm up.”

“I’m just saying.” Wayne hunkered inside his shirt collar. “It is the sun.”

“It’s called acclimation,” Madonna said. “Bud, my dead hubby, never got used to the heat.”

“Hush up, would ya? You’re gonna scare them,” Ann said. “The heat’s not that bad.”

Philly chuckled and asked, “Hey Wayne want a beer?”

“Sure,” Wayne said, pushing back his hat. Sweat beaded on his brow.

Philly fetched two cold ones from the ice chest and handed him a bottle. They twisted off the caps and clinked them together. Nothing like a brew to bond two old men.

Another golf cart eased up, a nicely dressed—overly dressed for this heat—woman got out and came our way.

She took off her sunglasses and squinted. “Hey you. I expected you to drop by the office. Guess you found the welcoming committee.” She nodded at our neighbors. “I’m Sondra. Have you signed up for water aerobics yet?”

Madonna grinned.

“Not yet.” My teeth gritted at the thought of swimming. Water aerobics must be better than sliced bread.

“No matter, there’s sewing class and ceramics. I’m sure you’ll find your niche,” Sondra said, holding a suspicious looking envelope.

“Howdy ma’am.” Philly stuck out his hand.

“Me too,” Sondra said, tipping his fingers and giving me the packet. “That’s the Welcome Packet. Inside are the ins and outs of the rules and regulations. No trash on the curb. No pet pooh-pooh on the street.” She glanced at her clipboard. “You don’t have a pet?”

“Yes, I do.” I pointed at my old dog. He’s always sniffing and peeing on the wrong thing.

She squinted at Philly like she needed to check to see if he could be a verifiable pet. “No noise after ten o’clock.”

Did that include my nonstop wailing and thrashing? How about Philly? He would thrash double-time after I got through throttling him for moving me here.

Sondra, Ann and Madonna chattered, signing me up for future arts and crafts. All of which sounded deplorably social and girly. I wanted more grit, something I could sink my feelings into like target practice or archery. A catharsis for losing my view of the Bay.

“Pardon me, do you have a MarksALot?” I asked.

Sondra’s chin retracted two inches. “Ah. No ma’am, I don’t.” Her jaw and chest melted together. Must be the heat.

“Whatcha want with a MarksALot?” Wayne asked.

My lips curled, showing my fangs. “I’m gonna change the name of this place.”

Neither Madonna, Ann nor Wayne asked what for or to what. Philly winced and I couldn’t tell if it was because his chest fat sizzled in the ninety-degree-plus heat or because I wanted a marker. He drawled in exaggerated Texan, “Bunny’s joshin’ you.

I don’t josh and adjusted my saccharine tone to reflect my mood. “I wasn’t joshin’. This ain’t an oasis, it’s an asphalt jungle.” I shivered and wrapped my sweater around tight to accentuate my angst. A trickle of sweat slipped along my spine, hit my crack and kept going. So much for not sweating.

I plunked at Philly’s shirt sleeve. “Let’s roll, Sweetie Bastard. I’m outta here.”

Glowering, he stepped out of my reach.

Odessa felt like the North Pole compared to this place. I reached for the Caddy’s door handle.

Wayne huffed. “I wouldn’t do that.”

He was too late; I grabbed the chrome handle and jerked back. “Ouch.”

“It’s the sun.” Wayne chuckled. “Better park that thing in the shade.”

“Now Mrs.…” Sondra looked at her clipboard. “Winters. Others have suggested new names for the community, but it takes a vote of fifty-one percent majority to change any covenant. Nothing has ever passed. It takes time to get used to the heat. In time you’ll feel differently.”

“I bet I won’t. Let’s go.”

“In a few days?” Philly asked.

“Maybe in a few weeks,” Madonna said.

Ann added, “In a few years.”

Wayne chewed his toothpick. “Not in a million years.”

Now Philly grabbed my elbow. “Bunny isn’t serious. She loves it here, don’t you... dear?”

I winced from his grasp. “Watch it! Don’t touch me!” He hasn’t ever grabbed me in such a crude manner. “The sun is already fryin’ your brains.”

“Sorry, Hunny Bunny.”

Sondra said, “It’s early in the season. Only the full-timers are here.” She nodded toward Ann and Madonna. They smiled agreeing. “By the end of November, this place will be packed. You better learn the ropes by the time the Canadians arrive.”

Canadians? Ropes? They must be a wicked lot.

Wayne’s cell phone pinged. “Oh! Time for Jeopardy.”

“Must be five o’clock,” Ann said. “Listen, I’m right there.” This time she pointed at her park model. The only difference between her house and ours, was a leaning Roman pillar sized saguaro cactus with a trajectory, if it were to fall, aimed straight for our house.

“Look at that.” I poked Philly’s ribs and nodded at the cactus. He narrowed his eyelids staring at an accident waiting to happen. “Does it get windy around here? Are there zoning laws?” It looked to be encroaching, so in San Fran that tree... plant would be chopped down and ground into compost by the governor himself.

“It’s windy all the time. Never stops blowing,” Wayne said. “Another beer?”

Philly lost his attention span on the cactus hearing beer. He had two favorite things: beer and scotch. Don’t make him pick one or the other.

Madonna pointed walking off. “I’m over there. If you need anything, holler. I’m only a hop, skip and jump away.”

“Me too.” Ann pulled her hot pants out of her crotch, following Madonna.

The girls went home sort of, but they weren’t done gawking. They sat in patio chairs on Madonna’s... ah-hum veranda to watch Philly crank off beer caps and hand a beer to Wayne.

Exciting times are in our future.

Sondra waved the folder. “This packet has everything you need to know about—”

“Thanks,” I said, softening my tone. It wasn’t smart to win enemies and alienate neighbors in the first five minutes of moving into your new park model. It wasn’t new like never used, only new to us. Philly bought it used, based on its online photos. I didn’t approve but didn’t get my way—as usual.

Wayne swilled his beer fast. He was late for Jeopardy and loaded into his golf cart. “You guys get a golf cart yet?”

“Got one on order,” Philly said, digging in the ice chest for beer number three. Four if you counted Wayne’s.

“We do?” My turkey neck waggled. “Why do we need a golf cart?”

Wayne pushed back his cowboy hat. “Bunny,” he said, getting too familiar, too fast. “It’s way too hot to walk.” He cranked over the battery, made a U-turn and honked his annoying golf cart horn. “Gotta run.”

“Isn’t it nice, having neighbors welcome you to the neighborhood?” Philly grinned.

“Stop by tomorrow,” Sondra said. “Orientation’s at ten a.m. Amelia will be expecting you. It’s mandatory.” She got into her golf cart and drove away in a hushed whirl of battery power. Ann walked home. Madonna waved and went inside.

We stood alone on the blackened streets of the Desert Oasis. The goatsuckers were watching, waiting until our guard was down, they’d attack when we weren’t looking. Across the street mini-blinds swayed in the windows and I knew we’d never have another moment of peace.

Philly stomped back and forth between the Caddy and the park model, putting the suitcases in the house and leaving the door open.

We were the new owners of four hundred some odd square feet of compact space, plus a carport and a tin shed on the property line. A three-foot wide veranda ran the length of the carport. Rock covered what would have been the front lawn. No sidewalks. No shade trees. No cool ocean breezes.

Our air-conditioner cycled on and sputtered worse than the Caddy had overheating.

I glanced down the empty black street. “Philly, we better get inside. I got me a willie crawling. It’ll be dark soon.”

“It’s hours before the sun goes down.”

“Yeah. No telling what the dark will bring out in this desert.” I gazed into the sizzling sun dipping lower into the horizon. “I bet there are goatsuckers in this place.”

My daddy put the fear of goatsuckers in me. Back when he had goats, every now and then one would turn up dead with no marks or wounds. The poor thing’s blood would be drained dry. There’s nothing worse than finding a dead goat with no blood. Made the day go bad.

Philly put his arm