I called. His name was Audley Roost. He would meet me in Eugene on Thursday. When Audley arrived that super sweltering July day, we were drinking lemonade on the deck under the walnut tree. We offered. He declined. Old and scrawny. Diabetic, he said. He also had emphysema. Was on disability. Couldn’t do his own housework. Coughed a lot and had a clear plastic appliance the size of a fist he jammed up his nostrils. I don’t know what it did—I doubt it dispensed oxygen. I didn’t ask. Introduced to Jack and Peter, he told how he and his wife and two good friends had visited Fin- nochio’s in San Francisco. “Oh they were good,” he said. “ They could fool you, they looked like women and they acted like women.” I didn’t like Audley but a place to live on the coast where it was cooler sounded good and I wouldn’t mind a little cooking and cleaning. I could live with that. Just as he was leaving Audley told me he lived in a trailer. “ But it’s a double-wide.” He waved and got in his car. I was not reassured. I could not imagine it: living in a trailer with Audley. I could not imagine living in a trailer period. Not wanting to be brutal about it, I told him a Shelves and tables were everywhere, a ll their surfaces covered with knicknacks. Fur heads lolling on springs, eyes rolling. Hula dancers wiggled mobile hips. Shells were glued haphazardly into a semblance o f something else. Never had more kitschiest kitsch been crammed into one place. decision would have to wait until I’d seen his place and had a better idea of what was involved. Marlo landed a music teacher job interview at Port Orford High School down the coast. We would go to Audley’s in Newport on the way. She was gleeful. She’d missed Audley’s visit and she wanted to get in on the next chapter. This was more entertaining than a Harlequin romance, this was real life. Reaching the coast, we turned off the highway, went through a wide gate and onto a winding road, dunes beyond it and blue ocean beyond the dunes. Cool air, exhilarating, salt taste in it. We couldn’t find Audley’s place. A woman in a bathrobe out by her mailbox pointed, “Oh, he’s in that trailer over there.” An eruption of junk surrounded that trailer. Audley looked the same. After he invited us in, Marlo kept things going by asking Audley questions and laughing and commenting. Once in a while she glanced at me. I was inert. In shock. Shelves and tables were everywhere, all their surfaces covered with knicknacks. Fur heads lolling on springs, eyes rolling. Dozens of eyes rolling every which way. A ceramic Mexican leaned forward, his butt up against a cactus, sombrero tilted over his sleeping manana face. Next to him, a short Eskimo stood grinning, holding up a salmon. Hula dancers wiggled mobile hips. Shells were glued haphazardly into a semblance of something else. Never had more kitschiest kitsch been crammed into one place. “ My wife’s collection,” Audley said waving his arm. “ Of course,” Audley added, “ it ’ ll be one of your jobs to keep them dusted.” I made a sound “ uhhhh” to indicate what he’d said had registered. “What about the last person you had working for you?” Marlo asked. “Oh, her. . . ” he said. “Well, she had her weaving loom in therein her room. I’ ll show you the room.” It was hard to imagine both bed and loom in that low-ceilinged cubicle. A green foam mattress with spiky eggcrate surface was thrown twisted in a corner. “ She liked to take that and lie on it in the backyard,” he said, pointing out the tiny window. “Sunbathing.” Marlo persisted, “Why did she leave?” “After dinner,” Audley said, “ she’d go into her room and weave. A lot of good that did me." He was wracked with spasms of coughing. Heads wobbled, eyes rolled. Marlo finally got him a glass of water. Back to normal, he leaned toward me, “ D’you like boats?” I nodded yes. “ D’you like fishing?” I nodded yes. “ I’ve got a motor home,” he told me, “ and we can go anywhere it it. Go fishing 36 Clinton St. Quarterly— Fall/Winter 1988
RkJQdWJsaXNoZXIy NTc4NTAz