February 26, 2003

  • Mmmm, YAWN....Woke up to find Brett's bed empty; he said last night he was going to check back at the frat before going to work at his part-time campus lab job, so I'm all on my ownsome, sitting with an English muffin, soft-boiled egg, and a glass of Citrus D at the Olson's marble snack bar overlooking the beach.  The "ownsome Olson's," LOL.  That's what happens when everyone in your family plays their cards right and enters the professions.  In ten years, Brett will be a promising orthodontist.  Just my luck I ran up the back stairs an hour ago to find Mr. Olson still sitting in the morning room smoking behind his Wall Street Journal.  I thought he was long gone; I'd forgotten architects pick their own hours.  Errg.  As I slid onto the tiled landing in my stockinged feet, breathless from hunger and surprise, a large corner of the newspaper collapsed to reveal his staring at me through square wire-rimmed glasses as if I were a dazed mouse who'd lost her way from the basement.   A little "I-talian" mouse.


    "Hi!"  I gasped sheepishly, flipping back my long wet hair.


    Olson nodded sternly and took another puff on his cherry pipe.   In his late forties, he was still lean and mean, nicely sun-creased, not much gray showing through his evenly thinning dark blonde hair.  I knew I was being merely tolerated as he absently listened to me hastily explain how I happened to be there.   How Brett and I'd come in late last night and didn't want to wake anybody; how we'd finished all our term papers and class projects and were just taking a break before studying for finals, sorta.  I was missing only one class today, Design 10 (design "for dummies").    "Where did you sleep?"  he interrupted gruffly, obviously expressing the first thing on his mind.


    "With Your Son."   That came out rather bluntly, like, Mister, let me tell you about YOUR SON, but how could I hide it?


    Slut, Olson seemed to frown, pausing for effect as he surveyed my clothes.  Underneath my girl's navy and gray plaid pendleton shirt tails was Brett's sleeveless undershirt.  I had on no bra, skin-tight misty blue Levi's,  and blaring pink, orange, and turquoise knee highs, striped like king snakes.  "Well, get yourself something to eat."  The paper sprang back up, signaling my dismissal.  Mr. Olson was some act; he knew what it was all about.


    I had carefully rinsed off my plate and was just about to wipe off the range--I knew how to take care of other people's things--when I almost stepped on his spotless leather loafers.


    "What are you doing?"  he huffed.


    "I just thought I'd clean--"


    "Leave that for the housekeeper," Mr. Olson cut in, grabbing my dirty dishes and setting them next to the sink.  "She has to get paid for SOMETHING, you know......Was that all you ate?"  he queried, making us both think of Brett's fourteen year old anorectic sister, Arlie.  Before I could answer he was preoccupied fixing a large strawberry yogurt smoothie in the professional bar blender.   No matter; anything I might say would probably come out wrong.  "You should have a smoothie, or a gazpacho."  


    A tall cold glass of smoothie appeared in front of my barstool, so I went and sat back down, toying with it.  "You off work today?"  I ventured.


    "It rained on the site last night--the new CONSTRUCTION site," he explained, catching my puzzled expression before I could make a mistake.  Smiling lamely, he turned and piled the dirty blender next to the dishes, making a semblance of a mess on the long gleaming counter.  Then he left, taking the rest of the milkshake into the study.


    I spent most of the morning alone watching cable TV in the drafty rec room, munching on microwave popcorn and chatting on the phone with Brett.  It was not only freezing, but dark, its being a cold overcast day.  Mr. Olson came down and checked on me once, advising me to light the fire.  What was wrong with me? Didn't I know I could catch cold?!? 


    "This is good cord wood," he grunted, throwing a log into the firebox and kindling it.  The Olson's are too frugal to pay a two hundred dollar a month utility bill and rely on wood burning stoves and inserts, electric blankets, and the layered look.  Squinting at the giant screen:  "There's nothing but crap on TV, now.  Why don't you watch a foreign film?"  he urged, plunking a video on the coffee table before slouching back upstairs. 


    Around noon Daisy, the svelte almond-eyed uniformed Mexican lady from the cleaning service, came and made no bones about my being in her way.  I'd move my books and stuff to another room, only to be told she had to do that one, now.  Before long I was being shooed from room to room like a big puppy that might muddy or chew or knock over something. 


    Mr. Olson even chuckled at me, Daisy smirking at his side, and cried, "Shoo, shoo!"  "Look," he told me, "The sun's coming out!" 


    So I got on my ski jacket and hiking boots and took a walk.  The  air outside was brisk and pungent with smoke, pine needles, and gingerbread incense.  A cute Jamaican guy exercising a buckskin quarter horse mare about half a mile down the winding road stopped to talk with me.  I commented how long it'd been since I'd ridden and, to my delight, he let me sit her a while.  He ended up asking for my number, but I told him I was "engaged" and headed back towards the house.  Soon, Brett would be home with his brother and sister, whom he was picking up from school on the way back from work, and the place would be really livening up.