CHAPTER VIII

After a half hour at the dumpsters, (breasts pressed to filthy sticky iron, sweating and unable to wipe forehead with sticky filthy hands, evading glances from shoppers who'd parked behind market,)  I was able to lug home six piled-high bags of cherries, peaches, apples, pineapples, mangos, papayas, strawberries, and several flats of dented, dehydrated deep blue, concord grapes. I sailed in the door hunched over with pain, my arms feeling stretched gorilla long and shoulders and forearms burning with pain.

"I'd have brought more," I panted, "but I had this bag of clean clothing with me. I traded dearly for it, didn't want to stain it with fruit" I held the blue suit up with my teeth. Carla ignored the blue suit, grabbed the blue fruit and went right to work. You need a suit to work dumpsters, eh?

"No, a van to carry them home in. Lugging these bags has stretched my arms. I'm going to look like a gorilla.

She ignored me, studying the grapes that floated in the sink. Her judicious nod was terrifyingly inscrutable. 'They're still good, but just barely.

My arms?

"The grapes. Good rescue. She saved your lives, boys!"

She had a scale in the kitchen, an antique kind of thing, I don't know if you could even trust it, but after weighing the various bags, she said my load wasn't l00 pounds. She looked at me coldly. "I really can only plant these strawberries. But we'll get baby plants out of them for sure so I'm not taking them off the count but according to this, you got thirty five pounds."

"Well, It felt like a hundred in the noon sunshine. What do I know?"

"Yeah well, it wasn't. Look, you are going to have to look for other lodgings in 29 days if you can't bring home a full hundred."

At some other point in my life, I'd have screamed 'Simon Legree' at the top of my lungs and flung the concords in her face. No, wait a minute. That's not me. I'd have the THOUGHT --'Simon Legree' and wished I had the nuts to throw the grapes in her face. Her words hit me like a slap and there was an impulse to weep, and maybe in any other epoch in my life, I would have collapsed in victimy tears but I was feeling oddly divorced from the ups and downs of life. "You got it boss," I smiled, saluting from my salty forehead. And then, I ended up using the easy tone of voice that my work out gal Pandora used with me when I couldn't do a hundred sit-ups. I patted Carla's hand in a consoling manner and said in a bouncy tone, 'hey, we all have our bad days." I'm oddly off my usual game, not having eaten all day and would you just give me another chance to try for the carry a hundred pounds through the streets award? " I did a Groucho with my eyebrows and smiled. "But boss? Give me the van if you want the full hundred."

Carla blinked. I guess she expected screams, the kind of tantrum that gets a homeless gal thrown back out on the sidewalk. Well, she didn't get that from me. I looked at her kindly, my eyebrows raised expectantly. The ball was in her court which stopped Carla dead. She was puzzled, I even thought a tad crestfallen, but she was NOT prepared to be double dip nasty with absolutely NO provocation.

She quietly said that maybe I could have the van and we'd wait and see, then she put a plate of steaming hot beans and tortillas in front of me. I wolfed down the food resisting the temptation to ask for avocados, cilantro and hot sauce. It just wasn't an ask for extras moment.

Over in the back of the kitchen, she was filling jars with boiling hot jam. She looked back at me eating. "You know a nice alternative would be chocolate --- baking chocolate of course. If you could pick up twenty bars a day, the 8 ounce size boxes? You see, I am thinking of putting walnut fudge on EBAY. I hear you can do any ritzy candy on Ebay and get these massive, retail prices for it. No need to pay for a license at the city hall, or kosher kitchen. Cuts down on costs.

Ignoring the fact that she was asking me to steal chocolate, I said "Fudge is really an outstanding idea. What kind of money does fudge get these days?

"I'd guess l0$ a pound and the customer pays shipping."

I calculated. Right now with free fruit, you get 8$ a half pound of jam. 16$ for a pound. Your cost is glass jars. Here you gotta pay 3$ for 8 oz of baking chocolate so it’s not cheap, and making fudge you only get l0$ a pound? There's something not right about that."

She considered the numbers for a moment. "We have to comparison shop. Where's the best fudge in L.A.?

"That's easy. The Farmers market stall 54."

"I trust that the great food expert Avery Wendell , the top party hostess of Beverly Hills, knows what' she's talking about. Let's go eyeball what they got."

I ran up stairs, put on the blue suit. A perfect fit. Tennis shoes weren't drastically out of place with it, either. If you left off the socks. I grabbed a purse, stuck my last ten dollars in it and came downstairs.

"Wow. Where did that Chanel come from?"

I traded for it. I only have to give the store owner a pound of jam a day for fifty nine days. I think that was the bargain. Or was it ten pounds a day for ten days? Funny, I can't remember. Anyway, she'll let me know. She will be bringing by some mayo jars -- that I remember, cuz we won't presume to take your jars and of course, I will be bringing extra fruit each day (I underscored that vocally,) and as all the store lady's friends are geriatric diabetics, I'll be doing it with very little sugar because I know sugar costs you…."

"No problem. Sugar is the least of it. Hey, the suit looks real good on you. Ok, we're off to study the fudge market. Do a kind of market study." She locked the house carefully. The van ground into gear and we were off.

* * *

The Farmers Market At 3rd and Fairfax is the loveliest open air market in L.A. not unlike the peasant marketplaces of Mexico or Italy. Narrow lanes of stands with geometrically precise mosaics of fruit piled under shaded canvas roofing and shaded eating areas with tables and chairs. This market had inspired all the one-day Farmers' Markets across the city, but none could match this one, open seven days a week. It had been around for nearly a hundred years and featured the best butchers, the best poultry, produce, artisan made sausages, fresh nuts, pastry bakeries and candy makers.

I knew exactly where the fudge booth was and we stood outside the glassed-in kitchen watching a chef stir a copper cauldron of simmering fudge. He turned the fire off to let it cool. The sheet of marble was buttered and waiting for him to pour. I pointed the marble out to Carla. We gotta get one of those things. It's cold and nothing sticks. You know they can't pour 'til it's lukewarm or it'll granulate." She nodded. The cook seemed to be free for a minute. I rapped on the glass. "What's in the fudge? " I lip voiced and signed to him.

The man came out. "Real cream, butter, chocolate, vanilla.

"What kind of chocolate?" He leaned toward me and whispered. Don't tell them I told you, it's used to be Dutch from Amsterdam. Then the dollar went wacko against the Euro so now we get Mexican. Big dealer in Puebla. Nobody has it but us. Tastes just as good as European, half the price."

He winked and went back to take the temperature of the brew.

We'll find Puebla chocolate makers on the internet. Oaxaca will have dealers, too. Same area. Hottest part of Mexico. Is it chocolate that is an orchid….? No, it's vanilla. Hey, maybe we can get vanilla from the same dealer.

We went to the front counter. A girl waited on us. "How much fudge will ten dollars bring?"

"About a half pound."

Carla and I looked at each other and smiled. "Twenty bucks a pound?? Four dollars better than jam! "Bring it on." I said, and I waved my ten dollar bill.

"I've got it."

"Carla, Consider it my investment in your new candy business."

Well, she was nothing if not a gal who saw reason. Carla shot over to the stall next door, paid for two cups of black Colombian coffee and we found free tables in the shade and began consuming the fudge. It was creamy, smooth as butter, loaded with walnuts and vanilla and there were generous amounts of genuine chocolate and real butter, not peripheral amounts of butter, not any dinky, slight flavor of chocolate, but the sense that it was loaded with the real deal. If anything, the sugar was peripheral. We were stoked. My wings had feet or was it my feet that had wings?

Now, you and I know that coffee and candy are semi-narcotic substances, and fifty year old women can get pretty bent on them.

"Carla whaddya say we go to BevHills get the last tuberoses out of the greenhouse."

"I'm game."

We shot up Coldwater to my oad. There were Lexus and SUVS parked all over the hilltop in front of my house maybe a Chinese housewarming party but by staying down on the service road, we were able to load the last two dozen plants into the back of the van. As we came down Coldwater canyon I got another great idea. Stoked as I was on dangerous substances, it was easy.

"Leave me on that corner, at Blue Jay Way. I'm gonna walk up Blue Jay a few doors, look up my a girlfriend, see if she might have a few pounds of baking chocolate lying around. Just a big enough supply for a test run on the candy business."

"How'll you get home?

"I'll take the Sunset bus to Highland and walk the rest of the way. Not gonna be a problem."

"You have no bus money. You just spent your last cash on my candy. Tell you what…" She rooted around in her purse. I expected to see money. "Use this." She pulled out a bus pass. See? Put your finger over the picture, looks kind of like you anyway, driver's not going to look."

"MARIA GONZALES?"

"My ex jam assistant. It got left behind when I chased her out one day when I found my silverware in her purse. She somehow forgot the purse as she was running pretty fast at the time. Now, if the buses don't accept it and you get into problems, here's my business card. That's our phone number at home."

I took the card, liking to hear the word 'our' and 'home' used in a sentence.

I waved enthusiastically as she drove off. There's one thing I know well. How to handle suppressives. Control freaks. Demanding types. SHOWER them in enthusiasm, bland looks and raise your eyebrows as if the ball were always in their court. Over the years it makes you into a cocker spaniel, but hey. Perky enthusiasm couldn't kill a gal. Ask Mary Hart.

As I walked up Blue Jay Way , I wondered why she was so nice all of a sudden. What were the causes? Was it that she was coming around to seeing that I had recreational aspects, fun for outings. Was it my investing in her business with a half pound of fudge, or my new look. Clothes made the man. Maybe I looked semi-human in the Chanel suit. Or was it that I kept up the Mary Hart imitation when she was mean and rude. My Unflappability. Something had made a difference in the way she was treating me.

* * * * * *

I knocked on a lipstick red enameled door. The door swung open. Marianna Macdonald just stood there, staring. "Avery, I can't deal with this."

"I know, imagine how I felt…"

I'm saying I just can' t deal." There was a finality to that.

Are you saying I can't come in?"

She looked both ways to see who was watching then sighed. "Get legal and we'll talk." The door slammed in my face.

My jaw dropped in shook. "I'm legal" I whispered. Perhaps I should have read the morning papers. Must have been something new in the news about Bill, or about me. I wondered what it was. Marianna always was a coward. Her Husband Mack short for Macdonald was the worst cheat on the block and Marianna simply pretended it wasn't happening. Served her right. I hiked further up Blue Jay to where the street coiled around to spiral up the mountain.

Christina Cummings lived in the top house at the end of the street. Clouds often hung over the 50's Hawaiian Modern home and she was glad when they did as Hawaiian Modern was way way out of style. I was panting when I knocked. Houses this high up have butlers, Hawaiian modern or not. But not a crisp Brit, a Haitian black.

'I'm Wendell Avery." He looked down at the tennis shoes, saw me panting, wondered if I was a housemaid from nearby. "Christina's old friend and neighbor? I live up there. I pointed up. "On the mountain top."

"Oh." He understood. "You've had Car problems."

"You're psychic."

"Do come in. " He led me through the living room then pointed me outside into the portico near the pool. He indicated the bar and went to call Christina Cummings. Now, she was a game girl. I knew she wouldn't throw me out. Before she married Harold Cummings III she'd been the mistress of a Mr. Tony Torelli of Las Vegas, before that a chorus girl. She was a very game, bleached blonde who looked exactly like Madonna. I heard a hoot of glee and there the longest legs in the Hills of Beverly came, raising a scolding index finger at me and doing the huggy thing from a foot away as if both our lipstick would smear.

"Pussy cat. You came at last. I get so lonely during the day. I have the prettiest pool in town and simply nobody drops by. You're an angel to break the thousand year curse. Bring a suit?"

"Yes," I said touching my lapel .."just not swimming."

Oh, well then --want a drinkie winkie?

"Don't you wonder why I'm here?
 

"Wonder, I'm overjoyed and astonished. Andre, " she called into the house. "Bring us some cigarettes. Have a brand?"

I found myself wondering what I could get for Benson & Hedges Longs on the black market. I was willing to choke down one smoke if I could sell the rest. "No, dear but you know what. I only had fudge for lunch; I'm starving hungry.

"Andre? Celery sticks and Perrier.

"No --I'm hungry like for bread. Peanut butter. Food. That Old fashioned stuff."

"Now, now can't let ourselves get chunky-carby. At our age it doesn't go bye bye. Can't I convince you to smoke instead of eat? Tobacco makes us nice and skinny. Who can eat when you're nauseated?

"I'd prefer….." but celery and Perrier were set beside me. I looked unhappily at them and rubbed my hot forehead with an icy stick." She studied the hills while she puffed and inhaled and watched the ribbon of smoke she blew out in front of her. "Bill's had some troubles." I said.

"Harold was saying. Came up short and ran away or something. Walked across the border to Mexico and now nobody can find him. It was in all the papers. Good riddance. You don't need a no class bum like that. You're a sweet girl with a thousand friends, you'll be just fine."

I've heard you can depend on the kindness of strangers but friends haven't worked out for me, so far.

Well, you need a third act. That's the problem. Third acts engender respect. Avery, it's time to get a career!

"Funny you should mention that. I was thinking of making chocolate fudge for Ebay. You wouldn't have any baking chocolate here, would you? About ten pounds?'

"I haven't let chocolate in the house since I quit dancing. You can't each chocolate unless you're a hoofer, Avery. And fudge for lunch is ridiculous. What I'd do is I'd act or get in a rock group or get kept. You have a great tush, you can always find a man."

"Who'd want me for any of those things--- . I had thought more in the line of being a clerk at Nordstrom's but this fudge thing…"

"You'll get over it. But you can't be a clerk. You need a degree in marketing at Department stores nowadays. Those girls are all college grads."

My heart sunk. No suit sales, no chocolate. No job ideas except get kept? I reached up behind my neck and unfastened my locket. "You might be interested in this."

Christina took the locket, saw the little sapphires and diamonds. Her eyes glittered.

"It's lovely. You're so sweet." She stashed it in her pocket. "Honestly you're one of my dearest girlfriends." I wondered where she was going with that. She stood up and then I saw where she was going. "Can I run you into town. I'm due for a bikini wax and suntan at Arden's.."

For the second time in ten minutes, I was floored, shocked and stunned. "Oh no," I said blithely, "I'm walking. Good for the figure. I pointed to the pocket with the locket, speechless.

"Right, well, I'm off. Toodle! And come on by any morning. My yoga teacher's here around nine. We could transcend. Together."

No need of a class for that. I transcend twenty four hours a day, doing it right now as a matter of fact."

Oh?" She grabbed a two thousand dollar handbag, led me by the elbow through the living room and shut the door behind us. She got into her new Jag, made the dialing motion with her fingers, the electric windows slid shut, she waved and was off. With my brooch.

I retreated down the long, smooth, slippery Hawaiian lava road on foot.

My next girlfriend in this particular canyon was Judith Rattner. Mortie Rattner was frugal so they lived closer to the bottom of Coldwater canyon, (aptly named, for there was no ice water colder than that which ran in Beverly Hills matron's veins.) I hoped that in the lower altitudes, where houses were a mere five million each, my friends would be kinder.

The door swung open and Judy screamed. "DARLING! " and two plump arms enfolded me. "Your phones are disconnected, I absolutely panicked. I've got ten women looking for you. We even told the girl at the Beverly Hills Library if you came in to call us. Where are you living?

"Friend's house in Hollywood but I could only pay 29 days, and I don't have the money to pay the bill after that."
 

"Bill left you no money at all?"

"The government didn't leave him any. And he got mad and blamed me and he just left. The Government took my jewelry, the cars, the house, every stitch I own. This isn't a Chanel, it's a fifty buck copy off a rack. Uncle Sam got all my suits."

"YOUR P.T.A. CHANELS? Oh God, you used to be able to say the 1962 Chanel, the Kennedy commemorative 63, all the way up to the 2001 in black, your only black. And you kept them all perfect, not a moth, not one from the USA, straight from Paree, every last one. You're famous for the suits."

"Well now I'm famous for something else. The suits are gone and Bill is gone, too -- maybe to the Caymans to visit his money but his L.A. accounts are empty. Plastic is worthless. Cell phones were dead."

"Well, let's see what I have. Mad money." She reached into a teapot and pulled out wads of twenties.

"This is a lot of mad money."

"Whaddya want, I'm mad all the time, well aggravated -- " She licked twenties into my palm, one by one. "Mortie works all day and doesn't come home 'til dinner time."

"That makes you mad?" I caught her gaze and stared deeply. "Be glad, Joan. Be very glad."

"You sound like my mother and you're right." And then, without a breath. "Let's nosh."

Joan being Jewish didn't even ask if I was hungry. There was pastrami, white fish, sturgeon, cold cuts, pickles, rye bread, mayo and mustard out on the table so fast you could not have said 'no' .

"So" she asked, eyes wide, "what do you plan long term? What's the strategy?" We were both made simultaneously immensely hungry by the drama. Through gulps of sandwich, I told her.

"I'm going into the fudge business on Ebay, say do you have any bitter bar chocolate?

"Tons. Take it all"

"YEAH? I made a grimace of joy through my bite of sandwich. "You are God on Earth, Judy."

After we ate, we went in to her pantry which was a room all its own. Of course, so were her walk-in refrigerators. I almost expected to see mink and sable in there. "This is a win win here, Ave. I was going to throw this out, it's a year old, this one is two years old, those Ghiradelli over there are new, take them all. I'll just have Gelsons deliver more." She bagged as she spoke.

"Wow, I said… "Any walnuts or pecans?"

"Tons." She pulled bags from drawers and topped off the bags of chocolate with nuts, coconut, and a candy thermometer.

"This is good, you have no idea how good. One can sell candy for retail prices on Ebay. Don't tell a soul."

"Oh like anyone we know would know how to cook up candy. Say, I'll buy your fudge. You make chocolate fudge, I'm good for three pounds a month, give another ten pounds to give away to our friends so hey, a standing order for thirteen pounds."

"You will, you would, you could?" I hugged her squelching the desire to jump up and down.

"Everyone I give a pound to will order the same amount from you. You have a business card yet?

No, but I will. Carla, my partner the fudgedealer has a computer in our kitchen in Hollywood. We'll do something up. Fudgenuts. Errr. Fudgearama. The Fudgsterman. Oh this is so good"

"You're serious about this. Can one live off fudge?"

"Well at 20$ a pound, you just ordered 13 pounds a month. That's 260$ A third of my rent right there"

"Glad to be of help but Avery, fudge-making is fun for a while, but what do you plan long term? What's the strategy?

"I'd thought of getting a job. Found a book store that really appealed to me. In truth, I'd pay them to work there."

"An Entry level job? Selling books? Think of the creeps you'd meet there. Oh, Avery. Get real. You can't live on 7$ an hour and date creeps."
"I could --living at the fudge dealer's house. l00 boxes would totally cover my nut."
"Yeah if you're nuts about fudge it would. And tell me, who lives in bumfuck Hollywood, anyway? It's death to your social life. You know what I'd do, Ave, in a community property state, marriage is the best business next to being a tax lawyer. Think geriatric. Tell you what, next time we go to the Springs, we rent you a separate room, all your own, you busy yourself with all those rich old farts that Mortie knows. We will get you a husband. Problem solved." She sat back, satisfied.

It's funny how each of my friends had her own, unique solution to my problems but after Judy Rattner drove me down the hill to Sunset Boulevard in her LandRover, my arms filled with chocolate and nuts, I had to hand it to her, her solution was the best one so far. Marriage. She drove me as far as where the Sunset Strip turns into shops and nightclubs. We spotted the bus and she pulled in front of it. I waved and caught my bus. The driver was so aggravated about being pinned in by an SUV that he didn't even check the picture, he just smirked.

* * * * * * * *

I got home, found mayo jars lined up along side the gate. I took them in and showed Carla who was watching TV, the chocolate and nuts. "The gal who gave me all this wants 13 pounds a month of fudge, even at 20$ a pop. That's a third of my rent here. I'm sure I can sell the other two thirds to my friends in Beverly Hills.  I'll do the work making it. We've got to figure a way to wrap it, wax paper and we gotta make business cards on the computer and then stick them to the bag, wrapped in butcher paper with raffia ties, cuz we aren't ready to buy boxes yet, are we?

"You sure move fast for a slow little hausfrau, Avery. Either you're a very fast learner or you're motivated by something I can't see. Being pushed by some unseen hand. What is driving you?"

"The sidewalk, Carla. The harder you're pushed and the higher the spot from which you fall, the faster you fly through the air and the harder you hit the cement and of course, basic physics, the higher and faster you bounce."

"Hmmm. Let's test your bounce theory tomorrow morning, when we brew up our first batch. Have your bounce going at eight a.m. sharp."

She went back to her tv show.

I realized that there was another law of physics unfolding before me. How could a woman who made so many sweet candies and jams remain so horribly sour. It was like I was still living with Bill. What was wrong with me that I kept attracting that behavior? Was the planet full of this type? Or did I just find them?
 

<------ PROCEED TO CHAPTER IX.