two thoughts

I notice in my archives that the last time I reported on Tara's bathroom was back in March, and since I'm told that her family occasionally reads my journal, I thought I'd update them on the situation.

Tara has decided to go for a rustic Italian look in her newly remodeled bathroom, which is commendable because it was probably the cheapest way to go. She has stripped the paint from the walls so that they're now down to streaked plasterboard; she has removed the tile from the floor so that it now consists of uneven concrete with patches of adhesive. She has removed the toilet and fixtures so that there's now a big hole in the floor leading nowhere our imaginations want to go.

The removal of all these extraneous accoutrements has expanded the bathroom considerably. Whereas before it was roughly half the size of her coat closet, the bathroom can now fit six famine-starved villagers. And if any of them need to go to the bathroom, there's always the hole in the floor.

Tara claims this is not the final look she has in mind for the room -- her ultimate vision apparently involves a toilet one can sit on -- but I say, why tamper with a good thing?

***

When last we left my sister, she was heading off into the wild blue yonder -- namely, Mexico -- on a peculiar vacation specified by the whims of the International terminal at San Francisco Airport.

I got a telephone call from her the Sunday before last, right as I was walking out the door to dim sum with the Guy.

"I'm coming back," she announced. "I hate Mexico. It's all expensive and stuff."

"Are you in Mexico City? Why is it expensive? I thought it was cheap."

"Puerto Vallarta," Masako informed with disgust.

I sniffled in the car. "Isn't that, like, one of the biggest tourist attractions in South America?"

"Tourists SUCK."

"Oh." I considered what to ask next. "Do you need me to pick you up at the airport?"

I distinctly heard my sister consider this. "We're going to Arizona."

"Straight to Arizona?"

"That's where the plane goes."

"Do you know anybody in Arizona?"

"May Lee lives there," my sister explained. "Could you get her phone number for me?"

How I was to accomplish this, she had no idea. "You have an email address for her?" I asked a little desparately. I was hungry. Conversations with my sister, while always interesting, had a rather stomach-churning effect on my more sedate internal organs.

"In my email somewhere. I dunno. I'm in the airport. I can't check. -- If I give you my email address and password, will you get it? You can email her and have her call your cell phone."

"And then--?" I asked bitterly.

My sister was quite cheerful on the phone. "Then she can call you and give you her phone number, and then I can call you after we touch down. Oops. Got to go. The plane's boarding."

She tossed out her password and username for Yahoo, bid me a fond farewell -- "Bye!" -- and hung up.

May Lee, a sweet, somewhat confused young woman, called me later in the day while we were wandering Barnes and Noble. She's been friends with my sister since early grade school, and part of her enduring charm is that, no matter how many years of experience she has, she never fails to be astonished by Masako.

From her opening greeting on the phone, she already sounded vaguely worried. "Hello? It's May Lee?" The uncertainty over her own identity was typical. She rarely made any comment that was not phrased as a question.

"May Lee! Hey. How're you doin'? Listen, Masako's going up to Arizona from Mexico and she wants your phone number so that she can get in touch with you. Except that you just called me on my cell phone so I probably have it already. So I don't need it. Unless you're using a pay phone -- are you using a pay phone? -- in which case I'll need it anyway, or is this a cell phone?"

There was a moment's blank silence. Then, plaintive: "I don't understand."

There are only two phrases May Lee ever presents without the question mark at the end. This is one of them.

"Masako," I said slowly and carefully, "will be in Arizona. She wants your phone number."

"Is she there?" May Lee wanted to know.

"In Mexico."

"Why is she in Mexico?"

"Who knows. Anyway, she hates it there, so she's going up to Arizona--"

"To visit me?" She sounded alarmed at the thought. I couldn't blame her. Having Masako as a friend is like knowing Christopher Walken. You don't know what'll happen next, but you're probably guaranteed it'll be fun in a horrible way, and the power of God will be urging you on.

"That's what she said. So I need your phone number before she gets off the plane in an hour or so. Is this your mobile phone?"

Another small pause. "Yes?"

"And do you carry it with you everywhere you go?"

"Yes?" May Lee guessed again.

"Then I'll have Masako call you when she gets in."

"Today? She's coming today?" Already, May Lee was starting to sound resigned to the prospect. This is part of what it is to be Masako's friend. I'm told there are whole legions of people in Europe, Africa, and Southeast Asia that will put my sister-and-company on thirty minutes' warning. Well, the Europeans have the French, the Africans have the UN, and Southeast Asians have guerrilas in every tree; they're used to erratic neighbors. All we have here in America is the damn Canadians. Excepting the occasional immigration to the US, the last time a Canadian did something unreasonable, there were mammoth herds dropping turds all over Vancouver.

Masako called a half hour later, while we were driving back to my apartment. "So?" she began on the phone: no 'hello,' no 'how are you,' no 'I'm back in America!' "So?" she said.

"Hold up and call back in five minutes," I directed.

(click)

I pulled up my list of 'calls received from' on my cell phone, and flipped through them until I found the right one. "Okay," I told the Guy. "Memorize these four digits...."

Posted by yhirata at September 24, 2002 11:26 PM