Miss L's Travails—Chapter I

 

CHAPTER ONE—ON EDGE

 

I thanked my lucky stars for the peephole! It was arguably my apartment’s most valued feature. The front doorbell buzzed a few times, and I eyeballed the opening anxiously. It was just Ralph, dear sweet Ralph, my one and only friend and trusted handyman for the past ten years. His boyish, evenly featured face looked distorted, chipmunk puffy, but his brown eyes exuded their habitual goodwill.

I unlatched the double chain-lock and let him in. “Sheesh, Miss L. It’s insanely cold out there. I can’t recall it ever being quite so ferocious in November.”

“I’ll make you a grilled cheese sandwich and a cup of cocoa. The list of fixes is beside the desktop. I hope you can get the poor old workhorse up and running again.”

“I’ll do my best, Miss L. There’s almost always a workaround for every problem.”

“It’s the almost that worries me, Ralph. Sooner or later, I know I’ll run out of luck.”

Ralph carried his quaint wooden toolbox to the computer room, and I headed for the kitchen, a room which was comfortingly outdated. If my computer, or for that matter, my stove, refrigerator, washing machine, television or home phone were to conk out on me, I would be in deep trouble, for it had become impossible to find replacements for the older models.

The new systems were integrated and interactive. They were programmed to leak your personal data to the CIC—Citizens’ Information Centre. You couldn’t use the stove for example, without the screen asking in illuminated text, “Where did you purchase your tilapia? How much did you pay for it? Please swipe the receipt.”

Many people weren’t overly concerned about this intrusion into their private lives. Some were even pleased because on occasion, after you swiped your receipt, you became the instant winner of a month’s supply of dairy products or mixed nuts or frozen meals or some such prize. But for people of my age and older, these interactions could prove to be very, very dangerous.

Indeed, even running errands had become risky business, and I had recently asked Ralph if he would run them for me.

“Not yet, Miss L. It’s not time yet. Why that long blond hair of yours and your slender figure and stylish clothes make you look under the age limit, way under it.”

But I didn’t agree. Of late, during my forays for consumer items, I had been noticing that people were looking at me differently, with less benign neutrality. There were fewer smiles and more inquisitive expressions directed my way. I had begun wondering if I should go the route of skin fattening, but that procedure had recently become illegal and was now dangerous for practitioner and patient alike.

Seniors who had this technique performed on them were conferred with plump, smooth skin, skin as firm as Gouda cheese. But they still didn’t look young. They looked like old people with retextured skin, at least to my eyes. They were often referred to as CheeseHeads by the population at large. The procedure didn’t seem worth the cost or pain. Nevertheless, the notion of “reversing time” intrigued me, so I had once made an appointment with the most famous skin rejuvenator in Montreal, Dr. Lesage. That would have been five-and-a-half years ago.

I was so nervous walking into his aluminium-coloured office that my blotchy hands trembled. The receptionist was clinically exquisite: sleek platinum bob, perky nose, full rosy lips, melon breasts, a crisp glaringly white lab coat. She was perched daintily on a grey leather stool behind a plexiglass partition. At the time, I still had a Medicare card, which she swiped even though had I agreed to a procedure, the cost would be out of my own  pocket. She handed me a clipboard and requested that I fill out a questionnaire while waiting to be called. The final section confused me thoroughly. I was required to check the box beside the type of filler or fillers I wanted:

ð      Resveratrol

ð      Matrixyl

ð      Hyaluronic Acid

ð      Lactic Acid

ð      Glycolic Acid

ð      Vitamin C Acid

ð      DMAE Bitartrate

ð      Resveratrol- Vitamin C Acid

ð      Resveratrol- Matrixyl

ð      Matrixyl- Hyaluronic Acid

ð      Resveratrol- Glycolic Acid

ð      DMAE Bitartrate-Vitamin C Acid

ð      DMAE Bitartrate-Matrixyl

The list rattled me. I hadn’t known that I was expected to make an informed choice. The room was otherwise vacant and the white-coated creature was engaged in a personal phone call. The telephone she was using was not a cellular device, rather a lollipop pink landline apparatus which was the only source of vivid colour in the otherwise stark landscape of the reception area. I walked over to her glass cage and waited humbly for her attention. As I watched her lips move as though they had a life of their own, I noticed that her skin, although taut and firm, was tellingly dense. The realization that she was a CheeseHead gave me instant courage.

I waited patiently for her to complete her conversation and finally, after what I estimated to be a good ten minutes, she lowered the phone handle to the cradle and rewarded me with her full attention. Although her face looked eerily ageless, I calculated that she was around my age, and I asked myself which was worse: to look one’s age or to look neither young nor old, but like a creature that belonged to some other species entirely, humanoid—with a covering that resembled  skin, but wasn’t actually skin, rather an ersatz more durable material.

“I’m afraid I can’t check off the appropriate squares in Section D,” I informed the receptionist. “I have absolutely no idea what these fillers are.”

She smiled at me reassuringly. “No worries, dear. The doctor will explain everything to you. He’s an injection genius. Look at what he’s done for me.”

I smiled back at her but said nothing. It was true that her “skin job” was better than average, but I’d already made up my mind that I didn’t want to look like that. I decided, however, not to exit the office. Perhaps the good doctor could propose a different sort of procedure, one that yielded a more natural-looking result.

One of three glass doors opened, and Dr. Lesage took my chart out of the hands of his receptionist and asked me to follow him into his office. I was surprised to note that he was also a Cheesehead, and a balloon-head to boot. He was so skinny that his head looked as though it belonged on a different body entirely. He was either deathly ill or severely anorectic. He was short for a man, my height—5’5”, and his severe halitosis filled the otherwise immaculate room.

There were two metal chairs on the patient side of the desk, and he sat down in one of them. I followed his example, and placed my lumpy purse awkwardly on the pearl-grey carpet. He then stretched out his unusually long arms and turned my face this way and that way, tilting my chin, running his bony fingers up and down my neck.

“I see that you haven’t filled in your preference for fillers,” he spoke softly, almost dreamily.

“That’s correct, “I acknowledged. What do you recommend?”

“That depends entirely on the effect you want and on how much money you’re willing and able to spend.”

“I was hoping you could show me digital results of what the various options would produce.” By then, his deathly breath made me feel faint and I was in desperate need of fresh air.

Again the soft and dreamy voice. “Yes, yes, of course, Will you be wanting your hands, arms and chest area done as well?”

“Not straight off. I was thinking I’d start with my face and neck and see how it went.”

“Baby steps,” he murmured. “Let me say that for satisfactory results you’ll require at least three treatments, and I think that for your particular type of age damage, I recommend the DMAE Bitartrate-Matrixyl option. That should tighten, lighten and brighten your skin significantly.”

“And how long should the benefits last?” I asked. “I mean, how often will the procedure have to be repeated?”

“Oh, that’s very difficult to predict. Every case is different. On average though, refilling is required two to three times a year.”

“I see. And for the filler combination that you recommend for my face and neck, how much will three sessions cost?”

“Forty-five hundred dollars, payable before we begin.”

I groped for my purse and rose. This time it was the doctor who followed my example. “Thank you for your time, Dr. Lesage. I’ll get back to you as soon as I’m ready to be filled. Should I expect much pain?”

“No pain at all. A little discomfort, but no actual pain.”

We shook hands and I bolted out of his office. The receptionist cocked her head toward me expectantly. She resembled an albino parrot. “I’ll be back,” I told her breezily,” once I sort out my finances.” But, of course, that didn’t happen.

I carried Ralph’s sandwich and sea-salted potato chips into the computer room. “Time for a lunch break,” I informed him as cheerily as I could. “Would you like mineral water or beer?”

“Tap water will be great, Miss L. I always vouch for Montreal tap water. It’s the sweetest drinking water I’ve ever tasted.”

When I returned with a jumbo-sized glass of cold water, I inquired, “How’s it going? Do you think you’ll be able to fix everything on the list?”

He finished chewing the delicate bite he had taken out of the sandwich. “We’re in luck this time ‘round, Miss L. But I don’t think patches will be available for much longer. This old baby is well on her way to obsolescence.” He pointed toward my eleven-year-old PC, but he might as well have been pointing at me. Ralph continued speaking glumly. “Everyone’s being herded in the direction of integrated systems. That’s just the way it is. It’s only a matter of time.”

I was aware of that and was preparing myself to go off the grid. As far as I knew, that wasn’t illegal. Damned troublesome, yes, but not against the law. I had been paying for everything exclusively in cash for the past three years, and not once had my money been rejected. And I rationalized that living without a stove, refrigerator, washing machine and clothes dryer might prove to be a kind of adventure in urban homesteading. Who needed a broiled steak or baked fillet of halibut when peanut butter was so high in protein? I would save time and money by eating out of jars, cans, boxes and bags. I could easily wash my clothing and bedlinens by hand and string up clotheslines in the dining room. And as for communication, well, if I truly needed to see someone or someone needed to see me, there was always the quaint rite of visiting.

There would be few personal visits, though. I was virtually friendless unless I counted Ralph as a friend. But he wasn’t really; he was my friendly handyman. But better than friendly, he was trustworthy. I didn’t see how I could manage without Ralph.

“Doesn’t it bother you to see all those still serviceable electronic devices and electrical appliances tossed to the curb?” I wanted to know.

“It used to, but not anymore. I suppose I’ve gotten accustomed to seeing them. They do look kind of forlorn, abandoned. And I do worry about little kids fooling around with refrigerators and getting stuck inside. Well, Miss L. I’m all done here. You’re good to go for now.” Ralph stood up. He was so boyishly lanky and polite that I had an urge to tousle his thick, spicy-toned hair. I resisted it because I didn’t want to embarrass him.

“How much do I owe you?”

He just about began shuffling his feet. “Golly, Miss L. I don’t feel right taking money from you. It would be like charging my own mother. Why won’t you let me do this stuff for you without payment?”

I made my voice sound as stern and stubborn as possible. “Nonsense! This is your work. It makes no sense for you not to charge me. You have to make a living. Do we have to have this discussion each time you visit? I’m not impoverished, and I don’t expect to be anytime soon. So kindly tell me what I owe you.”

“Fifty dollars will be fine, Miss L. I had to be in the neighbourhood anyway. You know, I grew up just a few streets east of your place. It’s amazing how little this district has changed. I always feel kind of happy when I drive around here.”

“That’s good,” I commented. “I suppose that means you had a happy childhood.”

“Oh, I don’t know about that although it certainly was happier than my adulthood’s been so far.”

“You’re still very young, Ralph. You’ve got everything going for you. Anything you want is within your reach.” I almost believed my encouraging words. The only thing that Ralph lacked was ambition. A strong-willed young woman could change that. Ralph would be okay. I had to believe that.

After Ralph left, my own company seemed sad, old and tired. I couldn’t recall the last time I had enjoyed being by myself. Had it really been so long ago? If I could only spend the day with Elaine. Just one day. But then that day would end and I would be in exactly the same lonely spot. She had been out of my life for eighteen years, but I still half-expected her to ring my doorbell and simply re-enter my little back stairwell of the world.