Front Desk Woman; Volume 8
Pansy had been drunk for weeks. Sliding up and down hallway walls. Tripping on baskets of laundry. Even crawling on all fours in the meager hope that someone might burst in to save her from her fumbling self.
That was the main reason she continued to swallow the fiery, clear liquor all day and all night. To dream again of a savior, just like she had when she was very small. But this time, he was not a knight or prince or quarterback. She was now old enough to know that those types left pee on toilet seats and streaks in their underwear just like the rest of them. Now, her drunken dreams conjured up her Financial Independence Fairygod Mother.
Whenever Pansy crossed a certain threshold of drunkenness, the reasonably dressed, wirey-haired woman in a pants suit appeared to her. Clip board in hand, glasses resting on her long, hook nose, and no smile to speak of, shit yeah, was she a sight for sore eyes.
“Madame Pansy,” she’d say.
Financial Independence Fairygod Mother insisted upon calling her Madame Pansy, which, dreamy right? She knew just what to say.
“Your financial situation is shit,” she read to Pansy from her clipboard. “Sit here and listen closely.”
Pansy stumbled to seated position and asked, “Do you know the numbers of tonight’s Mega Millions, Financial Independence Fairygod Mother?”
“For the thousandth time, no!” she’d reply in a tone that reminded Pansy very much of her bitchy kindergarten teacher. “My gifts come only in the form of spreadsheets.”
But Pansy continued to smile. She could never be disappointed in her. “Yes, Fairygod Mother.”
“Now where were we,” she continued. “Ah, credit cards. Why on earth do you need so many?”
“Husband made me sign up for them,” Pansy replied. “He said I had to.”
Fairygod Mother pushed her glasses up her nose, a judgmental gesture surely, but she didn’t speak her judgments aloud. “Hmm. And student loans?”
“That was all me,” Pansy said with a duncey grin. “I’m an idiot.”
Fairygod Mother wrote vigorously onto her clipboard until it began to glow orange. Pansy leaped from her seat and backed into her living room corner, just in case the whole thing burst into flames. Fairygod Mother didn’t seem alarmed at all though. She actually smiled for the first time Pansy had ever seen. It was so slight that she almost missed it – the lift of plump cheeks and gentle curve of lips into some semblance of delight from such a rigid woman. Pansy marveled at her.
She herself wanted to be this way – firm, inelastic, unyielding. Pansy’d always pushed those instincts deep down into herself, thinking no man would want such a cold woman. She, instead, morphed into something floppy and easily manipulated. And just look where it’s gotten her, penniless, jobless, and drunk with zero self-respect and bad credit.
“Here,” Fairygod Mother handed Pansy an instructional spreadsheet.
The single page’s header read, “GET YOUR FUCKING SHIT TOGETHER, GIRL!” And just beneath it, an exceptionally detailed, penny by penny accounting of every step Pansy would need to reach the box at the bottom marked “FINANICAL FREEDOM.” Instructions ranged from hundred pack hot dogs to trade in BMW for Mrs. Turner’s Oldsmobile down the street. It reminded Pansy of a grownup version of the Candy Land board game from her youth.
“How do you know all of this?” Pansy asked while reading the section marked Coffee shops are for dumbasses/ coffeemakers are for winners.
“Why, I’m your Financial Independence Fairygod Mother,” she said before walking through the front door, ducking into her beat up Geo Metro, and sputtering off.