Penguin Woman Redux

I think I’ve gotten rid of her now. Jeezus, I hope so.

It was simply the Week Of Flakes. Last Monday, the intermittent client wished on me by one of the personal trainers at my gym, who comes dressed as if going to a dinner party in the year 1953, complete with jewelry, stack heels, and matte lipstick, and commits a heaving inhale and forceful sigh about every ninety seconds while on the table; then Penguin Woman with her car blocking my driveway and her gabbling incoherent explanations; then an unexpected call from an old client who moved out of the area but got sent here for work this week and did I have a spot? Which is okay, but I belatedly remembered that this is the person who usually shows up late, takes an inordinate amount of time to undress and get on the table, an even longer time to dress again — I’m talking fifteen or twenty minutes to put on a tee shirt and a pair of slacks — and doesn’t know how to leave. I instructed the Engineer to produce cooking smells on the stroke of the clock that I expected to finish the session.

Just before Dilatory Former Client was due, there was a rap on the door and there stood Penguin Woman, now attired in street clothes that made her resemble Tweedledum or Tweedledee. “I just wanted to explain what happened this morning,” she said.

Ah. That would be Wednesday morning actually. It was now Friday.

She gabbled some more about how the car died and she didn’t know what to do and wanted me to realize it wasn’t like she was some drunk who had run up on the sidewalk. At this point, I did not care. I wanted her the fuck off my porch. She continued to ramble on about how the couple across the street had called her up on seeing her car aground there; possibly this was meant to tweak me for not recognizing the vehicle, though a note on my door would have worked wonders, I have to say. This is why I do not socialize with neighbors. Sturgeon’s Law states that 90% of everything is crap. That includes interactions with other humans. At least even my flakiest clients are paying me for the time I spend pretending that their screwy behaviors are normal, a transaction I am prepared to honor. This was just taking away minutes I would never get back.

“It’s okay, I’m glad you’re okay and the car’s okay, everything’s okay,” I kept repeating, wondering if I was going to have to bodily eject her from the enclosure. I noticed that she had parked the car facing the wrong way at the curb.

I think I’ve hit my quota for the year. Any  more of this shows up, I’m sending it back.