LatinosUSA

Molly Ringer stood forlornly in her kitchen, dutifully feeding her cat, Killer. She mechanically scooped teaspoon after gilded teaspoon of Friskies into the feline’s large stainless-steel dish. With each scoop served, Killer nibbled furiously and then looked expectantly up at Molly for more. This went on for some little time.

At length, Killer seemed satisfied, but when Molly discarded the empty can, the cat raised a paw and waved it crazily. Molly sighed. She knew what this meant: it was cat semaphore for kibble. With another sigh, Molly grabbed the bag of kibble and poured out a modicum of crunchy cat crackers into Killer’s dish. Now the she-cat raised a different paw, semaphore for a treat, but Molly had enough.

“The trees need water, Killer,” she said sharply, and the cat turned her back on Molly and stalked off, her tail swishing arrogantly. Out on the veranda of her palatial estate, Molly looked askance at the 4,000 Japanese maples that festooned her acreage. “This may take some time,” said Molly, sighing anew.

Taking a tumbler from a nearby table, she filled it with tap water and proceeded to the first of her forest of foliage. “This is for you, Aaron,” she said tenderly, dipping the spoon in the water and giving the first tree a spoonful of water. She moved on. “And this is for you, Archie,” she purred to the next Japanese maple. Then, “This is for you, Ashram,” and so on.

After Molly finished watering her trees — the days are long on the Left Coast — she hurried to her car. She was late for Costco. That emporium frankly put all other stores to shame, she thought smugly to herself. But, when the sales clerk at Costco tried to charge her 2 cents over and above what was advertised for a can of Friskies yanigidako(stewed octopus), Molly grew enraged and conked the clerk on the head with a can of the overpriced cat victuals.

“I want to speak to the manager,” insisted Molly sharply, folding her arms across her chest. The poor clerk shook his head. He knew there was no hope for him.

A minute later, Mr. Furdknocker, the store manager, came out of the back. He was walking on crutches. “Can I help you, Ms. Ringer?” he asked bleakly.

“Ooh,” cooed Molly with concern. “Whatever happened to you, Mr. Furdknocker?”

“I…had an accident,” revealed Furdknocker, his face inscrutable.

“Did something heavy fall on your foot?” she asked next.

Furdknocker looked at Molly a trifle peevishly and nodded curtly. “A shopping cart,” he disclosed, staring darkly at Molly. It was only then that Molly remembered slamming a shopping cart into poor Mr. Furdknocker the last time she visited Costco. That’s when she had been protesting a 4-cent per pound overcharge on Black Angus beef. “What can I help you with this time, ma’am?”

Molly had the grace to blush. “Er…nothing. Everything’s fine.” Again, Furdknocker nodded abruptly and staggered back to his office.

Driving at 80 mph in her classic ‘62 Borgward sports car back to her estate, Molly wasn’t looking and accidentally clipped two cyclists, a pedestrian, and a gaggle of geese, out waddling along as a family. She slowed down. “I wonder,” she murmured thoughtfully, “if Killer would like some goose?” Giving the idea some more thought, Molly shook her head and sped away.

Arriving back at the palatial estate, Molly looked with disdain at the approximately 8,000 blackberry vines choking off her revered Japanese Maples. Uncertain what steps to take, she deferred action and went inside to feed Killer again. When she returned outside, she could hear sibilant voices, whispering, “Molly, water us. Molly, water us. Molly…”

Molly started. Who could have invaded her estate, with its 11-foot rock fences, with its electrically-charged elements, and the razor wire and the glass shards embedded in the sides? The voices came again, sounding more desperate this time. Molly stared at her forest of Japanese maples, and her mouth opened into a little O.

“It’s the trees,” she said in amazement. She approached the tree she’d named Archie and laid a hand on its trunk. In response, Archie lowered a leafy branch and softly caressed Molly’s arm. Again, Molly was startled.  “I…I’ve got to tell someone,” she squeaked.

But, just then came a loud clattering sound from the dumpster behind the manor house. Molly looked up sharply. “That darn Agnes,” she said, fuming. Stalking to the rear of the house, she grabbed the hose, turned on the water, and then directed the stream at her green-painted dumpster, lately full of discarded cans, boxes, milk containers, biscuit tins, and more significantly, gently-used cans of Del Monte Stewed Tomatoes, which ran past their expiration date by 20 years.

A plethora of accumulated cans lay upon the pavement, staining the concrete slabs a garish red. “Agnes?” Molly called out. There was no answer, but looking closer in the gathering gloom, Molly spotted two thick legs, with stiletto heels appended to them, sticking out of the dumpster. “Agnes Devereaux,” said Molly, shouting now, “come out of that dumpster this minute — empty-handed!” When Agnes gave no response, Molly grabbed her legs and pulled. Drawn to the dumpster’s wide aperture, Agnes refused to relinquish the stewed tomatoes. Molly turned on the hose, knocking the cans from her grasp. With a can still clutched between her teeth, Agnes growled fearsomely, but Molly directed the stream onto Agnes’s face, and the can popped free.

Finally, when the water was turned off, Agnes and Molly sat in companionable silence upon the wet ground, their backs leaning against the dumpster.

At last, Agnes swiveled her wet hair in Molly’s direction and asked in a kindly voice, “Molly, what’s new?”

Molly appeared to turn this question over in her mind for a moment, then looked back at her friend of more than 30 years and replied, “Nothin’.”

Agnes nodded. “Same here.” After a moment, she asked, “Do you wanna smoke some weed?” Molly agreed that she did.

A few minutes later, sitting amidst a vaporous cloud of blue smoke, Molly said, “My trees started talking to me.”

Agnes stared at her. “Before or after we got high?”