A gorgeously-attired girl entered our shop dressed in an ankle-length dress.  Her hair was done to a "T."  She looked quite out of place in our dusty woodshop.

"A customer?" I asked myself as I approached her.

She announced that her name was Liz, and started to touch our desk.  I protested, and asked her to wait a second while I dusted a place for her to do whatever it was that she wanted to do.

"We manufacture dust here," I explained.

She ignored my comment and activities, and asked what sort of stains we used in our shop, and if we ever got any on our clothes.

"There's a question we haven't been asked before," I thought, but pulled up the sleeve of my sweatshirt to reveal a quarter-sized stain on my shirtsleeve.

"Like this?" I asked.

Executing a draw that would have made Wyatt Earp blush, Liz fired off five quick shots from a squirt bottle that appeared from nowhere.  The stain, and my shirtsleeve, were instantly dripping wet.  I hoped it was water.

The girl then grabbed my arm, produced an open jar of cream, and began working vigorously on the spot with a rag, chattering all the while.

The first words I tuned into were, "People usually comment at this point on my long fingernails."

Things had happened so fast that fingernails were not part of my consciousness.  Indeed, I'd have probably never even noticed them had my attention not been called in that direction.  My attention being thus directed, I watched with a mixture of amazement and horror as 5 vicious-looking, bright red claws gripped my wrist, and 5 others actively pursued their employment fractions of an inch from my skin.

Fighting down the instinct to jerk away, I tuned back in to the banter.

"This will take the stain right out."

"I'll be amazed if it does," I said.  "The stain has been there for months, through many washings, and I'm sure it's set."

"Oh, it'll take it out.  See how it's lightening up already?"

"No."

Liz bantered and scrubbed unsuccessfully for another 30 seconds, until suddenly I was released from her grasp as she attacked a dirty spot on the wall.  The dirty spot surrendered immediately.

Seeing my way out of the situation, I asked, "Would this stuff remove indelible marker writing where my grandkids drew on my wife's walls?"

"You bet.  It'll take it right off," Liz said excitedly as her nails slashed the air with an imaginary rubout of the indelible marks.

"I'll take some," I said.

I would like to be able to go back and watch a slow motion replay of this episode to see from whence Liz produced her props.  It was like magic.  "Poof," a spray bottle had soaked my sleeve.  "Poof," an open jar of cream appeared before me.  She hadn't opened the jar, and she hadn't dipped her finger in it, but, "Poof," a rag was in her hand and she was working at my crawling flesh.

"I'll take some," I had said, and "Poof," a price list and receipt book were before me.

"It comes in quarts and pints.  Which do you want?" she asked.

I was trying to focus on the prices before I answered, so that I'd know what I was getting into.  I was searching for a decimal, and wishing that I had my glasses.  The top price on the list looked like $1265.

"There must be a decimal between the 2 and the 6," I thought.  "I wish she'd hold the paper still.  Do I really want to pay $12.65 for a pint of this stuff?"

The next price on the list said $1065.  I couldn't see the decimal there, either.

"$10.65 is a little better," I thought to myself as I tried to follow the fidgety paper.  "That must be the price of a pint container."

"I'll take a pint," I said.

"Eight pints?" Liz asked incredulously.

"No, a pint," I responded.

"Oh, I can only sell this in case lots," Liz said deflatedly.

"Yikes," I thought to myself.  "There aren't any decimals in those prices she's brandishing about."

"I couldn't use up a case in a lifetime," I said.

"Well, maybe I can sell a case at the store next door and you can get a pint there," said Liz resignedly.

She slipped out the door with no word of farewell and without exhibiting any outward motions of gathering her things.

"Poof," she was gone.  So was her paraphernalia.  How did she do that?  Did this really happen?  Had she really been here?  My head was swimming.

Yes, she had really been here, I was periodically reminded, every time I looked down at my dripping sleeve.

 

—May 1998