The Illest Place to Put a Dime
My Great Aunt Ginny never married. Because of that she had become sort of pet of the family. She’d come live with a brother or a sister for a month or two, and then try life again on her own. When things got bad or tight again, she’d send a postcard to the oldest sister, Ethel, who’d arrange a place for her to stay.
She was a decent house guest. She had one decent dessert she’d make every Sunday, Lemon something. And she always wafted along with a fragrant scent of something that seemed to lighten moods and soothe stomachs. She swore it was Dove soap, but her married sisters, whenever they congregated in groups of two or more, forever complained that their single sister was far too possessive of her personal whatnots. And that, obviously, was part of her problem. I think her pleasant smell and demeanor kept our family from overreacting to her occasional fits of strange behavior. Someone was always willing to take her in. My mother often bragged, “You know what the Kennedys would’ve done to her, don’t you?”
Ginny stayed with us once. It was just before the home and the lawsuit and all that mess.
It was pretty uneventful. I had been up all night so I was ditching school and sleeping in. Around eleven, the doorbell rang. I put my glasses on and had my retainer half out when I heard the front door open.
I snuck out my bedroom door and Pink Panthered to the top of the staircase. There I saw my Great Aunt Ginny standing at the door—in her bra and panties.
Loose skin vibrated into every direction as she pressed rumpled dollar bills against her bare belly.
The delivery boy—who was my age, ok looking, not great, not terrible—was watching Ginny like a puppy watches a burrito in a child’s lap.
When Ginny grabbed the pizza box out of the boy’s hands, I had to turn away.
“And here’s the tip,” she said.
“Nah. It’s ok, m’am, seriously,” the boy said, suddenly hurried.
Ginny implored, in something resembling words.
“But seriously,” the kid said, now horrified, “that’s the illest place in the world to put a dime.”
“For Some Reason It Never Feels Right” is the occasional blog of Linda Weissberg MFT.