Tags

I rarely let myself into apartments, but after ringing Clara’s doorbell twice and wondering if she passed, I use my master key.

Clara isn’t dead. She’s asleep in her new recliner and snoring. Not loud enough to drown out the Fox News alert about Kid Rock agreeing to sing at the Republican convention. I tiptoe past with clean sheets and her new pillow, hoping she’ll stay asleep until I finish her room.

‘Whatcha doing there?’ Clara is standing in the doorway, holding an empty coffee cup. ‘I could use a fresh one.’

‘Almost finished. Gotta get this tag off your new pillow,’ I say.

‘No, no. You can’t do that.’ Irritated, Clara points at the black lettering on the tag. ‘It’s against the law to remove them; it says so right here.’

‘You’re kidding, right?’ I pull the tag off.

‘Look. Read it! You need to put it back on.’ Clara puts her hand out, palm up, signaling me to hand it to her.

‘Under penalty of law, this tag is not to be removed except by the consumer,’ I read aloud before Clara snatches it out of my hand.

‘You’re the consumer, Clara. You can take the tag off, or I can take it off on your behalf.’

‘I’m eighty-five and never broke the law, and I’m not gonna start now. Put it back on.’ Clara sets her coffee cup down and wipes her hands on the front of her housedress. I know she’s looking at me, but I can’t tell if she’s serious because her MAGA visor is low on her forehead.

‘You’re not breaking any law, Clara, nor am I,’ I say.

Clara counts out loud. I laugh when she gets to ten and says, ‘Bring your glue gun tomorrow!’

‘Fine, I’ll bring it. I’ll bring tape and a stapler, too,’ I say.

I’m still chuckling when I open the linen closet. ‘What happened to all your big pillowcases? The blue linen ones?’

‘Haven’t you heard? Blue is out. Use one of my new pillowcases,’ Clara yells.

I pick one up. It’s cheap-looking and too small. I search her closet until I find a floral pillowcase. It’s also small, but I punch and push the pillow until it’s covered.

‘Didn’t you say your family was in the rag trade?’ I ask. ‘Shouldn’t you know all about manufacturer tags?’

Clara grunts.  

‘Well, shouldn’t you, Clara?’

‘My father made lingerie and stockings, not pillows,’ she says.

‘I guess you never heard that warning tags on bedding are the government’s way of ensuring quality control. Otherwise, our pillows might get stuffed with shredded cardboard, chicken feathers, or maybe even dog fur.’

‘Who would do that?’ Clara asks.

‘Crooks.’

‘Certainly not the guy on TV who sells these pillows,’ Clara says.

‘Ha. The biggest crook of all,’ I reply.

I’m behind Clara when she puts her hand on the wall to steady herself. I’m reaching out to help when she pushes me away. ‘Don’t touch me. It’s just my blood pressure, and it’s always high when you’re around.’

‘Everyone on this floor has high blood pressure. It’s a side effect of watching Fox News.’

I stay behind Clara until she reaches her red faux fur-covered recliner and plops down. ‘I use these for my blood pressure now.’ She opens a bag of gummy bears and puts two in her mouth.

‘Candy? You take candy instead of the pills your doctor prescribed?’

‘A Nobel Peace Prize winner invented these. They’re made with apple cider vinegar and come with a money-back guarantee. The pills my doctor prescribes don’t come with a guarantee.’

‘You gotta be careful, Clara. Shady people are everywhere, even on shopping channels.’

‘How would you know? You’re just a cleaner, and I bet you’ve never bought a thing off the TV.’ Clara shakes the remote.

‘You’re right. I haven’t,’ I say.

‘Well, you should. I’ve been a TV shopper for years, and except for the monkey claw earmuffs, which I sent back for a partial refund, I don’t regret any of my purchases. And neither do my great-granddaughters. They always call to thank me when I send a QVC tween gift box.’

I snort. ‘What a scam.’

‘Where’s my coffee? I want the instant this time,’ Clara says.

‘Do the tween gift boxes come with guns?’ I ask. I’m laughing so much that it’s hard to fill the kettle.

‘Of course not!’ Clara shouts. ‘Why are you still working on my floor? I thought after the riot, you Obama lovers only worked on the blue floor?’ Clara slams her fist down on the arm of her recliner.

‘A riot? More like a little protest that lasted only until your leader needed a diaper change.’

Clara’s mouth is open, and her red fingernails are clawing into the arms of the recliner. I’ve gone too far.

‘My vanilla pecan Coffeemate is in the refrigerator. You need to shake it first,’ Clara says.

I say I will, but I don’t. And I pretend to gag when I get a whiff of the flavored cup of coffee as I set it down on the TV tray next to Clara.

‘You’re vulgar, and I don’t want you in my apartment ever again.’ Clara sips her coffee and pushes buttons on the arm of the chair until it reclines. ‘As soon as I remember your name, I’m going to file a complaint.’

‘It’s Flora, Lora, or Flo.’

I’ve been the housekeeping supervisor at Sunny Corners Retirement Village since 2005, long before Clara and her husband, George, moved in. George was a tall man with a big smile. A guy who liked everyone and once worked on Bill Clinton’s campaign. He stayed around the cafeteria after breakfast to help clean up and never missed an opportunity to compliment the staff. Clara was his opposite, a short snob who dined alone, hated politics, and never lifted a finger to help anyone.

When George died, Clara became depressed, bought a big TV, and kept to herself. She discovered TV shopping, Fox News, Bill O’Reilly, and Megyn Kelly. Several months later, she showed up in the cafeteria to recruit others to watch Fox News in the common room. I warned the managing director about letting Clara control the TV remote, but she said I was making a mountain out of a molehill, so I dropped it.

The 2016 election killed the once-pleasant atmosphere at Sunny Corners. Residents who sometimes politely sparred about politics verbally abused one another after the Republicans picked Trump to run against Hillary Clinton. Many refused to eat in the cafeteria, and the police were called when a resident brought a gun to the library.

By the time Trump won, most residents, fearful of being taunted or physically harmed, refused to leave their rooms. Then, six weeks after the election, several Trump supporters, including Clara, threatened to move out of Sunny Corners if they had to continue living next door to, or across the hall from, a Bernie or Hillary fan. The board members caved to their threats and created a red and a blue floor. Clara was the first to move into a newly decorated apartment on the red floor.

I leave Clara with her coffee and head to her bathroom with a broom and a mop.

‘Can you open the box by my front door? It’s a bonus gift from QVC, and I couldn’t find my scissors last night.’

‘You mean the scissors on the floor under the TV tray?’ I point to it.

‘I was trimming the fur on my chair’s headrest. It’s too long—it makes my head sweat.’ Clara rubs the back of her neck.

I scheduled just twenty minutes to clean Clara’s room that day, and time’s up. ‘I have four more rooms to clean before lunch and still need to mop your bathroom floor. I can mop a floor or open a box.’

Clara rolls her eyes and points at the bathroom door. ‘I need a clean floor,’ she says. ‘Ya know, everyone says you spend hours cleaning Sandy Vee’s place.’

‘What if I do?’

‘She voted for Bernie Sanders,’ Clara says.

‘You’re kidding? Sandy voted for a guy who wants to ensure all kids eat lunch. Well, that’s just un-American!’ My hand is over my heart.

‘No need to be a smartass,’ Clara says. ‘Have you seen Bernie’s wife? She dresses like a bag lady. The opposite of Melanie, who has style galore, is the daughter of a founding father and one of the true American patriots Bill O’Reilly talks about.’

‘Her name isn’t Melanie, and she wasn’t born in the USA.’ I finish in the bathroom and return the mop to the kitchen closet.

Clara is watching Fox News with the sound off when I open the door to leave. ‘Can’t you spare one more minute and open the box for me? I know there’s something special inside.’ She holds up the scissors.

Inside, there’s a red bathmat from the Pillow Guy.

I rip off the manufacturer’s tag and drop it onto Clara’s lap.

(end)

By J.A. Wright