Staying in continues. Closets are cleaned. Pantries are organized and desktops appear. I spy something not cleaned–the Kate Spade tote sitting upon the counter.
Tackle the makeup bag: Hand sanitizer check. Mascara check. Three lipsticks check, Toothbrush check. Wipe them down with a Clorox wipe. Organize wallet. Check side pockets–more lipsticks, a tube of vaseline and breath strips. Prepared, right?
Pull the rosary from the bottom. Always have a rosary on hand dolls, just in case. You never know when the need to pray while moving beads through your fingers may hit. There’s a business card holder with a rhinestone encrusted martini glass. Is this business appropriate?
Reach in further and encounter a tiny drawstring bag. Very cute. Usually found filled with jewelry. Pull it out to spy two small vials filled with something white. First thought, “Who put drugs in my bag?” I look about the kitchen as if the culprit might be nearby.
Where have I been? Retracing steps. I went to the grocery store. I tried to stay six feet apart. There was that couple in the soup aisle. They were perilously close. Did they drop the vials in my bag?
I went to Costco for a prescription refill. There was tape on the floor but that man did get rather close when I did not move quickly enough from the counter. Six feet, sir, pardon me.
Who knows how long it’s been there? Have I been carrying vials of drugs back and forth to the office? Brain racking does little to reveal either culprit or occasion. There aren’t many places I frequent in The Dale that might feature someone giving me drugs without some sort of payment or discussion at least. The Country Dive Bar is pretty mellow for white powder of the brand I suspect. Perhaps it’s the music or the dark. It’s not really a rave-y kind of joint.
Untie the bow and pull the vials from the bag. The giver must be of the female variety. Boy hands are too fumbly to fasten such a tiny bow. Open the top and smell. No odor. Tip it over. Contrary to where my imagination has gone, no powder falls into my waiting palm. Whatever it is, I’m going to have to go in after it.
I pat it hard against my palm. No dislodge. Find a skewer in the drawer and poke. It’s soft. Like cotton. Perhaps whatever it is, is under the cotton. Get a small grasp and pull out a bit of the white fluff.
And the question becomes, how stupid are you really? Has corona quarantine rotted your brain from the inside out? I roll the fiber between my fingers and know for sure.
Early in the stay at home saga, the little white cat, constant companion for 14 years, became ill and had to be put to sleep. The day I took little one for her final car ride, I held her, wrapped in her fluffy binkie, while the vet administered the meds and she closed her eyes. I forgot, in my angst, the doctor said, “I will bring you a lock of her hair.”
I remember I nodded, thought little of it, gathered her empty crate and cried my way home and all through the day. It took nearly a month, and a purse cleaning, to discover her little white fur, inserted carefully in two small vials placed in a mesh pouch, tied lovingly with a tiny bow.
The drugs in my purse are cat fur. Glad to have it I guess?
Before I tell the female chickens the story, I display the vials and ask, “What is this?”
Drugs is the guess of both. I’m not completely nuts. Their laughter is uproarious. Not only in my conviction that someone placed drugs in my bag but that I actually wanted cat hair to carry around. I plead temporary insanity caused by grief and corona shutdown.