Ray

Ray arrived at Number 3, the silvery home he knew and loved. He glanced at his watch. He had just 45 minutes. Unlocking and pulling open the aluminum door, he stooped down and stepped inside the air-conditioned living room with its sweet calico couch and matching rocking chair, and moved quickly down the hallway to the bedroom. He stepped up to the chiffonier and stool and sat down, skooching closer to the mirror. An earring rack sat off to one side. Ray carefully slid out a drawer and plunged his hands into a cool pile of costume jewelry — rhinestone necklaces and bracelets, pearls and glass beads. Gently, he lifted out a rhinestone necklace and bracelet, selected matching clip-on earrings, and set them out on the dresser. He stood and turned, walking to the clothes closet next to the door and emerging with a sea green watered-silk dress and matching pumps. He laid them down on the bed.

Within minutes, Ray was transformed from an old man in a tracksuit and sneakers to Blanche DuBois. Of course, no one would guess he was really some aging Southern belle; he wasn’t a complete idiot. This was for him. It was his own private world.

Ray wobbled in high heels toward the kitchen with its kountry kitsch calico valances, tieback curtains and decorative gewgaws. He glanced up at the rooster-themed clock above the sink. 30 minutes left, right on schedule. He pulled open the cupboard next to the stove and removed a cup and saucer, then went into the broom closet and located the familiar bottle of Southern Comfort. He poured himself the usual two fingers and daintily stepped into the living room, where he sat down in the rocker, crossed his legs, and took a lovely sip.

The burn of the booze moving down his throat soon subsided into delicious languid warmth. He put his head back and closed his eyes, rocking himself gently, taking occasional sips, savoring these precious stolen moments. Minutes passed while he quietly indulged his fantasy of waiting for the suitor, gardenia corsage in hand, to knock on the door.

Finally, Ray took the last sip of his drink, reluctantly stood, and went into the kitchen, where he rinsed and dried the cup and saucer and put them back. Back into the broom closet went the Southern Comfort after he lifted the bottle to eye level to see how much was left. He allowed himself to think briefly about the possibility that a trap had been set for him – that someone had detected the gradual depletion and put a hidden camera somewhere – but it seemed ridiculous. Doesn’t liquor evaporate? Of course it does!

Ray went into the bedroom and changed into his tracksuit, white socks, and sneakers, stuffing the stolen front door key inside one sock. The dress went back into the closet, the jewels into the drawer. He leaned into the dresser mirror to regard himself with the bright earrings clutching his lobes. He did not feel sorry for himself; he knew he would have another opportunity in another lifetime. He pulled off the earrings and put them back. He stood and turned to leave.

Ray knew that sooner or later he would be caught. It was a looming inevitability that kept him up some nights. One day he would be sitting in the rocker, sipping the Southern Comfort, enjoying the feel of the silk dress, and in would walk the RV park manager or the cops or even Nurse Winifred.

And more likely Nurse Winifred than anyone else, he knew all too well, because someday she would decide to come home early.