Joie de Vivre, As I See It

Gilda

The second redo of life together for Mary and me began in Seattle’s quirkiest neighborhood. Fremont is renowned for, among other things: nude bicyclists, prominently displaying themselves at the summer solstice parade; a for-sale monumental statue of Vladimir Lenin, specially decorated each year for Christmas; a rocket, complete with neon lights and on-demand clouds of ersatz fuel exhaust; the former, if not possibly still functioning, practice studio for Pearl Jam; a giant troll under the Aurora Bridge, in the process of devouring a VW Beetle; an obligatory authenticated chunk of the Berlin Wall; a sculpture of a family of four plus their dog waiting for the interurban, which has never and likely will never stop there; and a Sunday market.
Much of our furnishings came either from the Fremont Sunday Market, or from appropriated discards found in the trash room (down the hall from our apartment), which I frequently would check out – early in the day, so as to get first dibs. Pickings were plentiful, I can tell you that, because it seemed like someone was either moving in or moving out every day. And we, too, ended up moving out – giving away almost all of the above.
But back in the beginning of our second reset, the only thing we that was lacking to complete the furnishings was a coat rack.
Which is what led us to Gilda, whom we found at the Sunday market, naked and forlorn – actually in 5 pieces. It was enough to make two grown people cry.
“What are you selling her for?”
“How much of her do you want?”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, you can have the stand for $5…”
“Why would we want just the stand?”
“I dunno. Maybe you have another mannikin lying around.”
“Actually – no. We might be interested in the rest of her.”
“Okay. Well, the arms are $8 apiece; the torso, with the head, by the way, because I can’t pull them apart, is $20; the legs, which also have to stay together, go for $15. You can always saw them apart later, if you want to.”
“So, that would make $48 for all of her, including the stand?”
“No, but I can let you have the whole thing for $50.”
“But that doesn’t add up!”
“She has this wig here. You can’t take her away without her wig. She would be bald.”
We had enough cash to buy either the mannikin or a moderately-priced coat rack.
“Did you find any coat racks?”
“None that I would want in our apartment.”
Always thinking ahead, I suggested, “If we buy this mannikin, we could dress her up with multiple layers of coats. Maybe then we wouldn’t need a coat rack at all.”
“What a great idea, honey!” I think she said that because we were still in the honeymoon period, as it were, of trying to make things work out for a third time. Mary doesn’t know much about baseball, but she does know the adage “Three strikes, and you’re out.” Everyone knows that.
“If these parts don’t fit together, will you refund our money?”
“Trust me, they fit. I put her together and take her apart all the time. And, tell you what, you can have her for $48. I’ll throw the wig in for free.”
We took Gilda, which the man said was her given name, home with us, fully rearticulated, and set her up in the living room, right near the porch. Mary freshened her lipstick and nail polish, repairing a few chips here and there. Gilda lived with us, always clothed to excess, and always in out-of-season styles, for 10 years. During that time she acquired some items that remained all her own: Seattle SuperSonics underwear, a feathered boa, and several wigs in bold colors.
There must have been something about her which frightened the hummingbirds, because nary a one was inclined to visit the feeder suspended over the porch until the day she was finally and reluctantly given away, in preparation for closing the apartment. That very day, a hummingbird actually flew into our living room, doubtless to ascertain whether Gilda was really gone.
Gilda now resides at Judy’s Alterations, in Fremont half a block from The Center of the Known Universe, which features directions to Xanadu and Timbuktu, for those who have lost their way. She is resplendently attired in a lovely wedding dress, waiting patiently for Mr. Right to come along. We have full and unrestricted visitation rights, Tuesdays through Saturdays, 9-5. Judy promised that we could take her back when she retires, wedding dress not included.