Born Weird. Andrew Kaufman
for 3:30 a.m. She crept downstairs, to the kitchen. To keep herself awake she brewed a pot of coffee. This was the first time she’d ever tried to do this. Angie took one sip and dumped the rest into the sink; it was the last coffee she ever tasted.
Angie sat at the kitchen table and waited. Without anything to keep her awake, she soon fell asleep. When she woke up her mother stood at the counter. Nicola wore a black pantsuit, heels and a small string of pearls. She was making a loaf of sandwiches. Angie watched her butter twelve slices of bread. She set down the knife and opened the refrigerator. The light from inside shone on her carefully styled hair. She took out a jar of pickles and strained to open it.
“At least I know you’re eating,” Angie said. Her mother didn’t seem to hear her. She continued trying to open the pickle jar. “I said, it’s good to know that you’re eating!”
Frustrated, Nicola set the unopened jar on the counter. Angie went over to the cutlery drawer. She took out a knife and tapped the lid of the pickle jar in a circle. Then she set the jar back on the counter and put the knife back in the drawer. As she returned to her seat at the table, Nicola made another attempt to open the jar.
“Hey? Mom?”
“Yes!” Nicola said as the lid popped open. She fished out four pickles, sliced them and put them on the buttered bread. She got a tomato from the refrigerator. Angie took it off the counter. She held it in her hand. Her mother went back to the refrigerator and took another tomato out of the crisper.
“Please don’t do this,” Angie said. “Don’t do this to us.”
Nicola sliced the tomato. She put her pieces of bread together, stacked all the sandwiches on a dinner plate and carried the stack towards the kitchen doorway. Angie got up and stood in front of her mother. Nicola stopped. The sandwiches wobbled. For the briefest moment Angie was sure that her mother recognized her and that everything was going to be okay. But then the look of recognition disappeared. It went away so quickly that Angie couldn’t tell whether she’d caught her mother off guard and seen through her act, or if the look hadn’t really been there in the first place. Keeping the plate level Nicola bent forwards at the waist. She leaned down until she and Angie were eye to eye.
“Are you staying here too? It’s such a beautiful hotel,” Nicola said.
Not being recognized by her mother was unsettling, yet what troubled Angie even more was how much confidence and joy there was in Nicola’s voice. Emotions it had not conveyed for as long as Angie could remember.
“What’s your name?” Nicola asked.
“Please. Mom? Don’t?”
“Well, whoever you are,” she said and she lifted her left hand, extended her index finger and dabbed Angie on the nose, “you’re as cute as a bug!”
Angie looked at the floor. She watched her mother’s shoes as they stepped around her. She did not turn around as Nicola Weird left the room and climbed the stairs and stopped being her mom forever.
ANGIE WAS SURPRISED WHEN Lucy handed her a pillow and a sheet. “Wait,” she said. “I have to sleep on a couch and I have to make it up? This is no way to treat a guest.”
“You’re not a guest, you’re family,” Lucy said. Angie started to cry. Lucy turned out the light.
In the morning Angie woke up with stiff legs and a sore back. She took tiny steps into the kitchen, where Lucy had already made breakfast.
“Do you drink coffee yet?” Lucy asked. Angie shook her head no. Lucy poured her a glass of orange juice. The hardboiled eggs were perfectly timed. The toast was golden. Their taxi arrived at 8:55. Lucy’s suitcase was already at the door and Angie rushed to collect her things. Checking the lock three times, Lucy then carried both of their bags to the sidewalk. Here they stood for several moments as Angie inspected the cab.
In 1963 Angie’s grandfather Samuel D. Weird founded the Grace Taxi Service. He named the enterprise after his mother. When Besnard took over the business, in 1982, it had grown into the second largest fleet in the city of Toronto.
Over time Besnard developed many theories about taxis. For one, he believed that you should make a wish while hailing a cab. If the first taxi that passed by stopped and picked you up, your wish would come true. He also felt that every taxi ride was metaphorical—that it could be interpreted, like tea leaves or the lines in your palm. But his most firmly held theory was that your choice of taxi was a reflection of how you saw yourself. Of all his theories, this was the one that had been most firmly passed on to his children.
“No visible dents or scratches,” Angie said. She circled the cab slowly.
“You still do this?”
“I would have liked a newer model,” Angie said as she came back around to the back passenger door.
“Not in this town.”
“Really?”
“ ‘Fraid so.”
“Okay, let’s take it,” Angie said. She slid into the back seat. “To the airport,” she told the driver.
“But first,” Lucy said as she got into the back seat and closed the door, “the Golden Sunsets Retirement Community, 170 Lipton Street.”
“I didn’t think you meant right away,” Angie said.
“Well, when did you think I meant?”
“I don’t know. Soonish? You know. In the near future.”
Lucy rolled her eyes. Six minutes later the cab stopped in front of 170 Lipton Street. The exterior of the Golden Sunsets Retirement Community was concrete and depressing. It was worse inside. Decades of wheelchairs had worn twin tracks into the thin grey carpet. The grandfather clock in the lobby leaned to the left. It smelled like medicine and the walls were painted a yellow that was much too optimistic.
“Is this really the best we can afford?” Angie asked.
“This is more than we can afford.”
They walked down the corridor. Angie tried not to look into the rooms. She failed. Some of the residents met her eyes. Others just stared through her. But most disturbing to Angie were their haircuts—zigzag patterns and asymmetrical bobs and parts that started just above the ear. Every single resident there sported a hairdo that looked suspiciously like Lucy’s.
“What’s with the hair?” Angie asked.
“You’ll see,” Lucy said, and she pressed the down button. The elevator arrived and they stepped inside. Neither spoke. When the doors opened for B2, Lucy pointed to a handwritten cardboard sign masking-taped directly across the hall. The sign read:
IT’S ABOUT TIME HAIR CUTTING SALOON
Angie stepped out of the elevator. The doors began to close. “I’d go with you but I’ve just had mine done,” Lucy said.
“This is for real?” Angie asked her.
“Don’t worry,” Lucy said. She held out her hand. The doors jumped back open. “She won’t even recognize you.”
Lucy removed her hand. The elevator closed. Angie took three steps forwards. She stood in front of the door that the sign was taped to. The handle was long and metal. Angie held it for several seconds. Then she pushed it down and went inside.
The room was obviously a disused janitor’s closet. It was small and lit by a single floor lamp. A shelf made of two-by-fours and plywood covered the back wall. There was a sink in the corner. Several mops hung to the right of it. Across from the sink was a wooden kitchen chair on which her mother slept.
Angie watched her sleep. She counted to sixty in her head. She gave the door a good shove, and Nicola woke up.
“Can