(Only the paint spill part of this story is true. It never happened to me, I'm not the character although parts of me are(?) and physically I'm pretty close but my feet are bigger, the person who spilled the paint is not the character even though I wanted to use her name and it would have worked better, I never even met the character, don't know any reporters, and I don't know this church, pastor, or town. And I have no idea where this story is going. I was lucky to make it to the word limit and it's probably dangerous for me to put this out there but I like to live on the edge. No, I don't. Don't tell me you read it. I mean it. Why am I doing this? Cringing even now but resigned...)
MISS CHANCE
Reflex Blue. It’s a beautiful color.
And, really, the irony is not lost to me now. The name on the label was “reflex blue.” And as I watched, frozen in place, reaction rate sadly slowed by sheer disbelief, the can slid from the stack in my arms, and tumbled, end over end, in a freeze-frame freefall to the beige linoleum floor, lid stubbornly clinging until the very last minute…the very last minute when the can made contact, crashing to the floor with enough force to make the lid let go with a muted, lippy “pop” and then it bounced. And as it bounced, reflex blue blew all over the place, covering my pants and my shirt and my shoes and my hands and my glasses and my hair. And the walls. Oh, yes, and let’s not forget the linoleum, currently covered by a puddle of bright purple-y blue-ish paint, aptly and ironically named reflex blue.
So that’s how the day started. Where do you go from there? What do you do when you’re covered in reflex blue? Wash, of course. What else can you do? In a lifetime filled with such singular events, the reflex blue episode would seem mostly unremarkable except that it was just the beginning.
I have a knack for these and other kinds of scrapes. I think of it as my super power. Mischance Mallory, able to topple tall buildings in a single bound, I am not rich or beautiful, not too clever or dull, and find myself firmly placed in the middle of the road most days, never too outstanding to attract attention. Except on days like this.
And this day began like so many others: totally mundane missions with small elements of “doing good” or “helping out” go horribly awry. I think my job as small town newspaper reporter and my penchant for attempting to do good have built up a karmic void of interest. And the universe wants to fill the void. I don’t honestly believe in karma or super powers, but I do have gift for attracting trouble. Days where I help a friend move and lose the dog in the process or I fill in for story time at the local library and an unexpected snow storm blows in a foot of snow (technically, I don’t think I can be blamed for that), they always end in trouble. Sometimes I expect these things to happen. These are events where my presence provides the missing ingredient for the recipe for disaster. Inviting me to cover the county fair rodeo leads to a bull escaping and rampaging through the town. Sending me to cover the biggest wedding the town’s seen in years means the bride won’t show because she’s trapped inside the limo by a rogue skunk. It’s my super power and it cannot be stopped. Believe me, I’ve tried.
The years I’d spent away at school hadn’t done much to improve my blending abilities and the things that were a challenge growing up, mainly an astonishing addiction to books and words, continue to challenge me today. What I mean is that I’ve been working at this reporting business for about eight years now, eight long years where I daily battle to work words like “penultimate” or “pandiculation” into an article. It’s my game. No one else plays, but it livens up my days. As I said, it’s a small town. I have to entertain myself.
So I’m actually more of a “not really a real reporter” than anything else. Some days I feel more like the mascot, but still I get the local interest stories, mainly who wins the Little League tournament and what’s for dinner over at the Baptist church on Wednesday. It’s a good job. Most days I like it. Until the karmic void or my unbelievable “wrong place, wrong time” luck kicks in and the Little League team is nearly destroyed by a freak tractor accident or I make the mistake of telling little Jimmie Sue Holland about the squirrel I had when I was about her age just before the dinner at the Baptist church. The squirrel’s name was Milkbone, and his favorite snack was the seed in Mama’s bird feeder. I loved to watch him climb and scamper. At 10, I had visions of training him and taking his act on the road. He did a number on the wood siding of my parents’ split-level before he mysteriously disappeared. I wanted a dog, but I loved that squirrel. And little Jimmy Sue took umbrage with the large pot of squirrel dumplins that were Miss Smith’s contribution to the annual wild game dinner. She dumped those dumplins right in the large gray industrial trash can with a militant cry, “This one’s for Milkbone!” I believe I was the only one that cheered. I expect I’ll be covering further exhibitions by Jimmie Sue in the future. Even at seven years old, she shows signs of being a true activist. Or maybe a criminal, I’m not sure yet. Miss Smith’s probably correct when she says “That child just ain’t right.”
But today was not meant to be one of those days. In the effort to improve my public relations with Miss Smith, who had faithfully served as the church pianist for nearly 60 years and probably had built up some significant pull with God, and the other fellowship hall folk, I volunteered to repaint the children’s area in a bright happy color to encourage Jimmie Sue to think happy thoughts, maybe a nice color like reflex blue. Instead, in my manner of attempting too much all at once, I allowed reflex blue to just fly all over the place. The only saving grace: there were no witnesses, and if I moved quickly enough, no one would ever need to know. Right?
The first matter of business was clearing myself of all evidence. I tracked my size 7 sneakers on into the kitchen of the fellowship hall, purple pointers indicating my escape route until I realized the problem and dropped my sneakers…and my pants at the door of the kitchen. Before I stripped myself of the reflex blue covering my top half, I managed to find some plastic tablecloths. Can you imagine the distress seeing me in my birthday suit would cause Jimmy Sue? Every jello salad in the place would probably have to be liberated as well.
So wrapped toga-style in plastic tablecloths with a dashing plastic cape to be sure all the pertinent wiggly parts, like my biceps, stayed covered, I took a bucket and water and towels and paper towels and newspapers and cleaning fluid and lighter fluid (because you just never know, do you?) back to the scene of the crime and did my best to eliminate all the evidence.
And I worked. I scrubbed. I mopped. I wiped. I made some good headway, even though my previously pristine plastic tablecloths absorbed an amazing amount of the paint. I was just about to call “good enough” to the clean-up efforts when I began to ponder how in the world I was going to make it home in purple-y blue speckled tablecloths. It was somewhat of a quandary, but I was still happy to have made it through my ordeal with no evidence remaining and no witnesses.
Although why I would worry about witnesses at this late date…well, there were only two reasons. I’d grown up in this town so most of my neighbors were blasé about my calamity. But I had almost always managed to cause an uproar with all my clothes on. There was one episode in kindergarten involving my swimsuit top, but that was the last of my bikini days and I’d since managed to only be involved in fully-clothed scandals. While the tablecloths did the job, they weren’t your “go to town” kind of outfit. And the second reason…well, his name is Joe and he’s the new pastor of the church, newly arrived from the “Big City,” a far-away place. And technically, this was not the first time I’d orbited around Pastor Joe. When we were at the same university, he was the Big Man On Campus, football quarterback with big plans. I haven’t gotten the story on what brought him here and as a preacher, but Pastor Joe was currently a Very Big Fish in our small pond. And the other fish were buzzing, if fish can do that.
As he’s been here only two months, I’ve so far managed to control myself and pretend to be normal. Not that I wouldn’t mind a little bit of his attention. In fact, any male attention not directed at me by emergency room doctors or angry policemen would be welcome. Unexpected, but welcome. Of course, nothing good could come of that. I can’t imagine any sainted pastor’s wife wearing plastic tablecloths to clean up paint slicks in the fellowship hall. And just because this particular lightning has already hit me once doesn’t mean it can’t happen again. I learned that lesson with the whole “losing the dog” scenario. At least no one asks me to help move anymore.
I decided the only way out was to rinse the paint off my clothes as well as I could and then slip-slide my way home to change. And so I was doing, mentally patting myself on the back. Thank goodness that cleaned up so quickly. What would have happened if Pastor Joe showed up to see me in my plastique couture?
I figured we both might have died from the shock.
I was celebrating as I put on my clammy shoes, draped in soggy shirt and jeans. As my back was to the door, I didn’t see destruction approaching.
Destruction, in the deep voice that I’d heard delivering news, events, and very interesting messages from the book of John so far, said, “Let me guess…you must be Mischance Mallory. What happened here? Freak indoor rainstorm? Or maybe freak indoor rainstorm that popped up while you saved us all from the invasion of the purple people eater?”
As I had never been introduced to Pastor Joe, I also guessed my reputation had preceded me. I had to work to get everyone to call me that. My original nom de guerre was just Bad Luck Mallory, and really, that just lacks all poetic flair. I started a campaign in high school to get that all changed to Mischance Mallory, but Pastor Joe probably didn’t know that. Clearly, he’d heard something about me. I figured that would be bad news.
And as I turned to meet Pastor Joe, I pondered what color his eyes might be called. Nothing as harsh as “reflex blue.” No, they were more like “breezy blue” or “baby boy blue” or maybe something a little tougher like “chambray blue” or something more accurate like “beautiful baby blue with a glimmer of periwinkle and a dash of spice.” I don’t know that he’d care for my color names either, but I had already done a thorough consideration on the matter. As long as I manage not to say them out loud, I think we’re going to be okay.
So, I know you’d never find yourself in a position like this, but say you did. What would you do? I guess some ladies might cry and maybe more would laugh. I have more experience. I did what I always do. I started to explain.
“Pastor Joe, it’s very nice to meet you. I was only trying to help when…”
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