The Last Time I Was Me. Cathy Lamb

      I nodded. “He’s definitely the devil.” We both settled back in silence in our chairs.

      I had seen Dan Fakue at the grocery store the other day. He was built like an old tank with fat, thickened shoulders, a bulging stomach, and the meanest face I’d ever seen. It looked like a combination of slug, bulldog, and vomit. He gave me a Boob-Waist-Butt Look (BWBL) and smirked at me as if he thought a flaming passion would overwhelm me because of his physical analysis and I would be sure to hoppity-hop-hop into bed with him, legs spread, ankles grooving in the air.

      I stopped, staring at him from the top of his head to his toes, stopping at his nipples, his stomach, and his penis area. I gave him the once-over again-and laughed. Nice and loud.

      He bunched up his fists like he was going to slug me. I was holding two gallons of milk, which I held up like I might heave them at his gnarly face. We stared at each other for a while until this weird light came into his eyes and I knew he was a demented man who liked to dominate feisty women and he would find it pleasurable to “tame” me, so to speak.

      “Forget it,” I said aloud. “I don’t date men who force their employees to live in miniscule sewage-infested pits of hell.”

      Dan the Migrant Devil, as I’d instantly dubbed him, looked surprised that I spoke, then recovered himself. “I didn’t ask you for no date, lady.”

      “I know. I was giving you the chance never to waste your breath in future.”

      He looked furious again. I do love my smart mouth.

      “Do you want to go to hell?” I asked.

      “When we die, we die, woman. There ain’t no hell and there ain’t no heaven.”

      I nodded. “You’re so very wrong. I hope you like heat. Scratch that. I hope you like feeling as if your body is boiling. Scratch that. I hope you like catching on fire because you are going to hell when you die for the appalling way that you’re treating your workers.”

      “Hey, fancy pants, I don’t give a flying fu-”

      “Please don’t swear,” I told him.

      He gave me a look of disgust, his face red, a vein throbbing in his neck like a pulsing snake. “Stay out of my business.”

      “No.” I swung the milk gallons back and forth.

      “What?”

      “I said, no. No no no. I won’t stay out of your business as long as you’re abusing people.”

      He laughed. It was a mean, sticky, black and gooey laugh that made my skin crawl. “All right. Go for it. Try to shut me down. Happened before, it’ll happen again, and I’ll win. But it’ll be fun to see more of you. A lot more.” He gave me the slimy, gooey look. Up and down (BWBL).

      When he was done, I did the same. I cocked my head, got down on my haunches, set down the milk, and stared right, straight at his groin. I laughed. I laughed and laughed. Laughed at his groin. Laughed until I cried. (Tears come easily to me now, I might have mentioned.) “Is that it? Is that it?” I held up two fingers three inches apart.

      “It’s more than you’ve ever seen!” His face was splotchy red, making his yellow teeth look all the yellower. “I ain’t had any complaints in that department.”

      Wasn’t he a funny man! “You’re a funny man, Dan, so funny.” I held my fingers up again. Three inches. “How could you not have a complaint?”

      He huffed and swore.

      “Please don’t swear!” I cackled, still staring, straight at that midregion.

      He took two steps toward me, which for some insane reason made me laugh even harder, and swore again.

      “Please don’t swear!”

      “Stupid bitch.”

      I admonished him once more for his foul language and he spun on his fat foot and left the store, after bellowing “Cunttttt!”

      Several older ladies with white hair were staring at me when I stood up.

      I muffled my chuckles. This was not good. I imagined what they were thinking: New gal in town. On haunches. In grocery store. Staring, laughing hysterically at Dan’s dick.

      Again, not good.

      But, the above-mentioned situation proves that most of the time you shouldn’t try to guess what people are thinking about you.

      One of them hobbled toward me, hand outstretched, smile beaming. “I don’t believe we’ve met, dear,” she said. “My name is Linda. These two crazy gals are my cohorts, Louise and Margie.”

      After the introductions, the three women ogled me through these huge, matching glasses. The frames were either purple or blue or green. Louise leaned heavily on her cane, struggled down onto her haunches, and cocked her head, exactly as I had done to Dan when I was looking at his crotch. “Is that it? Is that it?” she asked, her voice cackling with age. She held her fingers up about two inches apart. “Is that it?”

      Linda and Margie both sputtered, and the three of them, together, I kid you not, flung back their heads at the same time and laughed like hyena triplets.

      Margie scooted her walker closer to me, peered at her friends through narrowed eyes and said, “Do you like heat? I hope you like feeling as if your body is boiling!” She said the word “boiling” deep and gravelly, for emphasis.

      “I don’t date men who force their employees to live in miniscule sewage-infested pits of hell!” Linda cackled.

      “Please don’t swear!” Margie announced. “Please don’t swear, dammit!”

      “You’re a funny man,” Louise announced, shaking her finger. “A funny man!”

      The women found themselves terribly amusing and their laughter tunneled through that store. Dear me, but they thought they were funny.

      When they settled down, Linda wiped her eyes and said, “He’s trouble, Fancy Pants, you watch out.” Louise told me he was as dangerous as a rattlesnake. She hissed for emphasis. Margie said that she wished he would fall into a hole and land in hell, that everyone did, and wasn’t it disgusting how he treated the migrant workers? Shameful, horrible, we all agreed before the ladies ambled out, telling me to come to tea and vodka next Wednesday.

      Why, golly gee, why do I court trouble? I asked myself as I left. But the answer came quick: I will not keep my mouth shut about sick and horrible things like vermin-filled sheds.

      Rosvita and I had both made complaints with the state and the county about Dan the Migrant Devil. They all knew exactly who he was and all about the problems.

      Clearly nothing would get done.

      I knew that I would have to do something about dissolving that migrant camp. I didn’t know what, but I would.

      Little did I know that the problem would be taken right out of my hands.

      The next morning Rosvita and I went to breakfast at The Opera Man’s Café. Donovan was singing a song of joy, his voice booming off the log walls. When he caught sight of Rosvita, who was wearing a trio of white flowers in her black hair and a purple lace dress, he hustled on over. As soon as we were seated, menus in hand, coffee before us, he burst into song about a man in love with a woman who did not know that he existed. He sang it in Italian and English. With great gusto. He about blew my ears out.

      Rosvita hummed along with him while she glanced at the menu, her white-gloved hands tapping the table. I marveled at Donovan’s incredible voice; Rosvita hardly seemed to notice. When he was done, everyone in the restaurant clapped. Rosvita asked for a mushroom and cheese omelet. “Cook those eggs until they are almost as hard as rocks,” she told him. “Hard as rocks.”

      Donovan was our waiter, as usual, though he rarely waited on anyone else, I was told, except for Oregon’s