Tales From A Broad by Fran Lebowitz Page A

nerves: one, that he’s asking for directions and two, it’s the police (oooohhh, like they’re aware of Frank’s high-school drug use). I march in. I take pen in hand and ask them to draw me a map. I ask for street names and landmarks and I repeat the directions to them eight times. I motion for us all to get back into the car. I let Frank drive so he can feel a little less castrated.
    About five minutes later, there we are at 6 Orchid Lane. The bungalow is large and situated on a little, cultivated plateau overlooking the valley with a grand view of the mountains. The garden is brilliantly in bloom, full of exotic flowers. Unfortunately, the smell of rotting garbage robs the setting of its glory.
    Our caretaker, ‘T’, and his family live behind our bungalow in a home of equal size and dimension, only theirs looks newer. I’m sure they switched accommodations on us. In ours, each bathroom is worse than the last. The first has a toilet and rusty tin shower. The second has a toilet and sink and the third just has a squatter. The bed sheets are made of Kleenex and, instead of a kitchen, T has brought in a bucket with a few ice cubes. I can hear his kids laughing at a show on their cable television. We don’t have a radio. But the place is roomy. No doubt it would have been less so with the introduction of furniture.
    Never mind, this is a family vacation and all of these oddball events are what make it memorable. Let’s all go out and sit at the picnic table and dig into some bags of roti chips. ‘Huxley,’ I say, ‘I want you to eat all your spinach-flavoured crisps before you start on those chocolate ones.’
    Later, we tuck the kids in bed and have a good story and a good laugh. They’re snug in their squeaky cots. We make up a one-act play with their stuffed animals, do a few shadow pictures on the wall. We eat them up, ‘Love you’, ‘Love you’, ‘Love you too’, and we retreat with haste out the door to start our happy hour. I uncork the wine, we find some light by rigging a lamp just outside the front door, and we begin to read aloud from the short story book we’re on. When we get peckish, we make a stew of peanuts, chips and dahl flour extrusions. We finish reading and discussing the goodness of our future and go to bed. Seemingly, moments later, there is clatter and confusion in the house. T is delivering us our breakfast. I know I didn’t tell him to.
    We are all mad at T for waking us up unannounced, but when the meal arrives, it seems the kids are ready. There is buttery toast and instant coffee and one hot dog frankfurt on every plate. When I ask for milk, T is only too happy to oblige and returns with packets of non-dairy creamer. Maybe the kids could eat it like some sort of nutritious ‘Lickemaide’. T lurks about, presumably to fetch whatever else we need. I’m too bushed to try to get an egg out of him. Besides, his family is probably having ours right now on English muffins with hollandaise sauce.
    Even after I’ve nodded and smiled and done my best to indicate that we are all set, things are swell, you can go now … really … you can … T hangs around. He leaves eventually, but only to appear unannounced at other times, walking in whenever he pleases, trying to learn a little more about America, like how we look when we’re naked and other practical things. ‘How many citizens are in a town of New York?’ ‘What car was cost?’ If we had furniture, I would have been able to duck out of the way at least. Instead, I run from him and shout out misinformation because I’m not sure myself. I’m angrier with him for taking the better house than I am with him for catching me off guard.
    Our morning activity is a walk to a nice waterfall in the area. I’ve read that it’s a short walk along a paved path and down some steps to the falls. Sadly, we discover that they