jenny padilla

I lived in Long Beach California. I moved there with plans to attend Cal State but, because of the cost of out-of-state tuition, decided to work for a year and become a resident before enrolling in classes. I had my heart set on waiting tables at a local Marie Callenders restaurant because, as I remember explaining, it felt all 'countrified and cozy, like an open-faced turkey sandwich on a chilly autumn day'. Months later, considerably disillusioned, I accepted the solitary job of cashier at a Fotomat. Describing the Fotomat kiosk in which I worked as diminutive would be generous. The embarrassing little building was plopped down on the gravelly edge of a Kentucky Fried Chicken parking lot - clearly an afterthought. I would spend my long shifts eating chicken and snooping through everyone's pictures, looking for the nudie shots. Once, a lady complained about all of the greasy fingerprints that covered her four year old daughter's face. I feigned ignorance and concern. That was the only good thing about the job. Well, that and not having to worry about getting along with your co-workers - since you didn't have any.

One of my roommates was from Pasadena. He was smarmy, drove a loud Camaro and laughed at everything I said. The other man was kind and quiet. A devout Christian. Not quite twenty, his ex-fiance had recently left him for a woman and he seemed to be in a perpetual stupor because of it. The apartment building was the quintessential Southern California - u-shaped, three level, pool in the middle - type of complex. People used the walkway railings to dry clothes and there was seldom a time when some baby wasn't screaming. Radios and stereos constantly competed and there was a motorcyle at the bottom of the pool, submerged. I remember thinking it was hilarious no one ever commented on the motorcycle. Even on hot days when the pool was crowded. Everyone just swam around it and over it. It was like something you might see in a tragic water slide park. The manager was mean and scary so no one would complain about anything. I'm pretty sure he was an ex-con, with his tank-top wardrobe, cigarette mouth, tattoos for days and his shiny sunburned skin. I'm guessing it was his motorcycle. There was a great story there, but he wasn't talking and I wasn't asking.

A young girl lived three doors down. She was probably eighteen. We used to swing dance in my apartment. I don't remember how we met but, like myself, she had big dreams. She 'knew everyone in the industry' and was going to be famous one day. Remember, this is Long Beach. She said that her stepfather 'basically owned Paramount studio' and she was, at that very moment, being considered for a featured role in a new television series called The Dukes of Hazzard. Jenny Padilla lived in the apartment directly below mine. A petite, elderly hispanic woman, she had Multiple Sclerosis and some other condition that made it impossible for her to turn her head. Most evenings she would play her Lowrey drum machine organ. Cole Porter's 'Anything Goes' was her favorite tune and I would toss out compliments whenever I walked by her window. Jenny and I became friends. Since I had a car, I would drive her to doctor's appointments and make weekly trips to the grocery store. Eventually, she allowed me to play the organ. On rainy afternoons, we'd watch All My Children and Ryan's Hope while eating Top Ramen, the only thing I could afford to eat at the time.

One day, Jenny announced that she was moving in with her son in Bellflower, a small community about thirty minutes east of Long Beach. Sadly, there was no room for all of her possesions so she was forced to give some away. The night before the move she called me and asked me to come down to her place. I sat on her couch while she told me how much I had meant to her, how she could never repay me, and how she wanted to do something really wonderful for me. My eyes darted around the small apartment to the few possessions I would choose if offered. I was pretty sure she was going to give me the Lowrey organ or the television set since I had, on several occasions, expressed interest in 'getting something just like that' one day.

Jenny grew teary as she spoke but I knew that her tears had more to do with leaving her home than saying goodbye to me.

She disappeared into the kitchen and returned holding a blue, enamel plated colander. She proudly pushed it at me and said 'thank you for everything'. I wanted to ask her what she was going to do with the organ, but instead I thanked her for the colander, saying 'I really needed one' and 'how did you know?' The next day, we loaded up my Dodge Colt and made the trip to Bellflower. I dropped her off, hugged her, thanked her again for my colander, then drove back to Long Beach.

I didn't make it the entire year in California. One night, some 'mysterious illness' forced me to the emergency room. When the doctor urged me to check into the hospital for tests, I packed my bags and drove back to Washington state. The day after I returned to Seattle, the mysterious illness was gone and never returned.

Even though I was a bit disappointed at the time, looking back I'm glad Jenny didn't give me the drum machine organ. Here it is, three cities, thirty-nine apartments, four relationships and twenty-nine years later, and I still have that colander. In fact, I used it last night.