So, picture this: Agnes Periwinkle, late of the now-defunct Periwinkle Players, sat slumped in her velvet chaise lounge (dusty rose, naturally). Outside, the late afternoon sun dripped through the skeletal branches of the crabapple tree in her tiny yard, casting stripes across the worn Persian rug. She had a day’s worth of stage makeup clinging stubbornly to her face, like tiny, defiant barnacles. Her wig, a fiery auburn number that once roared with dramatic flair, now resembled a bird’s nest after a particularly vicious squall. It was all just…bleak. Utterly bleak.
Agnes had seen better days. Actually, let’s be honest, she’d seen a hell of a lot of better days. Back when she was belting out show tunes that could peel the wallpaper from a wall. Back when she was draped in sequins and demanding – and getting! – artisanal cheese backstage. But the Players, bless their delusional hearts, had sunk like a stone after their production of “Cats.” The less said about that particular artistic disaster, the better. And Agnes? Agnes was unemployed, adrift, and nursing a truly epic hangover courtesy of a poorly-chosen Merlot and an unfortunate run-in with the very charming, and very married, Barry from the local dry cleaners.
This was the part where the plot, such as it was, would normally kick in. You know, the sudden phone call offering the comeback role of a lifetime, a long-lost relative bestowing untold riches, the appearance of a dashing stranger with eyes the color of…well, you get the picture.
But life, as Agnes was discovering, wasn’t always a well-rehearsed Act III. Sometimes, life was more like a mangled first dress rehearsal with the stage manager yelling, “Line! Line! Are you even trying?”
She sighed, the sound echoing in the cramped little house. The wallpaper – a faded floral monstrosity that she’d grown to loathe, then strangely love – seemed to mock her with its cheery blooms. Agnes reached for the remote and flipped on the telly, a flickering rectangle of blessed distraction. It landed, of course, on daytime talk. A woman in a glittery pantsuit was earnestly discussing the virtues of kale smoothies. Agnes gagged. This was even more depressing than “Cats.”
Then, from the corner of her eye, she spotted something. A small, slightly grubby envelope had been slipped under her door. Her name was scrawled across it in what looked like – good grief! – crayon. With a surge of morbid curiosity, Agnes wrestled herself from the chaise lounge, wincing at the protest of various overworked muscles, and grabbed the envelope. Inside was a single sheet of paper, also adorned with crayon markings, and a handwritten message in a child’s unsteady script:
DEAR AUNT AGNES (or is it GRANDMA? don’t really know)
We need U. Our hamster is in a bind. COME QUICK!!
Love, Lily & Thomas
(ps, the code word is ‘pickles’)
Pickles? Aunt? Grandma? What fresh hell was this? Agnes squinted, the cheap wine clearly not helping her thought process. She was fairly certain she didn’t have any nieces, nephews, or – shudders – grandchildren. This felt like some kind of absurd, elaborate practical joke, but, on the other hand, life hadn’t offered many opportunities lately. Her dramatic nature made an appearance. Maybe it was an actual cry for help? It was her time!
A hamster, yes. Who cared if she’s never interacted with anyone under the age of forty? With all the flair of a wronged diva in need of a new costume, Agnes Periwinkle took one last long look at her drab and hopeless home…grabbed her purse and strode towards the front door.