A Dollar for Jill

Episode 9:
The day starts early with a shared taxi ride to the airport. My accidental passenger is Jill who talks incessantly at 6:15 am. She is headed to a funeral in Dallas. She is chirpy and explains that her friend would have wanted it that way. No mourning allowed.

She is excited to see old friends. At 6:30 she is already talking about how the whiskey will flow. Her faced is pocked, heavy with foundation. She is generous with her personal history. Her family owns a chain of Sicilian pizza restaurants. She once bred Yorkshire terriers but the state suspended her license. She is unable to have children. She is allergic to wheat, diary, and egg yolks.

She speaks often of hurricanes. It is a busy week for hurricanes. Gustav, Hanna, Ike and Josephine. She tells me that she is a refugee from Katrina. She was airlifted from New Orleans to Seattle three years ago. She pops a red and white capsule.

Jill waves her hands a lot. The driver is watching her closely in the rear view mirror. She tells me that her flight from Seattle is not until 2 pm, but she could not sleep. She was scared that she would sleep through the alarm. I said, me too. My two words to her two thousand words.

There are vague references to an accident that required the total reconstruction of her face. I shrug in feigned sympathy. I am sorry that I am having trouble believing her. It just looks like bad teenage acne.

Halfway to the airport, she confesses that she is taking Dilantin. She is taking lithium, too, "to take the edge off." She tells us that the Dilantin makes her talk too much. She knows that she is annoying. She annoys herself, Jill says, with all her blither blather. Blither. Blather. She apologizes for jabbering.

She tells me that she lives in a yurt on Vashon Island. My ears perk up. It is a long shot, but I ask. Do you know Charlie Dalton?

Dalton? Oh yeah, he live in a trailer at the Eagles Lodge.

Suddenly, Jill turns an imaginary key that locks her lips. For the rest of the ride she is silent. I can tell it is really hard for her and she is concentrating. Steam seems to be rising from her. There is an odor.

At the end of the ride, I offer to pay the full fare. I’m working, I tell her. No worries. She surprises and thanks me with a sloppy kiss that smells darkly of cigarettes and Jim Beam.