Buddha Baby by Kim Wong Keltner Read Free Book Online

monographs and hid from a couple of Hoarder Ladies. Maybe it was Lindsey's imagination, but it seemed she was a magnet for Hoarders, both male and female. Perhaps she sported psychic signage that advertised, "Everything You Ever Wanted to Know About Asians but Were Afraid to Ask—Free Consultation," or, "I Live a Fabulous Asian-American Life—Ask Me How!"
    Hoarder Ladies in the store were always asking Lindsey questions, and not just, "Where's the powder room?" or "Do these earrings make me look jowly?" Instead, they approached Lindsey when she was rearranging the Jackson Pollock action figures or touting the age-defying effects of the museum's new
Forever in the Black
mascara, and they asked, "Could you please give me a brief summary on the last two thousand years of Chinese painting?" or "What was the purpose of the Cultural Revolution?"
    As she emptied a dustpan into the trash, she kept her eye on a couple of Hoarder Ladies who were trying on the Andy Warhol limited edition wigs. She dreaded the possibility of one more person asking her about the uses of ginseng or the efficacy of acupuncture, so she positioned herself behind the jewelry cases and braced herself for the hours ahead.
    Tonight she would be performing one of her most vital duties as a Gift Assistant. Prepping herself like a surgeon, she straightened her apron and slipped on the snug white gloves she was required to wear. She sanitized the glass countertop with streakless spray and wiped the area with a dust-free cloth.
    It was her job to clean the fabric-covered, severed limbs of the gift shop's mannequins. The limbs may have appeared to be casually strewn throughout the store like prosthetics for sale in a doctor's office, but in reality, they had been strategically placed to optimally display high-priced necklaces, bracelets, and rings. To Lindsey's left, right, and above her head, bejeweled limbs hovered and waited to be stripped of their dust and dander. She knew the saleability of the precious jewelry depended on pristine presentation, so she had learned to groom the mannequin arms more meticulously than even her own body parts.
    She got to work. Removing a chunky gold choker from a black velour bosom, she meticulously dragged a strip of
    Scotch tape across the knap to eradicate any dandruff flakes or other unsightly particles. She repeated the action with a new piece of tape, symmetrically de-linting the faux decolletage until it was flawlessly devoid of specks. On her resume she had boasted about her attention to detail, but she had no idea this would be her fate. She brushed the mannequin neck with one of those sticky rollers meant for pet-hair removal, lamenting the years she spent earning her college degrees in English and French Literature.
    Moving on to the wrist and finger displays, she removed a few amber rings and gave the digits the Scotch tape treatment. A few minutes later, as she buffed the fake fingernails, her ears felt prickly and she sensed that someone was looking at her.
    She looked up, and from a short distance she spied a set of eyes gazing at her from behind a book of nude photographs by David Salle. A giant ass was on the cover, and her admirer's eyes peeked over the top of the binding with arched eyebrows.
    She watched the man inch incrementally closer until he abruptly dropped the ass-picture that was hiding his rosacea-blotched face. He thrust out his hand as if to shake, and said, "My name is Charles. I own a gallery in Big Sur and if you're an artist, I'd love to give you the opportunity to show me your stuff." At the word "stuff," his eyes looked down and lingered at her hoo-hahs.
    She politely declined his offer and continued to de-lint a velvet arm with the pet-hair roller. But he was not deterred. Instead, he tried a new approach. Picking up a tube of lipstick from the nearby
maquillage
counter, he stroked the sides like it was a Vienna sausage-sized penis, and said,
    "Is this what geishas wear?"
    Lindsey ignored