The Bag Lady Papers by Alexandra Penney Read Free Book Online Page A

chicken is a bargain, $3.49 for three pieces (50 cents extra for a drink), but mostly the children leave their chicken untouched in the red plastic baskets. The parents don’t seem to protest. Fast-food joints are the cheapest dining option—and the least healthy. Nonetheless I opt for a caloric binge and order two pieces of spicy fried chicken and a mountain of creamy coleslaw.
    The buffet breakfast the next morning at the Hampton Inn has some more nutritious options. I load my tray withlow-calorie yogurt, fresh fruit, and Special K. While the voices of TV hosts jackhammer over the soft Southern accents of the hotel’s guests, I appraise the guests’ butts. They are large, larger, huge. Mine is quite expansive, too, I must admit. I’ve spent a lifetime trying to control the spread; it’s a combat that never ends.
    These are nice folks, who smile and say “hi” as they microwave flour gravy to heap on the biscuits. The coffee in the large spigotted metal urns is labeled “robust,” “regular,” and “decaf.” I take my first sip, and the coffee is already sweetened. More calories! No wonder people’s butts are expanding.
    After breakfast, I climb into the old wagon in another clean white T-shirt and I’m back on I-95 with four hundred miles to go. I wish I could chauffeur myself right over the horizon to China. I want to drive for the rest of eternity and never arrive anywhere. Arriving will mean reckoning with my future.
    The miles zip radiolessly past; the girls seem content in the backseat. I took a few minutes this morning to slide some $10.99 Canal Street dresses on them to cover the sexy underwear they usually wear—just in case a state trooper happens to check out my cargo. Some of them are still in wine cartons, but the dressed-up ones are now stuffed, semi-deflated, into shiny shopping bags with old towels covering them. The bags will soon be tattered…but will be reused in my new life as a bag lady. The dark visions are back. Forget this meditation business, I need heavy-duty tranquilizers. I’ve brought my new prescription bottle with me but I’mstill compos mentis enough to know it’s not wise to partake of chemical serenity while driving.
    Do I regret having put my savings in the MF’s hands? I’ve lived by the premise that regret is a wasted emotion. After I left college and faced many major crossroads, I began to feel that whatever decision I made was the right one at the time that I made it, given that I always collected and analyzed as much information as I could about my options. I didn’t want to leave any room for future regrets.
    The decision to invest my money with the MF was the right one at the time that I made it. I did my homework. I sought out and talked with many informed people about Madoff and, with just one exception, they all agreed I was “safe” with him. I can’t put my now wise self into my then innocent self. I don’t blame myself for my losses. Loss is a part of living; I don’t like it but I don’t take it personally.
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    I finally arrive in Florida and, exhausted, fall into a troubled tossing-and-churning sleep. When I wake up in the morning, it’s sunny, and it’s Christmas Day. My little—but stylish—shack is on the wrong side of the tracks; this afternoon I am crossing over to Annette and Joe’s for their holiday lunch in the luxurious environs of Palm Beach—the island, as the locals call it.
    The luncheon is in an airy, casually elegant house with endless emerald green, close-cropped lawns; a cobalt-blue-tiled pool; and tall, slim, swaying—literally—royal palm trees. The food, prepared by the hosts’ personal chef, is superb.The dining tables are laden with white orchids, sparkling crystal, and old, heavy silver. I spot several large Warhols and some Schnabels on the walls.
    I walk through the tall double doors made of aged