Good God. What a mess. Cricket leaned back against the elevator wall and fought to keep from throwing up. Too much emotion always left her with either nausea, loose bowels, or tearful. Her Grandmother had told her the Good Lord had wired her that way so she could stay in touch with her feelings.

Hah! The boatful of feelings she’d been hiding from, just sailed in and By God, she was going to make it to her place before she would embarrass herself in front of the security cameras.

Shoring up her strength with deep breathing, Cricket pulled out her cell and got a taxi to pick her up, praying there were no photographers hiding out. Outside the elevator, she clip-clopped on her one shoe toward the security booth to ask Fred if he could give her a hat and shirt to disguise herself, at least until she got into the taxi.

“Sure, Ms Carson. Let me get them.”

Closing the supply closet, he noticed her flapping dress that she was trying to leverage her hands to zip, and started to ask if she needed help, but stopped at her gritted words that “SHE COULD DO THIS HERSELF.”

“Yes, well,  You just stay here ‘till your ride comes .”

Feeling like an idiot, Cricket sighed, forgot the zipper, and slipped on the shirt.  She caught her hair up under the cap, and pulled it low over her eyes.

What a fashion statement, she thought jokingly, as she looked at the long black dress hanging out from under the shirt.

“Any suggestions, Fred?”

“Well, you could borrow my belt and kind of cinch up your dress so that it looks more like a work skirt.”

“Good idea. You don’t mind? I’ll send it back to you tomorrow.”

Grabbing his belt, Cricket pulled it as tight as possible, ignoring the holes and shoving the belt tightly into the buckle. Then she pulled the dress up and under her shirt, letting the hem fall to her knees.

“How do I look now?”

“Like a chubby security guard with chicken legs.”

Cricket laughed happily for the first time in a long while. “That’s one of the best compliments I have had recently. Too much moonshine can leave you with a big head. I’m ready to sober up.”

“Whatever you say, Ms Carson..There’s your taxi.”

Thanking him once more, Cricket took off her one shoe, stuffed it in her bag, hoping bare feet were less noticeable than one shoe on, one shoe off, diddle diddle dumpling my son john.
A nursery rhyme while I run for the taxi? Scott’s right. I must be loosing it.

Jumping into the car and slamming the door, Cricket gave directions to her place with an huge sigh of relief. She was amazed the cab driver wasn’t more curious and guessed he picked up a lot of weird looking people at 3am in the morning. Or maybe her disguise was pretty good. For just this moment in time, it felt good to be lost in anonymity.

A snaky thought slithered in…Why not more than just now? What if she were to run away for a while. Tonight was her last obligation for the year, her concert tour was over. 

The fantasy started growing with leaps and bounds. With a pounding heart, she thought,
What if I did more than run away. What if I were to disappear? Rather like a grown up version of the Hannah Montanna-Miley Cyres thing. It had to be more than just a vacation. No one had ever walked out on Scott. No matter how much she might put the blame on herself, there was going to be a lot of unpleasantness, not only from Scott, but from the nosey media, stirring things up.

Media. Television. Hadn’t she just watched a show on the witness protection program, that included a reality bit about how the informer ‘got lost?’ That was it. She was going to loose herself in another identity, until everything simmered down, and she found what she was looking for to make her life her own again.

Cricket slunk lower into the back seat, physically trying to hide the growing excitement bursting inside. “I just need to get home, pick up Petie, and get out of here.”

The taxi finally stopped in front of her building, and Cricket shoved the fare and tip at the driver, while keeping her head averted. She made it into the foyer, smiled at the security guard’s surprised expression and quipped about an early Halloween Party. Stepping into the elevator, she waved and said would be back down to walk Petie-boy in the secure ‘doggie park’ that came with the place. 

Actually, that had been the deciding factor to live here.  By the side of the pool, the management had fenced in a landscaped ‘play and pee’ area for the tenants’ dogs. There was an extra fee, but it was so worth it because the area was kept clean and picked up. Best of all, the smells for Pete were dog nirvana, and he never wanted to leave.

Unlocking the door, she ran to her bedroom to let the dog out. “Sweetheart, I’m so sorry for leaving you,” Cricket crooned as she stooped to pick up Pete. Running back down to the dog park, she used her key card to open the gate and put Pete down to sniff around.

“Have fun little guy. No one’s here, so you get the whole place to yourself.”

Strolling slowly behind him, Cricket started figuring out what to take with her.

She had a fireproof, ‘grab and go’ metal safe that held important papers, passport, and jewelry that she wore for her big events. She would only take jeans, t-shirts, and sweaters, plus one nice outfit for something special. Throw in some shoes, underclothes, sleep-wear, maybe a bathing suit, and that should do it. She would take her basic makeup, but splurge on all her expensive hair products. Bad hair days would be lousy, even with a new identity.

“Wow. I said it. A new identity,” Cricket exclaimed out loud to Petie and the slumbering world.

She laughingly continued, “You need one too, Pete. I’ll call you Pedro, and you could be a retired, drug sniffing dog, who still does consultant work for the police.”

Pete had finished his business, and was looking at Cricket like he was trying to figure out why they were outside and not up in bed. Picking him up, she nuzzled his neck, reassuring him, as much as herself, that everything was going to be all right.

“Let me just get a few things, and we’ll be off.”

Two hours and five suitcases later, Cricket chided herself on only taking a ‘few things.’ She had got to the point where making choices on what to take had become overwhelming, so she just threw it all in, including her special pillow, all soft and squishy.

“You just never know,” had become her packing mantra, adding the last two cases. Looking at everything, she muttered that it was a good thing it wasn’t a life and death emergency, because she would have died trying to decide. Even Petie was kenneled up with a few extra shoes she couldn’t say no to.

Lugging everything to the car took three trips on the elevator, and a frantic fourth because she had forgotten to pack her “grab and go” box. Shaking her head at her foolishness, Cricket realized how far her priorities had shifted when nail polish was more important than her passport.

Thank God I’m going back to the basics, Cricket sighed as she finally noticed that she hadn’t changed out of the funky work clothes that Fred had given her. 

“At least where we’re going Petie, if any snoopy neighbors are up, they will just think I am the new hippy owner with strange work hours.”

It was early morning as she and Petie drove to her mystery home, a forties bungalow, retro redo in Los Feliz. Cricket had fallen in love with this small historical community hidden out in Los Angeles. West of Hollywood, part of Los Feliz was a collection of residences left over from the silent movie era and it was here that she had found her new home.

With local coffee houses, dining, arts and crafts, and book stores within walking distance, a person could imagine small town ambiance. And Scott, her agent, and most everyone else, didn’t know about this secret residence.

Maybe it was Scott’s security obsession that had rubbed off on her, or the way privacy was getting to be more and more of a premium, but what started out as a lark to fill the gap in a series of boring days, had turned into a campaign of secrecy to locate and purchase a place that didn’t have any ties to Cricket Carson.  And it was the very place to begin her escape and make her plans. Tonight, finding her house on Rodney street seemed to take longer in the dark, but at last she was pulling into her single car garage.

After parking and closing the garage door, Cricket grabbed Petie and went looking for her key she had hidden by the side of the house. Staying in the shadows, she found her not so original hidey rock and slid the key out. Unlocking the front door, she put the dog down, telling Petie to stay close just in case he was afraid of the dark.

“Of course I’m not scared, said Cricket as she crept slowly through the darkened room, trying to remember where the furniture was, and promptly hitting her toe on the coffee table.

God that hurts, Cricket half shouted, as she hopped around rubbing her little toe. How could there be that much pain in a little toe? she asked herself, as she massaged the area hard, trying to focus on the friction, not the pain.

At least I don’t have to stick my foot into ‘bitch shoes’ and then go out and sing, like last time, she sighed, remembering the way her toe had mushed off to the side when she had rushed around her dressing room trying to get ready, and had hit the cabinet.

Rolling her shoulders, and shaking out her arms in an effort to relieve the stress of the evening, she hobbled slowly, keeping her hands out in front to prevent anymore collisions.  She kept the lights off in the front of the house, lighting only those that would reflect someone getting up for a midnight snack.

Which sounded so good right now. Limping to the freezer, ripping off her hat, undoing the belt, and pulling off Fred’s shirt while making a mental note to include a special thank you later, Cricket pulled out a Weight Watcher lasagna. Five points.

Oh God. Don’t do the point thing now, Cricket giggled wildly, as she threw the TV dinner into the microwave. She took more calming breaths, reminding herself to be kind to her poor, stressed out, mess of a person.

Looking at Scott’s dress, still gaping in the back unzipped, the giggling turned to laughter as she slid to the floor and leaned back against the ktichen cabinets. The hum of the microwave soothed her nerves, but not her chaotic thoughts.

What was I thinking, running out like that? I looked like a demonized Cinderella, running from the Prince, who was staring to look like the wicked stepmother. Or Alice, after the mushrooms, definitely the mushrooms, where instead of growing big or small, I was growing in and out of an identity crisis.

The oven bell dinged. She hauled herself up and pulled out the meal, willing herself to slow down and take her time eating. Putting the lasagna on a plate, rather than eating out of the plastic tray helped, as did pouring a nice glass of Chardonnay. Scott’s connoisseur comments about wine had been laced with censure because she rarely drank red wine, regardless of the food, preferring mostly whites’ and rose’s.

“HaH!  Here’s to your stupid rules of engagement, which I am no longer a part of,” said Cricket, as she saluted the air.

Sitting back down on the floor, chewing thoughtfully, Cricket started to go over her fantasy plan of escape.

No, this is more than never, never land. I’m going to commit like the pig, not the hen, smiling at her grandpa’s funny way of asking how serious she was about her decisions. After all, he explained, the pig gives it all up for your breakfast, the hen, just the egg.

Thanks, Gramps, she sighed quietly. I don’t want to live like this, especially with this hole in my heart. Besides, water seeks its own level. and if I don’t change now, I’ll keep picking men like myself, lost, lonely, emotional losers, living in the shadows of significance.

Cricket finished her lasagna, making sure to leave a bit for Petie to lick up. Reaching up, she slid her plate into the sink.  Setting her wine glass aside, she crawled over to her desk and stretching up on her knees, rustled thru the junk drawer for a pen and paper. Crawling back to her position under the sink, she sat down Indian style, picked up her wine and started to make lists.

Lots and lots of lovely lists.  They were her organizational gurus that kept her focused and out of daily disasters. Personally, she thought of herself as a closet ADD sufferer, especially when she was distracted with the words of a song pulling at her mind. To outsiders, she appeared to be day dreaming. To her family and friends, they knew she was lost to creative ideas. 

Cricket’s A List, the top six items on her daily “to do”  list, prioritized her activities and could motivate and move her back into real time. There were also B and C lists, but they were more for emergencies and long term goals and projects.

This adventure would definitely have B and C lists. Number one would be to change her appearance. Blonde would have to go, especially since it was part of her signature look. Red would be too close for a true change, so it would have to be in the brown family, not black.  She had worn a black wig at an halloween party, and looked like an understudy for Morticia, or a murdered cadaver on CSI.

Change is good, but I have to like what I see, not hide the mirror. And I can’t do dowdy. No thick glasses, stooped shoulders, or knit cardigans. Intellectual, maybe, but somewhat stylish.  Burberry, with tennis shoes. Smiling big, Cricket imagined shopping for her new persona.

She also asked herself when had she got so vain?  Grandma had said, “beauty is as beauty does,” and again those awful feelings of being a poster child for the ‘material girl’ rose up like emotional bile.

Ok. Ok. that was then, now is now, and I’m doing something to make my heart proud of me. I just have to slow down the guilt, move out the disgust, and sweeten the bitterness by forgiving myself for my stupid choices, because,,.

She shrugged her answer, and realized her butt was cold and numb from the floor. Standing up slowly, she stretched out the kinks, and drug her sorry self upstairs to the shower, hoping she wouldn’t fall asleep under the spray of hot water. The bed looked like an oasis to a thirsty man, and promised herself that she and Petie would be in it in five minutes.

Smiling, as she punched the pillow and pulled up the covers, her last thought was, “three and a half minutes isn’t bad if you don’t count my wet back and no nighty.”