Yellow Mama E zine

Compound Interest

 

      by Heidi Lee

 

 

        Compounding drugs was my specialty. Frank and I ran a successful operation in Los Angeles.  He was the business head while I prepared pills, lotions, and potions made to order. We sold pharmaceutical product like everyone else but were recognized as being able to offer something over and above. When Frank died, I lost interest, sold the pharmacy, and moved to New Orleans. We had visited often over the years and and dreamed of moving there together in retirement.

       “Why go now, alone?” my friends asked.

       “It’s funny and crazy there, even the potholes are on Instagram—check this out— ‘Sink Hole de Mayo.’ ”

       “That is funny, Christine, and depressing.”

       I didn’t mention my MRI results.

 

        I love my neighborhood, close enough to the French Quarter. My neighbors are friendly but not intrusive. I sit on my porch, tend my plants, and chat to passersby, getting as much or as little interaction as I want. And I walk, trying to stay strong as long as I can. My daily excursions bring me past people huddled on street corners and in the park. There are more homeless visible now than when I moved here two years ago. I’m not afraid to engage with them.

       I talked to a woman in her 30s, sitting on a stoop. She could have passed as a tourist but for the white pit bull lying beside her, and her battered suitcase missing a wheel. She said she was from Wisconsin.

       “How’d you end up here?”

       “I was living with my mother. When she died, I lost the house and everything. Google said New Orleans is one of the best places to be homeless—because of the weather, and there are plenty of shelters offering food and support.”

       “Wait till the Summer, that’s a different story.”

       “I know, I did one already, but it’s still better than the freezing winters up North.”

        I patted her dog’s head, Luna—a sweet girl, she licked my hand, giving lie to the pit bull’s fierce reputation.

        Walking away, my thoughts turned to the brevity of our passage on this planet. Does anything matter? Kindness matters, a small voice said. There was nothing to gain from questioning the truth of her story, what mistakes she had made. Turning back to her, I told her about the local pet store providing low-cost shots and flea treatment and offered to help get Luna set up. She became one of my regulars. I’d see her and Luna at the park, outside the store, and on odd corners on my walks.

  

       I started compounding again—making treats for the people and pups I saw on my walks. I stored them in labeled ziplock bags. “D”- for Dog snacks, with added flea and heartworm powders, “P”- for People—cookies with vitamins.

      One day I saw a wiry, blond guy harassing my Wisconsin friend.  Pacing in front of her, scratching at his scabbed arms, he pointed at a black SUV idling on the corner. “What’s the big deal? You’ll only be gone an hour, I’ll watch your damn dog for you.” 

      She went. Luna cowered.  

      A few days later, I saw the three of them again, and dispensed—D-treats, P-treats, and for him, my new recipe—“S” for Scumbag. Not fatal, though believe me, I considered it. I mixed Syrup of Ipecac, which induces severe vomiting—you will not be fit to function for a long time, and added a pigment that leaves your tongue permanently black—a warning to the world of your wickedness. An “S” is a one-shot deal, no return customers.

 

       The governor hates the city, its liberal leanings an affront to all he purports to believe. He appointed a “Homelessness Czar,” saying “New Orleans is a cesspool, and we will clean its trash before February’s Super Bowl.” 

       He means the unhoused. If a dog runs loose, neighborhood resources pool together to find the poor mutt. But stray humans huddled on street corners are trash.

       The Czar schedules a press conference at City Hall. It will be open to the public and he will take the opportunity to brag about his success in conquering the homeless problem, how much human waste he has cleared and how positively lovely the city is looking.

  

       Pulling up to City Hall’s Service Entrance with a “Cookie-Queen Catering” logo on my Subaru (Thank you, Mr. Amazon), I carry two trays through to the inner sanctum. Gray-haired women garner little notice and I pass through the metal detector with ease. Security gives my cookies a cursory glance. Today no labels are needed. There’s just one recipe and it starts with “S.”

  

       Heidi Lee worked as a psychiatrist for 30 years and has been writing on the side for a long time. In the past two years she has committed to knuckling down, finishing and submitting her work. Her first publication was “Something’s Up With Frankie” in Issue #113 of Yellow Mama.

       Heidi loves Yellow Mama as the content appeals to her twisted mind.

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Bernice Holtzman’s paintings and collages have appeared in shows at various venues in Manhattan, including the Back Fence in Greenwich Village, the Producer’s Club, the Black Door Gallery on W. 26th St., and one other place she can’t remember, but it was in a basement, and she was well received. She is the Assistant Art Director for Yellow Mama.