The Life and Times of the Thunderbolt Kid_ A Memoir - Bill Bryson [67]
Once on the open road, Mrs. Vandermeister was famous over a much wider area. Though her trip to Dahl’s was only about three-quarters of a mile, her progress created scenes reminiscent of the streets of Pamplona when the bulls are running. Motorists and pedestrians alike fled in terror before her. And it was, it must be said, an unnerving sight when Mrs. Vandermeister’s car came toward you down the street. For a start, it looked as if it was driverless, such was her exceeding diminutiveness, and indeed it drove as if driverless, for it was seldom entirely on the road, particularly when bumping around corners. Generally there were sparks coming off the undercarriage from some substantial object—a motorcycle, a garbage can, her own walking frame—that she had collected en route and was now taking with her wherever she went.
Getting money from Mrs. Vandermeister was a perennial nightmare. Her front door had a small window in it that provided a clear view down her hallway to her living room. If you rang the doorbell at fifteen-second intervals for an hour and ten minutes, you knew that eventually she would realize that someone was at the door—“Now who the heck is that!” she would shout to herself—and begin the evening-long process of getting from her chair to the front door, twenty-five feet away, bumping and shoving her walker before her. After about twenty minutes, she would reach the hallway and start coming toward the door at about the speed that ice melts. Sometimes she would forget where she was going and start to detour into the kitchen or bathroom, and you would have to ring the doorbell like fury to get her back on course. When eventually she came to the door, you would have an extra half hour of convincing her that you were not a murderer.
“I’m the paperboy, Mrs. Vandermeister!” you would shout at her through the little glass pane.
“Billy Bryson’s my paperboy!” she would shout back at the doorknob.
“I am Billy Bryson! Look at me through the window, Mrs. Vandermeister! Look up here! You can see me if you look up here, Mrs. Vandermeister!”
“Billy Bryson lives three doors down!” Mrs. Vandermeister would shout. “You’ve come to the wrong house! I don’t know why you’ve come here!”
“Mrs. Vandermeister, I’m collecting for the paper! You owe me three dollars and sixty cents!”
When finally you persuaded her to haul open the door, she was always surprised to find you there—“Oh, Billy, you gave me a start!” she’d say, treating you to a simultaneous bobble-head demonstration—and then there would be another small eternity while she went off, shuffling and wobbling and humming the Alzheimer theme tune, to find her purse, a half hour more while she came back to ask how much again, another forgetful detour to toilet or kitchen, and finally the announcement that she didn’t have that much cash and I’d have to call again on a future occasion.
“You shouldn’t leave it so long,” she’d shout. “It’s only supposed to be a dollar twenty every two weeks. You tell Billy when you see him.”
At least Mrs. Vandermeister had the excuse of being ancient and demented. What really maddened was being sent away by normal people, usually because they couldn’t be bothered to get their purses out. The richer the people were the more likely they were to send you away—always with a fey can-you-ever-forgive-me smile and an apology.
“No, it’s all right, lady. I’m very happy to hike a mile and a quarter here through three feet of snow on the coldest night of the year and leave empty-handed because you’ve got some muffins in the fucking oven and your nails are drying. No problem!”
Of course I never said anything like that, but I did start levying fines. I would add fifty or sixty cents to rich people’s bills and tell them that it was because the month started on a Wednesday so there was an extra half week to account for. You could show them on their kitchen