Crazy Ava is directly inside the open door with the EMTs at her side, fussing over her again. Except this time something is different. Lying on the sofa with her mouth half open and the paramedics kneeling over her, a fossil of an eastern bloc peasant, the type that you smell rye bread, sauerkraut and old brick dust on, her sour expression has vanished. And sure enough, she is wearing that Parasztok headscarf again. Except this time her eyes are wide open as if, the last thing she laid those rheumy eyes on imprinted itself on her psyche, terrorizing her.
Clearly, her breath still smells like dog shit, by how paramedics lean away from her and curl their noses; or, maybe it’s her carpets. All those years of pet stains from Houdini, that poor dog she picked up ten years ago and has tortured with neglect ever since. Every neighbor knows who she is. Her reputation for being the raving lunatic and the consummate bitch of Villa Forenza stretches far past this declining Las Vegas retirement community, all the way down to Charleston Boulevard, in front of the complex. Including to the drug store in the plaza where she is banned for shoplifting twice, at the age of seventy-six.
Through the years, we have all heard those Crazy Ava stories, which is why most of us keep a distance, the way one avoids any poisonous viper. Where ever she takes root her rancorous personality initiates gossip. After all, what isn’t there to talk about with her? She is the craziest old bitch most people have ever seen, which is why I keep my mama away from her. Decades ago, we entertained those discussions over how dangerous I felt Ava was, when I told mama, “Don’t become cozy with that one, she’s mean as a snake. ” Mama always takes pity on people like her.
Says, “But, honey, she seems nice. Besides, there is always a reason people like her turn so defensive. ” I tell her, “No, mama. She’s done some terrible things to people. Stay away from her, okay? By all means, never let her inside of your apartment. She will steal everything that isn’t nailed down. ” Regardless, early this morning my mama calls me again, concerned. “Honey, please. Can you come over here, quickly? ” “Mama, it’s not even four o’clock, yet. ” “I know, except something is happening here. Something horrible. I see flashing lights, outside. Pulling on a pair of jeans, Trun a brush through my hair, rinse my mouth and rush over. Mama only lives a few blocks away. The first thing I notice is the flashing lights and then, the crowd. The hectic strobe of blazing lights breaks the early morning quiet aura of the Villa Forenza community, strobing with the frenetic pace of an emergency. Jolted from their adjustable beds by the flashing lights, the venerable grand dragons of Villa Forenza stand outside of Ava’s door, in a huddle after arising from pressure reducing mattresses and hoisting their aging bodies up by clutching lifting poles.
After peeking outside and identifying where the flashing lights are coming from, they wrestle those useless arms inside of robes, preparing to rush into the cold night air. Especially, once they realize it is Crazy Ava. Yet, here we all are now, in huddles clad in terry bathrobes and pajamas. Some with their wattles still slathered with decollete creams and gathering as close to Ava Dozsa’s front door as we can get. Cocking our heads this way and that and observing the scene with the vigilance of a worn out rooster’s eye. Commenting, “Look, look! My God, her eyes. Are they locked in a fixed gaze? ” “Yeah, she looks scared. “I wonder what happened? Did somebody break in? ” “My God, that’s what she gets for hanging around with that drug addict. ” “What drug addict? ” “Where have you been? That black guy? Remember John Lee Hooker? The one that used to live here and got in all those fights until they tossed his sorry butt out? ” “What the hell could she possibly have been thinking hanging around with him? ” The emergency medical technicians take her blood pressure and shine lights in her eyes, calling her name. She doesn’t respond, appearing dazed and lying there motionless on the couch, her hand no longer trembling with that recognizable palsy.
Those thick ubiquitous lenses of her eyes appear distant, a moment in time frozen on them. Almost as if whatever she encountered has bound the image to its surface and into the reaches of her brain. A dozen or so of the veteran dragons, creaky with age and thirsty for everyone else’s saucy tales, ardently watch. Ever the predatory cats, they gaze at the EMTs through the doorway as they hover over Ava and hoist her from the couch to a gurney. The aging dragons pin their eyes on the pigeon as technicians roll Ava out of the door and past us towards the van. Passing those geriatric bags crouched for the kill.
Those fossils lick their lips, watch and wait, hoping to wrap a jaw around the old bird’s head. Their flapping jaws have a long history of wrapping around other people’s heads. Behind us, her upstairs neighbor answers police questions. “I called nine-one-one this morning after I returned from gambling and her lights were still on. ” “Was she up? ” “I don’t know. She hadn’t left her house, or answered her door for three days. And the lights remained on the entire time. I wondered if something was wrong. ” No matter how much the EMTs try to stimulate them, her arms appear rigid and waxen, as if she is unable to move. Her vital signs are normal. She withdraws to noxious stimuli, but does not otherwise show purposeful movement,” one of the EMTs says over a two-way, He’s on the radio, speaking to the hospital. Everyone wonders the same things. Did one of her drug addict pals finally try to rob this useless grouse? Did she fall victim to violence? “Subject is catatonic,” he reports. “She appears to have Hypo-Kinesis and mutism. ” The doctor’s voice remains calm. “And her pupils? ” The EMT shines a light in her gelatinous eyes. “They are equal and reactive to light. ” “Bring her in. ” The crowd backs out of the way as they load Ava Dozsa inside of the van.
The apartment manager arrives and pushes his way towards the EMTs. “We are taking her to UMC,” the technician tells him. “Do you have any contact information for her family? ” “Her family seems to have abandoned her. Ava has never left information on where to reach them. ” “Do you know her age? ” “She’s seventy-eight. She’s a Hungarian refugee who has lived in the U. S. for decades. I’m not sure who to contact for her. ” How chivalrous of Peter, holding back the negative details of this horrid, horrid woman. Keeping secret what we all know, that Ava is a woman with a history of transgression and depression.
That she has mostly approached life with a certain ribaldry and Hungarian indifference to anything decent. Never a paragon of morality, even in her youth, Ava always has been as tough as a piece of rawhide. With those weary eyes beaming down on others reflecting a wizened resentment, for the world, Ava has a reputation of slapping the shoulders of pimps in go-go bars as she tosses her bets on the craps table, always praying the dice will pay her threefold, generally with a cigarette dangling out of her mouth. That dusty, moth-eaten witch is definitely not the sweet old lady that she hopes to con the world into believing she is.
Still, that doesn’t prevent her from trying, thinking that alone will permit her access into the most important cliques of Villa Forenza. Never realizing she has burned every bridge to friendship she has there. Especially when she is always that nasty shrew that has a problem with every neighbor. Who else but the woman with the Zsa “dahling,” breathy voice and reigning matron of acrimony would turn off the few horny men in the complex who report her propositioning them with, “For you, dear? | geeve you ver-ry dir-rty hot sex. ” Her life is a paradox.
One minute she is stripping butt naked near the pool, looking around to see who notices and diving in, no matter who is present. The next, she confides to a few of the local codgers that her family wants absolutely nothing to do with her and she feels resentment over that. Astounding! The way she flirts with every geriatric fool, married or not, more like a confirmation than a desire. The EMT closes the rear door of the van as another technician examines Ava’s vitals. He signals the driver and the strobing lights flash, the siren yelps and wails and the aid car pulls away from the complex.
The old shrews gather and in spite of the cold, they can’t wait to chew that mutton… “Her eyes seemed so odd,” the corpulent woman says, one of the locals who made a decision a long time ago to give up on herself and plant her butt in a scooter, instead of losing weight for her ‘bad knees. ‘ “Didn’t she? Maybe she’s gone over the edge. ” “Maybe she thought they were sending her back to Hungary to sell her pussy,” says the German with the rouged plump cheeks of a beaver. She snickers and covers her mouth with skin so scaly her face cracks like shattered glass when she laughs.
There is a long pause, before another one of them quietly asks, “Do you suppose anyone will tell Marci Morales? ” No one utters a word, but their eyes flash between one another as if everyone knows the answer. I Marci Morales never hears that name again it will be a blessing. Not after what Crazy Ava has done to her life, and the heartbreak Ava dropped from nowhere, into her world. Crazy Ava’s life always seems to be a chain reaction; poor decision making, an assortment of scoundrels surrounding her, random explosions after overly dramatic events.
And later, the reactions of those around her, “Who didn’t see that coming? ” Her passion led her to the doorsteps of gambling, decades ago and it is now her addiction. Ava is the type of addict whose Social Security check deposits in her account by six a. m. and by eight, she’s hurrying inside of Arizona Charlies, exhilaration and excitement written all over her face. Eyeballing the leathery relic on the nickel slots, standing back as he nervously pushes the keys to the slot machine and watches the images spin in the front of the machine.
When it hits, she rushes to find an open multi-hand video poker game and sits her butt in front of it, stuffing the machine full of nickels. Until around ten, when half-point bingo starts. However, everything deteriorates around noon when her paycheck, with half of the rent money nearly gone, withers to nothing. That’s when she chases those losses with bigger bets and desperation sets in. Passing by, you see the desperation in her eyes, focusing on nothing but the outcome of those wheels spinning before her eyes, with no wins.
Eventually, she treks down to the Payday Loan store, borrowing money against her next three Social Security checks. However, it wasn’t until Ava had one of those come-to-Jesus revelations that she finally went off the deep end. Driving home that day, after losing her rent to the lousy slots at Arizona Charlie’s once again, and cursing God himself, she falls apart. When she steps inside of her apartment, she calls the police to accuse every one of her neighbors of senior abuse. Later, she has another epiphany and joins the Church of Latter Day Saints. And that’s when she begins hating the world, all over again.
Once Crazy Ava turns Mormon, she narrows her eyes at the world for bringing such misery into her life. Celebrating her descent into piousness by tipping the Jack Daniels bottle just enough, to chug a few long swigs of lascivious impropriety, she curses her own children, for writing her off. When she finally resigns herself to a puritanical existence, she purses her lips, tilts her chin and sneers at every kindhearted, sappy soul that crosses her path. And then, she runs into Marci Morales. Not long after, Javier Morales lies crumpled by the pool, murdered — shot three times
