Whom Shall We Discuss?

Elisabeth Anne Greta Linnley is a well-aged woman who retired early from a successful career as a real estate broker. She made quite a killing during the bubble of the early 2000s, but no one wants to talk about that. What people want to talk about is that she is single and has been for quite some time, and when she moved into the neighborhood, her house had a “his” and “hers” closet, so the first and only remodeling project she undertook was to convert “his” closet into a walk-in, climate-controlled liquor cabinet. Not to mention, she was the founder of the Supper Club. 

To gossip about this neighbor from the beginning, go here.

There are no more neighbors to gossip about, for now.

19. Proposal of Poultric Proportions

“Yes, well,” Greta said, getting up from her flower bed and brushing herself off, “I was just percolating in your garden, Miss Roxenbury, and have come up with a business proposal for you.”

“Does it involve the FBI?”

“Perhaps, but we’ll get into that later.”

“As a threat?”

“As a kick to the marinade.”

“Fine then, I’m brined to my tail feathers and ready to be buttered. Propose.”

“I’ve had a dream and intend for your residence to be turned into a private pet shop that deals exclusively in designer chickens, and perhaps sheep but I’m not sure yet. They will be raised here, confidentially, while being marketed through online profiles created for each of them on Facebook.”

“Do you have good names for that sort of thing?”

“As of yet, no. Any ideas?”

“I’ve always wanted a chicken for a pet, and I’ve been keeping the name Fiona for the occasion. Fiona would be good for a sheep, too, or Apple.”

Greta inclined her head, magnanimously,  then continued, “I am prepared to offer you market value according to the most fashionable real estate blogs of today, cash upfront, with an additional tie-in. Each harvest, I will arrange for a regular shipment of your garden to be sent to an oversees address of your choice.”

“Meaning you want me deported.”

“Yes, self-deportation preferred. Do you find these terms acceptable?”

“I suppose I could spend the rest of my days grinding maize on a beach in Mexico. Doesn’t that sound lovely? You have a deal.”

Before returning inside, Miss Roxenbury leaned in close and whispered, “Name one of them Fiona, would you?”

And that is how Greta began her luxury farm animal pet shop in the heart of San Francisco’s Mission District. Soon word of it spread all over the city and deep into the suburbs, but no farther than that as farmers hearing of it would simply shake their heads, muttering to themselves, “Crazy city folk.” Greta’s shop become a hit among families who wanted something unique for a family pet, and in particular that special housewife who felt that she had conquered domestic life so much as to warrant a new challenge, one with pinfeathers and claws that tore up the backyard and annoyed the neighbors if left unpampered. Greta made tons of new, chatty friends. Her Facebook friend count skyrocketed, and not just due to the profiles she created for her livestock. Tons of people relished the idea of adopting poultry. Her dream was to make them as common as dogs.

Her first major sale was Greta. Apple was still on the market, priced competitively.

18. Conscious Once Again

Arising from her plot of red, white, and blue pompoms, Greta could not shake the feeling of having been buried prematurely. Willing to make the most of the situation and never one to ignore a good landscaping idea, she made a mental note that hydrangeas would be a wonderful thing to plant around a tombstone. And so she would be able to write down such inspirations in the future, she made another mental note to invest in one of those Blackberry contraptions.

These notes and countless others were never heard from again.

Oh my, it was sunny that day. Greta was so jealous of how much sun the Mission District got. She figured it would be impossible to locate a single life form here without a tan. Looking around at the jarring bursts of color, she was forced to admit that Miss Roxenbury’s garden was superior to hers in every way.

Suddenly, a bumble bee the size of a walnut happily rumbled by. It sounded as if, for a brief moment, someone had turned on an air-conditioning unit.

“Why didn’t the fog travel here?” Greta huffed. Sitting in her bed of flowers, she schemed of ways she could upset the ecosystem. Perhaps there was a scientific method for triggering a self-contained, bio-spherical instance of global warming, or burning a small hole in the ozone layer directly above her property, just big enough to give her clematis hope to bloom again.

Alas, the environmentalists would never allow it. They would be upon her faster than it took haricots verts to overcook. Frustrated, Greta took hold of a bunch of fuchsia innocently flourishing nearby, tore them from their growing place, and stuffed them into her pocket. They would know her pain, struggling to grow on her cold, windswept property in the middle of summer.

At that moment, out came Miss Roxenbury holding a hoe in her moisturized hands.

“Greta!” she hissed. “I saw that!”

To be continued…

17. A Simpler Existence

Greta dreamt she was a locally-raised, organic chicken. She lived on a family farm that was quite licensed, thank you very much, a point her subconscious made sure to emphasize after having suppressed the memory of her smuggling in so many illegal turkeys for the past few Thanksgivings. It’s not that they were cheaper that way. No, quite the opposite. It’s that they were so young, which frankly Greta took as a crime committed by them.

She was an older chicken, just at that overripe age perfect for a mole. She was blissfully unaware, however, of her status as an ingredient. All she cared about was how warm she was—and she was very warm. Wearing feathers was not quite like having them, she came to realize. Having them was much more convenient, and practical. An aura of vitality radiated out from her tiny, football-shaped body. She was content to roost 24/7, though her owners would never allow it. They burst into her charming portable coop and, with horrific workman’s gloves that scraped against her silky white plumage, lifted her out of her nest and threw her into the field with the rest of the farm animals.

Then they made her exercise. It was worse than mandatory PE in high school. She never dreamt that a free-ranged life would be so grueling. It was the polite word for boot camp. Forced exercise was the next frontier for human rights, she wanted to screech. She only managed a furious cluck while scrambling for cover as the farmer’s wife came charging through in overalls.

After some time went by, Greta couldn’t help but think how delicious she must be. She began to have rather masochistic thoughts of roasting herself. Perhaps there was an oven left open somewhere, which she could hop up into and re-roost. She considered wandering into the farmhouse’s kitchen. And just as she was pecking herself to check to see if there were any loose pinfeathers, she awoke to find one of her wrists firmly clamped between her molars.

To enter consciousness with Greta and hopefully stay there for awhile, please go here.

For chicken that has been forced to exercise, please flock here.

16. Escape

The door did not open. Much like many of Greta’s arteries, it was quite blocked.

She happily returned to the dormer and tried the window. It slid open as if well floured and buttered.

I could not begin to describe the tremendous experience of going out on the rooftop in heels, except to say don’t try it at home. Greta, much to her dismay, was not at home and far too stubborn to remove any part of her ensemble. If she fell to her doom, then she would surely try her hardest to make it look fabulous, and that was all she could ever hope to do.

Remiss to leave her little bedroom containment chamber, which she had grown quite found of in the medium-short duration of returning to consciousness, she crouched down on the window sill and poked one leg through to the other side, just far enough for it to touch slated ground. Perched atop that ledge like a young finch ready to take flight, she leaned in the direction of her outstretched feathery appendage, and rolled herself through to freedom.

Putting her weight on the ball of her foot, Greta stood erect and took a long drag of the fresh, jasmine-scented night air, posing for all the heavens to see, and for all the vibrant denizens of the Mission District, as well. And just as she reached the apex of her glory atop that charming Victorian cottage, a fog horn sounded in the distance, blasting her off balance. She wobbled to one side, waving her arms here and there, and then, all a kilter, toppled over, rolling over the roof—a veritable pinwheel of cashmere, pagmina and hemp—down a verticle carpet of ivy and into a bed of red, white and blue hydrangea.

And there, having just awoken, Greta punctually returned to unconsciousness.

To join Greta in unconsciousness, please click here.

15. A Most Unusual Hangover

Greta came back to consciousness in much the same way she did every morning, except something about this morning was a bit off. She still felt that familiar fuzziness, as though overnight her brain had turned into raw cotton, which for the rest of the day would be spun into thick bolts of cloth and woven by the hands of fate, becoming by night the fabric of her life experience that, inevitably, she would spill wine on, or gin, or whiskey, or even an organic, draft beer brewed at that wonderful little Austrian gasthaus at the bottom of the block…

Oh, I haven’t been there in ages. I’ll have to go tonight and have a Spaten or two, she decided on the brink of going back to sleep. Her half-conscious resolution, however, seemed to have triggered some sort of hormonal mass production, as suddenly she felt excited to start the day. She tried to sit up, but found that it was quite impossible.

Hmm, that’s odd…, Greta paused. I’ve never had that problem before. Was I mixing?

She put some effort into remembering, but not much as usually the day before seemed quite content to remain obscured. Much to her surprise, however, her memory of it was available instantly. It came so fast, in fact, that her little brain had to work furiously to catch up, and once it had, to keep up until the whole thing played through. There was Miss Roxenbury again, lounging on her plush sofa, engulfed in a miasma of organic fumes. Words were oozing out of her mouth like honey from an eviscerated honey bear. She stood up, things went out of focus a bit, and then…

If the farmer’s market had sold common sense in bulk, Greta would have realized then that her situation was extreme. But even as she was trying her hardest to concentrate on the electric images bolting through her mind, she couldn’t help but notice a lovely indented ceiling above her. It was coated in the most charming Nantucket beadboard, forming what was undoubtedly a dormer looking out on the alleyway below.

She had to find out. When Greta made up her mind to determine whether or not a bedroom space had been appropriately renovated, nothing could get in her way, not even common courtesy. So she had no problem in her current situation, even after discovering that her hands were bound by a pair of fluffy, pink handcuffs. Bending forward, she reached for the back of her head and procured a tiny silver rod. It was her vodka stirrer. Holding it between thumb and finger, she expertly twisted it around and plunged it into the a ball of fluff. After fiddling around with it for a few minutes, she felt it catch upon something. The handcuffs came undone, followed soon after by another pair around her feet, until Greta was able to stand fully erect again and confirm that old age had nothing to do with her previous inhibition.

“What an ingenious use of space!” she wanted to exclaim after finding a light switch and observing the nook she had been stashed away in, but her mouth was covered by a scarf that was so soft it must have been pashmina. And when she had taken it off and gone into an adjacent bathroom to see that there was no sign of an allergic reaction, she was even more ecstatic.

I must ask Miss Roxenbury where she got this, Greta thought. Now, where to find her?

To begin Greta’s search for Miss Roxenbury, go here.

To visit the Facebook page of the Austrian gasthaus where Greta gets her Spaten, please click here.

14. Intoxicated, But Not Like That

“Salvia?” Greta said, steadying herself on a very tasteful door frame. She tried her hardest to see the rest of the interior decor, but the room was becoming a blur.

“Why yes,” Miss Roxenbury said, wryly. “It is all the rage in the blogosphere and works wonders as an air freshener. Don’t you think?”

“Oh my,” Greta said, holding a hand to the nape of her neck and swallowing. She thought she could taste a sour film lining the back of her throat, similar to the taste of her homemade yogurt when it was just a little too organic for its own good. “My magazines haven’t mentioned anything about that.”

“Magazines, Greta?” Miss Roxenbury said, now a pink blob in the distance. “Haven’t you discovered the Internet, or is your hill so far up the stratosphere that you can’t get a connection?”

“I prefer something I can grip,” Greta said, tightening her hold on the wood.

“I thought as much. Old millionaire hippies like you will even axe down trees to keep your traditions alive.”

“I am having a hard enough time staying alive as it is. How is this modern incense of yours prepared, anyway?”

“Oh, I make little nests here and there and light them on fire all over the house,” the pink blob said, standing up.  ”And then I dance and sing, and the birds practically drop out of the sky in ecstasy.” It threw itself in the air, pirouetting.

“Are you sure they aren’t passing out from intoxication?” Greta said, now hunched over and gasping for breath.

The pink blob stopped moving and grew larger. “Who knows? All I know is that their little bodies make such great fertilizer,” and that is the last thing Greta heard Miss Roxenbury say before losing consciousness.

To see if Greta will make a great fertilizer as well, go here.

If your homemade yogurt is too organic for its own good, then here is a Bay Area one that is superb.

13. Greta Cannot Resist Real Estate

Miss Roxenbury’s generous figure was gobbled up by another cloud of incense blowing out of the house, and when it had passed, she had disappeared. Greta thought for a moment that she had experienced the robust woman as a vision of her own future living there, drinking tea and sedatives in the sun amidst all that natural beauty, but then she heard a voice inside her say, “This would be an awful time to sell.” Her power broker senses had activated and her dreams scampered away like frightened forest critters.

Then she heard Miss Roxenbury’s voice from inside the house call to her. “Greta,” it said, “Come in!” and Greta obeyed. She was never one to pass up a good neighborly scouting.

She found herself at the beginning of a long hallway. Of course, whenever she entered a house for the first time, she had to drop everything and make note of the interior decor. Honestly, if Greta had come in there to take cover from gunfire, she would have paused to reflect on the paint color. It was just in her DNA.

The floor was ebonized wood and extremely shiny. She felt as though she would slip walking over it, even though she was at full operational power. She reached out a hand to steady herself on the white wood paneling that covered the walls, which she didn’t need much of an excuse to touch anyway. The wood was soft and worn.

“Greta! Greta! Come here,” Miss Roxenbury’s voice called again. Greta tore herself away from the wall and began to runway walk down the hallway, feeling more at home with each step. The floors made a delightful squeaking sound. She could sense their history. They had been battered by children and earthquakes, restored by die-hard flippers and now were cherished by Miss Roxenbury. In the moment it took her to go from one end of the hallway to the other, she was ready to draw blood to live in that house.

She took in another breath and her lungs filled with the scented air. It smelled sweet and spicy, like cacao and chili peppers that gave her larynx a fiery, tingling sensation. After a few more inhales, she was breathing more to feel the sensation than to stay alive, to the point where, rounding a corner and entering a large, open room with a square footage that would make even the staunchest of power brokers look up from Twitter, Greta exclaimed, “Miss Roxenbury! How will I ever go back to boring old oxygen?”

To which, Miss Roxenbury, lounging on a gigantic, plush couch in the middle of the room, said, “Why Greta, haven’t you ever breathed in Salvia before?”

To find out if Greta has ever breathed in Salvia before, go here.

If you, like Greta, cannot resist real estate, then here is a top-notch insider’s blog on San Francisco real estate.

12. Socialite at Sea Level

Wisps of incense rising off her raw skin, Miss Roxenbury said, “Ah Greta, I knew you would find your way here, eventually.”

Greta pursed her lips. “Really? But I don’t understand. This was the return address. Are you saying that package was intended for me?”

“Why, yes, it was. I know your kind. Mail with your own name on it and it’ll sit on your desk for seasons. Mail with someone else’s name on it and you’ll open it faster than it takes you to uncork a wine bottle.”

“I must admit,” Greta said, looking around at the wild, overgrown foliage, “I am glad to have bumbled here. Your place is quite charming.”

“When was the last time you saw the sun?”

“Oh Babs, I’ve become such a vampire since moving to Russian Hill—and not in a trendy way. The fog is as thick as the mousse.”

“Is that the only reason?”

“Well…” Greta said, not sure how to answer.

“That house is cursed,” Miss Roxenbury said. “I know, I lived there for 20 years. So I thought you might need some help.”

“Help? That is awfully condescending of you.”

“Oh Greta, forgive me. I forgot how to speak socialite since moving to sea level. I did not mean it that way.”

“I suppose.”

“But Greta,” Miss Roxenbury said, gripping her by the shoulders and shaking her like a bottle of kombucha, “Welcome to paradise. Here, let me show you.”

To see what Miss Roxenbury means by “paradise”, go here.

For an excellent supplier of Bay Area kombucha, click here.

11. An Extraterrestrial Encounter

One side of the alleyway was quite normal, dotted with small houses and doorways and garages. Some of these things were occasionally neon pink or purple, psychedelic if you were to use a technical term, but seeing as Greta was hardly technical in any way, she didn’t notice, or care. Even the random synaptic firing that went off in her head from looking at bright colors too abruptly didn’t phase her, because she was mostly concentrating on the other side.

The other side of the alleyway would be called, in more liberal circles of society, a piece of artwork. Yes, it was a painting of sorts, a fresco, that had begun on a wall, probably very late at night, and then had continued to fences, telephone posts, and even a few old cars that some unsuspecting person had no doubt parked one day thinking he had found the jackpot of unmonitored parking. Alas, at the hiss of a spray paint can, his vehicle had been assimilated by what looked like an alien species depicted by the painting.

The species had originated from a woman, whom Greta located when she had come halfway through the alleyway. She was rather curvaceous, with healthy skin and a mane of curly black hair that rose up to the top of the building. She was naked, and Greta could not quite help but observe her gigantic bosom, which had actually grown out of the canvas into the surrounding areas previously discussed. Yes, the woman was a new kind of species, and Greta was a bit curious if she ever ended. And if so, what would be there? An unpainted space? A pot of gold? A baby?

Well, that was the Mission District for you. In any case, Greta had a job to do, which she was not doing. When she realized that she was neglecting her quest for personal happiness and lifelong fulfillment, she pulled her eyes away from the extensive portrait, and fixed them upon the tiny black numbers printed on the mailboxes that lined the street, which had been overtaken by the woman as well. She was very intrusive.

When Greta came upon the 800s and found 801 right at the beginning, she turned around. There in front of her was the most charming Victorian cottage, with a little picket gate leading into a garden with all sorts of wild, whimsical things growing in chaotic harmony. Greta wandered into it like private property hadn’t been invented yet, looking around, completely unaware of herself. She felt sun on her face. She heard birds. She saw the perfect two little chairs and a table set for tea. She might have been spinning for real this time, because she hadn’t had a drink since breakfast. Fortunately, the spinning stopped on the front door of the house, and she knocked upon it. Moments later, the door opened and out came a billowing cloud that smelled like spiced licorice. It was so thick and dense that Greta couldn’t see a thing, but it was pleasant. As the cloud dissipated into the ozone, a pasty, white face emerged. It had bright, dark eyes and absolutely no makeup on.

“Miss Roxenbury!” Greta exclaimed.

To have a conversation with Miss Roxenbury, even though she might not be pleased to see you, click here.

To see pictures of the murals that inspired the one on Whimsberry Way, click here.

10. Nature’s Velcro

At last! Almost there!

Greta climbed through one last thicket of dead underbrush, forcing her tough, knotted body toward the alleyway that lay beyond. The weeds clung to her clothes, which were woven out of a hemp and cashmere blend that seemed to form a Velcro-like bond with deteriorating plant matter. Under normal circumstances, she would have noticed this natural phenomenon and conducted rigorous field research to confirm it, then submitted her findings to her seamstress, Yao Lin, to use on several future garments. However, her circumstances were anything but normal. She was sober and trapped in the wilderness, fighting for her life.

She managed to bring one hand through to the other side and grab hold of something. It felt like an ankle.

Greta looked up, shocked. Happy Hilda’s round face was glowing over her, grinning heavily. The woman was holding something in her hand, and Greta could barely make out what it was through the dense foliage.

It was a machete!

“Please, no!” Greta cried. “I’ll give you anything! I have a secret wonder drug that’ll make you happy beyond belief. I’m here to get more of it. We can split it 50/50.”

But Happy Hilda didn’t respond. She swung the blade straight at Greta. It tore through the weeds embracing her.

Was it a miss? Greta wondered. She didn’t care to find out. She shot up and catapulted herself into the alleyway.

To catapult into the alleyway behind her, click here.