Free Termite Inspections

by Hillary Tiefer

            During the time when the landline telephone was a powerful money-making tool, I took a job working at Burbank Pest & Termite Control as a telemarketer. I must’ve frowned after the woman at the temp agency defined my duties because she pointed out that my lack of secretarial skills made me qualified for little else. I needed the money and assured myself this job was only for the summer. In the fall I’d be starting a Master’s program in English at UCLA.

            On the Monday morning after Independence Day, I parked my Chevy Impala a block away from the office on Burbank Boulevard. It was in a squat brick building with a dirty and empty display window. My mother had told me it used to be a dress shop.

            When I opened the door and entered, a man in his thirties greeted me, offering his hand for me to shake. “Hi, I’m Gary,” he said. He wore a well-ironed button-down shirt tucked into slacks—the type of clothes my father used to wear to work as an accountant.

            “I’m Ellen,” I said, keeping it on a first name basis.

            He pointed to his partners sitting behind desks, both also looking to be in their thirties. They were more casually dressed in t-shirts and jeans. Gary introduced me first to Hank, who was heavyset and had an Elvis Presley’s hairstyle, with brown sideburns that swooped toward his chin. He gave me a nod. The other he introduced as Roger, who was roughly handsome with stubble on his cheeks and a rusty tan. He smiled at me and said, “Nice to know you, Ellen.”

            Soon a girl arrived who announced she was ready to make calls. She had stringy blond hair and wore a tie-dyed t-shirt over bell bottom jeans. I, on the other hand, wore my most conservative clothes: a pink jersey top over white linen pants, not quite so flared on the bottom. White probably wasn’t a wise choice for this place.

            “Let me introduce you both,” Gary said, “You’re on the same team.” He pointed at each of us and said, “Ellen, Sally.”

            The girl grinned at me. I noted that she was about my age, in her twenties. I assumed she, like me, was only here for the summer and in the fall would pursue a more promising profession.

            “I want you both to know your job is a vital one and we’re depending on you,” Gary said as if he were the coach of a football team—we were teammates, after all. “As telemarketers,you girls are going to contribute to making this firm a success. In other words, me and my partners expect you both to make us rich. There are plenty of termites in San Fernando Valley and we aim to destroy all of them. We are very excited about our summer campaign. We expect you to put out a big effort.”

            Gary brought us to a small, dusty back room, which probably had been the storage room for the dress shop. On each end of a long table, which occupied most of the space, were a phone, thick phonebook, pad of paper, and pile of Bic pens. In a corner of the room was a tall pedestal fan, which he turned on.

            “Have a seat, girls,” he said. “Sally, you’re responsible for last names A to M and, Ellen, N to Z. Just call homes, no apartments or businesses. When they answer you tell them you’re with Burbank Pest & Termite Control and you’re offering a free termite inspection. Spice it up, of course. Remind them how important this is and what a great deal we’re offering—inspections are costly. If they agree, write down their name and number and tell them a man will call them soon with details. It’s simple as pie. Best of luck—we’re counting on you two.”

            He was about to leave but then stopped and said, “Unfortunately the plumbing isn’t working in the office bathroom. But all you have to do is go out the back door and enter Hank and Margie’s trailer. It’s okay to use theirs.”

            “I’ll show Ellen,” Sally said, obviously familiar with the place.

            He gave her a nod and left.

            “I can’t just barge into their house to use their bathroom,” I said.

            Sally let out a giggle. “They don’t care. I’m best buddies with Margie and I know she’s very laid back. Anyway, she’s gone a lot and so is her kid, Billy.”

            “You know everyone who works here?”

            “Mostly. Margie went to school with my sister, Carol. They used to hang out with each other all the time before Margie got pregnant and married Hank. They introduced me to Gary and his wife, Claire. I was so excited when this job opened up.” Then she grinned and her small hazel eyes sparkled. “I plan on getting friendly with Roger. He’s some hunk. He makes my heart go all crazy with flutters. Margie told me he’s available—he recently got divorced.”

            “Isn’t he too old for you?” I dared ask.

            “Not at all. I like older guys. In my opinion they’re sexier than younger guys.”

            I looked down to the closed telephone book and knew I had to open it. “It’s been nice talking to you but I guess we should get started.”

            She grinned. “I’m going to snag plenty of A’s today.”

            That word snag made me wince but I wished I had at least half of her enthusiasm for this job.

            I opened the phonebook to the beginning of the N’s and saw the last name Nader. As I began dialing, I viewed this person as more like a victim than a potential customer. I was relieved when no one answered. But the next one did, a woman who sounded out of breath. I began my short pitch about the free termite inspection.

            “Termite inspection! Is that the reason I ran out of the shower, soaking wet with only a towel around me? Damn you!” Then click.

            I looked toward Sally. She was happily writing on her pad.

            I had a few more calls, some angry, some polite but no one interested in a termite inspection.

            The time arrived for me to have to use the bathroom. I waited for Sally to finish her call then I followed her to the back door. She opened it and pointed to a trailer about ten feet away. I thanked her and crossed a path of crabgrass to the trailer.

            The main door was open—someone was home. I tapped on the screen door. A woman soon arrived and opened it for me. “Come on in,” she said. “I’m Margie.” She had platinum hair teased into a slope and wore thick black eye makeup, fake eyelashes, and glossy pink lipstick. She was plump but apparently had no qualms about revealing her arms in a sleeveless blouse and her legs in a denim miniskirt.

            “Hi, I’m Ellen. I’m the new telemarketer. I’m sorry to have to use your bathroom.”

            “Hey, no problem at all. Excuse the mess. I haven’t had time to clean up.” She pointed to a door in a hallway. “That’s the bathroom.” She placed a strap of her handbag over her shoulder. “I gotta run.” The screen door snapped shut behind her.

            The small living room and adjoining kitchen were appallingly messy. Dirty dishes were stacked in the sink. Crushed beer and soda cans lay sideways on a coffee table and a glass ashtray was piled high with cigarette butts. The room stank of cigarettes and rotting food, no doubt from the trash bag sitting on the kitchen counter. A man’s t-shirt was crumpled on an upholstered armchair near a television on a metal stand and by the chair was a pair of woman’s flipflops.

            I never let the apartment I shared with my boyfriend, Adam, get like this. Adam wasn’t as concerned about neatness as I was but he washed his dishes and tossed his laundry in a hamper. I wished he did more of his share of vacuuming and dusting but between his work at Bank of America and his rigorous studying of the law I couldn’t expect him to do much. This domestic job was mostly mine. It was the one trait my mother instilled in me. She was obsessive about cleanliness. Every time I visited her the house smelled of ammonia cleanser and every surface of furniture had a polished glean. Yet it seemed more like a set than a home since my father died, my brother, Jerry, moved to Illinois with his wife, and I left to join Adam in his apartment.

            No one ever bothered to clean this trailer. I had to brace myself for the bathroom.

            I entered and told myself to get my necessary function over with quickly. While I sat on the commode I faced a small table with a pile of Playboy magazines. The one on top was open to the centerfold. A nude blond-haired “bunny” lay sprawling before me. She had huge boobs—way bigger than mine. Thoughts about why it was so strategically placed there troubled me. I wanted to close the magazine but dared not touch it. I looked away, down to the grimy linoleum floor.

            At our noon lunch break, I ate my peanut butter and jelly sandwich and drank my Tab sitting by a round metal table shaded by a limp oak. It was across from the trailer and near a barbecue grill. After I finished eating, I removed my paperback copy of King Lear from my satchel. I was captivated by Shakespeare and probably would have pursued scholarship about the famous author had not so many others did so already. I opened to the page where I had placed a bookmark and read King Lear rant in the storm, “Unaccommodated man is no more but such a poor, bare, forked animal….” I stopped when I noticed Sally strutting toward me. She was sipping from a can of Coors.

            “Here you are,” she said. “I was looking for you.” She sat on a metal lawn chair next to mine. “What are you reading?”

            “King Lear. It’s very tragic but I’m loving it.”

            “I’m not into reading,” she said and sipped her beer. “I want to live my life and not spend my time reading about somebody else’s. So tell me about yourself, Ellen. You got a boyfriend?”

            “Yes, I do.”

            “Is it serious?”

            “Yes, we live together and when the time is right we’ll get engaged.”

            “That’s cool. I wish I had a boyfriend I could live with instead of with my mom and my stepdad who’s drunk most of the time. I dream of moving in with Roger. Of course we have to go on a date first. What do you both do for fun besides the obvious?”

            “Not much this summer. Adam is busy as a courier for Bank of America and also preparing for law school in the fall.”

            “Gee, that’s too bad. Everyone needs fun. You can always leave him home and join me and my friends on a Friday night. We hang out at Joey’s Saloon, about a mile up the boulevard. Sometimes guys pick us up. But you can stick around the bar if you’re so faithful to your boyfriend.”

            “Thanks for offering, but I’m also busy preparing for school. I’ll be in a Master’s program in English in the fall. It’ll be challenging.”

            She slowly shook her head. “I hated English. But I like sales. And I’m good at it.” She clapped her hands to applaud herself. “I grabbed two customers this morning. That’s darn good for making cold calls—from what I’ve been told. Of course, I heard my share of cussing—worse than what my stepdad says.” She sipped her beer.

            “I did too and I didn’t get anyone interested yet. Gary won’t like that.”

            She popped up. “Well, come on, girl. You’ve got to be pushier. Don’t take no for an answer.”

            After my first two phone calls with typically enraged people cursing at me and slamming down the phone, I heard a sweet but shaky voice answer, “Hello.” It was a woman who sounded like my grandmother, which meant she was probably in her eighties.

            I proceeded to recite my lines about a free termite inspection.

            “It’s so nice of you to call,” the woman said. “My name is Peggy. What’s yours, dear?”

            “Ellen.” I wanted to tell this sweet grandmotherly type she probably didn’t need the termite inspection and say good-by but the zealous worker, Sally, could overhear me and get me fired. I forced myself to say, “So, are you interested in the inspection?”

            “I suppose that’s a good idea. My husband, Bert, used to take care of the bugs but he passed away—it’s been three years now. I miss Bert. You would like him if you knew him. Everyone liked him.”

            “Yes, I’m sure I would.” I lowered my voice and said, “So maybe you don’t need a —-.”

            “You say the inspection is free?”

            “Yes, but —-.”

            “You sound like my granddaughter, Jennifer. I don’t see her much. She and my son and daughter-in-law live in Tustin. They don’t visit too often. Seems the traffic is getting so bad it’s tough for them to make the trip. It was back in February when I saw them last. Jennifer is a pretty girl and her brother, Brian, is a real cute boy. He loves to do all kinds of leaps on his skateboard. I’m afraid one of these days he’ll injure himself.”

            I was listening to her while my mind drifted away from the purpose of my call. Finally, it dawned on me to say, “I don’t suppose you want a —-.”

            “Oh, yes. It would be lovely to have that inspection. When will you come?”

            I asked for her full name and phone number and told her a man would return her call.

            “That’s wonderful,” she said. “I look forward to it.”

            I looked down at her name that I had scribbled on my pad. Peggy Nelson would be happy to get a phone call—any phone call and a visit from anyone. I felt no triumph.

***

            At five p.m. I left feeling weary from my work. I had had success twice on this day. Besides Peggy, a woman had said she was planning to sell her house in the near future so it was best to get the “termite issue over with”—as she had put it. Sally was grinning ear to ear as she followed me out the front door. She boasted having four “bites” that day.

            I decided to visit my mother before heading to our apartment in Van Nuys. Peggy triggered guilt in me. My mother often invited Adam and me to visit or for me to meet her for lunch or coffee and I usually came up with an excuse not to accept. The truth was I didn’t enjoy my mother’s company. I headed for North Hollywood, where she lived.

            I drove on a street I knew well, of modest houses with neatly mowed lawns, agapanthus shrubs, and skinny palm trees. I turned my Impala into the driveway of a beige stucco house with a red tile roof—what had been my home for years. I had grown up on this street. All of the neighborhood kids I knew had dispersed. Even Bobby, the boy who mowed our lawn for years, was gone, a soldier fighting in Vietnam. But most of their parents remained together living here and enjoying retirement. My father died in his early sixties of a stroke and now my mother lived alone in our house and depended on his life insurance.

            I opened the front door and shouted, “Mom, it’s me, Ellen.”

            She rushed in from the kitchen. She had put on weight since I had seen her last—just a few weeks earlier. I was afraid she spent most of her day cooking and eating. Her hair was different: from a wedge cut, dyed brown, to a tight perm and brassy orange. She saw me staring at her hair and slipped her fingers through the curls. “I know it’s different,” she said. “I felt I needed a change. Anyway, my beautician told me dark hair doesn’t look good on a woman when she gets older. It drains out the complexion. Besides, I decided if you can have lovely red hair so can I.” She cocked her head at me. “If I knew you were coming, I’d have made brisket—your favorite.”

            “I can’t stay for dinner. I thought I’d just drop by after work to say a quick hello.”

            “It’s been a while. Can you stay long enough for a cup of coffee? I made a bundt cake that’s delicious.”

            I wanted to tell her that she was baking too many cakes but restrained myself. Instead, I said, “Okay, sure.” I followed her into the kitchen. I sat on one of the four vinyl chairs with a green leaf pattern by the table with a faux marble top, where I had sat for years. I got a whiff of garlic and sauce bubbling from a pot on the stove.

            “I was in the mood for spaghetti and meatballs tonight,” my mother said. “Too bad you can’t stay.”

            I feared she ate too much spaghetti but I again restrained myself from saying that. “Thanks, but we have plenty of leftovers from the dinner I made last night. We don’t want them to go to waste.” That was a lie: like most evenings Adam and I made our separate dinners, with no leftovers, but we at least tried to eat together.

            “How’s your new job?” she asked while scooping coffee into the metal percolator basket.

            “Awful,” I said and brought a forkful of her bundt cake to my mouth. It was delicious and I was hungry.

            “You told me it has something to do with termite inspections. I can’t see you going to houses spraying poison.”

            I shook my head emphatically. “That’s not my job. I sit in an office and call people from a phonebook. I ask them if they want a free termite inspection.”

            “Calling people on a phone—I don’t like that at all,” she said. “I hang up on those people immediately. I resent them making me come to the phone and then trying to sell me something.”

            I thought about all the profanity hurled at me during the day and some were imaginative. “Yes, many hang up—and worse.”

            “Why do it then? It can’t bring in many sales.”

            “Actually, it does. And just one fumigation of a large house can cost a thousand dollars. Today a woman agreed to an inspection because she’s selling her house and another woman also wanted it.” I’d not say that this woman had wanted to hear a voice, wanted to see a face, wanted some company in her life. This could also be my mother. “Mom, don’t you think this house is too big to live in all alone? You should consider selling it. You’d probably like an apartment that has a swimming pool, where you can make friends.”

            She pouted. “I don’t want to give up this house, where we lived for so many years. Besides, the mortgage is paid off. And I do have friends—my mah jongg friends and my friends from Temple Adat Ari El. I recently joined the sisterhood, and we’ll be getting together soon to discuss a project for next Rosh Hashanah.”

            “I’m glad to hear it.”

            “It’s you I worry about,” she said as she poured coffee into a cup. She handed me the cup and a pint-sized container of half and half. “I hate to think of you doing a job like that.”

            “I tell myself it’s temporary,” I said and sipped the coffee. I relished it and hoped it would perk me up.

            She sat across from me and stared at me while frowning. She made no effort to lift her cup to drink. “I don’t like to butt in, sweetheart, but I think you should quit and get a better job, one you really like and, well, maybe want to keep for a while.”

            I forced myself to place my cup down gently. I knew what she meant and was furious. “I intend to go to grad school in the fall.”

            She grimaced. “That’ll be quite an expense. I wish I could help to pay for the tuition but being a widow without an income isn’t easy.”

            “I told you I have loans and I’m in a work-study program.”

            “Yes, but it will be so hard for you and Adam. If you got a decent job—after all you already have a college degree—you could marry earlier and in time Adam will finish law school. You’ll both be on Easy Street and you might even decide to start a family.”

            I shot up. “I intend to teach college English and that means I go to grad school!”

            She shrugged. “If that’s what you want. I hope you manage it.”

            I lifted my satchel. “I’m leaving.”

            As I bounded toward my car, I decided I’d not visit my mother again for a long time, maybe even months.

            When I entered our apartment, Adam was in the kitchen area next to the living room, opening a cardboard pizza box. He looked up at me. He was handsome with coffee brown hair and turquoise-blue eyes but now his upper lip curved into a snarl, making him look less appealing. “I had a shitty day so I decided to treat us to a pizza for dinner,” he said.

            “Great idea,” I said and dropped my satchel on the living room carpet and went to the refrigerator to retrieve sodas for the two of us. “Mine wasn’t so great either. I hated having to make calls to —-.”

            “I still can’t believe what happened,” he said, while lifting a piece of pizza dripping with cheese. “When I opened the van door a bag stuffed with peoples’ checks fell out and straight into the sewer. There was no way I could get the bag out of there so I had to report it to Pete. Some sewer guys had to go out there and get it. Pete was pissed.”

            “That’s awful,” I said realizing his day was worse than mine. “Let’s go sit at the table.”

            “Yeah, and tonight I’ve got to hit the books.” He slumped into a wobbly oak chair. “I hope I can stay focused.”

            “We need a break,” I said. Sally’s words came to mind. “On Saturday we should head out to Zuma Beach. It’s been a long time since we’ve gone to the beach—or anywhere for that matter.”

            “When do we really have time for a break, Ellen?” He bit into his pizza and while still chewing, he added, “Tort law is hell. I don’t know how I’ll remember any of it. I’ll be booted out the first year if I don’t get a handle on it.”

            This was Adam’s great fear. He had told me many times about the attrition rate for first year law students.

            One slice of the pizza was enough for me. I lifted my plate and headed to the sink. I was rinsing it when I felt nibble-like kisses on the back of my neck. Then Adam’s arms wrapped around my waist. “We manage to have fun right here in the apartment, don’t we?” he said by my ear.

            “Yes, we do,” I said softly.

***

            The following Friday, around four thirty Gary came into our back room and said, “Finish your last calls, girls, and come into the front office.”

            I had just finished a call with an irate woman who had said “there’s a place in hell for you,” then had slammed down the phone. Sally was done too and we left together. Hank and Roger, both sunburned, were sitting by their desks. They were sweaty and Hank’s wet t-shirt clung to his stomach like cellophane. They had apparently just returned from doing a tent fumigation for termites.

            Gary pointed to Sally and me. “We have these girls to thank for making us money.”

            The men grinned at us and clapped.

            Although I managed to get them some customers Sally brought in the most. Occasionally I had listened to her sales pitch: “Termites right now could be eating away at your wood floors, the wood frames holding your house together, and even your wood furniture. You don’t always see them. That’s why you need a termite inspection and right now you’re in luck—the inspection is free, an offer that won’t last long and let me tell you inspections can be pricey.” I should’ve copied her embellished approach but just couldn’t muster it.            

             “We are raking in the dough,” Gary said, beaming. “We got ourselves a real Jewish shop!” This was said with a fake Yiddish accent that made me sick. “We’re not Jews but we’re getting as rich as Jews!”

            Everyone laughed except me. I wanted to storm out, not tolerate this bigotry. But I remained stoically staring at him. I needed this job only a few more weeks until I began classes and a job on campus.

            “Let’s call it a day and head over to Joey’s Saloon to celebrate,” he said. “Burbank Pest Control will take the tab. And we should carpool there.”

            Sally was beaming and said, “Sure, I’m in.”

            Roger slipped off his desk and approached me. “Come with me, Ellen,” he said, smiling at me in a way that made me uncomfortable. “I’ll drive us. I’d like your company.”

            I turned to red-faced Sally, who was narrowing her eyes at me. I turned back to him. “Thanks, but I have to go home. But I’m sure Sally would like a ride.”

            He came closer and his calloused hand took mine. He said softly by my ear, “I only want to be with you.”

            “I’m sorry, Roger, but I have a boyfriend.”

            “Sure you do.” His lips sagged into a frown. Then he turned away and walked out the door.

            Hank rushed over to me, his nostrils flaring. “Roger has been suffering something awful since his wife left him,” he said. “You should run out there and be with him. He needs female company right now.”

            I took a step away from this man who smelled briny from sweat. He also scared me. “I’m sorry but I’m about to get engaged to my boyfriend.” I hoped that explanation would satisfy him.

            His blue eyes glared at me. “I bet you have no such commitment. I know your type. You think because you’re a nice-looking chick you can turn a guy down whenever you choose!”

            Sally took his arm and they left together in a huff. Both looked upon me as the enemy.

***

            On Monday morning Sally glowered at me as soon as she sat across from me at the long table. “I make most of the sales but you took just as much credit,” she said sharply.         “You said nothing while everyone was applauding the both of us.”

            I knew she meant one person in particular—Roger.

            I agreed she should take credit for this “real Jewish shop” and said, “I’ll make an announcement right now that the success is mostly yours.”

            I was about to stand and leave for the front office when she said, “Don’t bother. Hank and Roger aren’t even here. They already left for an inspection.” She flipped open her phonebook. “Thanks to me!”

            I opened my phonebook to the page of P’s and was about to dial the number of Martin Paterson when she said, “Margie told me Roger has a thing for redheads. You should’ve gone with him. No offense, but that boyfriend of yours cares more about his dumb law books than he does about you. I bet he just wants you around to, well, take care of his urges.”

            She obviously meant to be offensive and avoided me at lunch, where I sat as usual by the outside table. I removed my book and opened to the scene of the poor blinded Earl of Gloucester lamenting, “As flies to wanton boys are we to th’ gods;/They kill us for their sport.”  

            I shut the book and closed my eyes. I imagined I was at Zuma Beach, my bare feet enjoying the warmth of the sand. I walked into the foam of a breaking wave and enjoyed the cool water swirling around my ankles.

***

            I dutifully continued in my job, making calls, and occasionally providing Gary with a name of a potential customer. More often than not a termite fumigation followed. I couldn’t help but wonder if so many of those customers actually had a termite problem. If they didn’t, I was complicit in an unethical practice. Yet I did my best to discourage those I considered vulnerable. These chatty people let me know they lived alone.

            “Lester was the one to take care of bug problems,” said one woman. “But he’s left me for his receptionist. They were going to motels for three years while he told me he had to work late. I was stupid enough to believe him and felt bad he had to work such long hours. Meanwhile I enjoyed playing bridge and going shopping. I even felt guilty about it. But then one night when he came home around ten he said, ‘Gloria, I’ve been with another woman and it’s time for us to call it quits. I’m in love with Norma now.’” She sobbed into the phone. “Just like that he told me he wanted to end our marriage of twenty-two years and marry that whore who works in his office. She’s half his age.”

            “I’m so sorry,” I said. “You should consider dating.”

            “I feel too much of wreck right now to get myself out there again. It’s been so long since I dated last.” I heard her blow her nose. “So now tell me more about this bug inspection.”

            I lowered my voice and said, “I think you can wait on it.”

            “Sure, hon, thanks so much for listening.”

            There were more widows and divorcees who considered me a sympathetic ear—but not all of them. One savvy widow said to me, “Listen here, young lady, just because I’m old doesn’t mean I’m stupid. I don’t need no damn termite inspection.” The phone slammed shut.

            But then there was a man who said, “I suppose I should consider the inspection because ever since Barbara died and the kids moved out this house seems too big for me. My son told me I should sell it and move into an apartment for seniors. But Barbara loved this place and I still see her here—her spirit I mean. I just don’t know if I’m ready. What do you think?”

            I sighed deeply then said, “How about we call you in a few months. You might know better by then.”

            “Yes, why don’t you do that—I’ll look forward to your call.”

            I made a note for Sally. She’d be here in a few months. She didn’t speak to me much since Roger had shown a preference for me—as if that was my fault—but she had informed me that the company hired her permanently. I had congratulated her.

             I managed to survive working at Burbank Pest & Termite Control until the last week of August, when I had already informed Gary I’d have to leave and prepare for grad school.

            There was no farewell party for me on my last day. At five I merely closed my phonebook, waved good-by to Sally who was still on the phone with a customer, lifted my pad with two new potential customers, and my satchel. The three men sat behind their desks. Hank and Roger were sweaty as usual after returning from a fumigating job while Gary, their business manager, wore his usual neat button-down shirt tucked into slacks.

            I handed Gary my pad. “Here’s the last of it,” I said to him.

            He glanced at it and said, “You were the model employee—never came in late or missed a day. We appreciate that.”

            I noticed he mentioned nothing about my ability to acquire customers, which didn’t surprise me. I said a quick good-by to him and the other two men. I was about to walk out the door but stopped and turned back to Gary. “Oh, and by the way, I’m Jewish. And … and your Yiddish accent sucked.”

            I didn’t stay to see his reaction but rushed out the door. I walked briskly on Burbank Boulevard even though the day was brutally hot and felt the joy of liberation.

            When I entered my car, I decided I’d celebrate. I retrieved a map from my glove compartment. Then I turned on the engine and began my journey to Malibu. I’d be there in time to watch the sunset on Zuma Beach.

BIO

Hillary Tiefer has a PhD in English and has taught at Southern Oregon University and other colleges in the Pacific Northwest. Her short stories have been published in Descant, Red Rock Review, Mission at Tenth, Blue Moon Literary Review, Gray Sparrow Journal, Poetica Magazine, Poydras Review, Crack the Spine Literary Magazine, JuxtaProse, The Literary Nest, Smoky Blue Literature and Art Magazine, Five on the Fifth, The Opiate, The Manifest-Station, Pennsylvania Literary Journal and Minerva Rising Press’s The Keeping Room. Her novel The Secret Ranch is forthcoming the summer of 2025, published by Histria Books.