The Trickster Diaries/Chapter 115
A year later, Jan’s American Dream squandered on the trash, the liars who’d drained their mark, my friend, this generous, gentle spirit moved back to Norway. But not before leaving three large boxes he’d stored for Sybil with me.
I never investigated their contents, just shoved them into a corner of the studio. Only in Jan’s starry-eyed head does someone keep their promise, and return.
The boxes sat there for another year. Then, one day, just as I was considering throwing them out, a line of ants drew my attention to one. Ah ha! Herbal tea. And coffee. Bad coffee. Clothes; lots of wide-brimmed, funky hats; belts; museum catalogues, art gallery brochures, postcards, etc..
The next day, a Sunday, Sybil called. She was in town. OK to stop by for her stuff?
So she does, dressed just like the clothes I’d discovered in boxes the day before. And for once Jan was right about everything. More like 55 than 45 but the kind of long cotton dress and loose tank top, big straw hat and sandals beautiful that roamed the hills of Woodstock in ’69.
Perfect, if accented, English.
And money, apparently, insisting she pay me for storing her things.
Me: Honestly, Sybil. I haven’t done anything. I’ve just kept them. Don’t you think $350 is a lot for doing nothing?
Sybil: No. It’s fair. Besides, Jan said you could use the money.
Me: Well, OK. No argument there.
She laughs, then asks if it’s OK to go through the boxes, maybe take some things with her, maybe leave some things?
Me: Of course.
A week later Sybil called again. She’d bought a 22 ft. trailer, then discovered there was no access to the property she’d bought on EBay. So, no home for the trailer.
Me: Sure. Keep it here.
Sybil: I’ll pay you. Would $80 per month be OK?