Saturday Morning

The long, single note cut through Iva’s sleep like a hoochie-mama’s fingernail through expensive nylons.

“What the…?” Iva hoisted herself up onto one elbow and shook off the shadows of last night’s champers-induced haze. It wasn’t so much a note as it was a screech – the thin sharp screech of a pregnant cat being run over by the Hell’s Bell’s lesbian bikers group. The noise whimpered into blessed silence. Iva dropped back into her waterbed; it rocked her gently back to sleep.

It started again. Louder this time, and sharp enough to peel the cheap paint job – ‘Madagascar Merlot’ if you could believe the label on the side of the can - off Iva’s bedroom wall. She gave the wall a thump. “You hear that, Carmene?”

Carmene’s voice was muffled and low. “For the love of god, or make it stop or shoot me now.”

Iva threw back her leopard-skin doona. “It’s coming from Mausie’s place. This can’t be good.”

Iva, in her matching leopard-skin wrap, met Carmene, in her hot pink lacey ensemble, in the hallway and together they rushed downstairs to Mausie’s flat situated directly beneath them.

Mausie McQueen had been Iva and Carmene’s landlady for nearly three years now. She was a good old stick, always up for a laugh and a drink, never too bothered about the odd late rent cheque. Iva suspected Mausie may have been a stripper in her younger days. She certainly had the rack for it; even if it sat closer to her navel than her shoulders thesedays. But she’d always change the subject whenever Iva pressed her. There was something Mausie didn’t want them to know about her past but Iva knew she’d get to the bottom of it. Iva Biggun knew how to get to anyone’s bottom.

Carmene knocked on the door. Suddenly the screeching note died in the morning air. “Door’s open.” Mausie called out.

Iva and Carmene found their landlady standing in the middle of her livingroom. Even at 8 o’clock in the morning her Liza Minnelli hairdo (circa early-70s “…somewhere between Cabaret and Liza With A Z…”) was perfectly combed. “What the hell was that sound?” Iva asked.

“Oh? You mean this?” Mausie raised her right hand to reveal a trumpet. Golden and shiny, it gleamed in the (too damn) early morning light. “I just started trumpet lessons yesterday. How did I sound?”

“You certainly don’t need a microphone,” said Carmene. It was the kindest thing she could think of to say.

“Actually, this here trumpet ain’t what I wanted you both down here for. I wanted you to meet someone. Go on, turn around, he’s right behind you.”