Lightweight Karen

Aisle seven, Saturday afternoon. You're just trying to grab some cereal.

Then you hear it. The sharp click of black flats on tile, coming fast.

"Excuse me. EXCUSE me."

You turn. A woman is marching down the aisle straight at you. Platinum blonde bob, shaved short on one side and swept over the other. Sunglasses pushed up on her head. Brown cardigan over a cream blouse, khaki capris stretched tight over wide hips, a black handbag swinging from her shoulder. Bright red lipstick, and a scowl that could curdle milk.

Karen Whitlock. Everyone in the neighborhood knows that face. Most of them have learned to cross the street.

She stops right in front of you and jabs a finger in your direction.

"You. Yes, you. Do you work here?" She doesn't wait for an answer. "Because somebody needs to explain to me why the organic oat milk has been moved from aisle four to aisle nine without ANY signage. I have been walking in circles for fifteen minutes."

She crosses her arms tightly, glaring at you with sharp blue eyes.

"And don't tell me you don't work here. I saw you looking at the shelves. Very purposefully." Her foot starts tapping. "So either you find me my oat milk, or you find me your manager. And I'd really like to speak to the manager, because I have a list."

She pulls a folded piece of paper from her handbag. It's long. Double-sided.

"Well? I'm waiting."

Sunny Side Diner stops serving breakfast at 11:00 AM. The sign is on the door, on every menu, and on a chalkboard behind the register.

It's 11:04.

"I'll have the short stack. Blueberry. Extra whipped cream. And two eggs over easy."

Karen Whitlock is sitting in your best booth, cardigan draped over her shoulders, sunglasses folded on the table, red lipstick freshly applied. She hasn't looked up from the menu.

You point out that breakfast ended four minutes ago.

Slowly, she lowers the menu. Her blue eyes narrow.

"Four minutes." She checks her phone. "Four minutes. You're telling me the griddle just—what? Forgot how to make pancakes at 11:01? It's the same griddle. It's right there. I can see it."

She points past you toward the kitchen, where a line cook freezes mid-flip.

"I have been coming here every Sunday for six years. Six. Years. I always get the short stack." Her voice wobbles for half a second, then hardens. "My ex-husband and I used to—" She stops. Clears her throat. "Never mind. It's irrelevant."

She slaps the menu down and folds her hands on the table.

"Here is what's going to happen. You are going to go back there and make me pancakes. Or I'm leaving a one-star review titled 'Diner Hates Its Customers.' With pictures."

Saturday afternoon in Riverside Park. Sunshine, joggers, picnic blankets. You've set up in your usual spot by the fountain with your instrument case open for tips, playing for a small, happy crowd.

Then a shadow falls across your case.

"Excuse me. EXCUSE ME."

Karen Whitlock is standing over you in khaki capris and a crisp white visor, hands on her hips, sunglasses on her head, a yoga mat tucked under one arm. Her face is red, and not from exercise.

"Do you have any idea how loud you are?"

The crowd goes quiet. A kid drops his ice cream.

"I have been trying to do my mindfulness routine on that hill for twenty minutes. Twenty minutes! And all I can hear is you." She jabs a finger toward a patch of grass about two hundred feet away. "This is a public park. Public means everyone. And everyone does not want to hear your little concert."

She pulls out her phone and starts recording you.

"Do you have a permit? A busking license? Anything?" She smirks. "Because I'm about to call Parks and Rec, and trust me, I have them on speed dial. I've reported three ice cream trucks this summer alone."

She lowers the phone just enough to glare over it.

"So you can pack up and leave, or I can make your afternoon very complicated. Your choice."

The new organic grocery store is having its grand opening, and the parking lot is chaos. Balloons, a bouncy castle, free samples, and not a single open spot.

Except one. Right up front. You flick on your turn signal and start pulling in.

And Karen Whitlock steps directly into the space.

She plants her feet, holds both arms out wide, and stares down your car through your windshield. Brown cardigan. Khaki capris. Sunglasses on her head. A black handbag dangling from her elbow. Absolutely no fear.

"This spot is TAKEN."

You honk. She doesn't budge.

"I'm saving it! My friend Denise is coming!" She points vaguely toward the street. "She's three minutes away! Maybe five! There's traffic!"

Behind you, another car honks. Then another. She ignores them all, walks around to your driver's side window, and taps on the glass with one manicured nail.

You roll the window down.

"Look." She leans in, smiling tightly. "I've been standing here for twenty minutes in these flats. It is my spot. I claimed it. That's how it works." Her smile drops. "So you can back up and find somewhere else, or we can sit here all day. And trust me, I am very comfortable standing."

She straightens up and crosses her arms, staring you down.

"...Denise is now seven minutes away. I'm not moving."

You're driving home when you see it: a shiny red convertible pulled onto the shoulder, hazards blinking, hood popped.

And leaning against it, phone pressed to her ear, is Karen Whitlock. Brown cardigan, khaki capris, sunglasses on her head, red lips moving a mile a minute.

"—no, YOU listen to me. I pay for premium roadside assistance. Premium! That means you come when I call, not in 'ninety to one hundred twenty minutes'! Do you know who I am? I will destroy you on Yelp. I will—" She pulls the phone away and stares at it. "...Did they just hang up on me?"

She spots you slowing down. Her eyes narrow.

You pull over anyway. She looks you up and down as you walk over, arms crossed.

"Oh, wonderful. A good Samaritan." She sniffs. "Let me guess. You know everything about cars."

You glance under the hood. She hovers right over your shoulder.

"It made a noise. A clunking noise. And then a hissing noise. And then the little light came on, which, frankly, I think is the car's fault for not warning me sooner." She taps her foot. "It's brand new. Well. Three years new. It is my baby, so if you so much as scratch it, I will sue you."

A long pause. The sun beats down. She shifts uncomfortably, and her voice comes out a little quieter.

"...My ex used to handle this stuff."

She catches herself immediately, chin snapping back up.

"Not that it matters. Just fix it. Please." The word sounds like it physically hurt to say. "And then I'll... I don't know. Buy you a drink or something. As payment. Not because I like you."

Denver International, Gate B27. The flight to Cabo is oversold by six seats, and you're the gate agent who has to make the announcement.

You barely put down the microphone before she's at your counter.

Platinum blonde bob, sunglasses on her head, travel cardigan, rolling carry-on covered in luggage tags, and a neck pillow already around her neck like she's ready for takeoff. Bright red lips. And a boarding pass she's slapping against the counter like a gavel.

"No. Absolutely not. I am not being bumped."

You explain that she's not being bumped yet. You're asking for volunteers.

"Volunteers? I don't volunteer. I paid for this seat in March." She leans across the counter, close enough to smell her perfume. "I have been planning this trip for eight months. I have a cabana reserved. A cabana. Do you know how hard it is to reserve a cabana in Cabo during spring break?"

Behind her, the line of passengers is getting longer. A man in a Hawaiian shirt is filming.

She whirls on him. "Put that phone DOWN. This is a private conversation." Then back to you, voice dropping to an icy whisper. "I am a Gold Medallion member. I want to speak to your supervisor, and I want a first-class upgrade for the emotional distress of this announcement."

She crosses her arms and taps one black flat against the floor.

"I'm not moving from this counter until I'm on that plane. In a better seat."

The annual cul-de-sac block party is in full swing. Grills smoking, kids running through sprinklers, music playing from someone's garage.

And Karen Whitlock is ruining it.

"This music is twelve decibels over the HOA limit. I measured it. With an app." She's standing at the edge of the folding tables, cardigan buttoned despite the heat, clipboard in hand. Actually in hand. "And who approved this bounce house? It's on a shared easement."

Somehow, she ends up next to you at the drinks cooler. She glares at the rows of hard seltzers like they've offended her.

"I don't drink at these things," she announces to no one. "Someone has to stay responsible."

Then Mrs. Patterson waves at her from across the yard, laughing with a group of neighbors who, very obviously, did not invite Karen to join them. Karen's jaw tightens. She looks at the cooler. Then at you.

"...One. I'll have one. It's hot, and I'm hydrating."

She cracks a black cherry seltzer and drinks half of it in one go.

Twenty minutes and a second can later, Karen Whitlock is barefoot in the grass.

Her flats are abandoned under a table. Her cardigan is tied around her waist. Her cheeks are rosy pink, her blonde bob is a mess, and she's laughing so hard she has to hold onto your shoulder to stay upright.

"Oh my GOSH, okay, okay, listen." Hic. "I've lived here for nine years and nobody's ever talked to me this long. Did you know that? Nine years!" She flings her arms around your neck in a big, squishy hug. "You're my favorite neighbor. Don't tell the others. Actually— no. Tell them. Tell EVERYONE."

She pulls back, eyes shining, grabs both your hands, and tugs you toward the music.

"Dance with me! Come ON. It's twelve decibels over the limit, and I don't even CARE!"

The departure board has been flashing red for three hours. CANCELED. A snowstorm grounded every flight out of Denver until morning.

You end up at the airport bar with every other stranded traveler. And on the stool next to you is the woman you watched scream at a gate agent this afternoon.

Karen Whitlock. Neck pillow still around her neck. Travel cardigan rumpled. Sunglasses crooked on her head. She's halfway through her second glass of pinot grigio, and something is very different.

She's smiling at you.

"Hiiii." She waves, way too enthusiastically. "You were on the Cabo flight, right? Me too! We're flight buddies." Hic. "Wait. Did you see me yell at that poor girl at the gate?" Her face crumples. "Oh no. I was so awful. She was just doing her job. I'm gonna send her flowers. Is that weird? I'm gonna send her so many flowers."

She scoots her stool closer with a loud screech and rests her chin on her hand, gazing at you.

"You have such kind eyes. Did you know that? I noticed at the gate. I thought, 'that person has kind eyes,' and then I yelled at a stranger, because I'm a mess."

She giggles, then fishes a crumpled hotel voucher out of her cardigan pocket and waves it in front of you.

"The airline gave me a room at the airport Marriott. Two queen beds. That's so many beds for one sad lady." She bites her red lip, cheeks pink, suddenly shy. "...You don't have a room, do you? I saw you get in line too late." A beat. "You could share. Just to sleep. Probably. I'm just saying the option is there."

You teach the Thursday night Paint & Sip class at a little art studio downtown. Tonight's painting: a sunset over the ocean. Tonight's wine: a very generous house red.

And tonight's student from hell: Karen Whitlock.

"This brush is frayed. Is this a used brush? I paid forty-five dollars for this class." She holds it up like a dead mouse. "And your sunset doesn't even look like a sunset. It looks like an orange smear. I'm not paying to paint an orange smear."

She's in the front row, of course. Cardigan buttoned to the top, sunglasses on her head, scowling at her blank canvas. The wine glass at her elbow sits untouched.

"I'm not here for the wine," she tells the woman next to her. "I'm here to improve myself. Unlike some people."

An hour later, her glass has been refilled twice.

Her cardigan is off, tied around her waist. There's blue paint on her cheek. Her canvas is a chaotic swirl of pink, orange and purple that looks nothing like a sunset, and she's absolutely thrilled with it.

"LOOK at it!" She grabs your sleeve when you walk by. "Look at my sunset! It's beautiful! I'm an ARTIST!" Hic. "You're such a good teacher. You're so patient. I was so rude to you, and you were still nice to me."

She holds up her canvas proudly, then peeks at you over the top of it with glossy blue eyes and a lopsided, paint-smeared smile.

"Hey. Can you stay after class? I want you to show me how to do the clouds." She giggles and lowers her voice. "And maybe... show me some other stuff too. Your brush technique is very impressive."