by Sandra Cunha
Oh, yeah, I have to waste it running some crummy errands.
Even though I’m not going into work, I still have to go downtown.
My first errand of the day is to mail off a bunch of letters for a woman who lives in a suite at Trump Tower. I didn’t realize people still wrote letters. She tells me to call her M., so I automatically think she’s MI6. (Her British accent supports my spy theory.)
M. has a stack of two dozen letters of various sizes, shapes, and thicknesses, with most going to different countries. I’m especially intrigued by the one addressed to the Embassy of the Republic of Yemen, but I resist asking. She’s not very . . . friendly. I get the impression I’m inconveniencing her by being in her presence.
M. trusts a specific post office to handle her complicated mailing instructions. She has a long list of which letters should be sent by registered mail, which ones must arrive by tomorrow morning, and which ones need a boring, old stamp.
Her trusted post office is located in the underground path. This makes me nervous, even though it isn’t near my office building, it’s part of the same path. I wish I’d brought my sunglasses. I’m wearing a scarf, so I could always use it as a head cover.
I make my way to M.’s special post office, passing two others along the way. When I find it, I see there’s a long line. These guys must be really good at, um, mailing. I hurry to join the line before it gets any longer.
As I’m wrestling with the letters, trying to keep them all organized, I glance up and notice the back of a familiar head. It’s not until the person turns slightly that I can confirm it for sure: it’s Bradford.
What is he doing all the way down here? Is he also in the know of these mailing magicians? Is this some sort of private club that only a select few have knowledge of?
He’s three people ahead of me. I don’t think he’s seen me. I’ll have to leave and come back when the coast is clear.
I turn quickly and bump into the person standing behind me. Some of the letters I was holding fall to the ground with a loud thump.
Shit! I’m so getting caught!
I bend down to hastily pick up the letters. The person I’ve bumped into has bent down, too. I look up, and our eyes lock. I find myself staring into the most beautiful blue eyes. I know those blue eyes.
It’s Suit Guy.
“Here, let me help you with those,” he says, grinning. Wow, even his teeth are gorgeous.
I inhale his intoxicating scent and get lightheaded. I’m about to thank him profusely, but then I remember my boss is standing a few feet away from me. I can’t risk Bradford recognizing my voice, so I nod and smile shyly as I reluctantly make my getaway.
Maybe the universe is actually conspiring against me.
Why doesn’t anything ever go smoothly? Why was Bradford in my line, of all lines? And why did I have to run into Suit Guy for the first time ever outside of the subway, today, of all days? I might of had the courage to finally—finally!—talk to him. All ruined by the bad timing of my boss requiring postage.
The only positive thing to come out of this was that I touched Suit Guy for the first time. Okay, it was more of a body-check. But, at least, I have that.
I hide out in a store across from the post office until I see both Bradford and Suit Guy leave. I wait a few extra minutes in case Bradford goes back for another hit of magical stamps.
After I get the letters mailed, I make my way back to M. She has an envelope waiting for me with the exact cash required to reimburse me for the cost of the mailings and my time. She’s even marked the envelope with an “E.” Maybe I’ll start referring to myself as that from now on to add an air of mystery.
I run Mr. Trader his vegan lunch, then head for the subway to complete my final errands of the day.
As I’m passing through the turnstile, my phone vibrates, alerting me that I have a voice message. I turn back to find a quieter place to listen to it.
I have to replay it several times to make it out. It’s the nice saleslady from the vintage shop. I’d left my name and number with her so she could let me know when my bag returned from repairs.
She’s called to say it will be back by Friday and restocked for Saturday.
Saturday! That’s only four days away. It’s too soon!
I’ll have to step things up, or all of this would’ve been for nothing.
CHAPTER TEN
Project Coco Fund = $890.70
THE LAST THREE days have been spent running errand after errand. I’m willing to take anything at this point.
It’s getting harder and harder to come up with reasons why I’m not at my desk when Carol says she’s been looking for me.
My “in the washroom” excuse was starting to wear thin, even after suffering a couple of alleged stomach viruses, so I’ve been relying on my old standby of inventing fake meetings, and yesterday, I called to say I’d be extra, extra late to work because there was a burst pipe in my apartment. There wasn’t. I’m becoming a pretty good liar. I may add it to my list of mastered skills. I contemplated taking another sick day, but that would’ve led to further suspicion.
Carol’s been acting weird around me lately. I think she knows I’m up to something, but she can’t figure out what it is. I hope she thinks I’m interviewing for another job, then she’d leave me alone or possibly even help me.
But I don’t have to worry about coming up with any alibis today because today is Saturday. My office job doesn’t exist on Saturdays.
I’m heading to Yorkville this morning to confirm my bag has returned, and maybe cast a spell on it so that no one else buys it.
I’ve counted up every nickel and dime I’ve earned; I’m almost at the halfway mark. Not bad for under three weeks’ worth of work. If I can keep this up, I should have enough money within the next two weeks.
Just give me two more weeks.
When I get to the shop, I don’t see the nice saleslady. I hope she’s the one working today. I need to learn her name; she’s been so helpful in my mission. At this point, she’s the only one in my corner rooting for me.
I glance around the shop several times, but I don’t see my bag anywhere.
“I’ll leave the Chanel bag out here while I try on these other items.” I hear a woman say.
At the mention of Chanel, my ears perk up. With laser-eye focus, I zero-in on the bag. Yup, it’s mine.
My breathing quickens. There’s a high probability I may faint.
Someone is about to buy my bag. Someone is about to buy my bag!
What am I going to do? What can I do?
The mean salesgirl comes out of the fitting room area. She hasn’t seen me, yet. My instincts tell me to hide, so I duck down behind a clothing rack.
Peeking through a small gap in-between some hanging dresses, I see she’s taken the bag from the woman. In her condescending tone, she says, “I’ll put it behind the counter for you. We can’t leave a bag like this laying around.” She places the bag behind the counter, then goes back into the fitting room area with the woman.
I need to act fast. At the moment, I’m the only other person in the shop.
C’mon, Erin! Think! Don’t quit now! You’re too close to give up!
I know what I want to do. But that can’t be the way I get the bag. Plus, I haven’t stolen anything since high school; I’m rusty. Although stealing a Chanel bag worth two-thousand dollars hardly compares to stealing a five-dollar tube of lipstick.
As I look around the shop for inspiration, I’m hit with a flash of genius.
I crawl on the floor until I’m behind the counter. I grab the bag and swing it around my neck. Then, I quickly crawl back to the other side of the shop where I’d spotted an ugly, oversized weekend bag in the colour of snot green. There’s no way anyone would ever buy that bag.
Once I’ve placed my mom’s bag safely inside of it, I run to the door.
As I’m exiting the shop, I hear the mean salesgirl say, “Let me go grab that Versace evening gown you were admiring
.”
I hope they both somehow forget about the Chanel bag. I also hope there aren’t any security cameras in the shop that witnessed what I did.
But I didn’t steal, and it’s not like hiding merchandise is a crime.
Is it?
I spend the rest of the weekend hiding out in my walk-in closet. I even cancelled two errand jobs.
Part of me is afraid to leave my apartment in case the police are waiting for me outside, which I know is crazy. They wouldn’t wait for me outside; they would just knock on my door. I fear my heart would stop if anyone did knock on my door right now.
And then, there’s this other part of me, the one lying on the cluttered floor of my closet, staring at my shoe collection, that’s wondering how the heck I got to this point.
I almost stole a bag worth thousands of dollars. Worse than that, I wanted to steal a bag worth thousands of dollars. A bag.
A silly, silly bag.
Betty is right. Betty is always right.
I should stop with this obsession. I can’t even call her to talk about it as we aren’t, well, talking. This is the longest we’ve gone without speaking to each other.
If only I could stay in my closet forever and never have to come out again.
Why is life so hard? Why can’t the things we truly want, come to us—like magic?
In real life, the things we need the most, the things we yearn for, can’t be made to appear out of nowhere with some spell or potion concoction.
Real life kind of stinks.
But there’s another part of me, a much smaller, almost minuscule part that’s fading away as the years go by, that still believes magic exists.
That maybe there’s a reason I’ve been so drawn to this bag that I don’t fully understand. A reason why I started this Erin Girl madness that has me running around like a fool completing errands for strangers. A reason strong enough to risk losing my job and jeopardizing my relationship with Betty. A reason proving all of this hasn’t been for nothing.
And the only way for me to figure out what that reason is, is to get that silly bag in my hands.
Staring up at my clothes hanging above me, I sigh.
I wish I knew which part will win out in the end.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Project Coco Fund = $1,017.35
EVENTUALLY, I CAME OUT of my closet.
I’m too close to the finish line to give up. I can’t give up. I won’t give up.
What’s the worst that can happen: I end up with a couple of grand and no bag. Well, that’s a couple of grand that I didn’t have before.
Even my job is more interesting now that I have this side hustle. I have to get my “real” work done quickly so I can go run errands. Work isn’t that bad when there’s actually something to do.
And I received another sign to keep going this morning, in the form of a girl on the subway, wearing a similar Chanel bag to mine. One day soon, I’ll be my own version of that girl.
In the last few days, I’ve run a bunch of errands, and I’m getting closer and closer to meeting my goal. All I need is one last push.
So I’m printing more Erin Girl flyers and making the rounds again. There are some buildings in the underground path I haven’t gotten to yet.
It’s almost lunchtime, so I take a chance and decide to print the flyers. I walk nonchalantly to the copy room to make sure no one is around, then I quickly load the printer with my special blue paper. I run back to my desk not-so-nonchalantly and hit the print button.
“Yes, of course, Bradford. I’d be happy to grab you some lunch. It’s not a bother at all.” I hear Carol say as she exits his office.
Shit! She’s in my line of path. I’ll have to wait until she leaves.
Please, don’t let her go to the copy room.
That’s all I’d need.
I’m nervously drumming my fingers and sneaking peeks over the top of my cubicle wall every few seconds to see if she’s left when my phone rings.
I don’t even get the chance to say hello when a gruff voice, with a slight Italian accent, says, “I have a job that needs to get done pronto. Are you my girl?”
“Um, yes, I’m your girl. I mean, Erin Girl. I’m sure I can help. What sort of errand would you like me to run?” I ask in a low voice, as Carol is still lurking around.
“I have a package that needs delivering—but only by someone who is discreet. Are you discreet, Erin?”
“Very discreet. Discreet is practically my middle name; that’s how discreet I am.” Why am I always so lame on the phone?
“Good, that’s what I like to hear. It’s an easy job, too. All you gotta do is pick up a package downtown and deliver it up to Finch. That’s it. But it all has to be done discreetly.”
Yeah, yeah discreetly—I get it. “No problem. I just need to get the addresses from you.”
The first address he gives me is located somewhere in the entertainment district. The second address is up at Jane and Finch. Eek, no one ever goes to Jane and Finch voluntarily. Of course, I’d be getting paid, but this is sounding kind of shady. I should tell him I can’t do it. I’ll say I have another errand to run that I’ve forgotten about.
“Hey, you still there?” he asks.
“Yes, sorry. I just remembered, I have—”
“Oh, yeah, I just remembered something, too. You’ll get three hundred cash at the first pick-up point and another seven when you drop it off. Capisce?”
That’s, that’s—a thousand dollars! That would put me over the top. I’d have enough money to buy my mom’s bag!
Hold on a second: a thousand dollars for delivering a package?
C’mon, Erin. You’ve seen enough mafia movies to know there’s something fishy going on here. He even said, “capisce.” Your safety is worth more than a grand. You can’t do this. You’ll have to say no. This is so wrong. Wrong! Wrong! Wrong!
“Um, capisce,” I blurt out and end the call before I lose my nerve. I grab my jacket and purse and head for the elevators.
I want to get this mysterious “job” over and done with. Pronto.
This is really stupid.
Not my ordinary, everyday brand of stupid—oh, no. This is horror film, run-to-the-basement-instead-of-outside, kind of stupid.
I’m going to what I can only imagine is an abandoned warehouse to pick up a mystery package for a guy who says, “capisce.” Assuming I make it out of the warehouse alive, I’m then taking the package and delivering it somewhere at Jane and Finch.
Jane and Finch!
I’ve lived in Toronto my whole life, and I’ve never been within ten blocks of that area. I check over my outfit. I don’t think I’m wearing any gang colours, although I’m not up-to-date on gang culture. Let’s hope my beige trench coat is neutral.
The worst thing is, no one knows where I am.
I can’t call Betty. I couldn’t exactly tell Carol where I was going.
Oops! I probably should’ve at least told her I wouldn’t be back this afternoon. I also forgot to get Mr. Trader his vegan lunch. But there’s nothing I can do now. They can read about my untimely death in the papers tomorrow. This is by far the dumbest thing I’ve ever done. Well, one of them.
I get off the streetcar and walk a couple of blocks until I find the abandoned warehouse. Except, it doesn’t look abandoned. I can see into one of the units from the street: it’s two-levels and has a huge globe chandelier hanging from the living room ceiling. I guess the warehouse was converted into lofts.
Maybe I’m imagining things, and there’s nothing to worry about.
I ring the buzzer. From the other end, all I hear are some dogs barking wildly. Some very big, very angry-sounding dogs.
Then again, maybe there is something to worry about.
Why does everyone have to be a dog lover?
I get buzzed in without a hello. My legs are shaking as I make my way up the stairs. I wish I owned pepper spray. Why haven’t I ever thought to buy some? I’m a single girl in the city
without pepper spray. I reach into my purse and pull out my mini-umbrella. It’s something.
As I approach the top of the stairs, I see a door open slightly. One of the angry dogs tries to escape.
“Get back, Cake Pop!” I hear a woman say.
Cake Pop? Who names their killer dog, Cake Pop?
The dog backs off, and the woman opens the door wider. “Heya, you must be Erin,” she says.
She’s barefoot, barelegged, and wearing a men’s dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up to her elbows. Her hair is messy in a way that suggests she just woke up. She’s also tall and awkward pretty, so I assume she’s a model or former model. (This is how my mind works.)
She reaches out to shake my hand.
This could be a test.
Maybe I’m supposed to know a secret handshake to confirm I’m the “real” Erin, and not someone working for the Feds. I give her a standard handshake. I can’t be sure.
She glances down at my umbrella. “Is it raining out?”
“Um, no. I, uh, found it on the stairwell. Is it yours?”
“No, but I’ll take it. You can never have too many umbrellas.”
Great. I take one last look at my umbrella, then reluctantly hand it over.
“How do you know Frankie?” she asks.
Who’s Frankie?
Oh, that must be the guy I talked to on the phone. “I don’t. He called me about a job. I mean, an errand,” I say. I want to ask how she knows Frankie, but he told me to be discreet, so I’m being discreet.
“Cool. Wanna come in while I get you the package?”
I’m about to say yes because she seems nice, but then I remember the dogs.
“I’m okay waiting out here.”
“Suit yourself. Back in a few.”
She returns after a long while. I think she was talking to someone on the phone. Maybe it was Frankie, and she was telling him that she’s getting a bad vibe from me, and she’s calling the whole thing off.