“This might be the kick in the ass you need to find something better,” Annie said. She paused. “I have to tell you something.” She gestured at the ceiling, toward the fifth floor of Whole Foods where all the corporate offices are housed. “I got the job as Topher Doyle’s assistant.”
“Holy Jupiter!” I exclaimed. “Congratulations! When do you start?”
She looked at me sadly. “I hate to say it. But this is my last day in the deli.”
“Really?” I said, and I couldn’t keep the melancholy out of my voice. “I mean, I’m happy for you, but really?”
“Really,” she said. “But look, I’m going to use my new position to really push a strong animal-rights agenda. Whole Foods tries to be conscious about animal treatment, but I think if I have Topher Doyle’s ear I can really make some serious changes that will improve the quality of life for millions of farm animals. If I play my cards right, I could convince him Whole Foods should only sell eggs from free-range chickens. And not fake free range. I’m talking chickens with room to roam. And if I could convince him to make a multimillion-dollar tax-deductible donation to PETA every year, they could expand their federal legislative agenda.”
She went on and on, talking animatedly through her goals, waving her arms to emphasize her most important points. That’s Annie for you. Energetic, passionate, a badass to the core. She hasn’t even started her new job and already she has a plan for how she’ll use it to begin an animal-rights revolution. “Great, I’m fired for covering your shift. You’re moving to the fifth floor to save the world,” I said. I was sulking a little. I couldn’t help it.
“You weren’t exactly fired for covering my shift. And you’ve got to be more proactive,” Annie said. “Work the system from the inside out. I can’t change the fact that a wacky white guy is the Chief Ecosystem Officer of this company or that I’m basically moving from deli counter maid to secretary. But I’m going to be the secretary who gets animals treated better all over this barbaric country.” She looked straight at me with those stern, cacao-nib brown eyes. “Stop complaining. Stop being so wishy-washy. You want the power? Take it.”
“Well, I hope you’ll use your newfound power to find out some deep background on Duckie & Lambie Moisturizer. If animals are being tortured in the making of that product I want to know!” I said.
Right then the two cops who always buy lunch at the deli came through the front door. Jason and Nelson, who had been chopping potatoes, dropped their knives and hustled toward the kitchen exit. Jason has a warrant for an unpaid fine he got the time he was caught spray-painting a mural in an alley off East Fifth Street. I think Nelson’s warrant is for something less sexy. Maybe unpaid traffic tickets? “They never arrest anyone here,” I called to their fleeing backs.
The officers came straight up to the deli counter, but instead of ordering their usual meat-centric sandwiches, one said, “We’re looking for Steve Latwats.”
Annie shot me a look that said: “You want the power? Take it.” Or maybe it was: “This cop is hot” (which he was), but I took it as the former.
“Let me ask where he is. Be right back,” I trilled, and tried to walk as calmly as I could to Dirty Steve’s office. I slipped inside without knocking, closing the door behind me.
“What is it, Poxy Roxy?”
“What did you do?”
“What did I do? What kind of nonsense question is that? Get back to work.”
“What. Did. You. Do?”
“You aren’t going post-firing psycho on me, are you? Tell me you aren’t going to kill me.”
“Two cops are here asking about you. They’re probably here to arrest you, man.”
“Oh, shit.”
“And I’m asking you why.”
“Nunya.”
“I could be your ticket out of here without handcuffs. But I want to know why.”
“Nunya business.”
“Okay, fine. I’ll send them right in.” I turned toward the door.
“Wait, wait. Fine,” Dirty Steve said. “That stripper I’ve been seeing? I fucked her too good. Big mistake. She showed up at my house during a coke binge wanting more. I said no, and I didn’t want to see her anymore, either. She freaked out and attacked me. I pushed her, but only to get her out of my house.”
I believed him. Jealousy and a desire for control are the harbingers of the domestic-violence perpetrator, but when it comes to women, Dirty Steve seems to vacillate only between horniness and disinterest.
“If she filed a complaint against me, those cops probably have a warrant,” Dirty Steve continued. As he spoke, he became increasingly frantic. “Oh man, oh man, oh man, I can’t let them put cuffs on me at work. I’m the boss! And I didn’t do anything!” He started pacing around his small office, mumbling under his breath about how he’d never survive the clink.
I saw an opportunity to seize. “I’ll distract the cops long enough for you to get out of here,” I said. “You can go down to the police station and turn yourself in, see if you can get this cleared up instead of being arrested here in front of everyone. If—”
“If I don’t fire you.”
“Exactly.”
“I have to fire you.”
“And you’ll be handcuffed in front of all your employees and hundreds of customers. Maybe we can go apply for unemployment together.”
“Fine. Fucking fine. You win. But I have to do something to show the other deli wingdings I’m not soft. Two weeks’ suspension without pay.”
“With pay.”
“One week without pay, one week of sick leave. But you tell everyone both weeks are unpaid.”
“Deal. When you leave, go out the front.”
I hurried back to the deli counter where the cops were waiting for me. “Steve is training a new stocker. I’ll take you to him.” I felt Annie’s eyes proudly on me as I escorted the cops through the store to the doors next to Dairy that lead to the stockroom. I took the cops wandering through the stockroom as I yelled, “Steve! Dirty Steve!” Finally I gave the officers an “aw shucks” look and said I couldn’t imagine where he’d gone. When I made my way back to the deli counter, Annie asked me if I was still employed.
“You want the power? Take it,” I said.
She gave me a high five. “I laughed my ass off to see Dirty Steve hightailing it out the front door. That was amazing,” she said. It was only then I could actually feel happy about Annie’s good news.
“Why don’t you come over tonight and we can celebrate? We could watch that documentary about factory farming and bologna production? So fucking disgusting.” As you know, Annie and I love to bond over our shared veganism. We watched every food documentary at Waterloo Video and are now, out of necessity, moving on to Netflix.
“I can’t tonight,” she said. “I’ve gotta prep for my first animal-rights meeting with Topher Doyle, which he doesn’t yet know he’s going to be having with me soon.” She gave me her sassiest, get-shit-done grin.
Just as Annie walked away, who should appear at the deli but that snack and a half, Patrick. I almost knocked Nelson over to ensure I was the one to take Patrick’s order. Everett, I could barely scoop up the revolting chicken salad he ordered, distracted as I was by his adorable nubby dreads, those bright hazel eyes, and that skin the color of an iced soy milk latte (Yum! He’s so fine, I can’t bring myself to care that he eats meat). He wore Vans, baggy shorts, and a The Kills T-shirt over his ripped little skater body. Casually, he mentioned that after work he was going to the skate park. Everett, before you judge, remember, a lot of guys in their early thirties still skate. There’s nothing wrong with keeping it real. I actually admire Patrick’s refusal to conform to societal expectations that we give up our passions as we age. It’s inspiring, really.
When I “weighed” the chicken salad, I barely let the box touch the scale. Patrick clearly noted the heft of the box and the very low price. “Thanks, Roxy,” he said. He leaned in toward the deli counter and lowered his voice. “You’re a
lways hooking me up. Hopefully someday I can repay the favor.” He gave me a wink I felt deep in my lady bits. He could thank me by nibbling my sweet-and-sour peach, I tell you what. That would be a worthy way to finally break my post–Brant Bitterbrush man-fast.
It’s been a roller coaster of a day! I was fired, found out Annie has started her meteoric rise, then heroically salvaged my job, and finally successfully flirted with Patrick! It’s a lot to take in. Luckily, thanks to the power of Annie’s pep talk and the support of my favorite planetary deity, I’m still employed. But I’m out a week’s pay. So, dear Everett, you need to give me the rent you owe me by Wednesday or I’m advertising your room on Craigslist.
Ultimatumly, your newly empowered ex-girlfriend,
Roxy
P.S. And start thinking about your July rent, too. It’s due in five days!
June 29, 2012
Dear Everett,
I’ve been wanting to thank you for bringing me fried avocado tacos from Torchy’s the other night. It was great to catch up, eat something that wasn’t liberated from the Whole Foods deli, and just spend some time together. I have to admit it’s nice sometimes to have another human soul in the house. Being suspended from work while living alone would get depressing. And thanks for helping me clean my old, broken Vespa. If I can sell that thing I can make up most of the money I’m going to lose from my unpaid leave and maybe put a dent in my credit card. But where have you been since? You are both mostly unemployed and rarely home—a mysterious combination that begs questions as to your whereabouts and activities. Because you haven’t been around, I’m forced to put pen to paper to communicate with you yet again so that I can tell you about today’s triumph!
Annie called last night just as I was getting ready to give Roscoe a bath. “Look,” she said. “I’ve been thinking. It’s really time for you to make moves, too. Have you by any chance drawn anything new lately?”
“You sound like my mother.”
“But you have some old drawings, right, from before you let that dum-dum ex-boyfriend derail you from making art?”
“What is this about?”
“Well, there’s this contest. It’s based out of Chicago, but people from all over the country can enter. It’s called the Bucknether Art Competition. It’s really prestigious and it pays out like thirty grand. And it’s for social justice, so I thought you could use those drawings I saw once with—”
“—the duck and the lamb suffering horribly in a factory farm and alternately living a happy, bucolic life?” It was part of the series that ended up in the ill-fated hands of Brant Bitterbrush. Perhaps the factory-farm part was a metaphor for the drama and suffering of our relationship.
“Yes, they’re really good, Rox.” I was touched—I could tell she wasn’t just saying it. Annie never blows smoke.
“But I hate to submit old stuff. It feels so stale.”
“Well, let’s go back to earlier in this conversation when I asked you if you have new stuff.”
“Fine, but what if they find out my work has been used to market and sell— Oh, never mind. I don’t want to talk about it again.”
“How about if you don’t do it you owe me the entry fee, which otherwise I’ll pay. It’s not a handout, it’s a bet.”
Annie knows my inner fifth grader can never resist a bet or a dare. “Fine.”
“The entry has to be postmarked by tomorrow,” Annie said. Before I could protest, she added, “So if you can’t handle that, stop by my desk tomorrow with fifty dollars. I only accept cash.”
ARGH! The joys and challenges of having such a friend.
So I did it, Everett! I didn’t fuss over it for months like I would’ve if I’d had due warning. I just pulled together my best drawings and off they went. Done. It’s not making new work, but it’s something. Since Brant stole my artwork for a terrible purpose, I’ve been completely artistically blocked. But if I win this contest, or even place, it’ll give me the kick in the pants to draw again. The top ten finalists will be announced in early September and the winner in October. Winning would give me the money to rent a studio, and even work less, and then I’ll draw and draw. I remember how I used to hurry home from the deli to sit down at my big kitchen table and work on a new drawing or painting. It all felt so effortless then, and it all feels so impossible now. I wonder if I’ll ever have that feeling again, that ink will always be flowing from my pen and it doesn’t matter what anyone thinks about my creations as long as I’m creating them.
Hopefully,
Roxy
P.S. I appreciate the June rent. I really do. Now get ready to pay up for July!
P.P.S. Of course it would be pathetic to add a ground rule called “#8b, YOU WILL hang out with me at home more often,” so I’m not even considering that. But I just wanted to reiterate that it was great to chill with you the other night. ARGH! What is going on? As soon as I penned those words the very ink with which they were written smelled pathetic.
P.P.P.S. Thanks so much for picking up the tweakers’ beer cans from the backyard. I really appreciate it! But don’t think that lets you off the hook for the rent!
July 3, 2012
Dear Everett,
The last couple of days have been—thanks to you—an utter bummer. I enjoyed our Jim Jarmusch movie marathon (though I fear you intentionally sat rather close to me on the couch, creating a borderline snuggling situation), but as a result I contracted your terrible summer cold and thus will probably have to miss the Willie Nelson Fourth of July Picnic tomorrow. It’s a rather painful irony that I’ve actually been sick during what was meant to be festive paid sick leave. And as much as it can annoy me when you are here (particularly when you leave your dishes in the sink), your trip to visit pals in San Antonio during this time of my illness is rather irritating as well.
It would have been especially nice if you’d been here yesterday to help with Charlize Theron. She was acting weird, panting and meowing in this plaintive voice, so I finally took her to see the vet, Dr. Tristeza. Only he was out sick, too—this hideous summer cold is going around—and the receptionist said I should have called first. People and pets packed the waiting room so tightly the air conditioner couldn’t put a dent in the body heat. I thought there was no one to see Charlize. I could feel myself sort of panicking, and then getting mad out of fear, and that always stresses Charlize out.
I was standing at the reception desk when out of the corner of my eye I saw a huge brown blur running in my direction. I turned to see it was a mastiff, let off his leash and making a beeline toward me!!! Charlize, surely terrified it was her last second on earth, propelled herself up onto a big waiting room cabinet. Without thinking, I leapt up onto a chair to grab her, only to remember I was wearing a short skirt with a thong. That’s when I sneezed and lost my footing. I’d gotten ahold of Charlize, and as I fell I kind of pulled her off the cabinet. Like a cat, I landed on my feet. So did Charlize, but on top of the mastiff.
Holy hell broke loose, with every cat, dog, and rabbit going as berserk as their particular restraints and health issues allowed. Only the mastiff stayed calm. I swear, I’d totally misread him. Charlize leapt back up onto the cabinet. I wanted to climb up and get her, but of course my stupid skirt/thong situation prohibited it. So I just kept calling, “Charlize! Charlize Theron!” in a manner I hoped would coax her down. The mastiff’s owner—who had finally grabbed the dog by its collar—kind of laughed, and that’s when I saw the tattoo of Texas on his forearm and recognized him as the guy who came by the tuna burger sample table hoping for crumb cake. (As much as I protest the fact that five hundred idiots from California move to Austin every day, it’s still literally impossible for me to go anywhere in Central Austin without running into at least three people I know or—in this case—barely know. In that way, it’s still an excruciatingly small town.) Texas is cute and a vegetarian, but I remembered only too well his six-foot-tall rockabilly glamazon girlfriend and how they’d sashayed off together, laughing smugly at their
happiness.
“This chaos is because of your savage dog,” I said. The mastiff looked up at me, so calm it was clear he had the soul of a Buddha.
“He’s pretty dangerous,” Texas said. He was wearing another tight black T-shirt, like he’s sure we all want to see his nice pecs. “Normally I wouldn’t offer to rescue anyone’s cat from a tree, but it seems your movements might be limited by the trappings of the patriarchy…” He gestured toward my skirt, and sort of trailed off as if aware he’d overstepped his bounds.
“Did you just say ‘patriarchy’?” I snarled, and for a second I thought I’d lose my shit, but with the waiting room full of pets and their owners watching us, I kept it together.
“May I?” Texas asked, gesturing up at Charlize.
I nodded, hoping Charlize would scratch him, but my sweet pussy betrayed me, allowing him to scoop her from the top of the cabinet. She even purred.
“I’ve always wanted to hold Charlize Theron in my arms,” he said after he’d climbed down from the chair.
“I’ve always wanted to meet a man who would crack that oh-so-original joke,” I replied.
“The vet tech can see you now,” the receptionist said. I suspect she was desperate to get me out of the waiting room.
Texas handed me Charlize. “It’s been a joy stroking your—”
“Don’t you dare say it,” I said.
“I wouldn’t think of calling Charlize Theron a pu… rrrrfect kitten,” he said.
The Roxy Letters Page 3