by Scott, D. D.
I filled the next two hours (you read that right) with a system. Flip through a bin of albums, check my phone, move to the next bin of albums, check my phone. All told there were twenty-four bins on top, another twenty-four bins on the floor. About fifty albums per bin. (Twenty four hundred albums, or forty-eight checks of the phone.) My routine was interspersed with a trek to the female vocal section, then to the movie section, the listening station, used CDs, new CDs.
That’s when I discovered it was dark outside.
One more time with feeling:
I was running out of things to do at Amoeba
The employees were starting to watch me like I was up to no good
I had to pee
Amoeba had these annoying signs announcing “No Public Bathrooms”
May I remind you it’s still Valentine’s Day?
It was 6:30. All I wanted was to find a safe, secure place to sit, read, and wait for Jay’s call. If he was still working at 6:30, he probably wasn’t happy. And me calling him would probably just – wait, I can’t call him because he doesn’t get reception on the mountain! So there’s no point using up my last ounce of battery juice on a call that won’t connect. I was down to seven dollars. Seven dollars wasn’t going to do me a whole lot of good so I spent a dollar plus tax on a Julie London album to set the romantic mood later. It was 6:42 and I was loaded down with books, an album, and a barely functioning cell phone. Things were not looking good.
Original plan: sit on a bench outside Amoeba and read.
New plan once I saw the type of people outside Amoeba after the sun went down: go to Jack-in-the-box, order a soda, and nurse it until Jay calls. (How poetic is this? The same Jack-in-the-Box where we started our day. Like it’s our Jack-In-The-Box.)
He’ll be so proud that I’m self-sufficient, I thought. That I kept busy while he worked. Yes it sucks this is our first Valentine’s Day, but I’m sure that fact isn’t lost on him, so he doesn’t need me to remind him. He will smile inside when he considers what a complete, independent, loving person I am, especially when I give him presents I bought for him with my limited money. He will look back on this day and recognize his good fortune.
6:57: Large Coke. Corner table where they might not notice that I plan to sit with said Coke for as long as it takes. I pulled out my book and my cell. Sat the phone on the table next to my Coke and read.
7:32: Consider calling one of Jay’s friends, just to tell someone where I was. But I don’t know them that well and I don’t want it to get back to Jay I panicked and bothered one of his friends. Besides, I am newly in love, so I think everyone is newly in love. I don’t want to interrupt anyone’s special plans. Sit tight. Jay will call.
7:44: Maybe I should text Jay to tell him where I’m at, so he gets the text when he gets off the mountain.
In case you can’t get my cell, I’m @ jack-in-box
Sending failure. Try again?
Yes.
Sending Failure. Try again?
Yes.
Sending Failure. Try again?
Yes.
Sending Failure. Try again?
No.
Hmmm. I guess this is all part of that no-reception-on-the-mountain thing. I saved the message as a draft so I could try again later.
8:03: Finish reading my book. We are now officially nine hours past the time Jay dropped me off. Maybe his day is done now. Maybe he’s driving down the mountain right now.
8:16: Try to call Jay. Call doesn’t connect. Freakin’ mountain!
8:22: Maybe Jay’s battery died.
8:23: Try to call one of his friends even though I don’t know them very well. Call doesn’t connect either.
Now I’m getting nervous. Because, no matter how much I’m rationalizing the lack of contact from Jay, all of which has to do with his location, I’m pretty sure his friends didn’t go Buddhist on Valentine’s Day (translation: I’m pretty sure they weren’t on a mountain.)
8:24: Call Dad?
8:24 (and seven seconds): Don’t call Dad, because it’s 11:24 where Dad is and he might not understand that I’m alone at a Hollywood Jack-in-the-Box because I’m a thoughtful, considerate, independent, loving woman.
8:25: Call sister. She’s an independent woman too. She’ll understand.
The call doesn’t connect.
Shit! Now I’ve got a real problem. There’s a very good chance that it’s not Jay’s cell phone or the mountain keeping me shrouded in silence.
I turned off my cell phone. I’m not sure why. Three seconds later I turned it back on. Patience is a thing of the past. I left my patience back at Amoeba.
My display returned. It took forever for the phone to finish reading the sim card. I had to pee again. With the battery almost empty, finally I was able to call my sister. It dumped into her voicemail, which proved she had better plans than I did on Valentine’s Day, and that my phone was working.
I went into text drafts. Found the Jack-In-The-Box one. Sent it. Now, the wait. Only, I was about to burst.
I collected my things and went to the bathroom. Experience taught me it takes about five minutes for a text to get from my phone to Jay’s. My trip to the restroom took four and a half. When I came out, he was walking through the door.
He got my text! He wasn’t abandoning me! He wasn’t trapped on the mountain!
Relief flooded over me like a warm waterfall. I ran to him, expecting open arms and a passionate kiss, but tried not let my Hollywood adventure show on my expression (lest any visible relief on my part taint the independent, considerate woman thing).
Before I reached him, I knew something was wrong. “Jay?”
“Let’s go.”
“What’s wrong?”
“‘What’s wrong’? Where have you been? I’ve been driving around Hollywood looking for you since four-thirty!”
“Why didn’t you call me?”
“I’ve called you about a hundred times. What’s wrong with your phone?”
“It – it wasn’t working right.” I searched his face for clues. Signs of worry, concern, admiration, love. His expression was unreadable. I looked down and saw my wallet in his hand. I grabbed it and shoved it into my bag next to the books I bought for him. Unwelcome tears stung my eyes. This was not how this day was supposed to end.
• • •
We drove in silence. I stared out the passenger side window. I didn’t know what had gone wrong. But the lack of conversation, the brief one-word answers to “How was your day?” were cloaked in emotional restraint. If he was going to shut down, so was I. The past twelve hours had been an ordeal and I was exhausted. I felt like a balloon pricked by a pin, the air slowly seeping out of my independent, modern attitude, leaving me saggy and collapsed.
“I don’t get you,” he said.
“What don’t you get?” I said. “I was alone all day in a city where I am a stranger. I kept myself busy all day so you wouldn’t have to worry about me. You’re supposed to be proud of me.”
“Is that what I’m supposed to be?” he asked. “Not worried? Not concerned?”
“I went out of my way to be independent so you could see I can take care of myself.” I dumped my handbag on his bed and picked up the two books I bought for him. “I didn’t have a wallet and I spent the only money I had on you. This was at,” I checked the receipt inside the Horror book. “Eleven fifty-nine.” I sorted through other receipts that lay on the bed. “I had a slice of pizza at three thirty-seven. Bought an album at Amoeba at six forty-two. Sat down at a table at Jack-In-The-Box at six fifty-three. Check the call logs on my cell phone, if there’s any battery left. The evidence is right here!” I threw the phone on the bed and it bounced once then landed by his thigh.
“Evidence? I’ve been driving around looking for you for four hours and you want to give me evidence?”
“You were at your first day at a new job — I didn’t want to bother you!”
“What do you think that says, that you think I’m the kind of guy
who would let you wander around Hollywood for hours all by yourself? In the dark? When you don’t know anybody else here?”
“It says I’m an independent, modern, thoughtful woman,” I said, repeating aloud the mantra I’d been repeating all day.
“It says you’re afraid to believe in me, in us. You’re afraid to believe in anything but yourself.”
I snatched my nightgown from the open luggage and slammed the bathroom door behind me. I turned on the shower, peeled off my clothes, dove under the hot water, and stood there for a long time. Long enough that even though I wanted to ignore what he said, it got through.
That’s when I discovered being independent had its downside. Especially on Valentine’s Day.
I turned off the shower, wrapped myself in a towel, and came out of the cloud of steam into the bedroom. On the bed were a silver ice bucket and a bottle of champagne. Rose petals decorated the comforter. A pink cardboard heart-shaped box sat next to two champagne flutes on the floor and Jay was asleep on the side of the mattress.
I ran my fingertips over the light brown hair that curled by his sideburn. He half-opened his eyes and looked up at me.
“I’m probably never going to change,” I said.
“Most people don’t.”
“Can you handle that?”
“I don’t have any evidence, but I think it’ll be okay.”
He pulled me down next to him on the sofa. His strong arms held me tight and I felt his breath on the back of my head.
“Now, before this thing goes any further, is there anything you want to tell me about St. Patrick’s Day?” he asked.
“I’m not Irish so it’s just another day to me,” I answered. “But when it comes to the Fourth of July, all bets are off.”
ABOUT DIANE VALLERE
Diane Vallere is a 20-year fashion industry veteran who writes about shoes, clues, and clothes. Her short story “Identity Crisis” is featured in FISH TALES: The Guppy Anthology (Wildside Press, 2011), and her debut mystery DESIGNER DIRTY LAUNDRY comes out June 2012. Catch up with her at www.dianevallere.com.
GOOD LUCK, BAD TIMING, AND WHEN HARRY MET SALLY
By Christy Hayes
One
Celia Mason grabbed her best friend’s arm as they strolled down a crowded New York street. “God, I hate Valentine’s Day,” she said, as Beth sidestepped a puddle left from the recent downpour that had only added to Celia’s bad mood. “If one more person in the office had roses delivered, I was going to gouge someone’s eyes out — and I work with a bunch of gay men!”
“I’ve always wondered why guys send roses on Valentine’s,” Beth said. “Don’t they feel like they’re getting suckered? I mean, a week before and a week after, the price drops by half. I don’t think I’d be with someone who’d get suckered like that.”
Celia patted Beth’s hand. “Gary didn’t send any flowers?” she asked.
“No, of course not. He said dinner would cost him enough.”
“At least you’ve got a date.”
“What are you going to do tonight?” Beth asked. “Go home and admire your new bag?”
Celia held up her I-hate-Valentine’s-Day gift to herself — a designer hobo she’d been salivating over, but couldn’t justify until now — and reached inside the Bloomingdale’s bag to admire her retail therapy. “Feel how soft the leather is.” She let the bag swing from her arm. “I’ve got a bottle of wine chilling, and my favorite movie waiting at home.”
Beth whimpered. “Good wine and When Harry Met Sally. Do you think Gary would care if I stood him up?”
“Yes, he would care, and don’t even pretend to be jealous.” Celia stopped mid-stride and whirled around on the street. “Oh, crap!” she said. “Where’s my purse?”
“Ummmm.” Beth stopped walking and pointed at the Bloomingdale’s bag. “Right there.”
“No.” Celia’s voice inched an octave higher as she danced around the busy street. “My real purse with my real wallet.” She looked back toward the two blocks they had just walked. “Oh my God, Beth, where is it?”
“When was the last time you had it?” Beth joined Celia as they quickly retraced their steps.
“I don’t know,” Celia chewed on her bottom lip. This was the absolute worst thing that could happen. Hadn’t her brother warned her incessantly about identity theft and how to prevent it from happening? “I used my phone in the cab, but you paid the fare.” She lifted her head to look Beth in the eye. “I don’t remember having it after the cab.” She let her head fall as dread crawled up her spine. “Do you think I left it in there?”
“Where else could it be?” Beth asked.
Celia looked wildly around as cabs zoomed by on one of the busiest nights of the year. “I may as well have offered it to a street person. What am I going to do?”
“Celia, I know you’re upset, but let’s not panic.”
“Not panic? Not panic? That cab could be anywhere by now. It could be in Jersey for all I know.” Celia held her hand out, her fingers wiggling like a crack addict waiting for her pipe. “Give me your phone. I need to call and cancel my credit cards.”
“Why not just call your phone?”
Celia rolled her eyes. “Do you really think my purse snatcher is going to answer the phone?”
“First of all,” Beth said, slipping back into lawyer mode, “your purse wasn’t snatched, you left it in the cab. And second, it’s worth a try.”
“Shouldn’t I cancel my cards first?” Celia could envision her brother’s angry face bobbing up and down. “Yes, Celia,” he would say in his gritty I-mean-business voice. “Cancel the damn cards!”
“One phone call, Cel. It’s worth a try.”
Beth passed over her phone after plugging in her password. Celia should have used a password on her cell, but of course it was too late now. She dialed her number with shaking fingers.
“It’s ringing,” she said. She wrapped a lock of hair around her finger as she paced up and down the street.
“That’s good.” Beth gave an encouraging shake of her head, but her eyes told a different story. They were too wide, too aware of all the things that could happen — cash gone, her accounts cleaned out, some crazy stalker waiting on her doorstep with a knife and a ransom note.
“Hello?” said a male voice.
“Oh, hey! Who’s this?” Celia asked.
“Who is this?” the voice said on the other line.
“I’m…” Celia slammed her free hand on her hip and barked into the phone, “you’ve got my phone and I want it back. I want my purse back, too.”
“I’ll bet you do, Celia.” She wasn’t too jazzed to notice the sarcasm in the voice that taunted her over the line. “I was just sitting here wondering what kind of woman would leave her purse in a cab.”
“Obviously, I didn’t mean to leave it in a cab.” She bit back the words “you moron” since she desperately wanted the guy to cooperate. “How do you know my name?”
“It’s clearly printed on your driver’s license, along with a…not-so-flattering picture. I haven’t seen hair this big since watching VH-1’s best of the 80’s special.”
“I have naturally curly hair, thank you very much, and that picture was taken over five years ago.” She patted the dark curls that had sprung free in the rain.
“Are you still 5’5”, a hundred-and-thirty pounds?” he asked.
“I’m closer to one-twenty-five,” she said, before she realized how silly it was to have to defend her weight to a perfect stranger just because he’d snooped through her purse. “Wait a minute. Are you going to return my stuff — intact — or are we going to play twenty questions for the rest of the night?”
“What’s he saying?” Beth asked.
Celia shushed her with an impatient glare and a wave of her hand.
“I’m having fun,” he said with a laugh in his voice. “Besides, how do I know it really is you? I can’t just turn this purse over to anyone. The real Celia Mason may not like that.”<
br />
“I am the real Celia Mason and believe me, I’m fine with it. Who are you and, more importantly, where are you?”
“I’m in a cab you recently vacated, heading to Madison Square Garden for the game. Where are you?”
She rubbed her forehead and took a calming breath. Okay, she told herself, he’s an American and he’s going to a game. She could handle him. It was like dealing with one of her brothers. “I’m…” She craned her neck to read the street sign several feet away. “I’m on 65th and 3rd.”
“Well, Celia,” he said. “If you want your purse back, you’d better get to the Garden before game time.”
“When is game time?” she asked. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d been to a game, or any event, at the Garden.
“You’ve got ten minutes to get down here.”
“It’s Valentine’s Day! Do you know how hard it’s going to be to get through the theatre district in ten minutes?”
“You’re right, you’re right.” She could hear a horn honking through the connection. “I’ll tell you what. I’ll buy you a ticket and leave it at Will Call. Once you’re inside, you can come to my seat. Hang on a minute and I’ll tell you where I’m sitting.”
“You’re going to buy me a ticket?”
“Well, technically you’re going to buy you a ticket. The box office takes American Express. A gold card?Very nice. What do you do for a living? Oh wait a minute, here’s your business card. Publication Project Manager, Museum of Modern Art. Impressive.”