CHAPTER EIGHT
The Sex Store King
I rummaged through Mr. H.’s shed, on a quest for my blow-dryer. The shed was full of the odds and ends people collect after living in one place for a long time: toasters and coffee percolators that are still perfectly good, except for the fact that they no longer work, coffee tins full of unidentifiable metal bits, and any number of handy-dandy bits of junk. The shed smelled slightly musty, like an old suitcase left closed up in a closet for too long. I pushed aside rakes and hoes to get at the boxes I’d moved over from Ginny’s after Mr. H. offered me the space.
Mr. H. had also volunteered to clear out some room for me in the china cupboards and bookshelves in the house, but I stored almost everything in the shed. I enjoyed living without most of my stuff. Besides, I couldn’t picture my plastic Einstein with the bobbing head in the china cabinet next to Shirley’s bone china teacup collection.
I’d thrown my things in boxes before leaving Kentucky and Norman had shipped them to Ginny’s for me. I’d labeled them handily enough: Stuff, Junk, Bits, and so forth. In one of the first cartons I opened, I found my jewelry box. No great jewels there either, just one gold earring in the shape of a fish, and a small pink stone. I held the stone in the palm of my hand.
On our first dinner out, Norman, the sex store owner, took me to Drága Táplálék, a new and very expensive Hungarian restaurant. I’d imagined goulash, Wiener schnitzel, beer, and waiters in green knickers with suspenders. Or was that Germany? It didn’t matter; at Drága Táplálék, there was no schnitzel in sight, and the food on the menu was as expensive as it was unpronounceable. The waiters and waitresses barely deigned to take your order and they moved stiffly in their perfectly tailored black clothes. Norman wore an expensive-looking grey suit with a white shirt and a red tie. His round wire glasses kept slipping down his nose and his face was pink and freshly shaved. Hard to believe he was a millionaire. He ordered Halaszle, Kolozsvari Toltott Kaposzta with Nockerl, and Carp Racos Pont with a Sze-kszárd Cabernet Sauvignon. I nodded and smiled intelligently.
After the ordering, I looked at him. “So, Mr. March?”
“Norman, please,” he said. “Your tour of the store was charming. Most of the personnel I’ve met in my stores aren’t so imaginative,” he smiled, “and it was nice of you to help out Melinda.”
“Are you going to fire her?”
“No.”
“Are you going to fire me?”
“No, though, not to put down my businesses, I think you could be doing better for yourself.”
I shrugged. “It was either the Wanton Warehouse or Orange Julius. I chose the Warehouse.”
“I’ll take that as a compliment.”
I shrugged again. “You could. . .”
We chatted for a while and when I mentioned the ceiling medallions in the store, he asked if I’d thought of getting a proper classical medallion for my home.
“You’d be surprised how much one of those can change the look of a room,” he said and poured me a glass of red wine.
“I live in a basement suite, Norman. I’d be surprised if putting up a medallion didn’t bring the whole ceiling down on my head.”
Norman frowned slightly. I took a bite of my Kaposzta — or maybe it was Halaszle. Whatever, it was delicious. “You do know what a basement suite is, don’t you?”
“Certainly. Well, no, actually not,” he said and took a sip of his wine.
“Tell you what, Sex Store King.” He winced at that. “Come to my place for dinner tomorrow night and you can see one in person.”
To my surprise, he agreed. We had a nice dinner. Norman was charming, friendly, and, best of all, he laughed at all my jokes.
After work the next day I created a reasonable facsimile of my mother’s famous Ten Can Chili and stared around hopelessly at the hole I lived in. What had I been thinking? I’d stopped hearing the squeaky furnace next to the kitchen months ago, but it now seemed deafening. My basement suite had been decorated by the same horde of invisible interior designers who do greasy diners and motels on the drag downtown. Lots of dark orange, wood panelling, and unidentifiable and permanent stains.
Well, if my place was a hellhole, I was reasonably certain I looked okay. I’d put my hair up in a bun, leaving a few pieces falling out for the “blown by unseen winds” look, and wore a white cotton blouse and a pair of too-tight jeans.
Norman showed up ten minutes late. “I knocked at the upstairs door by mistake. Did you know he builds motorcycles in his living room?”
“That explains the noises I hear in the middle of the night.” I took Norman’s jacket. “I thought it was a chainsaw. Come in.”
“Thanks. Sorry I’m late.” He looked around. “Nice place.”
“Norman, don’t lie, it’s bad for your character. What’s nice about it?”
He inspected the room more closely, taking in the carpet and the panelling. “Nothing. It’s quite horrible, isn’t it?”
“Quite. Come and sit down. Dinner is almost ready.”
“But you are stunning.” He sounded so sincere I blushed.
We had dinner to the sounds of the engines upstairs and the squeaky furnace. Norman had two helpings of chili.
“So, how did you get into the sex store business?” I asked him after dinner.
“I inherited it from my father, who inherited it from his father and so on, back four generations.”
“Come on. They didn’t have sex stores back then,” I said.
“They imported naughty trinkets for the Victorians: crystal paperweights with engravings of naked women on the bottom and pewter pipe stampers with peepholes to see drawings of a woman getting undressed for her bath. Tame stuff, but there was a large demand for it. Photographs, too, pretty much like they are today, only in sepia instead of full colour and no extreme close-ups. My father had the country’s largest collection of Victorian pornography before he died. Anyway, my not-so-ancient ancestors started getting rich and we continue to get richer. But let’s not talk about all that, it’s boring.”
“It’s fascinating. I had no idea.”
“He told me it was crematoriums.” Norman folded and unfolded the rectangle of paper towel beside his plate.
“Pardon me?”
“While I was growing up, my father told me our money came from crematoriums we owned in England. He sent me to business school to get my master’s, but wouldn’t let me get involved in the company at all. He told me he wanted me to learn with a fresh mind.”
“You’re kidding me.”
“Not at all. I thought he was embarrassed by the crematoriums, as I was. I had no desire to be associated with death as an up-and-coming young executive. It seemed sordid. Little did I know. All through college, I pretended we’d inherited a large fortune from way back and it would just be a matter of shrewd investments to keep it enlarging.”
“Instead you find out you’re selling gadgets for penis enlargement. When did he tell you?”
“On his deathbed, if you can believe it, just six weeks after I graduated from college.”
“Like what? ‘Son, I’m dying, here’s the keys to the porno vault?’ Sorry. It’s so incredible.” I leaned towards him, my elbows on the table, my face in my hands.
“Actually, it was very much like that, only he made me promise to keep the business intact. He must have known what I’d think about it, but there’s pride in keeping a business going for that long — no jokes, please — and he didn’t want me to sell it off. So, I promised. And here I am: Norman, the Sex Store King.”
“Let’s go sit on the couch. Sorry about the Sex Store King thing. I had no idea. You don’t like it at all, do you?” We settled onto the sagging brown-and-red plaid couch I’d rescued from a dumpster behind a dentist’s clinic. I was dying to unbutton my jeans; after two helpings of chili, I could hardly breathe. What I would have given for a pair of sweatpants. Norman wiggled around on the couch as though trying to find a comfortable spot for his butt, then g
ave up and leaned back.
“I despise the whole business, but I promised. . . how do you go back on a deathbed vow? Mother, on the other hand, seems oblivious to the whole thing. It’s out of her universe. Speaking of whom, Mother told me your aura had a lot of potential. She also saw an image of — what was it? — an aardvark hovering around your shoulder.”
“An aardvark?”
“She said it must be your totem animal.”
“I thought I was just having a bad hair day. Is an aardvark good?”
“I think so. She said something about burrowing deep underground to acquire the truth.” He reached into the pocket of his trousers and held out a small pink stone in the palm of his hand. “Rose quartz, for opening up the heart chakra. I’m not certain what a chakra is either. That’s why I was late. She insisted I stop and get one before I came over tonight.”
“That’s very strange, but sweet.”
“That’s Mother — strange, but sweet. After my father died, she got involved with all this psychic mumbo jumbo, channelling and chanting and meditating. She means well. She believes in it and believes she can help other people. What can it hurt?” He shrugged. “Now, back to you. What did you do before starting your stunning career at the Wanton Warehouse?”
I’d been hoping we could skip this part of the conversation.
“I was at art school but I quit.”
“Why?”
It was bad for your character to lie. But was I going to tell him the whole sordid story? He’d been so open and honest with me, but who wanted to date a failure? A has-been at twenty-six?
“I couldn’t afford all the art supplies,” I said. “I had to quit.”
He looked as though I’d told him he had to quit. After more conversation and wine, we made love. I initiated it. I hadn’t had sex for a year, not since Gimlet. Underneath all his linen and grey flannel, Norman was a surprisingly passionate man and not a sexual aid in sight.
I stayed in bed the next morning with my face buried in the pillow, not wanting him to see my face or hair. I breathed in the spicy scent of his cologne.
“I have to go to a meeting, Frieda. I’ll call you later. Thank you for last night.”
I could hear him kneeling beside the mattress. He tucked my hair behind my ear and kissed my cheek. I grunted. The door closed quietly behind him. Sure you’ll call, buddy. You’ll fly to the next town, to the next store, and sleep with the next dumb broad in the dildo aisle.
Later that day my doorbell rang. I answered the door. A deliveryman handed me a large package.
Inside the wrapping were six canvases, twelve beautiful brushes, and a hundred-dollar gift certificate for the Paint Pot store. There was also an envelope with a note: “Dear Frieda, I fell apart in the paint aisle — too many choices. Please use the certificate to choose what you want. Thank you again for the lovely evening. Norman March.” In the corner of the envelope was a small pink stone.
Norman had continued to send gifts, notes, goofy postcards, and flowers as he made his way across Canada on the tour of his stores. When he reached Vancouver, he asked me to join him there. I packed and left Winnipeg the next day. Norman the Reluctant Sex Store King: it was endearing and he was possibly serious enough to make me forget my failures.
I put the pink stone back in the jewelry box and closed the lid. After opening and rummaging through another three boxes in the depths of the shed, I formed a brilliant plan to get enough money to last another month.
I gave up the hair dryer quest, went inside, wrote a letter, then immediately walked down the block to the mailbox on the corner and dropped it in. An hour later I was having serious qualms about what I’d written. So much for independence and making my own way. Too late. A girl’s gotta do what a girl’s gotta do. I needed time to think. I deserved it.
Dear Norman,
I hope you will excuse my long silence. I know I promised to call or write as soon as I was settled, but I needed time to get my head together. That hasn’t really happened yet. How are things in Kentucky?
I’ve rented a room in a big house from a nice old man named Mr. Hausselman. You’d like him. He’s kind and funny and a wonderful photographer.
Please say hello to your mom from me.
By the way, it has come to my attention that some of my things are missing. Please see attached list. Hope you are well.
Sincerely yours,
Frieda
List
(1) One hair dryer
— $20.00
(2) One paisley scarf
— $25.00
(3) One Tom Waits cd Blue Valentine
— $20.00
(4) One coffee table book The Red Couch: A Portrait of America
— $40.00
(5) Two rolls of undeveloped Fuji film
— $15.00
(6) One gold earring shape of a fish
— $30.00
(7) One package Electrolux vacuum cleaner bags
— $6.00
(8) One cassette tape Count Basie One O’Clock Jump
— $10.00
(9) One paperback copy The Agony and the Ecstasy by Irving Stone
— $30.00
(10) One Swiss army knife
— $50.00
(11) One black Wonderbra
— $25.00
Total — $261.00
I would prefer you not to send the items themselves.
Thanks.
A week and a half later, I sat at the kitchen table looking at recipe books. Mr. H. and I had decided to teach ourselves how to be real cooks. Mr. H. had dubbed it Operation Starve Wreck — mouldly going where no pan has gone before. It wasn’t working too well yet; dishes cowered in the fridge with little notes taped to them: I think it’s supposed to look like this. Be careful. VERY SPICY. Edible (but just). Our experiments had done nothing whatsoever for the leftover consumption. No need to cook anything tonight; Miss Kesstle had sent leftover tuna casserole home with us after Sunday dinner yesterday, but I was thinking about Chinese food. How hard could chicken balls be?
Mr. H. came down the front hallway with a handful of mail. “I have advanced,” he said, looking at a large white envelope covered in stars and exclamation marks, “quite mysteriously, to the next winning round of the Reader’s Digest sweepstakes. I don’t know how. The last letter said it was my final chance to lick twelve stamps and get myself into this exalted winning circle and I threw it in the garbage unopened.”
“You’re just lucky, I guess.”
“Humph. I snorepose so. Letter here for you. No return address. Secret Admirer?”
“Probably not anymore.”
I took the envelope upstairs and sat at the little green desk to open it. It contained a cheque from Norman for the exact amount I asked for. No letter, not even a note. The only personal thing was Norman’s small round signature in the lower right corner of the cheque. I was chagrined, especially since I’d found several of the items since sending the letter. I’ll call him, I thought. I’ll explain I felt desperate. I’ll offer to send the money back. He probably wouldn’t want me to, though. I looked at the clock. The bank closed in twenty minutes. I’d call him when I got back. I could always return the cash if he wanted.
I was on the way home when Miss Kesstle called to me from her porch; Beethoven was stuck on the roof of her shed. I rescued the cat, then it was time for supper, then Keith Richards was on Biography, and then it was too late to call, and then life carried on and I never got around to calling.
I found out later that the following exchange went on behind my back:
Dear Mr. Hausselman,
We have not had the opportunity to become acquainted; however, we have a mutual friend, Ms. Frieda Zweig. I assure you, Mr. Hausselman, that my intentions toward Frieda are gentlemanly and I have only her best interests in mind.
I received a rather uncharacteristic letter from Frieda two weeks ago and I haven’t been able to stop thinking about it. I’m concerned for her. I hoped you could (confid
entially) let me know if she is all right.
Sincerely yours,
Norman March
Dear Norman,
Thank you for thinking of our Frieda. I wish I could tell you she’s doing fine but I don’t believe she is. I have heard her speak of you and she seems fond of you, otherwise I would be even more uncomfortable writing this letter than I already am. Frieda seems lonely. The only friend she has her own age is Ginny and she doesn’t seem to like her very well. This would not be so worrisome if she seemed content, but I’ve heard her talking to herself when she thinks no one is around, not musing aloud, but having one-sided conversations. It seems odd, to say the least, as though she’s invented an imaginary friend.
Perhaps you could come and see her (Frieda that is, not her imaginary friend). I feel reasonably certain she would welcome a visit.
Sincerely yours,
Mr. Edward Hausselman
CHAPTER NINE
W-O-M-B-A-T
“Are you avoiding me?” Ginny asked. “Have you joined a cult? I haven’t heard from you in ages.”
“It’s only been a week — or so. I’ve been busy.” I wrapped the phone cord through my fingers.
“Oh, did you get a job? Congratulations.”
“No, I didn’t get a job. I’ve been planting flowers, writing letters, rescuing cats, and I’m thinking of taking up crochet.”
“Crochet? Really, how quaint. Come and meet me for lunch today,” she said.
Everything important in Ginny’s life was within three blocks of her apartment: her work, her favourite restaurants, and the most chic shoe and clothing stores. The Zone, our luncheon destination, was in the same building as Ginny’s apartment. She worked just around the corner at LG International, a monstrous advertising company. LG was one of the few large corporations which hadn’t bailed out of Winnipeg yet; it also had bases in Toronto, Vancouver, and New York, so I suppose it could afford to stay. Ginny was Assistant Director of Brand Strategies and was aiming for a promotion to Director of Design. She never said so, but I knew her purple-shadowed eyes were locked on the New York office.
“Okay, lunch is fine.” Best to get it over with before a squad of deprogrammers showed up at Mr. H.’s door. “See you at noon.”
Dance, Gladys, Dance Page 7