Little Bitty Lies

by Mary Kay Andrews

  Her hands were shaking as she punched in the phone number in the ad.

  A man’s voice answered. He identified himself as Jeff Robertson. Yes, he said, the position was open. Yes, he’d be willing to talk to her. Today? Excellent. An hour from now? Perfect.

  “If we come to an agreement on your employment, would you be willing to start today?” he asked.

  Mary Bliss’s eyes filled with tears. After paying the bills, she was down to $12.32 in her checking account.

  “Absolutely,” she said.

  She flew up the stairs and stood in the closet, staring at the clothes rack. What did a product demonstration hostess wear? A dress seemed too Sunday-schoolish, slacks and a blouse seemed too casual. After some false starts, she found the right look. Her navy poplin blazer, crisp white blouse, and starched and creased khaki slacks, with blue cork-soled sandals. She tied a bright print scarf around her neck, fastened little gold hoops in her ears, and stood back from the mirror.

  Yes. Perfect. Not too dressy, not too casual. Although…she did look a little like the first mate on the Love Boat.

  She shook the doubts out of her head and took the stairs two at a time. For the first time since she’d found Parker’s note, she felt good. She felt strong, energetic, businesslike. No more crying and hand-wringing for Mary Bliss McGowan. She was now, she told herself, a full-fledged product demonstration hostess.

  She exited the interstate at Windy Hill Road in Cobb County, made the right turn, and started watching for Windy River Crossing, the office park she was supposed to report to.

  The park was a maze, but she found building 300, and office suite 15B, with relative ease. The sign on the door said MARKET CONCEPTS.

  Mary Bliss straightened her scarf and her spine and opened the frosted glass door.

  The room was small, with a single desk against the back wall. The man sitting there looked up. “Mrs. McGowan?” His voice cracked. For a moment, Mary Bliss considered leaving. Man? This was a kid, barely twenty. He still had acne on his cheeks. His head was shaved nearly bald. He wore wire-rimmed glasses with tinted blue lenses and he had a white-blonde goatee and a small silver stud piercing his left nostril. He wore a white golf shirt with the Market Concepts logo embroidered on the breast.

  “I have an appointment with Mr. Robertson,” Mary Bliss told the kid.

  “That’s me,” he said, gesturing toward a plastic laminate chair opposite the desk. “Great. Let’s talk product placement.”

  Mary Bliss sat. The chair wobbled.

  He had her fill out an employment application, and while she scribbled, he watched silently, stroking his goatee as though that would make it grow.

  “Drugs?” Robertson blurted.

  “What?” Mary Bliss nearly dropped her pen.

  “Do you do illegal drugs? Our client stores won’t tolerate substance abuse,” Robertson said. “You’ll be subject to random drug testing at any time.”

  “I’ve never used illegal drugs,” Mary Bliss said, her face reddening.

  “Police record?” he asked. He leaned forward. “We’ll run a check on you, you know, so it’s best if you just tell me the truth.”

  “I don’t do drugs and I’ve never even had a parking ticket,” Mary Bliss exclaimed. She shoved the clipboard holding her application across the desk toward him.

  “Ever take a lie detector test?” he asked, cocking his head to one side to appraise her reaction.

  “No!” She stood up, her entire body fairly quivering with indignation. “I understood the job I was applying for was as a product demonstration hostess, not Supreme Court justice. I resent the implication that I might be some sort of lying, cocaine-snorting master criminal. I’m just a woman. A woman with a family who needs a job.” Her upper lip was really quivering now, and she could feel a sob working its way up from her chest.

  She swallowed the sob and squared her shoulders. Goddamn this little peckerwood, she thought. He had a job that paid twenty-two an hour. Fine. She would get the job, pick up her paycheck, and pay her bills. And someday, this little peckerwood and all his peckerwood brothers would be mighty sorry they ever messed with the likes of Mary Bliss McGowan.

  “Do I get the job or not?” she asked, looking down at him, speaking in a voice that she hoped sounded imperial.

  “Sure you get the job, Mary Bliss,” he said. “Nothing personal. I have to ask, you know. You’re hired. Absolutely.”

  “Good,” Mary Bliss said, still frosty. “When and where do I report?”

  “Bargain Bonanza Club has a new store opening today down in Riverdale,” Robertson said. “Go on down there and ask for the manager. Mrs. Peabody.”

  “Um.” She hesitated. “When do I get paid? I’ve, uh, had a death in the family, and some pressing bills are due.”

  “Whatever,” he said, sounding way too much like Erin. “Your pay period ends on Friday. We’ll have a check for you then, if your paperwork gets processed on time.”

  “Who processes the paperwork?” she asked.

  “You’re looking at him,” Robertson said, puffing up a little.

  “Good,” Mary Bliss said, giving the little peckerwood the look she gave her students when she explained her classroom rules. “I’m a very responsible employee. I expect the same from my employer. And I’ll need that paycheck on Friday. Absolutely.”

  An hour and half a tank of gas later, she parked the car in front of the new Bargain Bonanza Club down in Riverdale, Georgia.

  A giant blue hot-air balloon bobbed in the sky above the store. Yellow banners proclaimed GRAND OPENING! The parking lot was thronged with cars and shoppers, and heat shimmered from the vast expanse of asphalt and automobiles.

  A teenaged girl with a bad perm stopped her just inside the front door. “Membership card?” she asked.

  “I’m not a member,” Mary Bliss said.

  The girl whipped a square of cardboard from the clipboard she was holding. “If you’ll fill this out, we can get your membership started today,” she said, offering a smile. She wore a bright blue vest and a name badge identifying her as Mystee.

  “I don’t need a membership,” Mary Bliss said, smiling back. “I’m from Market Concepts. I’m the product demonstration hostess.”

  The girl looked her up and down. “For real?”

  “Why not?” Mary Bliss asked.

  “I dunno,” Mystee mumbled. “You just look different from most of them.”

  “I’m supposed to see Mrs. Peabody,” Mary Bliss said. It was nearly two o’clock. She didn’t want to be late for work on her first day.

  “You mean Imogene,” Mystee said. “Just go over to customer service and ask somebody to page her.”

  “Thank you,” Mary Bliss said.

  “I like your outfit,” Mystee said. “Like that chick on that show on Nickelodeon. You know, the one where they all go on a cruise and get it on.”

  “Love Boat?” It was the scarf. Mary Bliss started to unknot it.

  “Yeah,” Mystee said. “Julie, that was the chick’s name. You look just like Julie. Really retro.”

  “Thanks a bunch,” Mary Bliss said. She stuffed the scarf in her purse.

  17

  Mary Bliss stopped at the jewelry counter and checked her appearance in a small mirror. She’d bitten all her lipstick off during her interview with Jeff Robertson. Now she carefully applied another layer of Raspberry Glacé.

  “Can I help you?” The woman on the other side of the counter had closely cropped hair and a huge smile. Her name tag proclaimed her “Your Sales Associate—Queen Esther.”

  “Oh. No, no thanks,” Mary Bliss said quickly. “I was just fixing myself up a little. I’m actually reporting for a job.”

  “Where? Here?” the woman’s smile disappeared. “You sure you got the right place?”

  Mary Bliss straightened her shoulders. “I’m one of the new product demonstration hostesses.”

  “You? Honey, you don’t look like no sample lady I ever seen.”

&nb
sp; Mary Bliss didn’t know whether it was a compliment or a cut.

  “Why not?” she asked.

  The watch saleswoman looked her up and down. “You wearing heels? And all dressed up? What you supposed to be handing out today? Caviar?”

  “They didn’t tell me,” Mary Bliss admitted, beginning to feel flustered. “I’m supposed to find Mrs. Peabody.”

  “She’s up there,” Queen Esther said, pointing toward the front of the store, where an elevated catwalk looked out over the cavernous warehouse space.

  “But don’t be calling her Mrs. Peabody. Imogene Peabody likes to be called Miz. And I mean M. S. Peabody.”

  “Any other advice?”

  “Pick you up a pair of sneakers before you go on up there,” Queen Esther said. “And tell ’em you’re very religious. Can’t work Sundays. Otherwise, you be working the shifts the other sample ladies won’t take.”

  “Thank you,” Mary Bliss said.

  Her feet were already aching by the time she’d climbed the metal stairs to the catwalk. Mary Bliss paused before Imogene Peabody’s office door. It actually wasn’t an office at all. More like a cubicle. The woman sitting at the desk was talking on the phone, gesturing wildly, cussing a blue streak, oblivious to everything going on around her. She had shoulder-length blonde hair and the deepest tan Mary Bliss had ever seen.

  Mary Bliss coughed softly.

  The woman whirled around in her chair. “Yes?”

  “Miz Peabody?” Mary Bliss said. “I’m Mary Bliss McGowan. Jeff Robertson at Market Concepts sent me over. I’m the new product demonstration hostess.”

  Imogene Peabody reached into a large cardboard box beside her desk, bringing out a bright blue baseball cap with the Bargain Bonanza Club logo, and a matching bib-style blue apron.

  “Here’s your uniform,” she said, tossing it in Mary Bliss’s direction. “Today, you’ll be in frozen foods, back of the store. Station D. Tell whoever’s at that table that you’re relieving them. They’ll show you what to do. Don’t forget to hand out the manufacturer’s coupons with the samples. It’s after noon now, so you won’t get a lunch or dinner break. Fifteen minutes, that’s it. We’re staying open ’til ten tonight, because it’s grand opening. At quarter ’til, break down the station, wash up all the equipment, and make sure you take the leftover unopened stock and replace it in the walk-in freezers. Got it?”

  Mary Bliss blinked. “’Til ten?” she asked. “Mr. Robertson didn’t tell me that part. I have a teenaged daughter. I need to be at home when she gets off work. I could stay ’til six, possibly.”

  “Ten,” Imogene Peabody snapped. “Did you bring your own gloves?”

  “Gloves?”

  Miz Peabody snorted, reached down into the box, and tossed a plastic bag in Mary Bliss’s direction.

  “You’re not allergic to latex, are you?”

  “No, I don’t think so.”

  “Good.” It was the first time Ms. Peabody had seemed pleased with anything. “Last week, some poor clown put on the gloves, and fifteen minutes later his lips were turning blue and he stopped breathing. He was allergic to latex rubber. You believe that?”

  “That’s terrible,” Mary Bliss said. “Was he all right?”

  “How should I know?” Ms. Peabody said, shrugging. “We had to get somebody from paper products to finish dishing out the party pizzas. It was a hell of a morning, I’ll tell you.”

  “I’m sure,” Mary Bliss said. “Will there be anything else?”

  “Time card,” Ms. Peabody said. She handed one to Mary Bliss. “Punch in as soon as you get here, punch out when you’re ready to leave. Make sure you check the schedule to see what time you’re on tomorrow.”

  Mary Bliss remembered Queen Esther’s advice. “Ms. Peabody? I need to let you know about my religious concerns. I’m a very strict Methodist. And it’s absolutely against my religion to work Sundays. I hope that will be all right.”

  “No.” Ms. Peabody didn’t look up again. “It’s not all right. We all work on Sundays. Got that, Mrs. McGowan?”

  Mary Bliss threaded her way through the frozen food section until she found station D, which turned out to be a card table with a cutting board, a toaster oven, and a large cooler full of frozen food.

  The product demonstration hostess at station D was actually a host. He looked to be in his early sixties, and the name badge pinned to his blue apron said ART.

  “Hi, there,” Mary Bliss said, adjusting the bill of her baseball cap so that he could see her face. “I’m Mary Bliss. I’m your replacement.”

  “Great,” Art said. In a minute, he’d stripped off the apron and tucked his own cap in the back pocket of his slacks. “Did they tell you the drill?”

  “Only to hand out the manufacturer’s coupons and to replace the unused stock in the walk-in freezers,” Mary Bliss said. “Just what is it I’m going to be demonstrating.”

  “Right there,” Art said, gesturing toward the cooler, which was stacked with colorful blue-and-white cardboard boxes. “Mrs. Korey’s Kod Kakes.”

  “Fish sticks?” Mary Bliss felt her body sag.

  “I guess it’s fish,” Art said. “It sure smells fishy. But I couldn’t guarantee it’s real cod. Anyway, here’s what you do.”

  He pointed toward a small cutting board and a knife on the card table. “Cut the Kod Kakes into quarters, and toast them in the toaster oven for about five minutes. And don’t forget to keep putting out the cocktail sauce.” Mary Bliss noted that there was a two-gallon jug of Mrs. Korey’s Kocktail Sauce on the card table. “Without the cocktail sauce, they really are inedible.”

  “Oh,” Mary Bliss said. “I don’t have a lot of experience with fish sticks. Are people really willing to try these? Are they big sellers?”

  “Not by themselves,” Art said. “But with the manufacturer’s coupon, a carton of eighteen only costs about a dollar ninety-nine. That’s a lot of fish stick for the money. Mostly the people who buy them are your immigrant-type consumer.”

  “I see,” Mary Bliss said.

  People were starting to line up in front of the station. The timer on the toaster oven dinged.

  “Your Kod Kakes are done,” Art said. He lowered his voice. “Did they tell you about your quota?”

  “Quota?” Mary Bliss whispered. “Mr. Robertson didn’t say anything about a quota.”

  “The bastards,” Art said. “That’s how they figure your pay. It’s all based on the number of samples you hand out.”

  “The twenty-two an hour isn’t straight salary?”

  “Twenty-two bucks an hour?” Art snorted. “Is that what he told you he’s paying?”

  “Yes,” Mary Bliss said. “Isn’t that what you make?”

  “I make eight bucks an hour,” Art said. “And I’m the highest producer in the company. God, I can’t believe they’re trying that trick.”

  “Excuse me, but I would like to try a Kod Kake.” A short squatty woman in a bilious green-and-gold sari was at the front of the sample line.

  “Oh yes,” Mary Bliss said. She fumbled with the toaster oven door, finally punching the knob that made the door spring open.

  “I gotta go,” Art said.

  “Wait,” Mary Bliss pleaded. “You said something about a quota system. What did you mean?”

  “Just this,” Art said, slinging his apron over his shoulder. “You gotta move a lot of Kod Kakes. You know what I mean? Empty out the cooler you got, and refill it as soon as it’s empty. Keep moving that fish, that’s all. Cause it’s all about the numbers. And take it from me. You can forget that twenty-two an hour Robertson promised you.” He gave a hearty laugh. “That’s a good one. Twenty-two an hour. I gotta remember to tell that to the missus when I get home.”

  18

  At nine o’clock, Mary Bliss gave in and took her fifteen-minute break. Her stomach was growling and the muscles in her calves screamed in pain.

  She limped into the employee lounge and sank down into a Bargain Bonanza blue plastic c
hair. The first thing she did was kick off her pumps. The second thing she did was put her head down on the table and close her eyes.

  “Tough night, huh?”

  Mary Bliss lifted her head. Queen Esther was sitting across the table from her, eating cottage cheese from a Tupperware dish.

  “My calves feel like they’re on fire,” Mary Bliss said, reaching down and massaging first one, then the other.

  “Told you to get you some sneakers,” Queen Esther said. She held up a cherry tomato. “Want one?”

  Mary Bliss hesitated, then stuffed the tomato in her mouth. “Thanks. I’m starved. I didn’t realize I’d be working so late, and I didn’t pack any lunch.”

  “You giving away samples,” Queen Esther said. “Whyn’t you just help yourself to some of that?”

  “I’m not that hungry,” Mary Bliss said. “I’m demonstrating Mrs. Korey’s Kod Kakes. They’re absolutely disgusting.”

  Queen Esther wrinkled her nose. “I was wonderin’ what that smell was. Girl, you might wanna get those clothes you got on dry-cleaned after today.”

  Mary Bliss sighed. Another expense.

  Her new friend shoved her brown bag across the table toward her. “There’s a homemade brownie in there, and an apple. Help yourself. My mama packs me enough dinner for an army.”

  “Thank you so much,” Mary Bliss said, diving into the brownie.

  “Other than being starved and your feet hurtin’, how you doin’ out there?” Queen Esther asked.

  Mary Bliss rolled her eyes. “I can’t even give those fish sticks away. I’ve only gone through one carton, this whole night, and that was because this weird Pakistani woman kept coming back for seconds and thirds. I finally gave her the whole box, plus about a dozen coupons.”

  “Lady got on this puke-colored wraparound dress, talk with an accent?” Queen Esther asked.

  “Yes,” Mary Bliss said, surprised. “Is she a regular customer?”

  “Wouldn’t call her a customer,” Queen Esther said. “Far as I know, she don’t never buy nothin’. Just walks around the store with an empty cart, eating samples. Calls herself Fatima. You ever hear a name like that?”