She didn’t want that.
She knew she had to change.
She just didn’t know exactly how to do it.
Chapter
4
Lorna walked through Montgomery Mall with a pair of shoes that—considering only two dollars of her monthly credit card payment went toward the actual principal versus the interest—represented twelve years’ worth of payments.
It was ugly.
The mall was cool and festive, carrying the sounds of people talking and Muzak, and the smell of chocolate chip cookies, hamburgers, Boardwalk fries, and Chinese food. Usually the environment gave Lorna a lift, but walking back to the shoe department at Ormond’s, she felt like she was carrying a boulder on her back.
She had to return the Delmans.
She had no choice.
“I need to return these,” she said when she got to the counter in the shoe department.
It was Luis, the same salesman she’d bought them from—a tall, slight slash of a man with sharp features, small eyes, and dark hair slicked back in the style of a 1940s mobster.
Somehow, he hadn’t struck her as quite so menacing when he presented her the Delmans at 30 percent off.
“You just bought them.”
“I know that.” She gave a what can you do? smile. “But I need to return them. They’re just not going to work out for me.”
“What’s wrong with them?”
It was clear that Luis wasn’t some teenage Wal-Mart employee who followed procedure without taking anything personally. No, Luis was going to pursue this; he was going to get to the bottom of things—probably in the most uncomfortable way possible, excavating all her financial insecurities—before letting Lorna leave with a credit receipt.
Even though his challenging attitude wasn’t a surprise—she’d been shopping long enough to recognize someone clinging to his commission when she saw it—it still irked her. What irked her even more, though, was her own feeling of having to make up an explanation for this little weasel that would keep him from judging her.
“They didn’t go with the outfit I had in mind for them.”
He raised a dark eyebrow, and Lorna got a mental image of him plucking the middle of his unibrow every morning in a magnifying makeup mirror. “They’re black leather.”
“Yes,” she forced herself to swallow further explanations, “they are.” Blue dress, she thought but didn’t say. Wrong color black. The hardware is silver, and I’ll be wearing gold. A million lame lies came to mind, but she kept her mouth shut. She wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction of an elaborate explanation.
With a look of undisguised disgust, Luis held out his hand, and she gave him her receipt and credit card.
Lorna stood and waited, wishing to God this transaction would just end so she could get out of the store and never come back. What was with Ormond’s anyway? Why did they seem to have only this one salesman in the shoe department? Every single time she came in, she’d hoped for a different salesperson, but 90 percent of the time, it was Luis.
He processed the return, handed Lorna her receipt, and took the shoe box off the counter, flashing her a look that she interpreted as punitive. Maybe it was just the fact that she was bummed about having to give the shoes back that made her extra sensitive, but whatever it was, when she left the store, she felt like she was going to cry.
And she hated herself for feeling that way when there were people in the world with so many more serious problems.
But Lorna wasn’t a fool, though her debt certainly appeared to be a testament to the contrary. Now that she knew where she stood, and what a colossal mistake she’d made, she was absolutely determined to make it right. She would cut up every credit card, work extra shifts—hell, she’d even eat beans and rice if that was what it took to save money and pay down her credit cards.
The only thing that concerned her, and she knew it was pitiful and shamefully self-indulgent to even think it, was how difficult it was going to be to stop buying shoes.
They made her happy.
She wasn’t going to apologize for that.
Some people drank, some people used drugs, some people were sex addicts, some people even did truly heinous things to other people in order to make themselves feel better. Compared with all that, a new pair of Ferragamos here, some Uggs there…it just didn’t seem that bad.
Now, before long, every pair she had would probably be worn out, and then where would she be?
Shoeless Lorna, too poor to resole her pumps.
When she got home and checked the answering machine, there was a call from a coworker, asking her to cover her shift at the restaurant, Jico, where they both worked that night. Grateful for the opportunity to put her debt-reduction plan into immediate action, she took the shift.
Nine hours later, she was on her last customer, Rick, a blowhard of a guy who’d been sitting at a table near the bar all night without getting anything more than one soda per hour and an order of onion rings. She’d waited on him before. Lots of times, in fact. He came at least once a week and somehow he always ended up in her section. Dumb luck. The guy was a lousy tipper.
Worse than that, he was a talker. Talk talk talk. He wanted to know all about the people at the bar and in the restaurant. She figured he was trying to find himself a date, but he didn’t seem to have much luck. No wonder. The guy probably never paid for a date in his life.
And at the moment, Rick was the one thing that stood between Lorna and relaxation, so she was doubly irritated with him. When he finally asked for the check, she was relieved.
“Can I get you anything else?” she asked him, hoping against hope he’d say no.
He did. “Only the check.”
She pulled it out of her pocket and set it down, saying, “I’ll take that whenever you’re ready.”
“Hang on, sweetcakes, I’m ready now.” He looked at the bill, then opened his wallet and peeled off a ten and a couple of ones. “Keep the change.”
She hated getting stiffed, but she’d been raised to be courteous at all costs. “Thanks very much.” She put the money in her pocket.
She’d chip away at her debt in tiny increments, if necessary.
Later that night, Lorna sat at the bar with her aching feet up, counting her tips.
“Lousy night?” Boomer, the bartender, asked, eyeing her. He was a big man, about six-five, with a craggy face, but the sort of watery blue eyes that always looked sympathetic. The rumor was that he’d been drafted by the Redskins a few decades back, but had been injured in training camp and so had been working in various bars ever since.
Lorna didn’t know if that was true, because Boomer never talked about himself or his past, but, given his size, she could believe it.
“Let’s see,” she said, tapping the short stack of bills on the bar top. “The table full of Heathers who ogled the musicians all night and sucked down three hundred bucks’ worth of Bellinis left five bucks, and that son of a bitch Earl Joffrey”—Earl Joffrey was a local newscaster with a reputation at Jico for being the worst tipper ever—“literally left the coins from his change. Seventy-six cents.”
“Did you give him his change in ones?” Boomer asked, hauling a rack of mugs to the sink. “If you change him big bills instead of small ones, he gets pissed.”
“I know that. I gave him seventeen ones.”
Boomer drained a half-empty beer bottle and tossed it into the recycling bin with a clang. “And seventy-six cents.”
She gave a dry laugh. “Yeah, and seventy-six cents. The cheap jerk. Don’t watch Channel Six news.”
“Never do.”
“Me neither.” Tod, one of Lorna’s coworkers, stopped and set a check down on the bar top. “Last one of the night. Thirty-four percent tip. I saw Earl Joffrey coming, and I just prayed he wouldn’t sit in my section.” He gave Lorna an affectionate nudge. “Sorry, baby.”
She rolled her eyes and put an arm around his rock star–thin waist. “You are not.”
“No, I’m not.” He gave her a squeeze. “Because I have got a date tonight.”
“Now? It’s so late!”
“Not for all of us, Mom.” Tod gave a laugh.
She remembered feeling that way about dates. It seemed like a hundred years ago.
“I met the most amazing guy,” Tod went on. “We’re meeting at Stetson’s at one-thirty. Then…who knows?”
“I know.”
“You got me.” Tod cracked up. Here was one guy who was totally comfortable with letting it all hang out. “Hey, live, love, laugh, and get laid, right?”
She mentally checked off which items she was not currently doing and got even more depressed, but she kissed Tod good-bye and told him to have extra fun for her. She had little doubt that he would do it.
“I don’t know about that guy,” Boomer said when Tod had left. “I hope he’s being careful.”
“Don’t worry, I’ve had the Talk with him. He’s a slut, but he’s a cautious slut. I, on the other hand, am a tired nun.”
“At least that’ll keep you healthy.” Boomer gave her an affectionate smile.
“There’s that.” She sighed and put her money into her purse. “I’m going home.” She stood up. “Pass the word along that I’m looking to take over extra shifts, would you? If anyone wants me to cover for them, give them my number.”
Boomer, who had been drying a wineglass, stopped and considered her. “Are you in some sort of trouble, kid? Something more than just being tired and single?”
Lorna smiled. “No, everything’s fine. Really.”
He looked unconvinced. “So what’s with the need for extra work? If you need a loan, I could—”
“Oh, God, no.” She laughed. “Boomer, you are so sweet, but no, thank you.” Why he was so financially stable, she’d never understand. It probably had more to do with his NFL past than his bartending gig, that was for sure. “I’m working more to try and pay things off.”
“Ah.” He nodded sagely. “Credit cards?”
“And how.”
He paused, then said, “I don’t want to butt in where it’s none of my business, honey, but there was a fella in here a couple of weeks ago who works as a credit counselor. Ever heard of that?”
A credit counselor. Sounded like something that would cost $150 an hour. And take credit cards. “What, exactly, does a credit counselor do?”
Boomer smiled. “Drinks a lot of Fuzzy Navels, for one thing. But what he said is his company helps people with debt to consolidate it and get lower interest rates.”
She thought of the two credit cards she had at twenty-nine percent and sat back down. “Really? How?”
“He told me all about it.” Boomer nodded wearily. “I mean all about it. They cut a deal with the companies. I guess the banks figure getting paid back at five percent is better than getting ignored at fifteen percent or something.”
Fifteen percent. That would be like a gift at this point. But 5 percent? Lorna didn’t have to get out a calculator to know that the lower the interest rate, the faster the problem went away.
“Any idea what the company is called?”
“He left his card. I’ve got it here somewhere.” Boomer went to the cash register, opened it up, and pulled a business card out of one of the compartments. He handed it across the bar to Lorna.
PHIL CARSON, SENIOR CONSULTANT, METRO CREDIT COUNSELING SERVICES. Beneath that, it indicated it was A NONPROFIT COMPANY.
“Keep it,” Boomer said, looking at her so earnestly, she couldn’t refuse.
“Okay. Thanks.” She put the card in her purse, along with her meager tip earnings for the night, knowing she’d probably forget about it before she got home. “Why’d he give you his card anyway?”
Boomer chuckled. “He wanted me to pass it along to Marcy. I think he’s got the hots for her.”
Of course. Who didn’t? Marcy was a pillowcase-blond bombshell who routinely took home hundred-dollar tips and, occasionally, very wealthy older gentlemen whose needs apparently included size 38 DD silicone fun pillows and discretion. Marcy offered both, for a price.
And it wasn’t a price Phil Carson, nonprofit credit counselor, was likely to pay.
“You should probably try to give it to her,” Lorna said, reaching for the card again.
Boomer put up a hand to stop her. “I did. She took one look at the thing and said no way.” He gave a crooked smile. “I think it was the nonprofit part that turned her off.”
Lorna laughed. “Well, thanks. Maybe there’s some kismet to this. Marcy’s loss could be my gain.” She thought about that for a moment. “Or my loss, depending how you think of it.” She sighed. “I’m off. Remember to keep me in mind for extra shifts.”
“Will do,” Boomer said with a nod. Then he leveled his blue eyes on her, and she felt a wave of his concern come her way. “And you’ll remember to let me know if you need help, right? It’s a tough world out there, and I hate to see a nice kid like you struggling by yourself.”
Lorna smiled, though she felt tears well in her eyes. Impulsively, she leaned over the bar and pulled Boomer into a hug. “Thanks, Boomer. You’re the best.” When she pulled back, she saw his face had gone red straight down to his collar.
“Go on.” He gestured with the wineglass he was wiping. “Get out of here.”
Lorna got home at 2 A.M. As soon as she turned on the lights—relieved that the electricity was on—she went to her computer and turned it on, despite her exhaustion.
She had to un-order shoes from a few Internet sites.
Swallowing a lump in her throat, she switched her browser to Shoezoo.com, a site she had spent many happy hours browsing in the past. One click on MY ACCOUNT, and the words WELCOME BACK, LORNA showed up on her screen.
That usually made her smile, but tonight it just made her sad. And feeling sad about something she knew was so shallow made her feel even worse.
She clicked through to her most recent order—not an easy task, considering there were about twenty-five orders listed—and looked for the CANCEL ORDER button.
It was there. It was small, too. Like they knew their customers well enough to know they’d be reluctant to hit that button.
Lorna hit the hyperlink that opened her order. Pink Ferragamo slingbacks with a bow. She could already picture herself wearing them to some wonderful outdoor summer party, where the men cooked at the grill wearing KISS THE COOK aprons, and the women sipped wine spritzers and laughed at their macho counterparts while children raced around the perimeters of the party, shrieking with laughter as they ran through the sprinkler or wiped out on the Slip ’N Slide.
It wasn’t glamorous; it was real life. Real good life.
Somewhere in her past Lorna must have been one of those happy kids, because the idea that this was what being a grown-up meant was so deeply ingrained that she couldn’t shake it.
The shoes—suddenly more important than ever—were originally $380, but now they were just $75. For these timeless beautifully made works of wearable art! They defined a time, a place, in history. Without them, she felt the irrational certainty that she would actually lose something. Canceling the order was like giving up a great investment. Like telling a 1970s Bill Gates his ideas seemed too risky.
Maybe she needed to rethink this. Maybe it wasn’t necessary to actually cancel these orders, considering what a great deal they were. Instead, maybe she should just vow to not keep looking.
Leaving the cursor flickering on her screen, she got up and paced the floor for a moment, considering the possibilities. There was no doubt about it: that seventy-five dollars would be money well spent. In fact, she could, theoretically, just keep the shoes in their box and sell them as vintage in mint condition someday. That could actually make a lot of sense.
She decided what she’d do was check her mail and see if there was anything pressing that would prevent her from this one tiny indulgence. The electric bill was paid. She was pretty sure the gas bill was, too. And, given the fact that We
st Bethesda Credit Union had let her charge go through with the power company earlier, presumably her credit cards—or at least that one—were current.
She went to the small pile of mail and started sifting through it.
One return address caught her eye: CAPITAL AUTO LOANS.
Her stomach dropped.
It had been a month or two since she’d made her car payment. Capital Auto was always so lax about it that it was one of the payments she’d let slide. At an interest rate of just under 6 percent, it didn’t quite make sense to pay it off.
She tore the envelope open, bracing herself for two months’ worth of payments at the worst. Two hundred and seventy-eight times two. Five hundred and fifty-six bucks. She’d have that…soon.
But when she took the letter out, words in bold font leapt out at her like something in a movie. SERIOUSLY DELINQUENT. THIRD NOTICE.
REPOSSESS.
JULY 22.
Today was July 22.
They were going to repossess her car.
Lorna crumpled the paper and hurled it at the wall, shouting words that would have gotten her detention for a month in Catholic school.
How the hell had this happened? Heart pounding, she paced more rapidly now, trying to figure out where to put herself. Finally, she flopped down on the couch—the very one that would probably be repossessed next month, if this month was any indication—and put her head in her hands.
What was she going to do?
There was no way she could go to her stepmother again. Lucille had made it absolutely clear that the ten-thousand-dollar loan she’d given Lorna after her father’s death was it. It was all Lorna would ever get in the way of an inheritance. And it was probably fair, given that at least some of the life insurance money had gone to pay off the mortgage on her father’s house.
That ten thousand dollars had felt like a lifesaver seven years ago, and, though Lorna hated to use it on her own frivolous debt, she’d vowed then never to make another credit card purchase in her life.
How she’d managed to do it again, and again, and again, she couldn’t say for sure. But there were some valid reasons interspersed in there—a medical bill here, food there—just enough to get her hooked again. Just enough to get her stuck in the “another few bucks won’t make a difference” mentality.
Shoe Addicts Anonymous Page 5