by Mary Carter
To reach it, however, I have to squeeze past a horde of teenage savages insulting each other with their best smiles and high-pitched squeals. (“Like really. Like it looks good on you. Like, with that flower in the middle, like you hardly notice how like flat your chest is.”) Finally I am close enough to touch it. It is so soft, so free! But when I reach for the scarf, instead of its silky grace I feel skin. Scratchy, fleshy skin that belongs to another woman.
Another woman is holding my scarf. My scarf looks tiny in her large fleshy arm. Now she is putting my scarf in her cart. She throws it on her heap like adding salt to a stew and takes off without so much as a backward glance. “Hey!” I shout, but she doesn’t even turn around. In fact, she’s picking up speed and I have to jog to catch up with her. “Hey!” I say again.
She makes a left near the bras and panties. She’s trying to lose me! I zigzag around a table of scented candles and cut her off in front of women’s watches. She still hasn’t spoken to me, won’t even look at me. I’ve got her boxed in though; the only direction she can turn is right, and I’ll be damned if I let that happen. She tries to take the right, but I head her off at the pass. I reach out with my foot and lodge it underneath the cart, bringing it to a dead squealing stop. She treats me as if I’m the sun and she’ll be blinded if she looks directly at me. With her head held straight, she slides her eyes to the right and studies me like a bird of prey.
“Excuse me,” she says as if I’ve done something wrong and shoves the cart forward with gusto. Even if I want to retract my foot (which I don’t) it’s too late. It’s stuck in the spokes, and when she pushes the cart, my foot stays in place, but the rest of my body falls at a ninety-degree angle. As I hit the floor, I pray to the Saint of Stupid People Tricks that I won’t be maimed for life. How can I show up to work with a peg leg? With detached curiosity, I hear someone screaming and wish they would stop. Later, I realize it’s me. The pain is bypassing my head and hurling straight out of my mouth. “Help, help!” I yell. Then, like a Fellini film, suddenly I’m surrounded by large women with blue eyeshadow and clown cheeks. We have attracted a crowd of elderly women, and my nemesis is already trying to sway the jury.
“She put her foot right in my cart. Just jammed it right in there.” The old ladies look from her to me, back to her. I open my mouth to defend myself but a moan escapes instead. My foot really, really hurts. “What were you thinking?” the fleshy-armed scarf stealer shouts at me. From my position on the floor I can see her jowls bounce up and down as she screams. Flicks of spit dangle off her upper lip threatening to drip on me with the next shake of her head. I throw my arms up to protect my face from her spittle, and I instantly win the sympathy vote.
“Leave her alone!” one woman shouts. “Help her up,” another one says.
I’m no dummy; I strike while the iron’s hot. “My scarf!” I cry. “That’s my scarf.” I point dramatically to the top of her heap.
“Your scarf?” the woman says, grabbing my misty green savior and kneading it in her sweaty fingers. “No siree. This here is my scarf.” She takes the scarf and sinks it into the depths of her cart. I glance at the crowd. They’re starting to frown. They’re not sure who to believe. “She’s stalking me!” the woman cries. “She’s stalking me and my cart. Took her foot and jammed it right in there!”
I don’t have a great reply so I start to cry. It comes easy to me these days. Even Tampax commercials make me cry. (You go girl! You go horseback riding!) “It’s for my mother,” I gasp. “My mother whom I haven’t seen in—ten years.” I’m wailing now; I’m the antifeminist. I throw a quick apology to the Saint of Gertrude Stein not to cancel my membership, but I can’t stop now—I’m winning over the grandmothers in the crowd, of which there are many.
Three have knelt down by me—two of them are gingerly removing my ankle from the cart, and a third wipes my tears with a hanky that smells like cinnamon. At his grandmother’s nudge, a young boy whips the scarf out of the cart and hands it to me with a shy smile.
“Thank you,” I whisper. “Thank you.”
The woman with the cart leans down and blasts me with the smell of stale cigarettes. “You little bitch,” she says, but we both know I’ve won.
I remain on the floor with my prized scarf, assuring everyone that I’m fine, I can walk, thank you, and if it’s all the same I would just like to get home and wrap the scarf for my dear estranged mom. They help me to my feet, pat me on the back, and slowly depart as I whip out my cell phone whispering, “I’m calling my mom.” Some of the old ladies don’t want to move on. They’re standing around and staring at me, expecting an encore. I point south and yell, “Look, seventy-five percent off!” then resume my fake conversation with my mother as I hobble away in the opposite direction. But even a hobble is more than I can bear.
Ow, ow, ow, ow. Pain, pain, pain, pain, pain. I beam a prayer to the Saint of Cripples. Please, please just get me the fuck out of here. I look at the clock. 8:53. Oh God. I look at the line. It’s all the way back to the women’s restroom. I will never make it in time. This is it. This is the true test of my resolve. I have three choices:
A)I leave now without the scarf, grab a cab, and show up at Parks and Landon in my stained sweater. Trina will tell Jane that I showed up looking like a filthy pig, and I’ll be fired.
B)I stand in line to pay for the scarf and show up at Parks and Landon looking gorgeous in my scarf and sweater, but I’m an hour late. Trina tells Jane I’m a slacker who couldn’t be punctual even if I had Father Time tattooed on my ass, and I’ll be fired.
C)For the sake of my career, I steal the scarf.
Wait just a minute. Wait just a darn minute. I don’t steal the scarf. I just borrow it for a while. Then, after work, I return it. I promise, I promise, I promise, I whisper to the Saints.
Sometimes, the best way to steal something is to hide it in plain view. I place the scarf around my neck and arrange it so that it covers the stain. I was right. It’s a perfect match. So far I’m not breaking any laws. So far I am simply trying on the merchandise. And there is no law against trying on merchandise, now is there? In fact, legally speaking, the store has to see you remove the object from its location and wait until you’ve actually left the premises without paying for it before they can approach you. There have been a few times when I’ve had to drop the merchandise before leaving because I knew I was being tailed.
But there’s so much chaos here today that I’m home free. The scarf doesn’t even have a sensor on it; they save those for the big-ticket items, like the leather coats. Now I’m simply walking toward the door. Nobody is paying any attention to me. I set my eyes on the door and walk with purpose. I spot a bedraggled sales associate trying to fold a pile of clothes. Each time she succeeds in straightening them, someone comes along and whips one out from the bottom of the stack.
“Excuse me,” I say. “What time do you close?”
She doesn’t even look me in the eye. “Six,” she wails.
“Thank you.” Perfect. My day ends at five. I’ll have plenty of time to return my borrowed scarf.
By the time I’m outside, my heart is pounding against my chest like aliens beating at the door. I’m a little surprised that I’m still getting the high—given that I’m just borrowing the scarf and all. But it’s there. I feel on top of the world. I want to jump up and down and shout, “I’m alive, I’m alive!” but I can barely step on my ankle, let alone jump. Then the laughter descends. I bend over, grab my knees, and howl with laughter. I bend back the other direction and snort and whoop. I let out long, barking HA HA HAs while gasping for air. Women try to shove me out of the way as they pour in and spill out, smacking me with their purses and their bulging Brewber’s shopping bags. Each time I’m jostled, pain flares in my ankle like oxygen feeding a fire. I don’t care. I don’t budge. I laugh until I cry.
Happy tears stream down my face until suddenly, like showers springing from a sunny sky, I’m crying for real. Sobbing, actually, over my prized stolen scarf. Tears
fall down my face, my dirty blond hair whips in my eyes from the gust generated from the revolving door, and within seconds a familiar thudding pain settles back in my chest. It’s guilt time. “Jesus Christ, no, please let me be happy for just a little while!” I scream at the Saint of Joy, but it is too late. Gravity reverses the polarity of my lips, tugs at my throat, and ebbs my beating heart back to a dull ache. I am so engulfed in my own misery that I don’t even notice the security guard until his black vinyl sleeves reach for me, his large bushy eyebrows furrowed with concern. He says something to me, perhaps, “Miss, are you all right?” but what I hear is, “You there! Where did you get that scarf?!” And “Stop thief! Backup, I need backup!”
I pull the scarf tightly around my neck, growl like a mother bear protecting her cubs, and bolt across the street. Well, limp actually. Limp, run, limp, run, limp, run. Cars squeal and drivers slam on their horns as I hobble to the curb. Blimey. That was really, really stupid. Pain shoots through my ankle and I buckle under, once again finding myself on the ground with the rest of the world above me. I decide right then and there that I will never beg, borrow, or steal again. Never, ever, ever. It’s 8:55. I stick my good leg in the air and wave it around. There’s more than one way to hail a cab.
Chapter 5
It’s one minute to nine, and I’m waiting for an elevator. Why, why, why can’t at least one of the three get here? I know the stairs are good for you and all, and I’ll use them after today (it will be my new exercise routine) but I can’t climb fifteen stairs in two minutes. Besides, my ankle is still throbbing and if I take the stairs I’ll be panting and sweating and Trina will become enraged because she’ll think that I’ve just come from having sex with Ray. I shouldn’t have said that. Just the thought of it is getting me all worked up. Until I remember that he hasn’t called me in eight days. Come on elevator. I look at my watch. Forty seconds. Come on, come on, come on. Ding. It’s here! It’s a sign!
I enter the reception area of Parks and Landon and fall in love. It’s modest, but so inviting that I would move in tomorrow. It looks more like a funky SoHo loft than a stuffy corporate law office. It is a wide-open area with wood floors, huge windows, and exposed brick behind the reception desk. The walls are painted a deep yellow, giving the place a golden, friendly glow. There are a few oriental rugs scattered about—plush and beautiful against the shiny floor. Potted trees adorn every corner. And then it hits me—I’m on the wrong floor.
This can’t be a law firm. Law firms are stuffy and demanding. I’ve stumbled into a PR firm or an advertising agency. Maybe they’ll hire me! Maybe this is where my destiny lies. The Saints knew all along that a creative soul like me doesn’t belong in a sterile filing room doing mind-numbing, soul-killing paperwork. I belong in the belly of the creative beast. “Parks and Landon Attorneys-at-Law, how may I direct your call?” My head snaps toward the reception desk. A harried-looking woman in her fifties is standing behind the desk with the phone cradled in her neck. She is holding a stack of papers and has a pen behind each ear. My creative universe disappears. At least it’s cool in here, I think as I step up to the desk.
“May I help you?” She is polite, but her tone carries a hint of urgency.
“I’m Melanie Zeitgar,” I say, holding out my right hand. “From Fifth Avenue Temps.”
“Oh. You are?” It isn’t so much the way she says it—she’s still polite, but it’s the once-over she’s giving me with her eyes that makes me feel like I’m naked in the middle of the schoolyard.
“Yes,” I say with a bright smile. “I am.”
She nods and finally shakes my hand. “Margaret Tomer. I’m a paralegal.”
“Nice to meet you, Margaret.”
“Likewise. And can I tell you, I’m glad they sent you.” I beam. You see? They were going to love me here. “I told them it doesn’t look good hiring model after model after model,” Margaret continues. “Okay, so the men do like it. Who wouldn’t? But they’ve already got enough to look at. And we get plenty of female clients in here too, and they don’t need perfection thrown in their faces every minute. I told them it didn’t bode well for Abercrombie & Fitch and it won’t bode well for us. I said ‘Greg, Steve, enough of the gorgeous models. It’s not the real world.’ Unless they want to get a few hot men in here, right? Am I right? Just like Hooters. I for one would go in for a burger now and again if they had muscle-ripped men flexing their pecs and waggling their six packs at me, wouldn’t you? Welcome. It’s about time we had an average temp in here.”
I should be used to this. I live with Kim Minx after all, the prettiest girl on the planet. But my stomach turns nonetheless, and I feel tears coming to my eyes. I bite the inside of my mouth and remind myself that I, too, am a beautiful woman. As far as we “averages” go anyway. Margaret sees the look on my face and back paddles a bit. “Not that you aren’t a pretty girl. You are dear. You’re darling. Remind me. Are you one of our new paralegals or Steve’s new assistant?” I glance at the names on the wall behind the reception desk. Greg Parks, Attorney at Law. Steve Landon, Attorney at Law.
“I’m Steve’s new assistant,” I say without hesitating. Do you see what a good actress I am? It sounds so truthful that I believe it myself. Relief floods over me. I’m not a file clerk. I am never going to be a file clerk. We’re all going to be dead in a hundred years, so who cares if I lie a little along the way? Besides, bad habits are like a diet. You have to start fresh in the morning. I had already inhaled a chocolate chip muffin with 31 grams of fat and stolen a scarf, so what’s a little lie in the mix? Besides, it’s not like I’m hurting anyone. Steve obviously needs an assistant, and I’m going to be the best damn assistant he’s ever seen.
“Wonderful. Follow me.” Margaret bolts down the hall as if she’s on fire. I have to run to keep up. The pain in my ankle roars up, and halfway down the dim hallway I stumble over an electric cord.
“Umph.” For the third time today, I hit the floor. Margaret stops and cocks her head toward the ceiling before realizing that the noise is coming from behind her.
“Are you all right?” she says, staying ten feet ahead of me.
“Just—an old stage injury,” I murmur.
She waits for me to get to my feet and come toward her again. “Are you an actress then?” Margaret asks with a trace of boredom as I limp toward her.
I stir the question around in my mind, playing out the sequence. I’ll say yes. She’ll ask what I’ve been in. I’ll gloss over the slutty nun business and tell her about the time I played the spurned ex-wife of a mobster. She’ll ask if I’ve ever been on TV or in the movies. I’ll have to admit that those are my hands and voice hocking Ginger Root Cream, an organic, vegan, vaginal lubricant. Fireworks of disgust will play out across her face and she’ll offer me a pained, sympathetic smile.
“Not anymore,” I say. “I’m—” My eyes land on a large stone sculpture in the corner of the office we are passing. It is five feet of twisting black marble with a smooth, round top and diagonal white stripe slashing through the middle like the second hand of a clock. That’s the only explanation I have for what comes out of my mouth next. “I’m a clockmaker,” I blurt out.
“A clockmaker?” Margaret asks, frowning. “What do you mean?”
Excellent question. “I’m an artist,” I say. She waits. “I make clock sculptures,” I add. She’s still waiting. Didn’t that say it all? “It’s art,” I say slowly, “that tells time.” I zap her with an intense, artistic stare.
“That’s so unusual,” Margaret murmurs, finally looking away.
“Very,” I agree.
“Here we are.” Margaret stops at a closed door at the end of the hall. I can’t wait to see the office I’ll be working in. So far all of the offices we’ve passed have been devoid of personnel. On the one hand, I was wondering where everyone was, but on the other I was relieved. Maybe I’d never even see Trina Wilcox. Maybe I’d be in a huge office with a view of the East River, happily assisting Steve Landon of Parks
and Landon. “Everyone is attending Greg’s Loss Prevention Workshops today,” Margaret says, reading my mind. “He’s so popular he has to give a morning and an afternoon workshop. They’ve been packing them in since his brush with fame last year.”
“His brush with fame?” I ask politely, wishing she’d open the door to my new digs. Margaret stops walking and looks at me.
“You know who he is, don’t you?” She continues to stare at me expectantly.
“Uh, he’s one of the partners?” I say.
Margaret answers my question with a loud laugh. “Well of course, but I was referring to the media blitz he got caught up in last year. Maybe you don’t read the newspaper?”
I feel my face burn and count to five in my head in Spanish. “I read the newspaper daily,” I say. (Actually I only read it on Sundays, skim the headlines the other days of the week, and get the rest on the Internet and CNN, but she doesn’t need to be bogged down with the details of my life.) “And of course I wondered if he were the same Greg Parks—”
“He is,” Margaret purrs. “Not that he brags about it. In fact he doesn’t like us to bring it up at all. He’s rather media shy, which is ironic when you think about it. Don’t tell anyone I told you, but he’s up for a position as a commentator on Side Court TV.” She’s staring at me, waiting for a reaction.
“You don’t say,” I murmur. I had only watched Side Court a couple of times, and it usually bored me out of my mind. Personally, I think sitting on your duff and watching a couple of stiff suits haggle over case law is a flagrant waste of America’s favorite guilty pleasure.
“It’s between Greg and the woman who successfully prosecuted that deranged midget who was flashing children in the Central Park Zoo,” Margaret continues. “Isn’t that a thrill?”
“I hardly know what to say,” I answer with a discount smile.
“Well it’s too bad you’ll miss his presentation, but they’ll be back this afternoon.”