Seeking Carol Lee

by Nace Phlaux

  Over in the corner, they had what had to’ve been my box. No doubt about it. Bigger than a mini fridge and completely wrapped in duct tape, it had my name and address written in box letters on the side. On top of it all, almost showcased like the endcaps at a grocery store, was a manila folder with the words “Way to sparkle, little man!” written in black marker.

  When I told the girl I’d come for the box, she laughed and said she’d been wondering who the little man would be who’d come to claim it. “It’s pretty heavy, so you’ll want to wait for someone from Facil—oh, Arnold!” I turned ‘round to where she was looking and saw a guy who could’ve been a member of All-Lite’s security walk past the door, stop, and trudge back with a grunt.

  A few minutes later, we’re riding the maintenance elevator with a box of evidence on a utility truck between us. The big guy eyed the message on the envelope and cocked an eyebrow. “My sister-in-law thinks she’s funny,” I said, but he just snorted. “More a thinker than a talker” crossed my mind, followed by “silent but deadly,” and I nearly snorted myself. The lunchtime crew would’ve loved that.

  He finally opened his mouth as he wheeled the box through my door and saw Max. “She on the lease?” I told him I was just watching him for a day or two, and he snorted again, pulling the truck out from under and breathing heavy like that last box of Little Debbie’s was kicking in. I ushered him out as casual as I could muster, thanking him for his help and locking the door as softly as the deadbolt would slide, which wound up being like gluing teddy bears to an atom bomb.

  * * *

  All the clothes got thrown out since them by themselves wouldn’t lead anyone back to us. But the chunks of ATM I wound up boxing up and scattering into different dumpsters around town. When I got home again—ATM-free and properly supplied with liquor—I poured myself a glass and opened the manila envelope. Inside was a piece of paper with an address and a list saying “Tuesday: 6pm – 10pm” and “Thursday 11am – 3pm” underneath.

  The next morning, I took Richter with me since he’d been begging to get out somewhere. Physical therapy wasn’t going as fast as he’d’ve liked, I suppose. The address was a small split-level over in Croydon. We pulled in about half an hour before the time on the list in case of an ambush, brandishing a small pair of binoculars my so-called partner provided and wouldn’t let go of. Those, along with the black leather ivy cap he wore—as if it was his special spying cap—just made him look... Well, like an idiot to be honest with you.

  About two minutes in, Richter sits up straight and says, “Someone’s approaching the front door.” He held on to the lenses so long, I was about to start up the car to pull closer when he finally let go of ‘em. After adjusting the view, I caught sight of the man at the door and let out a string of curses. Richter asked if I recognized him, but I just silently watched as the guy was welcomed at the door by what looked like a fancied up bar hag. I finally threw the binoculars back at Richter once the man went inside and told him, “Stay here.”

  As I got closer, I could see all the window shades of the house were thick and black. No one seemed to be around on the street, but somewhere dogs barked at a supposed threat. I came to the side of the building, close to the gate to the backyard, when I heard what sounded like a slap, followed by another. A third was chased up by a man’s groan. Hurrying toward the gate’s latch, I stopped when a voice calmly croaked, “I wouldn’t worry none, sir.” I turned over to the neighbor’s backyard and watched as an ancient black lady, wrapped in a thick parka with a nightgown poking out the bottom, lit a cigarette with a Zippo. “Show’s made to order and’ll go four hours about.”

  I aimed to stammer something or other, but the old lady went, “Lady’s a whore if you’re not catching my meaning. Reason we’re moving.” She motioned to the front of her house, where I noticed the For Sale sign. As another crack shot from the house, she added, “Kinky whore, too, from the sounds of it. Got ‘er one of ‘er regulars in there now.” I started backing away, partly from the awkwardness and partly from the scent of her Parliaments, when she squeezed her eyes shut and shouted, “And we won’t be missing yer tricks, ya trollop!”

  I had what I’d call a moment of clarity, stopped, and asked her, “You wouldn’t happen to be a temp for J & J, would you?”

  She shook her head while exhaling, surrounding herself with her own personal bubble of smoke and steam. “Too old and crotchety to e’en greet ya at the Walmart.” I chuckled at that and turned back toward the truck when she goes, “But my son does.”

  My cell phone rang with a restricted number the moment I got back in my truck, and I answered it to hear the girl’s voice asking, “Can we play nice now, sweetie?”

  Manny 4

  From: Emmanuel Quinn (emmanuel.quinn@episync.biz)

  To: Ro Ortiz (rolandoortiz716@yahoo.com)

  Sent: Tuesday, January 15, 2013 2:06 PM

  Subject: Re: Dolla dolla billz y’all

  I go through J&J over in that big building outside the Oxford Valley mall. They on the 4th floor, I think. Ask for Christina and tell her Manny Quinn sent you.

  In between meetings for a hot minute. I’ll catch you tonight, k?

  Thanks,

  Manny Quinn

  Assoc. Mgr – Physician Validation

  t: +1 (215) 680-3747

  41 University Dr.

  Newtown, PA 18940

  www.episync.biz

   Please consider the environment before printing this email.

  > ——-Original Message——-

  > From: Ro (rolandoortiz716@yahoo.com)

  > Sent: Tuesday, January 15, 2013 1:42 PM

  > To: ‘Manny Boo’

  > Subject: Dolla dolla billz y’all

  >

  > Mi cabroncito,

  >

  > What’s the name of the agency you go through, son? I’m sick of working for

  > these f’in culos, making me work a double then asking me to come in the

  > next morning ‘cause the manager’s little puto boyfriend needs his beauty

  > sleep, the little marecon needs time to go spray tanning or wtf the puneta

  > does. Maldita sea la madre que se pario.

  >

  > You get any bonuses or anything if I refer you? Think I can get into your

  > place? Get all your preferential treatment and shit?

  >

  > Thanks, mi mama bicho!

  > Ro

  FOX 29 News Transcripts for January 31, 2013

  Women Attacked With Paintball Gun While Jogging

  Aired January 31, 2013 - 10:00 PM ET

  THIS IS A RUSH TRANSCRIPT. THIS COPY MAY NOT BE IN ITS FINAL FORM AND MAY BE UPDATED.

  CARRIE BENNETT: Joggers aren’t only feeling the burn tonight, but also the sting…of paintball pellets. FOX 29 News’ Jeff Wilcox at the scene. Jeff?

  JEFF WILCOX: Thanks, Carrie. A mild winter has been a blessing to many joggers and cyclists in the northeast, but for two women exercising in Langhorne this evening, it only left them open to an attack. Apryl Bennett and Megan Slusarczyk waited along this intersection when a car, reportedly with three teenagers or young adults, pulled through the traffic and opened fire on the women.

  SHARON PASQUA, Witness: It’s crazy, right? Like, you think you can go out, you know, and enjoy the weather, maybe get some exercise, and, you know, you wind up getting, like, sore spots and dry-cleaning bills for paint splotches.

  JEFF WILCOX (voiceover): Local joggers say they’re not afraid, assuming the attack was personal and not a random act of terror.

  SHARON PASQUA, Witness: I won’t be using my apartment’s treadmills just yet, you know? I have to be ready for bikini season.

  JEFF WILCOX: The joggers were not seriously hurt, but were taken to Aria Health of Bucks County for treatment. Police ask viewers to call into the number below with any tips they may have. Back to you, Carrie.

  Candy 1

  1526 Marsha

  Yardley, PA 19067


  January 27, 2013

  Dear Dorothea,

  I tried calling you, but I got a weird message instead of your voicemail, and I don’t know how to even work the phone here where I’m staying. I really just need to keep my hands busy and my mind busy and these game shows just don’t do it for me. Remember when it was soap operas from when you woke up until you were ready to make dinner? Oh, I used to love sitting with Ma and watching David Canary playing Adam and Stuart on All My Children. But now it’s all people acting like putzes to get money or roundtable talk shows with rich actresses trying to talk like they know something or other.

  Jerry and I are getting a divorce. Maybe. I don’t know yet. That’s part of the reason I’m staying at the Sheraton over in Langhorne. The boys don’t even know anything’s going on between us. But Jerry’s been cheating on me, and he’s even there with the tramp now. Spending the whole weekend with her, pretending he’s hunting. Buying meat from his best friend and pretending he caught and worked it himself.

  That’s how I proved it, you know. I was talking with his best friend’s wife, God bless her, and she’s one of those people who never asks how you’re doing. She always says, “How’s life treating you?” Well, I’d had this feeling about Jerry for a while now, and the itch at the back of my mind was drawing to a pitch. So when she asked me how life was treating me, I snapped and blurted out what I was thinking. That’s when she told me about the buying of meat. She said she’d known about it for a while, didn’t know what it was about, and didn’t want to be the one to alarm me, especially if it was just a masculine thing. You know, like if Jerry came home without killing anything, I’d think less of him. Think he wasn’t a man or something.

  She swore she didn’t know anything more, anything about him cheating or who she was, but it made me feel so awful. How many people knew this or something funny was going on and was laughing at us while I sat by like a blithering idiot? It’s like I was the laughingstock of the whole town for Jesus knows how long. And what do I do with that? How do I come back from everyone knowing we’re the butt of a joke everyone’s been laughing at for who knows how long? And the more ignorant I was about the whole thing, the funnier it had to’ve been, I’m sure.

  How am I supposed to go to church with the boys? Not that they’ll be with me for very long anyhow. Dom’s been getting acceptance letter after acceptance letter this month from the colleges he applied to. How am I supposed to pay for college and a divorce? I can’t think about that now. No, it’s still early, and I haven’t even talked to Jerry or looked into getting Dom any grants or loans.

  Those loans’ll be murder, I know, but the ladies I worked with talk about theirs like it never ends anyhow, so might as well take them. And that reminds me, when did we talk last? I don’t think it’s been since they let me go at Lenox. I mean, they let me go after the season every year, but this time was a bit more dramatic.

  I’ve been working the ramp up to the Christmas season going on about fourteen years. Dommy was talking everyone’s ear off and getting over the worst of the tantrums. Jer was having a rough time that season and worried about doing the holidays right, and my friend Marianne from the church told me to look into working at her warehouse. That was when they were all together with the high-ups in Bristol. Nowadays, they got production over in its own warehouse in Langhorne. I maybe could see it from my room if I was on the other side of the hotel.

  And see, it’s that kind of act that made me fall for Jer and stay with him for so long. He cared about the kids and grew them up right. At least the best he could where he could. Things got a little hard between us when money got tight sometimes, but he’s been doing good with the bills, and I help with all the overtime at Lenox at the end of the year. So I thought we were doing all right. Maybe not like we were teenagers, but that’s because we’re not anymore.

  But right before we broke for Christmas this year, Laura, my boss, was saying the managers wanted me to stick around longer. I’ve been there longer than most, so it wasn’t crazy, but I had to talk it over with Jer, of course. The kids are raising themselves nowadays. Dom’s already got one foot out the door. The twins are the twins. Joey’s looking at the military, God help us all, but he’s watching Dan lately like a hawk. Dan’s been trying to rebel a bit, but Joey smacks him back in line.

  Jerry said he didn’t care what I did. Whatever made me happy, he claimed. So I said yes. I like most of the ladies there and training the youngings they have come in every fall. I filled in the paperwork, and about a week later, they laid off all the temps. That was fairly normal. The rush ends right before Christmas, but there’s a bit of a bump for the procrastinators or people wanting mementos for the new year. But then the full-timers got picked off one by one.

  So I go to Laura and ask her if I should be worried. “You know what I know, babe,” she goes to me. “We could all be on our tuckuses tomorrow.” She’s this little thing. Always reminded me of Dorothy’s mean neighbor in the Wizard of Oz. You know, the witch without the green. But with this loud Long Island accent that made you hear her laugh no matter where you were in the warehouse. I mean, nice girl. Just has those looks is all I’m saying. And that voice.

  But I knew trouble was coming when she got Thelma. Or Louise, depending on who you asked. These two ladies who worked together at the warehouse even longer than me, Dharma and Theresa, we called them Thelma and Louise. Both were bigger women who never really left their tables once they got settled in. They worked so long together, they had their own coded language that none of us ever could really understand. But we’d always cause a ruckus if we started with the Thelma and Louise schtick, accounting on them both wanting to be Thelma since she’s the one who gets Brad Pitt.

  Laura called Dharma to her corner of the production room, separated off with these half walls. Usually Laura would just come over to make things simple and less stressful to Dharma, so calling her out was strange enough. Those of us in the room watched as Dharma slowly took out her earbuds, put her sneakers back on, and readjusted the pashmina wrapped around her shoulders before shuffling across to the office, huffing and puffing and muttering “Oh Lordy Lordy” as she went. A minute later, all we could hear was sobs.

  By the time Laura came to me a couple days later, the silence of the warehouse was nearly painful. It was before lunch, when most of the girls in the peak season would look forward to a twenty minute nap in their cars, and I was pulling out a tray of ornaments from the oven. The bay doors stood open, and the few shippers and forklift operators we had left must’ve been freezing, but I had my coat off, and my shirt dripped with sweat. I heard Laura’s voice calling for me from the doors to the production room, and I walked over without putting on my jacket at first, letting the open air dry me off.

  And I’m sorry, Dottie, if I’m rambling, but so much has gone on in the past couple weeks, and I haven’t had a moment to sit and think about everything and talk it out except for once with a poor girl who sat through it all and hugged me at the end, crying with me and all, God love her. You go on for years with the same old same old day in and out, and suddenly it’s like I don’t know who anyone is anymore, including myself.

  But I followed Laura into her office, and she picked up a piece of paper from her desk and showed it to me. When I looked up from it, she said, “You knew this was coming, right, hon?” Yeah, I knew it was coming. That’s why I asked you about it flipping last week, right? I didn’t say that, of course, but c’mon. I took my odds and ends from my pseudo-desk and walked out to my car with Laura by my side the whole time, chatting on how a lot of the girls had been signing up with J & J, a temp agency over here in Langhorne. I don’t think I ever mentioned the racks still in the oven. For all I know, the ornaments are still burning, with someone’s personalized message now permanently etched in.

  I sat in my car for gosh knows how long, just shell shocked. Even when you know it’s coming, when it does come, it’s the finality of it all that just makes you go “Ouch.” It is what it
is, I guess. When Jerry got home from work and I told him, he said, “No worries, sweetie. No worries at all. I’ll grab extra hours at work. No worries.” At the time, it seemed so romantic.

  Soon, Jer did all those little things Oprah and Sally and Jenny had warned me about over the years. He worked odd hours every day, and he’d get these sudden calls when he was home, asking him to return to work. He dressed nicer and wore cologne without any special occasion, even replacing his older clothes without me pestering him about them getting worn.

  The boys didn’t take much notice, what with their lives going. Joey said “Looking good, Pops” at one point, but him and Dommy were too wrapped up in the holidays and the semesters switching. Dommy spent most of the time chasing after this artsy girl named Helyne, one of the Golden Eagle girls. She caught his eye something fierce working as hostess for her dad, and all of a sudden, he’s eating every meal he has the dimes for over there.

  Until he finally found...Well, would say “his father’s charm,” but that don’t seem right. Anyway, he asked her out. Spent most of December driving her through Shady Maple and out to Longwood Garden and anywhere else you could find strands of lights hung for a dollar. When they got back, she’d show me all the photos she’d taken on her phone. Dom said she was going to be a photographer. Every girl that age seems to be, right? It is what it is, I guess.