The Perils of Pauline

by Collette Yvonne

  “Haven’t I seen you here before?” Leaning against the frame, he runs his eyes up and down my body in an obvious fashion.

  Oh, I get it. We’re playing strangers in a laundromat. “Maybe.” I bend low over my basket, showing my cleavage. Peering up at him through blond curls and thick lashes I say, “What’s your name?”

  Turns out, he’s Arthur Miller and I’m Marilyn Monroe.

  Another lunch date at the residence and I’m all caught up on my laundry.

  After lunch, as I approach the store, I hear music cranked so loud it makes my eardrums bulge. Must be those kids who run the skateboard store down near the crosswalk. Someone from the BIA better warn them to cut it out; they’re driving away business. As I get closer, I see the door of the book shop is propped open. The racket is coming from my store.

  Across the street, the guy who runs the pita place is melting down: he’s yelling something I can’t hear because of the noise, and waving his fist in the air.

  This isn’t shopping music, unless you are looking for brass knuckles or a Rambo knife. What is Serenity thinking?

  I run straight to the sound system at the back of the store to poke at the “off” button. Where is Serenity, anyway? I turn my stern gaze toward the front counter. A tall, twiggy girl is behind the counter, leaning over, arms folded, like an auto parts guy. She cocks her head at me, and says, “Can I help you?”

  I can barely see her eyes under the fringe of colored, uneven strands of hair.

  “Who are you?”

  “Who wants to know?”

  “Me. I’m the owner of this store.” My eyes light on a pickle jar sitting beside the cash register. I pick it up and read the childish handwriting: ‘Wendy’s Tips.’ “You must be Wendy.”

  “You’re the Momsie!” She leaps around the counter with such enthusiasm, I have to take a step back. “Serenity had an appointment. Guess what? I sold three books. The store got totally cray cray for a while there. I didn’t know how the cash register works so I, you know.” She points at a small pile of bills and change on the counter. “Serenity said she’d train me when she gets back. But I figured it out on my own. A total moron could run your store, but most are computerized now. Maybe you should check it out. I had a job last summer at the dollar store and I got, like, mad skilled at it. You know, you count everything up, two items, two bucks, ten items, ten bucks. You could get that system going here and simplify. One price, one book, you should try that. I have, like, soooo many ideas. I wrote some of the coolest ones down.” She hands me a piece of paper and flashes me a grin. “This place is gonna be so-o-o-o amazing.”

  Wendy spends half the afternoon chatting on her cell. Every time I walk by her, I hear snippets of her side of the conversation, which consists mostly of, “Just sayin’. I’m not sayin’ … know what I’m sayin’?”

  As soon as Serenity comes back, I call her into the back office and gesture toward the front where Wendy is busy sending out tweets from her Twitter account with the store computer.

  “I’m the one who makes the hiring decisions. Know what I’m sayin’?”

  “Ewww, Mom, don’t talk like that. It’s just wrong.”

  “Don’t try to change the subject.”

  “I had to give her a job. Her Dad is in jail for, like, armed robbery or something like that, and her Mom is a total crack addict. Give her a break.”

  “I don’t know. I need a reliable person and she’s a bit flakey you know? Like, the gun show is always on, even when no one’s watching.”

  “When she takes her meds she’s fine. Give her a chance. She’s super smart. Like a genius.”

  I’m unconvinced but I have to admit she’ll be unbeatable when it comes to shelving books because she can reach the top shelves without stretching.

  But the best thing about having Wendy working for me is that my hiring days are over for now. Between Serenity, Wendy, and Jude, I can go do laundry whenever I want.

  Having three employees also means I can get caught up on all kinds of backsliding. Within the space of two days I have everyone humming along with a detailed schedule posted on the office wall and everything. Here’s my chance to zip over to the bank to make a payment on my overdraft.

  “These fines are hurting your business,” the accounts manager warns me.

  “I have it all under control,” I tell her. “The overdraft will be cleared by the end of next week.”

  … I hope. My overdraft is even larger than expected. Once Mom gives me the final installment, I can pay it off. I’ll call her tonight. Maybe the check is ready.

  When I get back to the store, all is quiet. Too quiet. Where’s Wendy? I scheduled her for a full day today. There’s no one around except a lone shopper who, when she sees me step behind the counter, asks me what I’m doing.

  “I’m the owner. May I help you find something?”

  “No. Your salesgirl had to step out for a bite to eat. She asked me to keep an eye on the store.”

  When my open-mouthed, blank-eyed stare goes on a little too long she adds, in an accusing tone, “She said she hadn’t had anything to eat for a couple of days.”

  What is she talking about? I haven’t had breakfast yet while Wendy helped herself to two chocolate chip muffins from the coffee bar this morning. No point arguing with a customer though.

  The woman glares at me. “You were supposed to be back ten minutes ago.” Her lips compress into a thin line.

  “I got held up.”

  Her lips disappear completely.

  “Thanks for helping out,” I add, helplessly.

  The woman tucks her purse under her arm. She looks at me as if she wants to take off her loafer and smack me across the cheek with it. “I have to get back to work now.” She marches toward the door and then turns and says, “Oh yes, your mother called. She wants you to call her back on her cell. It’s an emergency.”

  Then she’s gone. Too late, I wonder if I should’ve offered her a free book or a coupon or maybe a handful of gummy worms from Wendy’s candy stash under the counter?

  That’s it. Wendy has got go. Where is Serenity? And Jude? All three of them were here when I left.

  First I have to call Mom. She sounds frantic: “I’m trapped inside my car.”

  “Oh my God, have you been in an accident?”

  “No, of course not.” She sounds indignant. “I’m in my driveway. I was going to book club and now I’m going to be late. It’s raining. The car stalled and the doors all locked themselves and I can’t get out.”

  “Isn’t there a manual lock? Like a latch or lever or something like that? Look on the door. You have to find it and press on it.”

  “I tried the manual lock already. It won’t budge. It’s stuck I tell you. You don’t understand. There’s something wrong with the electrical system. I need you to come let me out.”

  I can’t drop everything and go over there right now. “Did you try the back doors?”

  “You want me to climb over the seats to try the back doors?”

  “Yes.”

  “I can’t do that. I’m wearing a skirt.”

  “So?”

  “Someone could see me.”

  “If someone can see you then you could wave at them to come let you out.”

  “There’s no one around.”

  How has my mother lived so long without getting murdered by her only daughter?

  “Isn’t there anyone else you can call? Brian maybe?”

  “Brian isn’t answering his phone. I’m hardly going to call anyone else either. It’ll get out. They’ll blab it all over. This kind of gossip spreads like wildfire.” Her voice rises to a sarcastic singsong: “I can just hear them now: Wee hee, Marion got locked in her own car.” She pauses to take a breath. “Don’t even suggest I call 911. For God’s sake, I don’t need police and fire trucks and a big scene on the street. They’ll put my name in the paper. This is a narrow town you know.”

  Maybe I could call 911 myself. She’ll get over it event
ually.

  “I know what you’re thinking and don’t you dare. If you call 911 you can forget about the last installment I was planning to give you.”

  By the time I roll across Narrow Town, I find Brian in the driveway with his head stuffed under the hood of the car. He’s replacing the battery and checking the wiring. “Your mother is inside, resting,” he says, in a cheery voice.

  I storm into the house. Mom is sitting in the living room reading a book. “Why didn’t you at least text me to let me know Brian got you out?”

  “I hate texting. Takes forever to tap out a message.”

  Before I can complain that I had to rearrange my whole day to get away, she hands me a check.

  First item of business this morning, I call Serenity into the office.

  “Chill out, Mom. Nothing happened.”

  “Chill out? Nothing happened? Wendy left a customer in charge of the store. Then when I needed her most she never came back. I had to close the store yesterday to go rescue your grandmother. I have to let Wendy go. Or I should say, you have to let her go.”

  “I can’t. You don’t get it, Mom. She was hungry. She hadn’t eaten for two days. Besides, I gave her two weeks advance on her pay so if you fire her now, you’ll probably never get it back.”

  What? No wonder my overdraft is so high. “You cut her a check without my approval? When did you do that?”

  “I dunno. A couple of days ago. You were gone out to the Laundromat or something. Wendy was behind on her rent and the food bank can’t give her any more groceries until next week.”

  “How can she afford a phone then? She never puts it down. She’s texting and tweeting and facebooking all day long.”

  Serenity’s eyes go all wide. Give up a cell? That’s so harsh.

  “Fine, but you have to explain to her that she can’t leave the store unattended ever again. Ever again, got it? She needs to pay attention to the schedule. No more texting except on her scheduled breaks. And for God’s sake make her stop leaning over the counter like she’s a gas station attendant.”

  CHAPTER 22

  Check Fire

  Check Fire: In artillery, mortar, and naval gunfire support, a command to cause a temporary halt in firing.—Department of Defense Dictionary of Military and Associated Terms

  Ghostly Garth just stepped through the door with a tin of pumpkin muffins reminding me that Thanksgiving is only a few short weeks away. Business is picking up and I’m finally starting to adjust to the ebb and flow in the store. We have our regulars, a few avid reader types, and the a.m. crew who filter in for coffee and newspapers. There’s Ghostly Garth and there’s Yard, the delusional street guy who thinks he’s a bike courier (Yard is short for Yard Sale because of a spectacular wipeout when he left a spray of pedals, chains, and water bottles across someone’s front lawn). When he comes in to pick up his deliveries, bike helmet stuffed up into his armpit, Wendy gives him a coffee, a muffin, and a few dog-eared envelopes wrapped with a rubber band to deliver to the florist at the other end of town. The florist, who is in on the game, gives him some change and sends him on to the dry cleaner who passes him back over town to the print shop. The printer eventually dispatches him to back to us. The run generally takes all day or longer, since Yard’s bike is patchy and prone to flat tires, so it works.

  “Pay attention,” Garth commands, holding up a radio-like contraption. “This is known as a tri-axial EMF meter. It’s very sensitive to magnetic flux densities.”

  I look up from scanning shelves for a few missing books that are listed as in stock. Garth twists the knobs. Nothing happens. Too bad his contraption can’t locate my lost inventory.

  “Wait a minute.” He begins searching through his bags.

  I pluck a diet book out of the magazine racks and return the wanderer to its proper place. A minute later I hear a loud whump. I turn to find my most expensive coffee table book flipped open and upside-down on the floor. Garth stands nearby, his ample hip inches from my book display table. He lifts his arms in a show of surprise.

  “Did you see that? Unbelievable. That book flew off the table all by itself!” He shakes his head as if overcome with astonishment. “Poltergeists often throw things. They are so strong they can even toss a person out of bed.”

  I’d like to thump Garth on the head for hip-chucking my book off the table but he makes up for it with regular deliveries of too-delicious homemade treats made by his wife. Garth’s wife should consider becoming an author herself, of a recipe book on how to make incredibly scrumptious baked goods.

  “It should be working properly now,” announces Garth after a few more adjustments. “This is the most active building in town. The readings in this room are usually off the clock. I’ll show you.”

  Serenity pops the lid off the muffin tin, and we each grab one while carefully standing back to watch Garth’s demonstration. He twists another dial, and the machine immediately begins to emit an excruciating, high-pitched nails-on-blackboard shrieking sound. Serenity drops her muffin and leaps at the machine.

  “Turn it off!” she screams.

  Garth grapples with all the knobs to no avail while two customers browsing in the bestseller section hold their hands over their ears.

  “Garth, take that thing out of here,” I yell as I beat a retreat to the storeroom.

  I stand behind the door and rub my forehead. The change in weather plus Garth being Garth is giving me a headache. A few minutes after I settle down to work, Serenity pokes her head into the storeroom office to say the school principal is on the line. With trepidation, I pick up the phone. What did Jack do now?

  “I have Olympia here in my office. She’s having a rough day,” the principal says. “According to the teacher on yard duty, Olympia punched a boy in the Peace Garden and knocked him over. His arm is showing some bruising.”

  I withhold a cheer—no rotten boy messes with my girl—as the principal goes on.

  “Olympia says the boy threw an earth worm at her. The boy says he was only pretending to throw it. She put the worm on his desk. We have the worm here.”

  I don’t know what to say. I’m wondering why she has the worm on her desk. Is the worm okay? Am I supposed to ask about the worm’s well-being?

  “We feel Olympia is exhibiting bullying behaviors. Board policy requires a two-day suspension for this sort of thing. Both children are banned from using the Peace Garden for the rest of the term.”

  That’s good news for the worms I guess.

  “Has Olympia ever had a pediatric assessment?” the Principal asks.

  “No. She’s usually very healthy.”

  “I meant developmental behavior screening. Perhaps it would be a good idea,” continues the Principal. “Olympia’s teacher says Olympia is having difficulties listening and following classroom rules.”

  The Principal is waiting for a response from me regarding Olympia’s lack of proper playground etiquette. I refrain from sharing my nostalgia for the golden age of xlacker attackers and Skip-it trippers. I’m thinking all the fun toys have been taken away and all the kids have left to work with is their fists.

  “I’ll call Olympia’s doctor today and ask for a referral,” I proffer.

  “Olympia’s suspension begins immediately,” the Principal says, and hangs up.

  What am I going to do? I can’t bring Olympia to work with me. She’ll drive me bananas. Serenity has a prenatal appointment tomorrow, and Jude is in rehearsals so neither of them can cover the store, and I have no backup sitter arrangements. I hate to leave Wendy in charge. She and Yard seem to have become an item lately. Whenever he comes in the store, lately two or three times a day, she loses all her ability to work. I have to conjure up some proper help. After all, it was less than a week ago Mom had me drop everything to rescue her from her car. Now it’s me with an emergency. She owes me one. I call her. “Would you be willing to watch Olympia, please? I have to be in the store tomorrow.”

  “I can’t, I have life drawing class.”
<
br />   “Can’t you skip it for one day?”

  “You don’t understand, Pauline. I’m the model.”

  I call Michael. All he can offer is: “Far too many kids are on Ritalin these days.”

  Apparently Michael watched a special on TV recently and he knows all about Attention Deficit Hyperactivity Disorder. He should know. There’s only one kid I know who is wilder than Jack and that’s Michael’s son.

  “I have to go now but whatever you do, don’t put Olympia on drugs,” he warns me.

  I go online to run a search. There’s plenty of information available including a self-test for adult ADHD. Adult ADHD? Symptoms range from “a tendency to be easily distracted” to “chronic lateness” to “frequently feeling tired.” I run through the whole list, checking off many of the items and press the submit button. According to the test, I have “a strong tendency toward ADHD.”

  I study the list of symptoms again. A prisoner of the moment. Chronically late or chronically in a hurry. Often have piles of stuff. Easily overwhelmed by tasks of daily living. Mood swings. Sense of impending doom. I have all that and more. What a relief.

  I print out the list and, locking up a few minutes early, race over to Bibienne’s. “Look—I have Adult ADHD.”

  She peers at the list for a moment and then tosses it on the kitchen table. “I don’t know any women with kids who don’t have all those symptoms. Piles of stuff? Chronically late? Come on. Stop worrying. I’ll make you a drink.”

  “Fine.” But I remain unconvinced. Two of the biggies are relational difficulties and a frequent search for high stimulation. Maybe a blast of Ritalin is what I need to overcome my troubles with Donald and Michael.

  Giving up dairy is highly recommended for persons suffering from ADHD. I poured all the cow milk in the house down the drain (ugh, cow’s mucus) and replaced that toxic waste with healthy rice milk, which comes in four flavors: chocolate, strawberry, vanilla and plain. At dinner, I offer a glass of the vanilla rice milk to Olympia, who allows but one tiny bud on the tip of her tongue to make contact with the liquid. Immediately, she spits it out and wipes furiously at the entire surface of her tongue with her fingernails.