Aha! He really, really wanted the watch. “Well, you probably only paid fifty dollars for the women's watch,” she said. “The woman's watch is nice but it's secondhand, after all."
"It's not secondhand! It's pre-owned!” He was indignant.
"Someone else wore it. It's not like new.” That, to Miriam, was secondhand.
"All right,” he said. “You take the women's watch, plus I give you fifty."
"Eight-five,” she said. “The women's watch might be worth nothing at all. I'd be cheated."
He didn't answer, but took a roll of bills out of his pocket and counted out eighty-five dollars. He moved the women's watch in her direction. He already had the Breitling.
She nodded in agreement. “Do you want me to sign anything?"
"No. It's a private deal,” he said.
She turned from him and arranged the cash again where it belonged, then put the watch into her purse. Had the negotiation been a little too easy? “Thank you,” she said. He shrugged.
Though she had all the cash she'd come downtown with, on her way out she wondered if she'd been cheated by the pawnbroker in regard to the woman's watch.
Still tired and her feet still more or less on fire, Miriam began to walk again to Fiftieth Street to return to the East Side on the crosstown bus. She ruminated on her recent transaction and tried to decide what to do about the watch. She had one for Nana, but it was secondhand. She could still buy the girl a new watch, however, since she again had the cash.
Maybe she should go back to the store where they'd thrown her out? No. She ought to have more pride than that. At Forty-seventh Street, she realized she might go where the young couple in love had gone—to the Diamond Exchange. They'd said the booths inside sold watches too.
Miriam entered the big store at 55 West Forty-seventh Street. The place reminded her of the open markets in her home country of Ghana, though here the shops were under a warming roof and the products being sold were far different from the cloth, cocoa, and shea butter marketed by the vendors at home.
She stopped at several counters and looked at the merchandise until, at the rear of the big main floor, she found some watches in a showcase that resembled the one she had been given at the pawn shop. She brought out her watch and showed it to the clerk who had been eyeing her with a frown. She didn't say anything, but he gasped in what sounded like shock.
"That's a Van Cleef and Arpels ladies dress watch,” he croaked. He cleared his throat, then bit his lip. “That's a beautiful item.” His eyes focused on her in rapt attention. She could see he was seeking out an explanation as to why a heavyset black woman with an ugly mustard stain on her coat was showing him this nice (though secondhand) watch.
"Those are diamonds around the face,” he added reverentially.
"Yes,” she agreed, not all that impressed. “Grainers.” That was the industry term for small, inconsequential diamonds—diamonds the size of a small grain of rice. “Half grainers."
He stared at her. “Where did you get this, if you don't mind my asking."
"A birthday present,” she said. That wasn't an answer to his question, exactly, but it wouldn't have been a lie if the question had been “why?” rather than “where?"
"Someone cares for you very much then,” he said.
She nodded and studied the watches in the case. Suddenly she saw it: The watch she had nearly bought in the store near Bloomingdale's. “Can I see that little gold watch?” she asked. She might be able to complete her shopping right here.
"That's not gold,” he answered, as if confused. “It's just gold colored.” He took the new watch from out of the case and showed it to her. Then he kept his eye on her fancy watch while she turned over the watch from the case, marked at ninety-nine dollars. Ah, a ten dollar discount. She liked it and knew that Nana would like it, too, but she set it down.
He sighed. “I'll give you five hundred for the watch,” the man said at last. He licked his lips.
Miriam kept her equanimity. Her mother had told her once that in bargaining, “You're not asking for enough unless your palms sweat."
"Throw in this other watch and you have a deal,” she said coolly. Her heart had accelerated to a fast trot, so she guessed she was asking just about the right amount.
He was the one who seemed to be sweating though. “Okay,” he answered, “but please tell me that you didn't steal the watch."
Miriam laughed quietly. “I'm exactly the opposite of that type,” she informed him. “Once, as a girl, I walked ten kilometers to return a hundred cedis too much that I received in change—about a dime."
The man began to count out five hundred-dollar bills for her, but she asked for twenties. He then gave her the watch in a blue velvet box. Their dealings done, Miriam carefully placed everything in her purse, praying to God she would be able to return home without being robbed. She must be more careful even than usual.
"Do you realize how nice this watch is?” he asked, looking down again at the watch she'd just sold him.
"Yes, it's nice,” she answered, “but I really wanted something new.” He gave her a puzzled look. “Not pre-owned,” she explained.
He opened his mouth, then closed it again. The expression on his face told her he believed he'd seen just about everything, and this transaction capped it all.
Back on the street once more, she felt as if she were walking on air, though her feet and legs were absolutely killing her. How much would a cab to 123rd Street cost? She laughed at herself, because she would never be that much of a spendthrift.
She had only one more stop to make before she went home. For that, she put a bill in her pocket. Back at Bloomingdale's and eager to get onto the subway, she looked around. If she could find the boy, she'd give him the twenty.
But though she spent several minutes in the search, he didn't show up. What a shame. Oh well. She'd make sure someone else in need got the money instead.
At home, before lying down to rest her very tired body and whirling mind, Miriam took the velvet box out of her purse, opened it, and studied the pretty little gold-colored watch.
What a wonderful birthday present it would make. That was the main thing.
She understood, of course, that the two watches she had sold today had been worth a great deal, but this was exactly the one that Nana would like.
God had certainly blessed Miriam today. Her shopping trip had been a great success.
Copyright (c) 2008 G. Miki Hayden
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Fiction: SHALIMAR BEACH by Jean Femling
Free. Craig lets himself drop into the loge seat, four in from the aisle and high above Stadium Court 1 at Indian Wells Tennis Complex, and stretches his legs, luxuriating. Free free free. The crowd is filling in rapidly for the first match, and almost directly below him the players, the bald-headed Pole Bohacik and Rafael Nadal in his signature bright blue shirt, are already warming up. From up here the octagonal stadium is a multicolored basin buzzing with life. Three days of perfect solitude. For Craig the big change starts today—in fact, it's already started. High time; he's forty-one already.
Craig is totally alone; nobody living even knows he's gone to Palm Springs except his dad. Nobody he knows ever sits up here. And nobody's waiting for him or counting on him, no duties that can't be deferred. His ex's lawyers have finally backed off. Just live in the present, like the guru says. Kiss the moment and let it go.
They say Nadal has changed his serve. Craig watches to see if he can pick up the new move. A girl pauses at the end of Craig's aisle and then, breathing audibly, moves in two seats and sits. No babes, he reminds himself. No eye contact. She's trim and curvy enough, in standard khaki shorts, sleeveless shirt, white-billed cap, running shoes—pretty but not beautiful, which is good, always. She stows her Navajo rug-looking bag and water bottle under the seat and slaps her hands over her face, either laughing or crying, he doesn't know which—maybe she doesn't either.
You can always tell a girl raised rich, Craig thinks
, which makes her presence here alone even more unusual. The great haircut, tousled but elegant. The sleeveless shirt of beige linen, with rows of fine tucks. Her fingernails natural pink with perfect moons and little white crescent tips. Rich girls are composed of the best of everything; their very flesh is more refined, like hand-fed Kobe beef.
He's paying too much attention to her. Craig shifts away a quarter turn. Exactly what he intends not to do. He is not his father.
And then she's all tennis from the get-go, sucks up everything going on down there. Never looked at her ticket coming in, which could mean she and he are in the same situation. Craig's loge ticket is for another section over in the sun. This shady section was sold out, but he's gambling there'll be seats enough to go around. Probably someone is meeting her here—also good.
Great tennis. From up here the court is a giant game board, and each player's strategy and responses sharp and indelible. After one of Nadal's brilliant returns Craig and the girl look toward one another and grin in shared appreciation.
At the end of the terrific first set tie break, itself worth the whole trip, a couple leans in to ask the girl to move over so they can sit in the end seats, and she does, giving Craig an apologetic glance as she settles beside him. He feels a pleasant warmth emanating from the smooth, tanned thigh just inches from his. After the second set he excuses himself and asks her to hold his seat while he goes out.
"Don't be too long,” she says. “You don't want to miss any of this."
"Not a chance,” Craig says.
In the third set they exchange appreciative glances and then brief comments after a choice rally or superior point.
"Aren't these great sight lines?” Craig asks. “Like we're hanging out in space."
Half turned away, she murmurs, “It makes me want to jump,” so softly that he wonders if he imagined it.
At the end of the match (Nadal takes it) they stand in the roar, applaud, stretch. “I'm Craig.” He holds out his hand.
She hesitates, considering. “Deena.” She touches his fingertips.
They're both from L.A. Deena loves to watch tennis more than any of her friends do, she says; that's why she comes down alone. He tells her he's an accountant in the entertainment business, and at once wishes he'd lied: It sounds so disgustingly boring. Who would know? Deena says she's a project manager. Craig doesn't believe it, figures she just says it to fit in.
She leaves her bag with him while she goes out, taking only a small clutch. She's beginning to relax around him, and Craig starts to think of her as a possible dinner partner, at the least. Nothing can come of it, no danger of that: He has far travels planned ahead, the Adriatic coast, Nepal, Antarctica. Maybe Deena is just an opening note, part of the prelude. She comes back slightly flushed, refreshed, and sparkling.
The section is full; somebody will surely uproot them now. But the day just gets better. The next match is a grueling three-setter between a Russian and an Argentinian, with endless rallies and frequent service breaks. Deena is getting sunburned, her nose shiny. She likes the Argentinian, he comes to the net more, besides which the Russian infuriates her by arguing so much. Basically he's a big baby, she says—here he is doing his life's work and he won't even try to control himself. They bet ten dollars on the outcome. The Argentinian skids and falls, bloodying his elbow, and the Russian gets mad and throws his racket, but finally wins.
Deena takes out a ten dollar bill and hands it to him as they make their way slowly out and down the stairs, letting the crowd flow around them. From the landing Craig sees the snack stands and smells sausages and suggests they grab something.
"Actually,” Deena says, “I'm too hungry for a snack.” She takes out two energy bars and hands him one.
"That's good,” Craig says. “Actually, I was hoping for the pleasure of your company at dinner."
"I can do that,” she says. “One thing: no hookup.” Startled, he doesn't answer at once. “No sex,” she says, over enunciating.
"You're the boss, ma'am,” he drawls sarcastically. “Strictly your call, lady."
Deena smiles. “Good."
Craig feels like he's just been slapped. She doesn't mean it. After all, she's still here with him. That speaks louder than words.
Passing through the exit, Deena veers toward the ticket windows. “I'm going to get my loge for tomorrow now, to be sure,” she says. “I've got stuff to do first thing in the morning."
"Good idea.” Craig does likewise.
They meet again at seven in the lobby of Deena's hotel, a monster resort with artificial “lakes” outside and in. “Not my style at all,” Deena says. “Our office manager booked it for me.” She's wearing a white sleeveless shirt and trousers, elegant but severe, and lets him take her elbow as they step onto the little boat gliding them across the indoor water to the restaurant of their choice.
Admiring their reflection in the water, he says, “Good-looking couple."
"You think so? I think it's outrageous.” Deena launches into a diatribe about Palm Springs's one hundred twenty golf courses draining the valley's aquifer. Oh God, Craig thinks, she's a greenie. Here we go.
"You've heard it all before, right?” she says, and quits. She orders a steak and fries, not one of those girlie salads, appreciates his choice of wine, of which he drinks most, encourages him to talk about himself, and eats everything in sight, including the bread. An excellent sign—she has hearty appetites.
Craig tells her about his now ex-wife, the civilized divorce, and his resolve to get away and rediscover himself. He debates aloud the Adriatic (possibly Nepal, definitely Antarctica) and inevitably brings up Dad, whose accountant he is (there's one of his major mistakes). Charming Robbie, the producer, instant center of every group, like a door blown open into any room. A specialist in pleasure. Not that good looking, but women adore him. When he moves in, marriages crash and burn. Probably I sound jealous, he thinks. Probably I damn-all am.
Eventually Craig remembers to ask Deena about herself, but he mostly forgets to listen to the answers. She lives in West L.A., alone except for her old Burmese cat Molasses, she's a project manager for a big developer, and aside from the tennis, she's here on a pilgrimage.
"I'm going down to the Salton Sea tomorrow morning. Early.” She starts to gather herself together. “Are you familiar with the Sea?"
"Never been there. I hear it's the pits. A disaster."
"Another world. You'd have to see it to understand,” she said. “I grew up in the desert. Left there fifteen years ago, and I've never been back. It's time."
"It's really early.” Craig, annoyed, looks at his watch.
"Not for me. Come on, I'll buy you a nightcap."
At the bar she gets him a snifter of very good brandy, and then another. “What do you mean, you grew up in the desert?” he asks.
"My daddy and my momma were rednecks. That's what they called themselves,” she says. “Desert rats. They didn't care for other people at all. Had a big dog and a couple big shotguns. I had to fight them to get on the school bus. I expect they're still out there somewhere."
"You want to go and see them tomorrow?” Craig doesn't believe a word of it. Sounds like the kind of story Robbie would tell.
"Oh no. They moved on,” Deena says “No forwarding address. I'm going down to Shalimar Beach. I lived there a while. Actually, what I miss the most are the stars. Out on the desert. They're wonderful."
She points at his second empty glass. “After all that sun, you better take it easy."
Craig takes the hint, begins to sag and wobble, and almost tips over a barstool.
"Oh, wow,” she says, disgusted but not angry. “You can't drive in that shape. You better come upstairs and get your head clear. I may have something to help..."
In her room Craig drops onto one of the queen beds and shuts down dead asleep for a few minutes. When he comes to, Deena's in cotton pajamas, just getting into the other bed. He props himself unsteadily on one elbow, looking across at her.
"All right,” she says, not friendly. She pulls something out from under her pillow and brings it over to show him. It's an old wooden-handled kitchen paring knife, slid inside a man's folded handkerchief, its blade sharpened to a razor edge that has a wave in it. “Feel it,” Deena says. “Feel the point."
He does. “You know this is totally unnecessary,” he says.
"Right under my pillow,” she says. “Good night,” she adds, turning out the light.
In the night Craig finds himself in the bathroom, peeing by the dim light from outside.
"Close the door!” she yells.
When Craig wakes at first light, Deena is in the bathroom, dressed and drying her hair. “Why didn't you wake me?” he says, jumping up.
"I wasn't aware I'd invited you along."
"Ah, come on. After you've whetted my appetite?” His mouth feels coated and slimy, and his shirt smells. “Ten minutes. At least let me get my toothbrush and a clean shirt out of my car."
"Use mine; I can get another down there.” The idea is revolutionary. He slathers her brush with toothpaste, and even so can barely get it in his mouth. He's shocked at himself—what about kissing? American culture is sick.
Ten minutes later, they're gliding along empty, palm-lined boulevards.
"This is the last shade you'll see,” Deena says. “Enjoy it.” This morning she looks quite different, her hair pulled up and hiding behind big, round sunglasses.
Without consulting him, Deena drives through a McDonald's and gets three Egg McMuffins, two for him, and two almost-drinkable cups of coffee. “Cuisine later,” she says.
Craig decides to apologize for last night.
"No big,” she says. “I've had my ... episodes, encounters with uncontrolled substances."
"Had, you say. You mean that's all over."
"Oh yes,” Deena says. “It's all all over."
On the highway heading south, Deena points out green fields and palm groves off to their right. “Where your salad last night came from."
Buildings dwindle and scatter, giving way mostly to barren flatlands with the ruddy desert range beyond. On Craig's right, the Salton Sea appears, a silver-blue sheet stretching southward to a hazy, indistinct horizon.
AHMM, September 2008 Page 15