I tried to talk with Minnie. I tried to get her to leave. I KILLER BLONDE 113 all but ordered her to pack up and follow Jennifer. But she refused, in that stubborn way weak people sometimes have.
Later, I told myself I tried. I really did. I knew it was Minnie's last chance.
But I didn't know everything, the way Jennifer thought I did. I didn't know it was also Vicki's. Chapter 4
Minnie was different after Jennifer left. She was even qui- eter, if that was possible. But her silence had an angry edge. Now I heard things slammed around on her desk.
Once, I caught the high-pitched sound of breaking glass. In the mood she was in, I was afraid Minnie might slash her wrists. I ran over to see if she was okay. Minnie was weeping over a broken coffee mug, hot tears mingling with the shat- tered blue glass.
``It slipped,'' she said. ``It was a present from Jennifer.''
But I saw the gouge in the plaster by her desk and the milky coffee running down her wall. Minnie threw that cup in a fit of rage.
So why didn't Minnie get angry when Vicki loaded her with Jennifer's work? Why didn't she demand that Vicki give her a raise for doing two jobs? Why was Minnie such a dishrag?
Little Vicki was a big bully. I knew that. But now I saw that side of her unbridled. When Minnie didn't fight back, Vicki began to openly torment the poor thing. A few men walked away when she started, but the boys joined her. Pick- ing on Minnie became the new indoor sport.
Vicki started it, with her cruelly accurate Minnie imita- tions. She would hunch her shoulders, screw up her face, cry, and creep about.
Bobby was equally vicious. His cries of ``Squeak! Squeak!'' followed Minnie down the hall.
Trust Jimmy to use sex as a weapon. He brought in the infamous April issue of Penthouse, the first national maga- zine to show pubic hair. He left the thing open on her desk. It was pretty dirty for those days. Minnie blushed so vio-
114 KILLER BLONDE 115 lently, I was afraid she'd have a stroke. She couldn't bring herself to touch the magazine.
I picked it up and dropped it down the incinerator.
I was sure Bobby put that lifelike rubber mouse on Min- nie's desk. It made poor Minnie shriek.
Next, a mousetrap snapped at her sensible shoes.
Then a wedge of port-wine cheese found its way into Min- nie's typewriter. What a mess that was. I had to send out the typewriter for cleaning. If Vicki was any kind of boss, she'd have stopped the games right there. That cleaning cost the company thirty-nine dollars. The game was getting out of hand.
Irish Johnny would hang around, waiting for Minnie to make her next ugly discovery. He'd pretend to sympathize, then run back and report every agonized word to Vicki.
I couldn't do anything to stop Vicki and the boys, but I refused to take part in the harassment. I would check Min- nie's desk a couple of times a day for mice, cheese, or, once, Mickey Mouse ears. I threw anything I found in the trash.
I could always tell when she'd found another malicious surprise: Minnie would burst into noisy tears. That woman could weep waterfalls. I wanted to hug her. I wanted to slap some sense into her.
``Have you no shame?'' I asked Jimmy, when I caught him leaving more cheese in Minnie's typewriter. It was a slice of Swiss this time, a bit stinky but harmless. He shrugged but didn't answer.
``How can you torment that poor woman?'' I said to Bobby when I surprised him planting mouse poison on her desk.
``How can we not?'' Bobby said with a sneer. ``She's such a crybaby.''
I wished Minnie would stand up for herself. I tried to coach her. One Monday I found her crying in the bathroom after she discovered a windup mouse spinning in circles on her desk blotter.
``Now listen, Minnie,'' I said. ``Here's what you do: Don't cry when they leave that stuff on your desk. That's what they want. It just encourages them.''
``I can't help it,'' Minnie wailed. ``It hurts.''
``Thank them for the cute toys. Pretend you like the stuff, and this harassment will stop,'' I said. 116 Elaine Viets
``I c-c-can't.'' She wept. ``I don't like it.''
You can't give someone a backbone implant, I decided.
Finally, even these sadists were bored with Minnie's mo- notonous weeping. Either that, or they got tired of buying mouse novelties at the dime store and lugging cheese in their briefcases. Bobby forgot about a hunk of Limburger one August day and had to throw out a Dunhill briefcase. That made him almost as weepy as Minnie.
When that game ran down, Vicki started another. This one was more subtle. It took me a while to see what she was up to. She was suddenly, suspiciously kind to Minnie-- no mimicry, no mice, no mocking laughter. Poor Minnie started coming out of her shell, or her mouse hole. She even smiled a bit.
Then Vicki called Minnie into her office. Our blond boss was at her most charming. She had me fetch herbal tea for Minnie. I stayed outside Vicki's door to hear what she was plotting.
``Now, Minnie,'' Vicki said. ``I need you to work on a special project. The Redacher proposal is vital to our depart- ment, and only you can do it. You have to help me by doing the best job possible.''
These words were specially designed to appeal to Minnie. She threw herself into the task. Minnie came to work so early and stayed so late, I was worried about her health.
One day, I left a message on Bobby's desk while he was at lunch. I saw a file labeled REDACHER PROPOSAL under his phone. I opened the folder. Inside was a half-finished pro- posal, with sheets of in-house facts and figures that had to have been supplied by Vicki.
I knew Vicki's game now: She'd put two people on the same job, but had given only one the inside information. Bobby's proposal would be chosen.
I tried to give Minnie one of my ``Dutch aunt'' talks with- out going into details. I couldn't tell her I'd been snooping around Bobby's desk.
``You can't trust that woman,'' I told her. ``Did you ask her if you're the only person working on that project? Did she give you any in-house numbers? If she hasn't, Vicki is setting you up for a fall.''
``No, Margery, you're wrong. Vicki wouldn't do that. This is my big chance,'' Minnie said. KILLER BLONDE 117
She was hopelessly trusting. I'd failed again.
Meanwhile, Vicki invited Minnie for little salad lunches at Renee's Tea Cozy. She even took her shoe shopping, the ultimate female bonding ritual. Minnie bought brown lace- ups that would be too old for me now, and I'm seventy-six. Vicki bought herself frivolous pink heels.
After three weeks of nonstop work, Minnie put her fin- ished project in a serious black binder and came shyly up to my desk.
``Margery,'' she said, ``would you read this for me?''
I read it and declared it was the best thing Minnie had ever done. I meant it. Minnie was overjoyed. But I had an ominous feeling things were going to go very wrong, very soon.
I hung around Vicki's office and saw Minnie proudly hand in her work. Vicki was all pretty blond hair, pink ruffles, and pleasant smiles. She paged through the proposal, while Minnie sat there looking touchingly hopeful.
It took Vicki less than a minute to crush her. ``I'm sorry, Minnie,'' she said dismissively. ``It's not what I had in mind. I wanted to give you a chance, but you're not quite good enough. Bobby's proposal is much better.''
Minnie looked as if she'd been slammed with a cinder block. She wobbled out of Vicki's office like a punch-drunk prizefighter. I was sure there would be another crying jag in the women's bathroom.
But I was wrong. This time Minnie didn't creep off to cry. I never saw her cry again. It was if she'd wept away all her tears. Now she was dry and hard.
Minnie straightened her shoulders, held her head high, and walked right out the office door.
Good, I thought. If that young woman has any sense, she'll keep on walking. Chapter 5
I heard what happened next thanks to Mr. Rick, my hairstyl- ist. He had the most fashionable salon on Las Olas--the Cut Direct.
Mr. Rick believed that he looked like Paul McCartney, so he dre
ssed like the cute Beatle. The hairstylist wore a florid mustache and a coat festooned with braid and epaulettes like Paul on the Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band album.
Alas, Mr. Rick resembled the rogue-nosed Ringo more than Paul, especially in profile. Still, I appreciated his sarto- rial courage. Except for this one delusion, Mr. Rick's fashion judgment was flawless.
Speaking of courage, Minnie walked into Mr. Rick's salon without an appointment and said, ``I'm sick of me. Make me someone else.''
Only a desperate woman said that to a hairstylist. It was an act of bravado, a fashion free fall. It was doubly brave in a salon painted with showers of psychedelic stars and rainbows. It took still more courage to say it to a stylist dressed like a Gilbert and Sullivan pirate.
Maybe my lectures about standing up for herself had fi- nally worked. Maybe Minnie had had enough. For whatever reason, she was ready to be a new woman.
Mr. Rick sat Minnie in a red chair and tied a pink plastic cape under her chin. She looked better already with some color near her face.
To the customers in the Cut Direct, Minnie seemed hope- less. But Mr. Rick walked around the red chair, studying her.
He examined her hair closely. It was the color of cold gravy and styled to emphasize her large ears. He considered her sharp nose and pointed chin. He noted her frumpy
118 KILLER BLONDE 119 ankle-length brown jumper and big fat purse. Her flat shoes were styleless canoes.
But he also saw that her hazel eyes were large and intri- guing. He watched them change from brown to green and back. He gently lifted her sheepdog bangs and saw a high, noble forehead and well-arched brows. Her skin was clear and unblemished.
Mr. Rick brandished his scissors, shoved back his braided cuffs, and announced, ``I'll make you a blonde. You'll have more fun.''
``I'm not quite ready for that,'' Minnie said, gripping the arms of her chair.
``Then I'll give you blond streaks. You can use a little fun,'' Mr. Rick said.
There was no arguing when Mr. Rick took that tone. He'd used it on me once when he refused to make me a redhead like Vanessa Redgrave in the movie Camelot. Eventually I came to my senses.
Mr. Rick got out his mixing bowls and brushes. Streaks were a painful process thirty years ago. Mr. Rick put a plas- tic cap full of holes on Minnie's head, then pulled the hair he wanted to dye blond through the cap with what looked like a crochet hook. Minnie never flinched or said, ``Ouch.'' After working with Vicki, she was probably used to pain.
Once that was over, the rest was easy.
Mr. Rick brought her a tall iced tea and a frivolous maga- zine. Minnie seemed quite happy relaxing and reading fash- ion fluff. I don't think she ever had what we'd call a mental health day. She even got a manicure while waiting for her transformation.
You probably think highlights were invented a few years back, but they were big thirty years ago, too. Take a look at Mrs. Robinson in The Graduate. It's those streaks that make her look so wicked.
Minnie wasn't wicked when Mr. Rick finished his cutting and streaking, but she did look different. She wasn't a blond exactly, but the drab brunette was gone. Her soft new cut hid her ears and exposed a profile that belonged on a cameo.
The blond highlights gave her round face definition--and cheekbones. They also brought out her hazel eyes. Her sharp nose assumed a classical shape. Her pale skin had a pearly sheen. 120 Elaine Viets
``Very nice,'' Mr. Rick said.
Minnie blushed.
``Promise me you won't wear brown or gray,'' Mr. Rick said. ``It's so bad for your skin. It drains the color from your face.''
``But I have to look professional at the office,'' Minnie said.
``Try navy blue with a plain white blouse, if you're not ready for anything more interesting.'' Mr. Rick handed her the card of a fashionable shop on Las Olas. ``Ask for Marie. She'll help you pick out something.''
``Is it expensive?'' Minnie asked timidly.
``Of course,'' Mr. Rick said. ``But you're worth it.''
Minnie looked as if she'd never considered this before. Then she smiled at her new self in the mirror and said, ``Why, yes, I am.''
She started to put on that sad brown scarf, but Mr. Rick snatched it off her head. ``That's mine,'' he said. ``It's part of my fee.''
Minnie handed it over, and he dropped it delicately in the trash.
``But--'' she said.
``No buts about it. Head scarves are for old women.'' Min- nie looked bewildered, but she accepted this decree.
``One more thing,'' Mr. Rick said. ``Burn those brown flats.''
The next day, Minnie teetered into our office on three- inch heels. She hadn't quite mastered walking in spikes yet, but her attempts were cute, like a new colt learning to stand. She walked with a lighter step, and it took me a moment to see why. The twenty-pound old-lady purse was gone, re- placed by a small swinging shoulder bag.
Minnie wore a tailored navy suit and a white blouse. Now you could see she had a smart little figure and sweet, slen- der legs.
The men in the office, married and single, suddenly sat up and got that glazed look. Jimmy told me that men are suckers for white blouses and neat navy suits. They start fantasizing about parochial schoolgirls and airline steward- esses. We didn't call them flight attendants then.
Vicki tip-tapped into work shortly after Minnie, but she KILLER BLONDE 121 didn't get her usual adoring reception from the men. Her frothy pink suit seemed overdone compared to Minnie's trim navy number, and her makeup was a little heavy.
Vicki noted Minnie's new look, but she didn't say any- thing. She walked into her office and shut the door a fraction too hard. When I brought in her morning coffee, Vicki's face was disfigured by an unattractive frown. It gave her deep lines between her brows, and Botox was thirty years away.
Minnie blushed at all the new attention, and the guys found that delicious. Men are suckers for shy women. I knew there would be no more nasty surprises on Minnie's desk, and I foolishly thought our office would settle down. I should have been watching more carefully. Instead I sat there swol- len with self-satisfaction, too pleased with myself to pay at- tention to the danger signs. I thought my lectures had finally gotten through to Minnie. I thought I'd changed things for the better at that office.
Now men stopped by Minnie's desk just to say hi. Instead of rubber mice and smelly cheese, they brought her little delicacies: anise cookies from Angelo's Italian bakery, strong shots of Cuban coffee from the corner bodega, or bagels with blueberry cream cheese from Levine's Deli. At first I thought the gifts were to make up for their bad behavior. Then I realized they were tributes to Minnie's newfound beauty.
The men started showing off like high school boys. ``Hey, Minnie,'' Irish Johnny said, ``watch this!''
He lobbed a paper ball into the wastebasket across the room, a decent shot for a desk jockey. Minnie applauded prettily, and Irish Johnny's ears turned red. I wondered if he was going to run back to Vicki with that story.
Even the boys were deserting Queen Vicki.
Jimmy, always a sucker for a pretty face, was the first to publicly defect. He asked Minnie to lunch. I took him aside and said, ``You hurt that girl, Jimmy, and I'll fix it so you're singing in the Vatican choir.''
``There's nothing wrong with lunch with a colleague.''
``No, there's not,'' I said. ``Just keep your ham on your own sandwich, and there's no problem.''
Jimmy made sure everyone noticed when he escorted 122 Elaine Viets Minnie to Harper's steakhouse. Irish Johnny slunk over to watch them, but I don't think he saw anything worth re- porting. Minnie wasn't that kind of girl.
Bobby was out of the office on a business lunch in Pompano.
For the first time ever, Vicki had to eat a chicken-salad sandwich alone at her desk.
She scowled when she saw Minnie and Jimmy coming back from lunch at two o'clock, laughing over some silly remark. Vicki called Jimmy into her office and scolded him for having scotch on his breath. ``You must maint
ain a pro- fessional demeanor at this office,'' she said. ``And that means no two-hour lunches.''
Jimmy did a devastating imitation of her lecture later for our benefit. Even Minnie couldn't suppress a smirk.
``Can you believe it?'' Jimmy asked. ``The bitch is gone for three hours most afternoons, but she has the nerve to criticize me for a long lunch.''
It was the first time he'd referred to Vicki as ``the bitch'' behind her back. Within the week, all the boys called her that. We women already used that name.
As Minnie grew more popular, Vicki pouted and became surly. She no longer flirted and flipped her blond hair quite so often. The men hung around Minnie like she was the last lemonade stand in the Mojave.
Elaine Viets & Victoria Laurie, Nancy Martin, Denise Swanson - Drop-Dead Blonde (v5.0) (pdf) Page 13