So I didn’t really know if it was serious or not, but I wanted Simon to think it was. And I also wanted him to think that my very jealous boyfriend would beat him up if he found him at my apartment.
“It is serious. He just doesn’t have a key because he’s out of town so much. He’s a baseball player,” I stressed importantly.
“Just dandy,” Simon remarked without enthusiasm. He never really gave a hoot about sports. “So if he’s out of town a lot, he won’t mind me staying here then. It’s not like I will be in his way or anything.”
I shook my head defiantly. “No.” It reeked of a rotten idea.
“Come on, Lizzie. For old time’s sake?” Simon was practically on his knees.
“For old time’s sake is exactly why I don't want you staying here, Simon. If you’ll remember—”
“I swear to Christ I’ve changed, Lizzie. I promise I won’t be the wanker I was back then. Please? You won’t even know I’m about.” As he pleaded, he gazed into my eyes like a gazelle being mauled by a lion.
I rubbed my temples. I could feel a migraine coming on. Maybe it wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world. I mean, it would only be for a few days, and even though he’s a real jerk face, I can be gracious and try to forget the past. It’s not like what he did could ever hurt me again, right?
I sighed audibly. I can’t believe I’m going to do this. Certain that I was going to regret this for as long as I lived, I opened my mouth and said, “Ok, Simon. But only for a few days.” Simon beamed as he bounded to the top of the chair like a drunk leprechaun and retrieved my key. When he was on the ground again, I poked his chest with my finger. “And you stay on the couch. You don’t dare come near my bedroom.”
Simon winked. “Are you playing hard to get?”
I shoved him. “I’m dead serious, Simon. Stay on the couch and out of my way. You said I wouldn’t even know you were there? Well, make that happen.”
“Of course, of course. I wouldn’t dream of making this difficult for you.” He unlocked the door and stepped aside with a sweeping motion. “Ladies first.”
“Gee, thanks. It is my apartment.” Frowning, I stepped inside onto the plush carpet. And then, Simon Collingsworth, my ex-husband, walked back into my life again.
Two
“Have you seriously lost your marbles?” Nora asked incredulously as she licked the salt off of the rim of her margarita glass. “You invited Simon to move back in with you?”
I cringed. “For the record, I did not invite him. He kind of pushed his way into the apartment.”
Nora noisily slurped her margarita before commenting. “Oh, so he had a gun that he put to your head and forced himself into your apartment? You really should alert the police then.”
“No,” I retorted defensively. I took a large sip of my own frozen drink and instantly got a brain freeze. Damn it that hurts. I pinched the bridge of my nose with my fingers, attempting to ward off the inevitable headache. “He had the key to my apartment.”
Nora stared at me, her brown eyes as big as saucers. “You mean to tell me that you never changed the locks after he moved out? After what happened?” She shook her head as she ran her finger along the rim of the glass, collecting salt on the tip. “You really are certifiable. I know a great psychologist you should see.” She popped her finger in her mouth and sucked the salt off.
I ignored her remark about seeing a therapist. “Well, no. I forgot about the key. I mean, after all that was going on at that time, getting the key back from my ex-husband was really the last thing on my mind. But it turns out it was a good thing he had the key or I would have been locked out of my apartment. And I never would have made it to my interview on time.”
“Did you get the job?”
Shrugging, I replied, “I won’t know for a few weeks.”
“Is that what they told you? Yeah, you didn’t get the job then.” Nora bit her lime and made a bitter face.
“Gee thanks, Nora. Way to boost my spirits. Knock me out while I’m down, why don’t you? With friends like you, who needs enemies?”
“Those are way too many clichés in one sentence. I’m starting to realize why you never made it as a writer,” she playfully commented before sticking her tongue out at me.
I leaned back in my chair, clutching my chest. “Wow, you’re harsh tonight.”
“Hey, I’m just being honest.” Dipping a chip in the salsa, she continued, “It’s about time someone was honest with you.”
“Once again, thanks so much, buddy.” No wonder why I was starting to need more and more alcohol to get through a dinner with my so-called best friend. She was a bitch, plain and simple.
“Speaking of honesty, here’s a piece of candid advice.” Nora grabbed the stack of hot pink sticky notes that was perched on the edge of the table, and started rummaging in her oversized Coach bag for a pen.
Allow me to explain. I carried post-its everywhere. I had even devised a color coded system to organize them. The pink ones were my favorite. They were for writing down “ideas”. Blue ones were for appointments and people I needed to call. Purple ones were my cleaning and things-to-do-around-the-house lists. Green/yellow was for errands. It was sort of like a compulsion or an obsession according to Nora, the therapist. (I wasn’t really listening, so I’m not sure which she said it was.) Ideas flew in and out of my head constantly and the writer in me didn’t want to lose a single thought. I tended to lose the purple sticky notes a lot though. Nora told me that it was my subconscious rebelling against cleaning and having a tidy apartment. She was probably right about that.
“Why are you touching my sticky notes?” I demanded, trying to snatch them away from her, like a mama bear protecting her cubs.
Nora held them out of my reach. “You’ll see in a moment.” She clicked the pen and started scribbling.
“I thought you hated my sticky notes. You said they were dumb and I should just use the memo pad on my phone,” I reminded her as I craned my neck, trying to read upside down.
Nora proudly shoved the pad across the table. It read, Note to self: change the locks.
She was smirking as I ripped the note off and crumbled it up. “Very funny. You’re abusing my sticky notes. They’re for good ideas. Not sarcastic comments. And that was the wrong color anyway.”
“It isn’t a just good idea. It’s a fabulous idea. Simon is a total asshole.” She took a bite of her quesadilla.
Simon was going to be a hard sell to Nora. We had been friends for way too long and she had been privy to way too many details to ever find Simon remotely appealing. In fact, she had been the one who…
Nora interrupted my thoughts by reminding me that she also had a key to my apartment and could have unlocked the door for me.
“I didn’t have my phone. I was locked out,” I stressed.
Nora pulled the cheesy tortilla away from her mouth and added, “The Super has a key, too.” She broke off the strand of cheese with her fingers.
“I know. But I was naked.” I reached across the table and broke off a tiny section of Nora’s quesadilla, just as she dropped the piece that was in her immaculately manicured hand.
“You slept with Simon?” she screeched.
“No!” I yelped, lowering my head in humiliation. “Keep your voice down!” Several people at the table next to us turned and glared at me. I’m sure they were thinking, tramp. “Nobody slept with anybody. He came to the door right after I got out of the shower. And I was in a towel. And I ended up locked out.” As I attempted to explain myself, I realized when I said the words out loud, it sounded more and more like I really was a crazy person.
Nora shook her head. “I can’t even...seriously, Elizabeth, how do you get yourself into these predicaments? I think we need to put a shock collar on you and I’ll remotely send you a jolt before you can do something stupid.”
“Really nice. Once again, so glad you’re my friend and not my enemy.”
“You don’t want to know what I do to my enemies
,” Nora cackled.
“I know what you do to them. I was married to one of them, remember?”
“It’s a good thing I stepped in,” Nora said. “You get into way too much trouble without me.”
As much as I hated Nora constantly reminding me of my mistakes, I could see her point. It always seemed as if I were getting myself into these unbelievable jams. Like the way I met Simon.
I was shopping alone at the Short Hills Mall one afternoon right after I graduated college. Some friend of a friend that I hardly knew had invited me to a party in the Hamptons the following weekend. I was the daughter of a bank manager from Bloomfield, not the child of a restaurant chain owner or executive producer of a very popular ABC drama. However, I had an unquenchable desire to impress these people and possibly be invited into their circle of friends in order to break into the cut throat world of journalism. Associating myself with these “snobs” could present opportunities I wouldn’t have under normal circumstances. The only problem was, this party was formal and I had absolutely nothing to wear. And I was unequivocally broke.
Figuring that there was no other possible solution, I swiped Dad’s credit card. I knew he wouldn’t ever deny his princess a dress for the ball, but I was scared to death to actually ask. My dad was an intimidating man despite the fact that he was short and fat. He was kind of like Napoleon. And he could be twice as mean. For some crazy reason, I thought stealing his credit card and dealing with the consequences later seemed like a much better idea than actually asking for it.
So there I was in the department store with the perfect dress. It was sapphire blue, which was always my favorite color to wear because some guy in college told me it complimented my beautiful eyes. Of course, I’m pretty sure he was just trying to get me to sleep with him, but hey, a compliment’s a compliment. Anyway, the dress. The straps of this particular dress crisscrossed in the back where there was not much other material. The front revealed just a hint of my abundant cleavage; enough to tease, but it left plenty to the imagination. It somehow lifted my pancake butt to the point where it actually appeared normal looking. This dress was an absolute necessity.
I nearly had a heart attack when I saw the price tag of four-hundred and fifty dollars. Riddled with anxiety, I took deep, even breaths and I reminded myself that I had toiled for four long years and I deserved the dress. Convincing myself that I needed the dress, and damn I would have the dress, I confidently strode up to the cashier and laid my father's platinum card on the marble counter. The perky cashier beamed at me as she rang up my purchase, sweetly inquiring if I found everything ok. I smiled back and continued the mindless banter about the weather and the benefits of push up bras, until the cashier attempted to swipe the card. The register made a deafening screeching noise that did not sound like, “Thanks for shopping at our store”.
It was then that the cashier’s face hardened into stone. “May I see your ID?”
I could feel my face burning as I squeaked out, “Is there a problem?”
The cashier narrowed her smoky lined lids at me. “Yes,” she replied in a tone quite unlike her previous bubbly one. “This card was reported stolen.”
I almost choked on the gum I had been snapping. How did he know I took it already? He was napping when I left the house a half hour ago! Does he check his pockets when he wakes up like we’re thieves or something?
My face grew even warmer as I realized, we were thieves. My brothers stole cash out of my Dad’s wallet and my mother’s purse all the time. In high school, Sonny ran a gambling ring in study hall and was constantly in need of money. Pete just blew his money on girls and his car. Neither of them were fond of working and “borrowed” money from my parents all the time. And neither of them ever got busted. Which is probably why I thought I wouldn’t get caught if I did the same thing.
Little did I realize, taking a credit card was a sure fire way to get caught. Nobody could trace missing cash, but a credit card could be reported stolen.
Duh, Elizabeth, you’re a lousy thief. For a brief second, I considered asking Pete and Sonny for some tips for next time. No, no, no…there is no next time, Elizabeth! You’re dead where you stand after Dad finds out about this one! It was then that I realized the cashier was now dialing the phone under the counter.
“What are you doing?” I asked with concern. Oh God, please don’t be calling my dad! I could feel my hands starting to shake. I shoved them in the pockets of my shorts, hoping to appear cool and nonchalant and not like a thieving heroin addict.
“I’m calling mall security. That’s the procedure when we get a stolen card.”
I scrambled to explain. “The card wasn’t stolen. It’s my father’s card and he has, um, heart trouble and he couldn’t come with me to the mall, so he gave me his card.” It wasn’t totally a lie. My dad did have heart trouble. Brought on by my mother’s love of cooking with heavy sauces, frying meats, and having Italian bread at every meal.
The cashier ignored me as she impatiently tapped the card on the counter and craned her neck over the racks in the store, looking for the rent-a-cop. “There he is,” she remarked to no one in particular. I turned around as the burly security guard came into view and my jaw practically hit the floor.
"Elizabeth Parisi?" The recognition on his face was apparent. Oh, shit.
If you thought being caught with a credit card stolen from my own father was humiliating, imagine if the guy you went to the prom with turns out to be the mall security guard that comes to the scene. That would be downright mortifying, right? And when that same guy held a grudge for being dumped the day after the prom, you could bet this was about to get ugly.
“Hi, Steve!” I waved happily, ignoring my trembling hand. “Wow, it’s been a long time!” I held out my arms for a hug, but he ignored me. I casually dropped my arms at my side to avoid looking like an even bigger moron.
“There seems to be a small misunderstanding here.” I smiled brightly. Steve grunted as he stepped up to the counter.
“What seems to be the problem, Frannie?” he asked the cashier as he squeezed behind the counter. Steve was what you might call a “big boy”. I don’t remember him being quite so husky in high school, though. Maybe all those cinnamon buns in the food court were going to his hips. And his butt. And his gut.
Frannie, who was now tapping her French manicured nails on the marble counter, shoved the credit card under Steve’s nose. “This girl,” she shot daggers at me with her eyes as she spoke, “tried to use a stolen credit card.”
Steve took the credit card from her hand and squinted to read the front. “Is this true, Elizabeth?” he asked as he peered at me.
“No, no, Steve. It’s my Dad’s credit card.” I leaned over the counter to point to the name (and to also allow him a view of my gratuitous knockers), but Steve possessively pulled the card to his chest and ignored mine. He was just loving this opportunity to play cop, wasn’t he? Probably tired of chasing the teenagers stealing pennies from the fountain all day.
“Then why was it reported stolen?” Steve asked, folding his arms across his formidable chest. He was squeezing so tightly that it looked like he needed a bra.
I shook my head, lamenting the apparent loss of Steve’s appeal. He was a decent looking guy in high school, but he was dumb as a box of rocks. Sort of like my brothers. I only went out with him because as of senior year, I had only dated one other guy, who was such a geek I was embarrassed to be seen with him. He was even more of a loser than I was back then. I didn’t dare introduce him to my family. Pete and Sonny would have eaten him alive.
So when Steve, a well-liked guy, asked me out, I jumped at the chance. I even had sex with him on our first date, something I don’t normally do, but I was not going to college as a virgin. After going on subsequent dates, I realized he was such a moron I could feel my IQ drop every time I was in his presence. Yet, I couldn’t bear the thought of going to the prom without a date. Hence why I dumped him as the limo pulled up in front of my hous
e to drop me off after the prom.
“My Dad has been stressed out lately. He must have forgotten that he gave the card to me to use,” I replied sweetly, attempting to bat my eyelashes. Hopefully, Steve would remember how much he liked me. Or at least, how much he claimed that he had liked me. Before he wrote the “C” word on my locker.
“It was reported stolen Ms. Parisi,” Steve repeated. Ms. Parisi? Really, Steve? “So we’re obligated to call the authorities.”
My smile faded. “The authorities? But aren’t you...”
Steve cut me off. “I’m going to have to ask you to accompany me to the security office.” He circumvented the counter and tightly gripped my wrist. A small crowd had gathered behind us, which made me want to crawl under the counter and die. Meanwhile, Steve seemed to be having the time of his life. This was probably the most action he’s seen since the Gap robbery last year, I thought crossly. He was taking way too much pleasure in my pain.
I reluctantly followed him to the security office which was thankfully, only a few doors down. Everyone we passed seemed to be laughing and pointing at me. I prayed silently that I wouldn’t see anyone that I knew. Especially my father.
Steve unlocked the door and clicked on the light. He tossed his keys on the solitary desk in the center and pointed to the chair against the wall. “Sit,” he ordered me. I sat obediently and unhappily. Steve dropped his squishy body into the chair behind the desk, folded his beefy hands and stared at me.
I chuckled nervously as I attempted small talk. “So, how’s things?”
Steve frowned, forming deep creases on his forehead. “I take my job very seriously, Elizabeth.” He took a notebook out of his breast pocket and clicked his pen.
“I’m sure you do,” I stammered.
“Now, when did your father allegedly give you this credit card? Please tell the truth since we’ll also be taking his statement.”
[2013] Note to Self- Change the Locks Page 2