You've Been Volunteered

by Laurie Gelman

  “Where are you?” Ron asked when I picked up.

  “Sorry. I just placed the bet. I thought I was going to get arrested because I guess I looked like an insane person when I ran up to the table—”

  “The cab is loaded up, so hurry,” he interrupted me.

  “Okay.” I hung up and had started walking away when I heard a voice say, “Black 22!” I turned back, and the croupier lady was smiling at me.

  “We have a winner!” she enthused. I was dumbfounded.

  “You’re kidding! Holy shit! I can’t believe it.” I was so happy that I was bringing home some winnings for Kay. I figured that I had probably doubled her money, but then the dealer shoved a large stack of chips at me.

  “Is this mine?”

  She nodded. “Would you like to place another bet?”

  “How much did I win?” Adrenaline was flowing through me so quickly I was light-headed.

  “Thirty-five hundred dollars.”

  “What?” I guess I said that a little too loudly because Vin Diesel was back giving me a dirty look.

  “Ma’am, would you like to place another bet?” the dealer repeated.

  I wanted to with every ounce of my being. I finally understood the gambler’s high. I wanted to bet it all on every number all day long, so I could feel that pure bliss again and again. And honest to God, I think I might have if my phone hadn’t buzzed at that moment with a text from my husband asking what the hell was taking so long.

  I cashed out my chips and put thirty-five crisp hundred-dollar bills in my wallet. I couldn’t wait to give them to my mother.

  On the plane ride home, I crafted a conciliatory letter to my class. I mean, I hadn’t said anything derogatory about anyone except myself, but I still felt I owed them some kind of explanation.

  * * *

  To: WRandazzo’s Class

  From: JDixon

  Re: What Can I Say?

  Date: 3/21

  Hello my apparent besties,

  What’s that old saying? Some guys just can’t handle Vegas. And I would be one of them.

  My most sincere apologies for that free-form slam poetry overshare I sent you all a few days ago. I wish I had a better reason than “too much wine,” but I don’t. I’m sorry to have burdened you with my silly problems when I’m sure you have enough of your own. I do, however, still stand by my assertion that “pooper” is a funny word.

  I should mention that the heart of the email—regarding class birthday parties—was not a drunken illusion, so please keep that in mind until the end of the year.

  Onward,

  Jen

  * * *

  21

  It’s two days until my birthday and I don’t know whether to laugh or cry. I’m turning fifty-two and I’m going to be a grandmother.

  “At least you’ll be a hot grandma.” Nina is trying to cheer me up this morning. “You’ll be a GMILF!”

  “You just wait. It’s all a big joke until you turn forty-nine. What have you got, three years?”

  “Uh, five, but thanks for knowing me so well. Sorry I can’t be there for your birthday, but Chyna has a lacrosse tournament in Chattanooga.”

  “Oh please! It’s not even a big birthday. I’m not planning on doing anything special, trust me.”

  My call waiting beeps in and I put Nina on hold.

  “Hi, Mom, anything wrong?”

  “No, sweetheart, but I was wondering if you could pick your father up at the club at one thirty? I would, but I promised Mary Minnis I would take her to her follow-up.”

  “Sure. You said one thirty?”

  “Yes. Thanks, sweetheart, I’ll call you later.” She hangs up and I click back over to Nina.

  “Sorry about that. It was Kay.”

  “Everything okay?”

  “As far as I know.”

  “Speaking of Kay, I guess I won’t see you until the walk.”

  “Have you raised your five hundred dollars?” I’m hoping she says no.

  “I actually ended up with seven hundred and forty-five. And people are still donating.”

  “Show-off. I’ve only got the safety patrol money and a hundred from Ron’s store. Oh, and twenty from my aunt Barbara.”

  “The cancan girl came through! So, what’s the total?”

  “Three hundred and sixty-five.”

  “Better get at it!”

  “I know, I know.”

  “Listen, I gotta run, but give the girls and Max a hug for me. I can’t wait to see Vivs with a bun in the oven!”

  “She looks great, like she swallowed a small volleyball.”

  “God, I wish I had carried like that. I looked like I’d swallowed the whole volleyball team.” She hangs up, cackling.

  I hightail it upstairs to get dressed. I’m having an emergency powwow with guess who? But not about what you think. I’m convinced Sylvie Pike never saw my Vegas email, because it’s been a month since I sent it and she has never said a word. But she did text me this morning that Sherlay DeJones had some kind of meltdown at safety patrol and we needed to meet with her.

  It’s a beautiful April morning and all I need is a light jacket. I love this time of year in KC so much. The trees and flowers are starting to bud, and everyone is out walking or on their bikes after months of hibernation. I’m in a great mood as I pull into the school parking lot with Billy Joel telling me to say goodbye to Hollywood.

  As I’m walking around to the front of the school I’m startled by the sight of Homeless Mitch painting the trim on the outside windows. A few months ago, seeing him would have sent me into a mild panic attack but I’ve come leaps and bounds since then. Ever since I gave him the leftover bake-sale cookies and told him to have fun at the shelter, we have kind of a running joke. When I see him I always ask, “Hey, Mitch, having fun?” and he always has a snappy reply. Some of the highlights have been “It’s better than taking a shower in a car wash” and “Better than trying to climb a tree in roller skates.” Today is no different.

  “Hey, Mitch, having fun?”

  “It’s better than getting slapped in the stomach with a wet fish.” He grins.

  “Are you working for the school?”

  “Just odd jobs here and there. Didn’t your mom tell you? She set it up for me.”

  Of course, she did. My mother is a tireless advocate for others. She even gave her roulette winnings to a battered-women’s shelter. When I presented her with the thirty-five hundred-dollar bills, she was like a kid on Christmas morning.

  “Oh yippee! Ray, look at this!” She fanned out the money in front of my dad.

  “What are you going to do with it?” I asked them.

  They looked at each other and said in unison, “Donate it.”

  And that’s exactly what they did. I thought of about sixteen other things I would have done with it, but I’m sure the Friends of Yates Emergency Shelter for abused women is putting it to good use. I mean, who needs lipo?

  “She didn’t tell me, but I’m so glad she hooked you up,” I tell Mitch, and head into the school. I meet Sylvie outside Principal Jackowski’s office.

  “She’s in with him now” is how she greets me. Sylvie has her hair pulled into a messy bun today, so she looks all business.

  “What happened?” What I really want to ask is “Why am I here?” I mean, am I supposed to be on Sherlay’s disciplinary committee?

  “All I know is she was at her post and around eight twenty-five she threw her vest and stop sign on the ground, sat down on the curb, and started hysterically crying. Thank God most of the kids were already in school. Mitch, the homeless guy that’s always around, found her and brought her inside.”

  Huh, Homeless Mitch to the rescue again.

  We sit in the chairs usually reserved for kids who have been sent to the principal’s office and try to speculate what could be going on. My first guess is PMS.

  Sylvie pooh-poohs the suggestion. “I think it’s a little more serious than that.”

  “Reall
y? On my worst day I could have Lizzie Bordened an entire town. A little crying is nothing.”

  Principal Jackowski’s door opens and he asks us to join them.

  Sherlay is slumped in one of the two chairs in front of his battered oak desk. Her blond hair looks like it hasn’t seen a brush in a good long while. Sylvie takes the other chair and I lean against the wall like the bad cop in an interrogation room.

  “Miss DeJones has tendered her resignation.” Jackowski sounds so formal.

  “Oh no! Sherlay, why?”

  She just shakes her head. Jackowski answers for her.

  “She just thinks it’s time. She wants to get a fresh start.”

  Fresh start? She’s twenty-three. How much fresher could she be?

  “What about your grandmother?” I ask.

  “She thinks it’s a good idea too.” Sherlay’s eyes are swollen from crying.

  “So we need to think about who is going to cover the morning shift for safety patrol till June.” The always practical Sylvie states the obvious.

  “Why don’t you ladies take some time to discuss your options,” Jackowski suggests as he stands up and points to the door (the universally acknowledged sign for “Get the hell out of my office”).

  We find a table in the cafeteria, which is thankfully empty this time of day.

  “What happened?” Sylvie asks Sherlay kindly.

  “Scott broke up with me.” She sighs shakily.

  “Were you guys serious?” I have to ask, because I know they dated a few times, but I didn’t know they were in a relationship.

  “I thought we were. He introduced me to his mother.”

  “Did he, though?” Sylvie says gently. “I thought you told me that you just showed up at his house when you knew she’d be there for Sunday dinner.”

  I can’t believe how much Sylvie knows about their relationship. Sherlay wipes her nose on her sleeve and looks sheepishly at us.

  “Well, he has dinner with her every week, and he never once invited me!”

  A picture is beginning to take shape for me—a potentially overeager Sherlay trying to close the deal too quickly on cute bachelor Scott Green.

  “Is that why he broke up with you?” I ask, and am rewarded with a swift kick under the table from Sylvie. Who does she think she is, my husband?

  “It doesn’t matter,” Sylvie says. “What matters now is what you’re going to do. Any ideas?”

  “My mom lives in Joplin. I thought I might go there.”

  “What about work?” I lob in.

  She shrugs. “I only did this job to be close to Scott.”

  Well, that’s nice to hear.

  “I used to do hair. Maybe I’ll find a job in a salon.”

  “You can always go back to school, sweetie. You might want to give that some thought,” Sylvie suggests.

  She shakes her head as she tears up. “School will just remind me of my Scott-man.”

  Oh God. My patience is running out. I draw the line at cute nicknames. I try to get the conversation back on point.

  “So, when is your last day?”

  “Today.”

  “Today? Can’t you finish out the week?”

  For this I get another kick under the table. Clearly, I don’t know what an appropriate question is.

  “We’ll be fine. Don’t worry. Just take care of yourself.”

  Sylvie gives Sherlay a one-armed hug and sends her on her way, toward an exciting future as a beautician in Joplin.

  I turn to her. “Kick me again. See what happens.”

  “I know, sorry. I just didn’t want you to say anything that might convince her to stay.”

  “You wanted her gone?” I’m surprised.

  “God, yes! She’s a little bit nuts, in case you didn’t notice. We never vetted her properly before we gave her the job.”

  “Well, why would you have to? She’s Marge’s granddaughter. And she went to school here, didn’t she?”

  “Yeah, but we didn’t know about her stalker tendencies.”

  “Why, because she showed up at Scott Green’s house to meet his mother?”

  “That wasn’t even the half of it. They’d gone on a handful of dates—always dinner and a movie and nothing else. He liked her, but she wouldn’t leave him alone. She would stop by his classroom every day and bring him hot chocolate.”

  “That bitch.”

  “Seriously, it was every single day, and half the time she’d be interrupting his class. He asked her to stop, but then she would just wait outside the classroom until first period was over.”

  “I can see how that would be annoying, but hardly stalker material.”

  “That was just the beginning. She would wait by his car after school, show up at his basketball games—”

  “He plays basketball?”

  “Some pickup game at the Y on Saturdays.” She shrugs. “Anyway, she just kept showing up everywhere. He was getting a really bad feeling about her.”

  “Wait, how do you know so much about this?” I know Sylvie’s the PTA president, but this seems to fall outside her job description.

  “He goes to my church. And that’s the other thing! Sherlay started coming to church just to see him. She isn’t even Catholic,” she added in a whisper. “He told her in March that he didn’t want to see her anymore, but apparently she didn’t get the hint until he went ape shit when she showed up for Sunday dinner last week.”

  “Was he going to report her?”

  “I guess he could have, but technically she wasn’t doing anything illegal. She didn’t threaten him, she was just … ubiquitous.” I want to tell her that was yesterday’s word-a-day-calendar word, but I don’t.

  “I can’t believe all this has been going on and you never said a word.” I think back to Ladies’ Night at TGI Friday’s and realize that Sylvie’s lips only loosen under the influence of alcohol.

  “Well, now it’s done, and we need to figure out what to do in the mornings for the rest of the year.”

  Oh, crap! We need two and a half months covered.

  “The kids can do the mornings,” I say with a confidence I don’t feel.

  “But we need an adult supervisor. Maybe you can make a parent schedule.”

  The thought of finding parents to cover the morning shift makes me want to join Sherlay in Joplin.

  “You and I can cover it until you get a schedule in place.” At that, Sylvie stands up. “I’ll do tomorrow and you can do Friday.”

  Great. Safety patrol for my birthday.

  * * *

  I have about an hour to kill before I need to pick my dad up from his monthly meeting at the Kiwanis Club, so I decide to pop into the nail salon across from school for a manicure.

  I have never been to Cathy’s Nails, mainly because I have a terrible biting habit. My mother has told me for years that if I get a manicure once a week my hands will look so nice that I won’t want to bite them. Oh, Mom, you can’t possibly understand the siren’s call of a nail tip. It’s like having a snack at the ready anytime, day or night.

  So I rarely get manicures, but hey, it’s birthday week and I have some time on my hands, so what the hell.

  Cathy’s Nails is small and cheerful and smells like acetone. There are two manicure stations and two foot baths in the back.

  “Can I get a manicure?” I ask the only person in the room—a thin African American woman, probably around my age, sitting at the first station, flipping through US Weekly.

  “Do you have an appointment?”

  “No.”

  “Well, pick your color.” She gestures to a kaleidoscopic row of polishes. In keeping with my personality, I choose a pinky beige.

  “I’ve never been here before.” For some reason I feel the need to share this with her.

  “I can see that,” she replies, looking at my hands. I look, too, and for the first time I see my mother’s hands looking back at me. Just one more reason to hate getting older.

  “Are you Cathy?” I ask as s
he attacks my nail beds.

  “Yes” is all I get back.

  “Not much of a chatty Cathy, are you?” I say to amuse myself.

  She sighs and continues her assault on my cuticles. The silence is deafening.

  “How long have you had this place?” Never let it be said that I don’t know how to annoy someone.

  “Twenty-two years.”

  “Wow, that’s a long time.”

  She nods at my inane comment. I look around. The walls are painted a light yellow and adorned with pictures of beautiful women with great-looking nails. Right behind Cathy is the price list for services, from which I find out I will be paying $14 for my manicure and the pleasure of Cathy’s company. A bargain at twice the price!

  I also notice a homemade sign advertising an apartment for rent above the salon.

  “How much are you renting the apartment for?” I ask as Cathy mercilessly digs dirt out from under my nails.

  “Four hundred.”

  “What’s it like?” I’m thinking Laura may want to check it out.

  “Small,” she replies. What a saleswoman!

  “How small?”

  She stops and looks at me. I can tell she was beautiful at one time, but life has clearly given her an ass-kicking and now she just looks tired.

  “You want to see it?”

  “I might bring my daughter back to look at it.” She nods like she’s heard that one before.

  We’re on to polish now and I have to say that, despite her lack of any notable social skills, Cathy really knows what she’s doing. Even my crappy hands look great when she’s done. I sit under the dryer for a few minutes and take the time to count my blessings, as my mother would say. I’m not very good at personal reflection, but today I take a stab at taking stock. Wonderful husband who’s trying like crazy to make life better for us, three great kids in varying stages of annoying me, a mother on the mend, a father in love, good friends to count on, and of course the love of my life … Carmen. All in all, I have it pretty damn good.

  And then I remember safety patrol.

  * * *

  “I can do a day if you want,” Saint Ron offers after my thirty-minute tirade while we’re getting ready for bed.