She'll Take It (20 page)
Authors: Mary Carter
“Because she has nice eyes,” he says, smiling. “I remember noticing her glasses when I first sat downâand thinking she has nice eyesâso when she took them offâ”
“When she took them off,” I finish for him, “it stuck in your mind.”
“Exactly,” the man says.
“So why can't you tell us where they are now?” I ask.
He shrugs.
“Is it because you were bored?” I prompt. “Distracted?”
He laughs. “All of the above,” he says. I pace back and forth, gathering up speed. “Twelve security guards who know it all,” I say. “Twelve of you bored to deathâheard it all beforeâthere's nothing this man can teach you, right?” I acknowledge Greg with a jerk of my thumb. “But not one of you can tell us what happened to this woman's glasses? How can that be? They were sitting right hereâin plain sightâshe swears to it.” Several heads around the table drop, and people shift uncomfortably.
“And that, ladies and gentlemen, is the genius of Greg Parks,” I say, pointing to him. I walk over to Greg and take the final intact handout from him. He has the look of a wounded animal that wants to trust you but is in too much pain, but I can't pay any attention to that now. “This isn't anything you haven't heard already,” I say, waving the handout. “But this isn't the problem!” I shout. I reach into my blazer and pull out the glasses. Murmurs ripple around the table. I hold the glasses up in the air. “I am not the problem,” I say, waving the glasses in front of them before handing them back to the grateful employee. I walk a few steps toward Greg and then wheel around and point at them.
“You are the problem. You're bored. You're distracted. You're making assumptions.” I pick up the handout again. “Sure some thieves might wear baggy clothesâor carry multiple packagesâbut does that mean you take your eyes off the ones who don't? Anyone, anytime, anywhere. That's all you have to remember. It could be anyone, anytime, anywhere.” I point to the glasses. “It could be me,” I say. “It could be you.”
Bob is the first one to clap. It's a bit muffled because he's trying to hold the camera at the same time, but soon the Bloomingdale's employees join in. I'm stunned. They like me. They really, really like me. I turn to Greg. He's looking the other way.
It's alarmingly quiet on the way back to the office. Greg and I travel down the elevator, through Cosmetics, past Menswear, and out to Lexington Avenue without a single word. After such applause I thought he'd be pleased. They were congratulating us and shaking our hands and vowing to have us back again. Bob was smiling! And this is the thanks I get? We're in a cab going six blocks or so back to the office and he's sitting in the front seat instead of back with me. Nobody sits in the front seat of a cab. I want to say something to him, but everything I practice in my head sounds wrong. Besides, he should be thanking me. I saved him in there. When we arrive at Parks and Landon, Greg pays the fare and waltzes into the building without as much as a backward glance. I run to catch up with him, and we ride the elevator up to the twenty-second floor without making eye contact. The silence is deafening.
“Greg,” I say when he heads into his office without turning around. “Can I talk to you?”
“I think you've done enough talking for today. Don't you, Melanie?”
“Please. I'm sorry. You see it's a nervous habitâ”
“No need to explain,” Greg says, straightening up his desk with a vengeance. “You're a creative person. An actress. You thought you'd have a little fun at my expense.”
“No, it's not like that. Iâ”
“You what?” He comes toward me. “You shredded my presentation in front of my clients. In front of the camera.”
“I know.”
“Why?” It's an excellent question, and Greg is really waiting for an answer. He's still looking at me like a wounded animal.
“I don't know. IâI just rip things when I get nervous. I didn't even know I was doing it.” I move toward Greg. He doesn't step back. It's progress I think, and then he looks to the doorway.
“Is everything all right?” Trina calls from behind. “Shouldn't you be in the file room, Melanie?”
I look to Greg to shut her up. He turns away from me and goes back to his desk.
“Side Court is on line 1,” Trina says.
Greg looks at me, and although it's slight, I catch it. Greg had looked at me and flinched.
“Melanie, I don't have anything else right now so you'll just have to stick it out,” Jane Greer says when I call and ask her to take me off this assignment. “I'll let you know if something else comes up.” It was the “if” that sent my warning bells clanging. She didn't say “when,” she said “if.” She was lying, and I could smell it. Dr. Phil says “You teach people how to treat you.” I was teaching Jane Greer that I was a pushover. No more. It was time I laid down the law.
“Listen, Jane. You're not treating me fairly and you know it. I'm a highly skilled administrative assistant. I type ninety-five words a minute. I did you a huge favor taking this lame job for two weeks, and I've had it. I am not, nor will I be ever again, a file clerk. I'd rather be a cashier at the Quality Food Mart than stay here filing one more bloody minute.”
Chapter 22
T
his is how I die. Jumping from a diving board on a warm summer day. I'm thin and tan and my legs are perfectly straight, pointing toward the sky while my head and hands reach for the water. Moments later I hit, but instead of the cool wet grip of the water, I feel crackly soft edges of a million $100 bills. I fold into them, gathering piles to my breast, inhaling the luxurious scent of instant wealth. That's the last thing I rememberâpure joyâand then the sun dies.
his is how I die. Jumping from a diving board on a warm summer day. I'm thin and tan and my legs are perfectly straight, pointing toward the sky while my head and hands reach for the water. Moments later I hit, but instead of the cool wet grip of the water, I feel crackly soft edges of a million $100 bills. I fold into them, gathering piles to my breast, inhaling the luxurious scent of instant wealth. That's the last thing I rememberâpure joyâand then the sun dies.
Its rays are blocked by a figure standing on the diving board. It's a cat burglar from New Jersey. We stare at each other, and I'm just about to suggest a little romp in the dough when he pulls out a .22. (Could be a .21.) I'm still marveling at his baby blues when he cocks the pistol and a shot rings out. My last thought just before the bullet pierces my brain is that he's going to have a hell of a time getting my gray matter off all these Ben Franklins.
I have to be at the Quality Food Barf every morning at 6:00 A.M. I have to scan Cheez Whiz and Miracle Whip and fungus creams. I have to wear an orange and brown smock with a yellow pin that reads
IF I DON'T SMILE, IT'S FREE!!
I've only been here a week, but I'm only two scans away from seeing Jesus in a tortilla. I have to find another job, but I still can't go back to temping. After Jane Greer refused to give into my ultimatum (i.e., she hung up on me) I called her back and told her to forget it, that I was going to be touring Europe with my one-woman show. It was March. I wasn't due back until the end of summer.
IF I DON'T SMILE, IT'S FREE!!
I've only been here a week, but I'm only two scans away from seeing Jesus in a tortilla. I have to find another job, but I still can't go back to temping. After Jane Greer refused to give into my ultimatum (i.e., she hung up on me) I called her back and told her to forget it, that I was going to be touring Europe with my one-woman show. It was March. I wasn't due back until the end of summer.
I hadn't heard a word from Greg Parks. Not that I wanted to. But I did have moments (fleeting, of course) when I wondered what he thought when I didn't show up for work the next day. Or the next. I'm sure he didn't think a thing of it. They probably had a party to celebrate my absence. Psycho file boy and Wicked Witch of the West Side must have been beside themselves with joy. I, on the other hand, am the living dead.
“You look hung over,” Murray yells at me the minute he shuffles in the Out door. Murray is the world's oldest bag boy and a self-proclaimed pervert. I don a fake smile and tilt my head. The first I learned from my mother, the latter from my childhood dog Sonny.
“Good morning to you too, Murray,” I say civilly. He doesn't blink or move as he advances toward me with hairy outstretched arms. He is constantly trying to sneak a touch or a hug. I know you're supposed to be nice to the elderly, but I draw the line at dirty old men. I turn away and try to look busy. Since I have already punched in and counted my drawer, that leaves putting on cherry lip smack and turning my obnoxious yellow pin upside down.
“What is a pretty young thing like you doing here anyway?” Murray says. “I've got a granddaughter your age, and she works at a public relations firm. Pays $75,000. She doesn't even have tits like yours.”
“That's nice, Murray. I have to open.” I hurry away from him just as the corner of my upper left lip begins to twitch. Anxiety rising, I relieve some stress by pounding a roll of quarters on the counter. Murray approaches and begins talking to my aforementioned tits.
“I hear they're going to be hiring an A.M. manager when Hon Li goes off to grad school,” he drools. “You should apply. The A.M. manager gets to open on Saturday. I open on Saturday.”
I make the mistake of glancing up at him, and he winks at me suggestively. Hon Li is the only person in here I like, and I feel a stab of jealousy. “Hon Li is going to grad school?” I say more to myself than to Murray.
“Gonna study biomechanics,” Murray answers. “Columbia University,” he adds.
“I see.”
“Bio-mech-an-ics. People like you and me don't even know what that means! I'm right, am I right?”
“I have to open, Murray.”
“I'm right. Luckily there's this joint for people like you and me.”
“This is a temporary job for me, Murray.”
“That's what I said. Twenty years ago.” He shuffles away chuckling.
I throw mental darts at his backside as I review the trajectory of my life. Who am I? An actress and a thief. Not a grocery clerk! This is just a temporary stop on my way to fame. Everyone needs a story of their struggles. Maybe I'll even confess my secret habit to the tabloids years from now when it's all behind me.
In fact, having a secret shame probably makes me a better actress. And although I try to keep my kleptomania and my thespian activities separate, there was at least one occasion in which there was a blurring of the lines. But I couldn't help it, and you would have done the same thing if you had to spend five minutes under the (hairy) thumb of Director Jeffrey Gray.
It was a nonpaying independent play staged in a video arcade in Hoboken, New Jersey. We could only rehearse after midnight when the racing and beatings and shootings had finished and the kids dragged their clawed hands and blurry eyes home for the night.
The playâwritten, produced, directed and ruined by Director Jeffrey Grayâwas called
Stuff
. There were only four actors in the showâtwo materialistic young couples, secretly lusting after each other's stuff. The first act dealt with the accumulation of the couple's stuff, crotch-grabbing raving monologues from the men, and tearful confessions from the women in their skimpy lingerie. I was thrilled to be a part of it all. That is until Director Jeffrey Gray started throwing the stuff.
Stuff
. There were only four actors in the showâtwo materialistic young couples, secretly lusting after each other's stuff. The first act dealt with the accumulation of the couple's stuff, crotch-grabbing raving monologues from the men, and tearful confessions from the women in their skimpy lingerie. I was thrilled to be a part of it all. That is until Director Jeffrey Gray started throwing the stuff.
The first item to fly across stage during the middle of a lukewarm rehearsal was a silk potted plant. My character was in the middle of confessing her secret desire to put a fireman's pole in the middle of their living room when it whizzed by. At first, I tried to stay in character, noticed the plant and ad libbed, “There's certainly some breeze in here,” like the consummate professional I am, and continued my monologue.
“I know it sounds crazy, Darren, but I want that pole to go through the middle of our bed and I want to slide down it and onto you each every morning of every day for the rest of our lives.”
I was staring lustily into “my husband's” eyes when a lampshade struck me on the side of the head.
“What the fuck?” I said, breaking character.
“I'm not feeling it,” Jeffrey shouted, leaping onto the stage and hopping around. “You're not making me feel it.” And then all hell broke loose. He started throwing every single prop on the stage as I ducked for cover. “You have to desire the pole, Melanie!” he said with a rotary phone perched in his left hand. “Do you? Do you desire the pole?” I hid behind the couch as the phone was hurled like a football. “That's a wrap,” Jeffrey said when there was nothing left to throw.
Actors and directors are emotional people. We all know that. You have to be moody and intense to be in this profession, and that night as I lay in bed, I realized that Director Jeffrey Gray was actually a passionate genius and that he recognized in me a smoldering, slumbering talent, one that could only be nurtured by having a prop or two thrown at my head. I had inspired insanity in himâand what actress could ask for more? I was going to throw myself into this role and live up to his every expectation.
The next day a wooden owl actually nicked my ear.
The day after that the gun struck me in the crotch. (If you see a gun in Act 1, it had better go off by Act 3!)
The third and final day a box of Wheaties hit me in the ass.
On the fourth day the props were gone.
I actually saw Jeffrey reach for a phantom throw pillow and go through the motions of hurling it toward me. He hesitated, cocked his head like a cocker spaniel, and pawed for the pillow again. Then his intense, beady eyes raked over the bare stage, which fifteen minutes ago had been crammed with stuff. I held my head as straight as I could with a gun down my pants and two lemons stuffed in my bra. In my mind's eye I could see every single place in the arcade where I had stashed his stuff. He should have never given us a fifteen-minute break. He and I held eyes like wild animals circling a wagon train, and I smiled.
“It's genius, Jeffrey, that you've decided our stuff should be symbolic manifestations rather than physical things.”
Director Jeffrey Gray stared at me for a very long time.
“Thank you,” he said.
“No, thank you,” I answered. “I'm really starting to feel it.”
My trip down memory lane rejuvenates me and puts me into a zenlike scanning zone. Before I know it, two hours have flown by and a man's hand is pushing a jar of olives toward me. It's a very nice hand. “Did you find everything you were looking for today?” I say politely.
He holds my eyes. “I found exactly what I was looking for,” he says.
“I'm glad. Although I find it strange you had to come all the way to Brooklyn for a jar of olives. Too many martini parties in Manhattan?”
He laughs, and despite my wish to stay an ice queen, I join in.
“I couldn't find an olive branch, so this was the best I could do,” Greg says, extending the jar of olives toward me.
“I would have preferred a chocolate bar,” I say, taking the jar of olives.
“I'll remember that for next time,” he says.
I'm trying to pretend that I don't tingle at the mention of a “next time,” but I'm soon distracted anyway. The line is starting to pile up behind him. There is a little old lady with three cans of Friskies and a bag of peanuts and behind her a nervous-looking man in his twenties with a carton of cigarettes and behind him a housewife with a screaming toddler and a heaping cart of frozen entrees. Oh joy. “I have customers,” I say quietly.
“I know,” Greg says. “What time is your break?”
I meet him at a deli down the street and we sit by the window with cups of coffee. “How did you know I was here?” I ask after we finish the small talk. (Would you like coffee?/yes please/black?/cream one sugar/soâQuality Food Mart huh?/It's just until my clocks take off.)
“That's another reason I should apologize,” Greg says in answer to my question. “I'm afraid I called your temp agency.” Uh-oh. “And for some reason they thought you were in Europe doing a one-woman show.”
I roll my eyes. “That's Jane for you,” I say dismissing it. “She gets us all mixed up.”
“That's what Trina said,” Greg continues. “She insisted you couldn't be in a one-woman showâso I asked Trina if she could help me out. She got me in touch with your roommate Kim and
voilÃ
! I found the mysterious Melanie Zeitgar.”
voilÃ
! I found the mysterious Melanie Zeitgar.”
“I'm surprised you didn't just call my mother,” I say sarcastically and watch in horror as he turns several shades of red in under a second. “You didn't,” I say.
“I didn't,” he confirms. “She called me.”
I groan. “Not again.”
Greg nods. “I'm afraid so.”
“What did she want now?”
“She said she was putting together a calendar and wanted to know my birthday.” I hung my head. “She didn't know you were no longer with working for me either. So I guess that's the third apology I owe you.”
I drain the rest of my coffee and experience a sick enjoyment from the scalding that ensues.
“You should probably call them,” Greg says sheepishly. “She was a little nervous when I asked if your clocks were taking off. I get the feeling they're not very supportive of your work. That's why they were so quiet when I brought it up at dinner too, huh?”
I nod and start to crush the paper coffee cup. Greg glances at me and I immediately flush, remembering the day I ripped up his presentation. “Lookâ”
“Listenâ” we say at the same time.
“Okay, I'll look and you listen,” Greg says, leering at me.
“Stop it,” I say swatting him. “Listenâ”
“Lookâ” We stop, laugh.
Greg gestures to me. “Ladies first,” he says.
“I'm sorry about your presentation,” I say. “I didn't mean to ruin it.”
“Melanie, I overreacted. You were right. My presentation was a littleâdry.”
“No it's notâ”
“Melanie.”
“Okay. A little.”
“And I should be thanking you.”
“Thanking me?”
“Melanie, they loved it.”
“They did?” I have to admit, a feeling of pride washes over me. They loved it. They loved me.
“I got the commentator position,” Greg announces.
“That's great.” I grab his hand. “Congratulations.”
He's smiling at me and I'm smiling and him and he's yet to let go of my hand. In fact, he's putting his other hand over mine, sandwiching my little hand between his two very nice hands.
“I'm filming my first slot today. We're on live at 5:00. I suppose you'll be working then.”
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