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Authors: Mary Carter

She'll Take It (21 page)

BOOK: She'll Take It
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“I'll get my roommate to tape it,” I say. “That's so great.”
“You're great,” Greg says. “That business about the glasses. I didn't even see you take them. I was like—what the hell is she doing—and then
wham
—here come the glasses out of your pocket. Risky. Risky little move, Zeitgar. How on earth did you do it without anyone noticing?” (Practice, practice, practice.)
“I just saw an opportunity and ran with it,” I say.
The conversation is making me a little nervous so I casually try to pull my hand away, but Greg clamps down harder and won't let me go. “Melanie help me understand something here.”
Uh-oh. I hope we're off the subject of my amazing, sneaky fingers. “Yes?”
“File clerk? Grocery clerk? Look, I'm not trying to insult anyone doing those jobs but—I just think you're capable of so much more.”
This time I do manage to yank my hand away. “The file clerk was a favor to my agency. Nobody else wanted to work with the Wicked Witch.”
“Who?”
“Trina,” I say and then stop. Uh-oh. Did I just make a really big faux pas? Greg looks seriously pissed off. Oh God, maybe he really likes her. “I'm sorry,” I say. “That wasn't very nice of me. Trina's great—it's just that—what? What are you laughing at?”
Greg pounds the table. “I love it when you lie,” he says. “Your whole face gives you away.” I swat him. “Really,” he teases. “You should have seen the look.” I glare at him.
“I did wonder why we were going through so many temps,” he continues, ignoring my glare. “I thought maybe Steve Beck was putting the moves on all the girls.” The thought of needy little Steve Beck putting the moves on me makes me laugh, and Greg joins in. We're laughing so hard that we're drawing dirty looks from nearby patrons. I don't care. I can't remember the last time I laughed so much. “Okay, so that explains the file clerk job,” Greg says, “but what about this.” He gestures to my obnoxious
IF I DON'T SMILE, IT'S FREE!
pin. “Why are you working at the Quality Food Mart?”
“Because of my clocks,” I say. “I needed more time to work on them and since this job doesn't require much of me I've really been able to crank up my creativity.” I don't like lying to Greg, but I can't help it. I really like the way he looks at me when I talk about my clocks. It's my moment to shine. Besides, I'll probably never see him again anyway, so why not leave him thinking I'm a creative genius. But maybe he doesn't think that. In fact I'm not sure he's even listening to me. He's still staring at my lips.
“I have a confession,” he says.
Every nerve ending in my body comes to life. As long as they're not mine, I love confessions.
“I'm glad you're no longer working for me,” Greg says.
What? Here I am miserable that I don't get to brush by him in the hall anymore or stare into his beautiful office, but he's thrilled I'm gone. Why did he have to tell me that? I bite my lips self-consciously. He reaches up and touches my mouth with his index finger.
“Don't,” he says softly. I stop biting my lip, but he keeps his finger right where it is and then ever so gently begins trailing his finger along my upper lip and then my lower, tickling them softly like he's painting them. “I'm glad you're not working for me because now this is no longer sexual harassment.”
“What's no longer—”
“Shut up, Zeitgar.” Greg puts both of his hands behind my head, pulls me toward him, and kisses me. It is a full-on, fourth-gear kiss. Our mouths fit together perfectly, and even though it's new and exciting, it's also feels as if I have been kissing him all of my life. I could stay here and kiss him forever. I would have too, except for the fact that he's suddenly yanked himself away and is hopping up and down yelling, “Jesus. Hot. Hot.” For a split vanity second I'm flattered, and then I notice the huge coffee stain on his crotch.
“Oh God!” I say as he hops around. “What can I do?”
“I'm just going to go to the little boys' room,” he says, deflecting my hand as I reach toward his crotch with a napkin.
“Oh. Good plan.” But I have to admit I'm disappointed. It was looking forward to squeezing the Charmin. Good God. I was going to have to change my underwear.
Since I have to get back to work and Greg has to go home and change his pants, our little make out session has officially been rained out. He walks me back to work holding his briefcase in front of his crotch. “I almost forgot,” he says as we're in front of the store. “They're having a little party for me next Saturday to celebrate my new anchor position. I was hoping you could make it.”
I take a few minutes to look like I'm considering in while inside I'm jumping up and down for joy. An invitation within seconds of kissing. This is very, very good.
“Next Saturday?” I say, pretending to ponder my social calendar. “I'll try my best.”
“Great,” he says, then kisses me on the cheek. “My place, eight o'clock.” I'm about to say that I don't know where he lives when he hands me a business card with his address and phone number written on the back. Oh yeah. He's into me.
Chapter 23
T
he rest of the afternoon I'm on cloud nine. Even Murray doesn't bother me. So when my last customer of the day slides a small box toward me with shaking hands, I'm so caught in fantasy land (Greg and I are married and I've just told him I'm pregnant with twin boys) I don't even look up at her. I scan the item and throw it in a plastic bag. It's not until I say “Fifteen ninety-nine” that I make eye contact. She is a tiny thing with stringy brown hair and big hazel eyes. “What?” she says in a wavering voice that sounds like a flute warming up. “Fifteen ninety-nine,” I repeat, turning the green digital numbers on my register toward her.
“Oh.” She pours a pocket full of change on the counter and starts to separate it into piles of nickels, dimes, and pennies. Her fingernails are chewed beyond recognition. It is then that I glance in the bag and see the small square box. On the front is a picture of a woman holding up a plastic pee stick with an unbridled look of joy. The young girl before me wears none of the same anticipatory glee on her face as she counts her sweaty coins. She stops in the middle of counting and looks at me. “I didn't know how much they cost,” she whispers.
It hits me like a brick—she never even considered stealing it. She has a sweat suit on too; her pockets would have hidden the box no problem. Murray and I were the only ones in the store—I was obviously not on the prowl for thieves, and Murray was in the back alphabetizing soup. A mixture of guilt and shame washes over me. I make a mental note to go back to confession. I take the box and quickly stuff it in the front pocket of her jacket. “Go,” I say.
“Hey!” she cries. “What are you doing?”
I give her a look. Was she really that dense?
“Go,” I whisper again, looking around.
“I'm not going to just take it!” she screams. “Who do you think I am?” She reaches in her pocket and waves the box at me accusingly. Just then, J.D. walks in the front door.
“Listen,” I say to the girl, “you misunderstood me.”
She plants her hand on her hip and waves the box again. “You put it in my pocket,” she insists. J.D. looks my way.
“Morning,” he says.
The girl looks at him and then back at me. “Maybe I should tell your manager about our little misunderstanding,” she threatens. “You think just because I might be knocked up I'm a thief too?”
I have to do damage control quick. “Of course not,” I say. “I'm paying for it. That's all.”
“Why? Do I look like I want your pity? I don't want your pity. I just want
. . .
” She starts crying and her nail-bitten fingers curl up like claws. “I don't know what I want,” she sputters.
“It's my fault,” I say, patting her hand. “I don't pity you,” I continue. “Look, did I smile at you?” I ask her. She looks at me as if I've gone mad. I turn my obnoxious yellow pin right side up so she can read it.
“Um—no?” she answers.
“I didn't think so,” I say, ripping the receipt off the register and putting the pregnancy kit in a plastic bag. “If I don't smile, it's free!” I repeat, smiling.
She grabs the bag. “Thank you.” She scurries away, leaving me three dollars and fifteen cents in neat little piles. I pocket it and cancel the transaction.
Doing a good deed for that girl felt good. Not smiling felt great. In fact, it made work kind of fun! What if I don't smile all day? People will get free groceries, I'll have fun and the time will fly! Hoorah! I'm not going to smile at a soul all day. In fact, I might as well scowl just so people really get what's going on.
Three hours later, J.D. Pinkett leads me to his office (a crate and card table in the back room next to the “Jane” and “John”) and shoves a form my way with a crooked index finger.
“You're firing me?”
“You've had twenty complaints in the last hour.”
I play with the dust on the table, stalling for time. “But they got free groceries,” I say at last. J.D. pounds his fist on the little table. The legs bow out like a fawn standing for the first time, and the pen I'm holding smears all the way across the table.
“You're not supposed to give away free groceries!” J.D. yells. “That's going to come out of your paycheck.”
“That's not fair. I couldn't smile. I have weak lip syndrome.”
“Weak lip syndrome?”
“Yes. It affects the lip muscles. They become so weak it's physically painful to smile. That's discrimination you know! You can't discriminate against the weak lipped!”
“Does this syndrome also affect your attitude?”
Was this a rhetorical question? I pray to the
Saint of Divine Quips
for a snappy comeback, but nothing great comes to me. It makes me wonder if the Saints are on a continuous coffee break.
“Huh?” I manage instead.
“You told Bill Sorrenson his twelve-year-old son was in here buying condoms—”
“Which he was—”
“And you made Liliah Jones cry—”
“Well she is a little young for dentures—”
“You told Sarah Grimes that her husband was having an affair!”
“Why else would he buy champagne and lobster in the middle of a Wednesday afternoon?” It was all an act of course. As an actress, I couldn't just “not smile.” I had to invent a character who couldn't smile, a character devastated by the state of the human condition. What are a few insults when you're getting free groceries? I'm constantly insulted, and I get zippo in return.
“What kind of person are you?” J.D. yells at me.
That one kind of stops me. Because normally, I'm a very kind person. In fact, I'm usually extremely sensitive to other people. I just didn't know what I was missing being so damn nice all the time.
“What's this?” I say, looking at the form in front of me, craning my neck to read upside down.
“Policy and procedure,” J.D. says, pushing it an inch closer as if that will help the acrobatic angle at which I had to read. “Just in case you're thinking of going to the competition, it guarantees you'll protect our trade secrets,” he adds. The competition? Does he think I'm going to make a beeline to the 7-Eleven? J.D. stares at me, squinting behind his thick black glasses, while I examine the form. He belches. “ 'Scuze me,” he says, when I give him a dirty look. I sign my name, Melanie Zeitgar with the flourish and confidence of the unemployed.
“I won't be staying in groceries,” I say, waiting for a response. Surely there would be some pleading, some words of encouragement, something along the lines of “Well, up until today, you were the best scanner we ever had and we hate to lose you but we knew we'd outgrow a talented girl like you” speech. Come on! But he just stares at me and I stare back at him until there is no choice. It's either kiss him or look away.
I look away and scan the edge of the table for dust. Good God, I am going to cry. No! I will not cry. I'm crying over a job as a grocery clerk? Jesus, no. Please no. I pray to the Saint of Dry Eyes and bite my lip. J.D. reaches over and pats my hand. I yank it away. “Do you want me to mail your last check?”
“Sure. No.”
“No?”
“I'll pick it up.” Or will I? Come back to this dump that won't even spring for a lousy good-bye cake from the bakery five feet away? Good luck, Mel. We'll miss you, Melanie. Kiss my ass. “Mail it.”
“Mail it?” His pen bops up and down like the head of a jack-in-the-box. He adjusts his glasses and nods, demonstrating his condolence for my mental state, his patience for my neurosis. When I don't answer right away he leans forward and glares at me like a driver stuck in ten miles of traffic. I stand.
That's it, look tall
.
“Mail it. Definitely mail it,” I say confidently. I should be waltzing out the door about now, but I continue to stand. My feet are stuck. I want to kick his crate out from underneath him. “Is that it?” I demand as if he were holding me there.
Please say something. Don't let me leave like this
. J.D. nods and points to the door. I feel like a jilted lover. On my way out I steal a can of Pringles, a pack of AA batteries, and a NutRageous bar. Once again I am a jobless, clockless thief.
I go to Central Park, sit on the bench, and daydream about shoplifting. I see myself taking the glowing blue topaz ring in Tiffany's, sliding my hands over imaginary cashmere sweaters, and quickly slipping Manolo Blahnik shoes into my oversized Gucci bag (also stolen). When I'm finished mentally shoplifting, I fantasize about taking things out of people's pockets as they walk by. I sit and wonder what secrets people have tucked away.
Does the man in the gray suit buying
Muscle Magazine
have a Kit Kat in his pocket or a business card for a call girl? Does the woman with the little black glasses on the bench next to me see a therapist? If not, she needs to—she's been crying for the last fifteen minutes. Or is she a plain clothes cop pretending to be living a subatomic life, changing colors under the surface like the autumn leaves in the west end of the park? And what am I thinking going out with Greg Parks? He helps prosecute shoplifters, Melanie. Do the math. Would he be smiling at you like that if he knew you were a klepto?
Not that he has to find out. I can just quit now and no one will ever know the difference. I lay the can of Pringles and pack of batteries on the bench. (I've already eaten the NutRageous bar.) There. I'm through shoplifting, and now I can date whomever I like.
I take the subway to Grand Central and wander around the lobby, stopping to stare at the large green clock hanging in the center of the station. It has huge brass hands and elegant roman numerals against a cream background. At night the face lights up. I imagine myself putting the pieces together and having an opening to celebrate my clock. I wonder what kind of clock I would make if I were given the gig to replace it. I picture a shoe clock—high heels clicking around the face like Cinderella. At the stroke of midnight, the ruby shoes would rub together and run off. I giggle to myself, silently laughing until I notice the man who was circling the clock and talking to himself has stopped to give me a wary look. When you frighten homeless, crazy people, it's time to get a grip.
BOOK: She'll Take It
11.64Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

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