She'll Take It (30 page)

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Authors: Mary Carter

BOOK: She'll Take It
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Chapter 32
I
find an all-night diner, order a Western omelet, a side of fries, a Coke, two chocolate cream donuts, and a bottomless cup of coffee. Fuck everything, I'm going to eat. I hide in a back booth and stuff myself silly. I growl at the waitress when she tries to remove my plate. (There were still several bites left!) Once I'm sufficiently stuffed, I go back to the storage unit, wrap up in a blanket, curl up next to my boxes, and finally fall asleep.
I wake up with a start. It's raining. My ass is ringing. It's my cell phone; I'm sitting on it.
“Where are you?” Tommy cries when I pick up.
“New Jersey,” I wail.
“It's worse than we thought”
I hear him yell to someone. “Do you have money for a cab?” he demands.
“No,” I sob.
“Call one anyway. Come over to my place, sweetie. I'll pay him when you get here. Okay?”
I nod, my eyes overflowing with tears.
“Okay, sweetie?”
“Okay,” I croak.
I'm sleeping on Tommy's red leather couch. His three horrendously fat cats are kneading my chest like they've just graduated from some bizarre massage school where the technique is to step lightly, lightly, lightly, then dig their claws into the victim's flesh while wiggling their furry asses in your face. Tommy stands in the doorway, a shoe box under his arm.
“She's awake,” he says. Kim peers out from behind him. She comes over to me and kneels down by the couch.
“We were worried sick about you,” she says. “Are you okay?”
I nod. “How long have I been asleep?”
“Four hours,” she says. “Why were you in New Jersey?”
I open my mouth to lie and then shut it. “Can we talk about that later?” I say.
“Of course.”
“Can I bring out my surprise now?” Tommy yells.
Kim laughs. “She might not want to do it.”
“Do what?” I say, raising myself to a sitting position and scattering cats across the room.
“Marijuana,” Tommy says, shaking the box. “Lots of marijuana.”
“And cookie dough ice cream,” Kim says, poking me. They're the best friends I've ever had.
My eyes are glazed, cookie dough ice cream drools down my chin, and cat hair is sticking to my face as if I too had sprouted whiskers. Judge Jeannie is over, and Tommy leans over to turn off the television when I stop him.
“Greg's coming on next,” Kim admonishes him.
“Yummy,” Tommy says, and we all giggle. We make fun of Deborah Green and her light blue blazer.
“He's off his game,” Kim says, cocking her head and looking at Greg. It was true, he wasn't wearing his signature smile.
“It's all my fault,” I say. “We had a fight.”
Tommy mutes the television. “Hey!” I say. “They're bringing on the panelists now.” Once a week they invite the local business community to the show to discuss legal issues. I loved to listen to Greg espouse legalese. It was a surprising turn-on. Even if he did hate my guts now.
“Spill!” Tommy says, staring at me. I look around the floor. Kim busts out laughing.
“You're pretty,” she says.
“I'm talking to you, Zeitgar,” Tommy says, pointing at me. “Spill the beans. What did you fight about?”
“Salt and pepper shakers,” I cry. God this cookie dough ice cream is good.
“Salt and pepper shakers?” Kim says. “I could go for something salty.”
“Me too,” I yell, standing up. “Do you have anything salty, Tommy?”
He grabs my pant legs and pulls me down to the floor. “Not so fast, Missy. You and sexy legal man fought over salt and pepper shakers?”
“He is sexy, isn't he?” I say, looking at the television. There are three panelists on, two men and a woman. There's something familiar about the woman. I point her out to Tommy and Kim. “Is she someone?” I ask. Kim and Tommy giggle. I do too, although it's not really funny. “I mean it,” I say laughing. “I know that woman.”
“She has a big nose,” Tommy says, looking at the television.
Follow the nose—
Come on! Where do I know her from?
“What does Greg have against salt?” Kim shouts. “Is he a vegan?”
“Vegans don't eat salt either?” Tommy asks.
I turn up the television. The familiar looking woman with the big nose is talking now to Deborah Green. “Well, why don't we play the video and we'll talk on the other side,” Deborah says to Greg and the panelist. Greg flashes his signature smile. I smile back and blow a kiss to the television.
“Salt is good!” Tommy yells at him. Do I know her from a temp assignment? And then they show the video.
“Oh. My. God,” Tommy says. “Who is that chick?” Kim asks.
“Whoever she is, she looks horrible in that wig,” Tommy admonishes wagging his finger at the TV. I don't even try to speak. My insides have turned to cement.
“That's a wig?” Kim says, moving closer to the TV.
“Get back,” Tommy yells. “You'll go blind.”
“Look, Look. Is she stealing?” Kim squeals. “She is. Oh my God. She's switching the watches. She is so busted.”
“You can't really see her face,” Tommy says.
“There she goes.”
“Melanie. Earth to Melanie. Don't you think you've had enough of that?”
I look down. I've sucked the joint down to the nub, and now it's burning my fingers.
“She's outta there!” Kim repeats, pointing at me running out the door of the jewelry store.
“Cool, she's going to chase her!” Tommy yells. “Get her. Get her.”
The video stops.
“Damn,” Tommy says. “I wanted to see them cuff her.”
I hold up my wrists and stare at them.
“Well,” Deborah says. “That was exciting.”
“But she got away with it,” the bird woman is saying.
“What kind of thief did we just witness?” Deborah asks Greg.
“She knows what she's doing,” Greg says. “She's prepared.”
“Why do you say that?” Deborah asks, blinking her eyes at him.
“Is she flirting?” I yell. Tommy moves the shoe box full of pot away from me.
“Well, let's watch it again,” Greg says. “First of all,” he narrates over the video, “she walks in and goes directly to the item she wants to steal. She uses the distraction of your phone call to her advantage and watch this—she's removing the second box out of her bag. Now this is in black and white, but my guess is she's even matched the colors of the boxes perfectly.” He looks to bird woman for confirmation, and she nods her head. “Furthermore she's wearing a disguise. This is a premeditated lift no doubt.”
“I managed to grab her wig,” the woman says, holding up my black wig. “She had blond hair.”
“Oh, that should do it!” Tommy shrieks. “Just round up every blonde in Manhattan!” He tugs on my hair. “One of you did it,” he shouts, pointing at us. Kim howls with laughter. It's infectious, so I join in.
“I admit it,” I scream. “I did it. I took Trina's soap dish and then before I knew it I was a jewel thief too!” I have them literally rolling on the floor holding onto their sides.
“So that's it?” bird woman complains. “She steals an eighteen hundred dollar Omega Seamaster watch and gets away with it?”
Kim and Tommy continue howling, but I stop dead in my tracks. It's slight, but the smile on Greg's face shifts. And then, ever so slowly, I see him lay his right hand casually over his left. He's trying to hide his watch. He looks up into the camera and stares directly at me.
This is how I die. Trina Wilcox challenges me to appear on the
Judge Jeannie Show
. I can't wait for my good name to be exonerated and my face to be professionally made up. “What about makeup?” I say to Audrey, the petite redhead who lets me into the building and ushers me into a small blue room called the Green Room. I was dying to get some color on my face. “What about it?” she answers impatiently. “When do I get it done?” I ask politely. She snorts. “We're a small claims court that happens to be televised,” she announces, “not
Extreme Makeover
.” A bowling ball flips in my gut. “But—but I didn't wear makeup,” I stammer. But before I can yell “Loreal!” she disappears into the hall. Why didn't you tell me to bring makeup just in case? I scream at the Saint of Cosmetics. Just in case, just in case, just in case? Haven't you ever heard of just in case???? Okay Mel, breathe. Breathe. Visualize your mother ship. There she is on the horizon, just beyond the fog. Go to her! Go to your mother ship! Suddenly a torpedo whizzes by—heading straight for—no, God no! My mother ship has been blown to smithereens. I start to pace. My father is a pacer. I wonder if he still paces. I wonder if the Florida sun has eased his tension to the point where he no longer needs to pace. Does he pace on the sand? It would be very difficult to pace on sand—shut up! Shut the fuck up! This is not the time for thinking you need to act. Do something. Do something.
Okay. It's okay. This is New York. Even the men wear makeup. There has to be makeup somewhere in the building. By God I will sniff it out. I look at my watch. Ten minutes! I have ten minutes. Okay, okay, okay. I step out into the hall. I can see a few skinny men running around in black. Behind one of those doors has to be makeup! I ease down the dark hall, feeling along the wall until I reach the next door. As I'm reaching out to turn the knob, a girl with a headphone breezes right by me, opens the door, and walks in. I follow.
This room is actually a pleasant color of green. And lively. There are new suede couches, colorful paintings, fresh flowers, piping hot coffee, and glazed donuts. Trina Wilcox is sitting in a chair having her makeup done. I open my mouth to scream but nothing comes out. Trina smiles at me with her perfectly lined, soft pink lips. I can feel tears building up behind my eyes, and my mouth tastes salty. I pray to the Saint of Water Works, “Turn them off, turn them off! We've got a leak—we've got a leak!” but to no avail. I'm sobbing now. The next thing I know, Audrey zips up behind me, grabs my arm, and before I can scream “Mascara!” she hustles my sobbing, makeup-less face into the hallway, through a door, and into the courtroom.
The audience is absolutely still as Judge Jeannie swoops into position. Cameras are everywhere, and I can't stop crying. I think of every horrible thing I can to make myself stop. War. Colds. The stench in the subway. Men. Skinny women who can eat whatever they want without gaining weight. My mother. My brother. My sister-in-law. My stepfather. Someone is screaming. Startled I look up. It's Judge Jeannie. She's pounding her gavel. “Bring in the victims,” she says. The doors open, and everything I've ever stolen is carried in by scantily clad Victoria's Secret models. There are close to a thousand of them and they're all sporting the stomachs and thighs of my dreams. Gravy boats, candles, sweaters, and assorted cutlery float by me displayed on lacy, colorful, push-up bras. Out of the corner of my eye I spot a male model among them. It's Greg Parks. The Omega Seamaster is wrapped around his neck like a dog collar.
“Thief!” Judge Jeannie yells, pointing at me. “Thief, thief, thief,” the audience chants. I don't know who put the paper bag on the podium where I stood, or why—but I did know that a) if it came to a fight Judge Jeannie was going to kick my skinny white ass and b) I was not going to keep crying on national television. I put the bag over my head. I think I hear Kim and Tommy shout my name, but everything is kind of muffled with a paper bag over your head. It smells like a sandwich; this must have been someone's lunch. “Take that bag off your head now!” Judge Jeannie fumes. I don't, of course; I stand there crying into it. I hear the audience gasp first and feel Judge Jeannie's hands around my neck second. “Remember,” I gasp as she strangles me on national television, “the camera adds ten pounds.”
Chapter 33
“I
'm sorry, he's not here right now. Would you like to leave a message?”
sigh. Greg had been refusing my calls all week.
“Margaret, it's Melanie Zeitgar. Do you know where I can find him?”
“Melanie? The clockmaker?”
“That's me.” “Well hello, dear. Are you calling from Europe? How is your one-woman show going?”
“I'll fill you in later. Do you have any idea where I can find Greg?” There is silence on the other end of the phone. “Please,” I say. “Please.”
“He's finishing up a training at Bloomingdale's,” she says. “And then he's off to the television studio.”
“Thank you, Margaret. I owe you one.”
Keep walking, I tell myself.
Don't take anything.
Not this scarf. Not the plastic blue watch falling out of the bin. And definitely not the gaudy rhinestone brooch sitting right there on the edge of the bin.
Greg's right
, my little voice says.
You're an addict.
The urge to steal courses through my veins like steroids through an athlete. But I don't dare. Greg Parks is somewhere in the building. I walk out of Accessories and head to the elevators. That's when I see her. She can't be more than eleven or twelve years old. She is lingering around the display cases of jewelry wearing a white cap, pink shirt, and jeans with rhinestones. She had a small pink and white knapsack. No baggy clothes, and she has no problem making eye contact with the clerks.
But she can't fool me. Maybe it is the flushed look on her face, maybe it's the way she is scanning the items with her eyes—or maybe shoplifters give off scents other shoplifters can pick up—regardless, I know in an instant. She's using the buy one/steal one method. She picks up a necklace or box of earrings in one hand and places it in her basket while slipping the item she really wants into her pocket with her left. I feel like I've gone back in time and I'm watching home movies of myself. Only there's a big difference this time. This time—this “me” can be stopped. This “me” has a chance.
I approach the cosmetics counter around the corner and ask for a supervisor. The salesgirl rolls her eyes at me and seems reluctant to call a supervisor until I tell her I work for Greg Parks, the Loss Prevention Consultant for Bloomingdale's. She's still clueless so I name drop
Side Court TV
, and within minutes the head honcho, Barbara Stockman, is summoned to my side. I recognize her from the presentation I did with Greg. Obviously, she recognizes me too. “Melanie,” she sings. “I was wondering where you were. Come on, the training's just started.”
“Barbara,” I say, “I'm not here for the training. I've spotted a shoplifter in your store.”
Barbara's eyes widen. “Who?” she says, looking around.
I nod my head toward the girl who is now walking briskly away.
“You're sure?” Barbara asks me.
“I'm sure,” I say.
She calls security. I watch the security guards follow her.
Barbara offers me a cup of coffee and asks me to wait with her in her office. A few minutes later the guards return with the girl. She glares at me through Barbara's open door.
“I hate you!” she yells at me. “I hate you.”
I meet her defiant gaze and she holds my stare, but a slight quiver of her lip reveals she's scared to death. This might just be the last day she'll ever steal.
You'll thank me someday
, I want to say. But I know she won't believe me. And she'd never believe it if I told her I'd give anything right now if someone had just done the same for me.
“He's already left, dear,” Barbara tells me a few minutes later when I ask after Greg. “They're taping a live show today.”
“Oh,” I say, trying to hide my disappointment.
“Would this help?” Barbara asks, handing me an envelope. “What is it?”
“It's a guest pass to today's show. Greg was kind enough to give me a pair, but I'm afraid we're all going to be tied up for a while,” she says, glancing at the girl in the hall. “Why don't you use them?”
I smile and take the envelope even though I have no intention of bothering him during the show. “Thank you,” I say.
“No,” Barbara says. “Thank you. Call me if you ever need a job,” she says with a laugh. “We could certainly use someone with your sharp eyes.”
On my way home I pass a homeless man dropped and rolled in the dirt like a corn dog at the county fair. He has one wrinkled hand wrapped around a tin cup and the other resting on a beautiful yellow lab with big, sad, brown eyes. The dog is nuzzling the old man, who according to the sign is a blind Vietnam Vet in need of help. Although the homeless man is a good ten feet from the deli, the owner is trying to shoo him away with a broom. He brushes it near him and the dog winces as particles of dust get caught in his eyes.
“Hey!” I yell at the man with the broom. “Stop that!”
Both men look up at me; the deli man stares directly at me and the blind man looks a little to my right.
“He's a bum! He upset my customers!” the deli man shouts.
“Well I'm a customer too,” I say. “And you're upsetting me.”
The homeless man spots a window of opportunity and grabs it. “Spare a dollar, pretty lady?” He lifts his cup and turns his face in my direction.
“How do you know I'm pretty?”
“I can smell you. You smell pretty.”
I sniff my wrist. I do smell a little bit like apples.
The deli man huffs and spits on the ground next to him. “I work sixteen hours every day,” he yells. “Get a job.”
I step near the deli man and square my shoulders. “If you don't stop harassing this man I'm calling my lawyer,” I threaten. A thin dark-skinned woman with long braids sticks her head out of the deli door and speaks to the deli man in quick, low tones. He grunts, gives me a dirty look, and shuffles away.
I kneel down next to the old man. “May I pet your dog?” I say.
The lab sniffs my hand. “Do you have a dollar?” the man asks again. “We're hungry,” he adds, placing his hand on top of the lab.
“I'm not going to give you any money,” I say honestly. “But I'll get you anything you like from the deli.”
I take a red plastic basket and fill it with peanut butter, jelly, and bread. I realize halfway down the aisle that I'd better check and see how much money I have on me before loading it up any more. I rummage around my purse, feeling for my wallet. That's funny—where is it? I rummage around again. I set the basket down and hold the purse in the light. Where is my red leather wallet? I know it was here this morning. I know it because I had to use it twice—the last time was at the diner in New Jersey. Oh no, could I have left my wallet there? Now what do I do? I can't abandon this old man. And I'm so done with stealing. I swear. But this isn't for me. That man and his dog are getting a sandwich if it's the last thing I do.
The peanut butter will be easy to stuff in my jacket, but I hadn't counted on a loaf of bread. I stick the small jar of Jif in my rain jacket and looked down at myself. The jacket is bulky so you really can't tell. The deli man is busy cutting thin slabs of roast beef and his wife is at the counter arguing with a teenager who is trying to buy cigarettes.
“No good for you. You too young,” she admonishes him, waving the cigarettes.
“I'm twenty-one!” he shouts back, waving his ID at her. “Now give me the goddamn cigarettes.”
I use the distraction to grab the bread, head to the front of the store where they are still arguing, and pick up the
New York Times
. I have enough change in my pockets for the newspaper. I lay the
Times
on top of the bread and walk toward the register. I place the money for the
Times
on the counter next to the young man who is still ranting and raving.
“For the paper,” I say.
“Thank you,” the sweet old man says as I make him a peanut butter and jelly sandwich.
“You're welcome,” I say, sitting down and making one for the dog and myself. “What's his name?” I ask as the dog smacks on the peanut butter.
“Charity,” the blind man says. We sit for another few minutes eating our sandwiches in silence. I wonder how he ended up here, living on the streets. He was an American, a senior citizen, a soldier. Why were we stepping over him like he was garbage? Look at Charity sitting next to the old man with his paws on him protectively, loving him unconditionally. He's a better man than we are. We should all be ashamed of ourselves.
“Where do you sleep?” I say after a bit.
The old man rolls his head from side to side. “Cops keep me on the move,” he says. “But I get by.”
I nod again. Then I see the dog chewing on something. It appears to be a red leather wallet.
I reach for it. The dog growls and the old man grabs my hand. “That's my wallet,” I say. In a flash the old man snaps my wallet from me and looks me directly in the eyes. “Hey!” I yell. The man starts to run. Faster and swifter than a blind man could any day. And Charity isn't guiding him, he's running behind him. But he does drop my wallet. Only it's empty. Cash, coins, credit cards, driver's license—everything. It's all gone. He didn't even take the peanut butter or bread with him. I pick them up off the ground and turn around. The deli man is standing at the door watching me.
“You stole that,” he says, pointing a shaking finger at me. “My wife says you only buy paper. I'm calling the police.” I follow him back into the store and try to explain the situation. I show him my empty wallet. He points to a security camera in the corner of the store.
“Got you,” he says.
“Look. I'll get the money. Just let me—”
“Too late. I call police. I sick of thieves. I sick of you people who steal from me. Every day someone want to take my fruit—here is out here—is free. Ha! This is not free,” he says, picking up an orange and winging it at my head. I look behind me and he grabs the loaf of bread. Then he starts shaking it so hard all I can think is “Don't Squeeze the Charmin.” “I pay for this. I sweat for this. You—” he says, screaming at me now as a small crowd draws—“who do you think you are?”
Tears fill my eyes. “No one,” I whisper. “I'm no one.”
That's why you steal
, a little voice informs me. I hold the empty wallet up again. “He stole my money, don't you see?”
The deli man backs up and looks at me. “He steal your money—you steal my bread and Jiffy. What's the difference?”
“I—I—” I say. I can't think of a good answer. I'm shaking with anger because the old man tricked me and stole my wallet—but he's right. There is no difference between me and him or me and a cat burglar or me and any other lowlife thief.
“What else you take, huh?” the deli man screams. “Something else? In your purse? In your pockets?” His anger goes way beyond the loaf of bread. Years of rage are converging on his face, which is overheating, threatening to blow any minute. He's sweating and his breath becomes labored and grows gravelly as he begins circling me like a shark. His wife approaches timidly from behind.
“Rob,” she says in a quiet voice. “Rob, you take it easy now.”
“Call the police,” he screams at his wife. “We're not letting her go.”
“Robbie,” she says, her voice gaining a little bit of strength. “She will pay us. You take it easy now.” She is speaking to him like he is a jumper on a roof and she's his only savior, perched on the edge right beside him. It occurs to me then that I should be afraid of him. It occurs to me he's having a nervous breakdown. It's quite possible that he is going to snap like a twig, pull out a gun, and shoot me. He's advancing on me now, backing me up into a wall of chips. A few shoppers have stopped to watch. I think of all the horrible crimes in which crowds watched the person being stabbed or raped or mugged, not moving a muscle like they were watching dinner theatre. And those victims weren't even thieves. I wouldn't stand a chance. And now I suddenly, violently, have to pee.
“Please,” I say, my voice leaking out with a croak. “Leave me alone.”
“Give me your purse,” he yells. “And empty your pockets.” This is not good. This is not good, not only because this man is a sizzling grenade with his pin about to pop, but it's also not so good because if memory serves me right there just might be a teeny, tiny pack of gum in my purse. And one in my pocket. Or two. Two at the very most.
I've never been so ashamed of myself in my whole life. What have I done? I was never supposed to hurt anyone. I had rules. I wasn't even supposed to steal from mom and pop shops; how could I forget that? Even if the peanut butter and bread was for the old man and the dog, who was the gum for? I didn't give it away; the packs are right here, in my purse, in my pockets. Why do I keep doing this? Shame whittles through me like a raw nerve throbbing outside the skin. I want my mother. But of course she would be ashamed of me too. “Call my mother,” I yell. “She'll kill me,” I add. “She'll be so ashamed.”

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