She'll Take It (9 page)

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Authors: Mary Carter

BOOK: She'll Take It
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Greg Parks is biting his bottom lip. The cheeky little bastard. He's trying not to laugh. I give him a dirty look. He folds his arms across his chest and moves a few feet away from me. “Interesting question
from the audience
,” he says. “Can this
audience member
take legal action against the Web site? Is that the question?”
I nod. “Against the person who sent the picture to the Web site,” I clarify. “Like defamation of character or something like that,” I say dropping the card. “I'm assuming that's what the audience member wants to know.”
“That depends on a few things,” Greg says. I wait as he paces in front of the picture. At least he's taking me seriously now. “Does this person know who put the picture on the Web site? An ex-boyfriend maybe?” We hold eye contact. Is he flirting with me?
“I know exactly—I mean
the audience member
knows exactly who did this.”
Greg nods again. “Very good,” he says. “One more question.” He points to the wooden spoon sticking out of my crotch. “If she tells a lie,” he asks with a big grin, “does it grow?”
The audience is still roaring when I walk out. I keep my eye on the exit praying to the
Saint of Grace
to get me out of this without further incidence. Everyone is looking at me, but I'm just focusing on the exit. This too shall pass. Tears pool in my eyes and threaten to spill, but I order them to wait. Get out, get out, get out. I make it into the hall. I push the button for the elevator. Okay. I'm in the elevator. This isn't so bad. I press L. I start to cry. Just as the elevator doors are closing, a gray arm reaches through and pries them open. Greg Parks steps into the elevator with me just as the doors start to close and the elevator begins its descent. I try to wipe my tears. Greg reaches the panel and pushes a button, and the elevator lurches to a stop.
“You're crying,” he says. “Don't cry.” This makes me cry even more. “I'm such a jerk,” he says. “Hey, hey please don't cry.”
“I can't stop on cue,” I say angrily.
“I'm so sorry,” he says. “I wasn't trying to hurt you. It was them. They were laughing you know? And I was being filmed for this—work-related thing—and it just—it threw me you know? At first I didn't know how to handle it so I tried a joke and—it worked. So I just—I guess, you know, I usually can't get them to laugh like that.” Oh I know, I thought bitterly. “I got carried away. And I swear—what's your name?”
The question stops my tears. “Melanie Zeitgar,” I say.
“Melanie,” he repeats. “I'm Greg.” He holds out his hand for a real handshake. I compose myself and shake his hand. He has a nice firm grip; there's nothing clammy about him.
“Melanie,” he says. “I promise—they have no idea that was your picture. They're all looking around to see which one of them it is. And don't worry—it's down now. I've got pictures of tulips up there now or something equally as manly.”
Despite myself I laugh again. “How did you know it was me?” I say, praying that he doesn't say that I actually look like the ugly she-male on the screen.
“Your uh—breasts,” he says blushing. “The similarity was uncanny.” We both laugh again. “And the look of horror on your face when you saw the picture,” he admits. “I hope you don't play poker.” I wipe my eyes and pray to the
Saint of Mascara
that mine isn't smeared all over my face.
“Listen, I have to get back in there but—you work for us now right? You're a temp?”
“Yes,” I say. “I'm normally an administrative assistant—”
“Great. Let's continue this conversation later and I'll help you with your uh—predicament. In the meantime you should send an e-mail to the Webmaster and ask him to remove the picture. Feel free to name drop our firm. That should do the trick.”
“Thank you,” I say. He turns and pushes the Open Door button on the elevator. “I always get them mixed up,” I say. “That was probably the wrong one.”
“No,” he says. “It was the right one.” He pushes it again. Nothing happens. He glances at me, laughs nervously, and pushes the button again. Nada.
“Try pushing another floor,” I say, leaning forward and pushing three. It lights up but the elevator doesn't move. I giggle.
“This isn't funny,” Greg says with a nervous laugh.
“No,” I agree. “I have to pee.” Did I just say that in front of my new boss? I look at him in horror, but he's collapsed against the back wall. At first I think he's feeling around for a trapdoor, but then I notice his shoulders shaking with laughter. Reflexively, laughter spills out of me too, and I have to bite my bottom lip to stop myself from barking like a seal. We're trapped. And I really do have to pee.
Chapter 8
U
nlike the movies, neither of us makes a move to rip off our clothes and slam the other against the wall in an awkward yet passionate embrace, and I have to admit I feel a little ripped off. Not that I want to make love to Greg Parks. I'm in love with Ray. But still, why isn't he attacking me? Is it because I mentioned the thing about having to pee? On the other hand we're not stuck in here with a pregnant woman near her due date either, so I guess I should be grateful. And then, as if reading my mind, Greg takes a step toward me, his hand reaching for my breasts. Oh my God. Is this sexual harassment? I'm not actually going to let him feel me up am I?
“I have a boyfriend,” I say before he touches me.
His hand stops in mid-trajectory, but his index finger remains pointing toward me. “No,” he says in alarm. “I wasn't. It's—your scarf,” he says. “The price tag.”
Mortified, I look to where he's pointing. Sure enough the price tag is dangling off my scarf.
“I was just. I wasn't—” Greg says flustered, stepping back.
“Oh. Thank you,” I say, ripping the price tag off. “I've had this scarf forever, too.”
I want to die. We both reach for the emergency phone at the same time and our hands collide on top of the little red phone.
“I'll get it,” Greg says.
I remove my hand and step back while Greg talks in clipped tones to a security guard. Within seconds the elevator is moving again, and I can't help but notice that Greg is now standing as far away from me as he can get. When the elevator opens into the lobby, Greg flashes me the peace sign and heads back up to the presentation. Before I know it, I'm back in the town car heading downtown.
“How are you today?” the driver says, looking at me through the rearview mirror. I try a discount smile but I can't even manage 10% off. In less than four hours I've broken into a computer, displayed my crotch on a full-size screen for a couple hundred strangers, and accused my boss of sexual harassment. I think I've earned a lunch. But first I'm going to kill Trina Wilcox.
I find her in the women's bathroom applying blood red lipstick to her snakey mouth. She stops when I enter, and the edges of her lips twitch like a rabbit on cocaine as we stare at each other in the mirror.
“Did Greg get his laptop?” she asks. I tell myself to breathe. “What? Why are you staring at me like that?”
“Greg Parks was mortified in front of a live audience and a cameraman from
Side Court TV
,” I begin.
Trina whirls around, her eyes glowing saucers. “A cameraman?” she whispers.
“Didn't you know?” I say. “He was being considered for a position as a commentator and they were at the presentation to get an idea of how he comes across on camera.”
Trina swallows. “
Was
being considered?”
“Well I don't know for sure, but how did you think it was going to look when he brought up that picture? Everyone thinks he's a sex freak now.”
Trina stumbles backward into the sink. “Oh my God,” she says. “I must have—”
“Save it,” I say. “You knew perfectly well what you were doing.”
“I wasn't trying to get him in trouble,” she cries. “Does—does he think I did it?”
“I'm sure after a little investigating he'll find out who is responsible,” I say. “He mentioned something about a lawsuit too.”
“A lawsuit?”
“Yes, against the person who put my picture on the Web site to begin with. He said something about ‘defamation of character.'”
Trina scrounges through her purse and pulls out a pack of cigarettes. I glance at the smoke alarm. She follows my gaze and shoves them back in her purse.
“Look, Melanie,” she says, twirling a strand of hair around her finger. “It was probably just a joke. If you want I'll hint around—see if anyone knows anything—see if I can get them to take the picture down.”
“Why don't you do that?” I say, making my exit.
“By the way,” Trina says, following me down the hall. “I don't think it's professional that you were snooping on Greg Parks's computer and asking him for legal advice your first day on the job.”
I stop and clench my fingers.
“I'm sure Jane would agree with me,” she adds.
I secretly give her the middle finger and walk faster. “I have to get to lunch,” I say.
“Okay,” Trina says sweetly. “Will I see you tonight?”
This makes me stop again. “Tonight?”
“Sheila's play. Aren't you going? Ray and I are.”
Did she just say she was going to Sheila's play with Ray? I turn around and meet her eyes. They're lit from behind— glowing like Satan himself, hungry for my reaction. She wants me to pounce on her comment about Ray.
“Sheila's in a play?” I ask pleasantly. “Sheila Hedges?”
“Off-Broadway,” Trina says with obvious disappointment that I ignored her comment about Ray. “She's also doing a voice-over for Chevrolet, and she was signed by William Morris. Can you believe it? She's only been out here what—three months? How long have you been here?”
A lead ball bounces around in my gut. “I grew up in New York,” I say.
“Upstate wasn't it?” Trina goads. “That's not really what I meant. How long have you been in the city trying to act?” she clarifies.
Trying to act? Trying to act? I pray to the
Saint of Instantaneous Objects
to make a chandelier appear and to the
Saint of Freak Accidents
to bring it crashing down on her pretty little head, but no such luck.
“I've been very busy with my clocks,” I say.
“What clocks?” Trina says, the sweetness in her voice cutting out like a cell phone in a tunnel.
“Just an artistic endeavor I've embarked on,” I say with a sufficient balance of mystery and snobbery. “Now if you'll excuse me. I have a lunch date.” It takes everything I have not to sprint out of the building. If I don't steal something in the next five minutes, I'm going to become physically violent. And I know I said I was done stealing, but in the scheme of things would you rather be a klepto or a violent maniac?
Once I'm out into the fresh (car exhaust, hot dogs, urine, sweat, sewer) air, I feel a little bit calmer
. I'm just going to get something to eat
, I coach myself. I'm not going to think about the humiliation I've just endured, and I'm certainly not going to call Ray. I'm going to go into this deli, grab a plastic container, and fill it with yummy things like deep fried chicken chunks and maybe a little broccoli. Then I'm going to go upstairs, find myself a tiny table, and stuff my face. Only when I've rehearsed what I'd say to the tee—only then will I call Ray and make small, happy talk. Small, happy talk. Such as:
Good: “Ray. Hello, how are you?”
Bad: “Ray. Are you fucking Trina Wilcox?”
Good: “Ray. I've been tremendously happy attending to my very busy, fulfilling, athletic, creative life but I've managed to squeeze in a few moments thinking of you and I just wanted to say hello.”
Bad: “Please, baby why haven't you called me—I'm thinking of you every waking moment and I'm catatonic without you.”
See? One must practice these things. Only when we've gotten the small, happy talk out of the way will I venture over the land mine. “Ray, I ran into Trina Wilcox today. You remember, your ex-girlfriend? You're not really going to a play with her tonight (or play with her tonight) are you?” It's honest, to the point. “And by the way, you know that picture of me on
Shemalediva.com
isn't what it looks like, don't you? I mean you don't think I'm some sort of culinary sex freak, do you?” That one I'm going to have to work on.
Besides the chicken and broccoli, I pick up a few other things. A slice of carrot cake. A bar of caramel and dark chocolate. A thick slice of garlic bread. Fried rice. An egg roll. And I pay for it all. I could have easily slipped the chocolate bar in my pocket too, but I don't. I'm in the throws of tragedy and I'm behaving like a law-abiding citizen. I'm a saint. I stuff myself until I replace my emotional pain with a bellyache. My cell phone rings. I look at caller ID and brace myself. Oh God. What if she's calling because she's seen the Web site?
“Hi, Mom.”
“Darling,” she says. “What a surprise reaching you for a change.” So far so good—I don't detect any trace of “my daughter has become a freak” in her voice. “Any news for me?” she says.
She means—are you gainfully employed. I grit my teeth. “Yes, Mom,” I say. “I've started a job at Parks and Landon. It's a law firm.” I hold the phone away from my ear as my mother squeals. “Uh-oh,” I say, “I'd better go—my lunch is almost over.”
“Parks, you say? What's his first name? Did you tell him your brother Zachary is a lawyer too?” I grip the phone like I'm strangling a chicken. My mother could work my brother into any conversation imaginable. I could say, “Mom, I got a part in a Broadway play!” and she'd say, “Didn't Zachary once attend a Broadway play?” Or “Mom, I was bitten by a cobra and I only have an hour left to live,” and she'd say, “Zachary once made me a pretty little snake out of pipe cleaners. I still have it somewhere—”
“I have to go, Mom,” I say, cutting her off. “I'm extremely busy.”
“Call me later, Melanie. I want to hear more about your position. What is the phone number? What's your extension?”
“I'll be right there,” I say to the perplexed woman sitting at the next table. “Bye, Mom. Love you.”
“Bye, honey. Call me later and tell me about your health plan.” On my way out I stop at the condiment stand. I grab a handful of Splenda packets, a fistful of salt, ten packets of mustard, and twelve plastic forks. Outside I grab a lime. I don't know why I take the lime, but it makes me happy. It thumps in my purse as I walk back to work. It's very comforting. It stops me from calling Ray.
The rest of the afternoon goes by without incident. I actually file. And once I get into it, it's not too bad. Mindless, yes. A chimp could do it—yes. But between the pile of food in my stomach and the repetitive nature of the filing, I'm able to induce a comalike state, ignore nose-whistler file boy, and actually get some work done. Before I know it, the day is over. All I want to do is return the scarf as fast as I can so that I can meet Kim at Juan's. Trina corners me before I can escape into the elevator.
“Melanie, I think I found out who posted that picture of you,” she says.
“And they're going to take it off?” I ask bluntly, dropping the pretense.
“Maybe,” she says. “But I just wanted to ask you again if you know anything about my pearl soap dish. Remember, the one that
somebody
stole from my bathroom the night of my party?”
I stare at her. For a second I hesitate, wondering what kind of perversion allowed her to obsess on a soap dish.
“Trina,” I say, conjuring up a tone of maturity and pity, “I don't know why you think I would take your soap dish. I really don't. But I didn't. I swear on my mother's grave I didn't take your soap dish.”
“Your mother is still alive, Melanie,” Trina hisses.
I shrug. “Her future grave then,” I say. “Or yours,” I add with a smile, holding her eyes until she looks away.
“It was mother of pearl with a 14 karat gold inlay,” she says as if she's talking about a queen's crown instead of a tool used to house soap scum. “It belonged to my grandmother, Melanie. It's extremely valuable.”
I clench my skirt in my hands. “I'm sorry to hear that. But I've told you—I don't know anything about it.” She doesn't reply, but she doesn't leave either. She's looking me up and down as if she's actually considering frisking me to see if I have the soap dish hidden on my person. I'm gearing up to walk out on her when Margaret Tomer rushes up to me.
“Melanie, I'm glad you haven't left yet. We need you to wait for Airborne Express,” she says, sticking a large envelope in my hands. “You can do that can't you?” I look at my watch. It's five-fifteen. If I stay I'll never make it to Brewber's Department Store before they close and I promised the Saints I would return it. Rational or not, I have this feeling that really bad things are going to happen to me if I don't keep my word and return the scarf by six o'clock today.
Whereas some little girls read fairy tales and get all inspired by the romance and the magic, I have been tormented all my life by the punishments. This scarf is ticking, and six is my midnight. If it's not on the shelves by then, I'm a squashed pumpkin. And it's not just that I think I'll lose Ray or gain ten pounds—although that would be bad too—I'm afraid that if I don't take this scarf back I'm going to be a thief for the rest of my life. I'm never going to be able to stop. And I do want to stop. I've had a good run, and my rules have kept me safe so far—but I'm smart enough to know it's a game of odds. If I don't quit now, it's going to take me out.

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