by Sandra Cunha
When she opens the door again, one of the dogs is at her heels, trying to peek its head around it.
“Cupcake! C’mon! Go play with your brother; mommy’s busy.” (Craziness.) “Here it is, Erin. It’s super fragile, so make sure you hold it like I’m holding it. No rocking it or anything like that. Mr. Kim is really picky. If it’s not perfect, he gets upset.” She looks me in the eyes and repeats, “Very upset.”
I take the brown, square box from her. It’s smaller than I thought it would be and extremely light—as if it’s filled with air.
What the heck is in here?
“No problem. I’ll make sure it gets there safe and sound. Um, bye,” I say, walking towards the stairs.
I’m halfway down when she calls out my name. I jump, and the package wobbles in my hands.
Please, don’t let her of seen that.
“Yes?” I say, turning around once I have the package in place.
She’s standing at the top of the stairs with the two dogs sitting on either side of her. I can now confirm they’re rottweilers—or maybe pit bulls—whichever type is scarier.
This is it. I’m finished.
“You forgot something,” she says.
Keep the umbrella. Keep the fucking umbrella!
I just want to get out of here without being torn to shreds.
She comes down the stairs to meet me. Thankfully, the dogs don’t follow her.
“You wouldn’t want to leave without getting paid, would you?” She hands me an envelope and smiles.
No, no, I wouldn’t.
One down, one to go.
I’m so close; I can almost see the finish line. Too bad that in order to cross that finish line, I have to go to Jane and Finch first. I’m not even sure how to get there. I settle on a combination of streetcar, subway, and, finally, bus.
It takes forever. Frankie didn’t mention an exact time, but it’s past four when I reach Mr. Kim’s neighbourhood. That doesn’t seem “pronto” to me.
It’s been an interesting journey getting here. I’ve seen parts of Toronto I’ve never seen before. I’ve rather enjoyed the experience—kind of like a day trip to another city. Maybe the media exaggerates how bad this area is.
When I arrive at Mr. Kim’s rundown complex, I have second thoughts about that.
I nervously smile at a group of teenage girls hanging out on the front steps. They mostly glare back.
As I’m about to enter the building, I hear what sounds like gun shots in the distance. I let out a scream and almost drop the package (and myself) to the ground. The girls start laughing. I quickly get inside.
Finding Mr. Kim’s name in the directory, I buzz his apartment.
“Hello? Hello?”
“Hi, Mr. Kim? This is Erin.”
“I don’t know no Erin. No soliciting.”
“I’m not soliciting. I have a package for you.”
“What package?”
Wouldn’t I like to know.
“A package . . . from Frankie.”
“Okay, okay. Come in.” He buzzes me in.
I take the elevator up to the eighth floor. When the doors open, there’s a woman waiting with a crying baby in a stroller. After receiving another glare, I try to slide past her without getting run over as she charges into the elevator.
What’s with all the glares around here? Sheesh.
Entering the hallway, my senses are overloaded. The smell of pot, garbage, and boiled cabbage fills my nostrils. I hear loud music and even louder arguing. The carpet below my feet is stained and tattered. I can’t see much else as there’s a single light fixture in working order, and it’s barely flickering, on the verge of giving up.
I know how it feels. I wish I was under the warm covers of my futon bed, watching bad television. And I don’t even have my umbrella for protection anymore.
Once I’ve located Mr. Kim’s apartment number, I knock on his door.
“Yes?” he says, without opening the door. I can sense him appraising me through the peephole.
“Hi, it’s Erin. I have your package.”
“What package?”
Seriously?
“From Frankie.” I’m so over this.
“Okay, okay,” he says as I hear him unlocking multiple locks behind the door.
I drop into a defensive crouch position—just in case.
The door opens.
I let out a sigh of relief when I see who is standing behind it: a tiny, old Asian man. (I want to say Chinese, but I think I’ve hit my stereotyping quota for the day.) Although . . . old people have been known to be lethal. But it’s impossible to focus on him because I’m overwhelmed by the state of his apartment. It’s completely packed with stuff in every nook and cranny from my vantage point. There’s only a small pathway leading to the living room and another one to the kitchen. I label him an extreme hoarder.
“You wait here,” he says. (Where could I go?)
He takes a while to come back. I wonder if he’s been toppled by his stuff, and whether I should go in search of him. But I stick to my instructions and wait by the front door.
When he comes back, he has an envelope in his hands that he places inside his front shirt pocket.
“Give me package,” he says.
I do as I’m told.
He puts the package down on a nearby makeshift table made out of stacks of old newspapers. He uses his exceptionally-long, pinkie fingernail to cut through the packing tape and opens the box.
For a brief moment, the biggest smile forms on his face, and he looks like a small boy again.
I desperately want to know what’s inside that box, but I’m too far away, and I’m not willing to risk taking a closer look.
“Okay, good. Very good,” he says. The smile disappears.
Mr. Kim takes the envelope out of his front pocket and hands it to me. “You count.”
I open the envelope and begin counting the money to myself.
“Out loud,” he says.
“One, two, three, four, five, six, seven hundred,” I say, finishing my recount.
I look at him. He looks back at me. This continues for a while. I hesitate, then do what most white girls would do in a similar situation: I bow my head.
He seems satisfied.
“Okay, go,” he says.
I’m more than happy to oblige. When I’m out of his peephole view, I stick the envelope in my pants. I may be naive, but I’m not dumb enough to flash my new hundred-dollar bills in this hood.
My phone rings as I’m about to get on the elevator.
“Hello?” I whisper, so as not to attract any unnecessary attention.
“Erin, it’s Frankie. Mr. Kim is happy. Good work, kid.” He hangs up.
Maybe some things are better left a mystery.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Project Coco Fund = $2,017.35
THIS CRAZY DAY isn’t over yet. I have my most important stop to make. But in order to make that stop, I’ve had to go home first and collect all of my earnings.
Tonight, I’m buying my mom’s bag!
Well, assuming it’s still there. And also assuming they don’t arrest me for messing with their merchandise.
By the time I get to Yorkville, it’s almost seven. I get off the subway and make a run for the vintage shop. I can’t wait another day. I need to buy the bag tonight.
The nice saleslady is locking the front door as I approach. She recognizes me and opens the door.
“Hello, there! I was about to close up. It’s been dreadfully quiet all day. Come in, come in.”
I thank her profusely for letting me in.
“My pleasure . . . but I’m afraid I’ve some bad news for you.” (Uh-oh.) “It’s that bag you’ve been inquiring about, the Chanel.” She looks at me with worried eyes.
“Yes?” I wait with bated breath.
“I’m so sorry, but it seems to have gone missing,” she says, her voice full of concern.
“Missing?” I let out my breath.
“That is bizarre.” (Yes! It must still be where I left it.) “But, um, I’m sure I saw it the other day when I was in. Somewhere over here . . .” I say, walking towards the ugly weekend bag. I block her from view as I unzip the bag and look inside.
It’s still here! It’s still here!
“Here it is!” I turn around with the bag in my hands and the biggest grin on my face.
“Oh, my! You’ve found it! You’ve found it!” She claps her hands. “Oh, thank goodness. I was beginning to worry the owner would think one of us had stolen it. Oh, thank goodness,” she says again, placing her hand over her heart.
I never imagined she’d get blamed for it. Thank goodness, indeed.
“Shall I wrap it up for you . . . or did you just come to have another look at it?”
“No looking today. Please, wrap it up!” I’ve never been prouder of myself. I did it.
I really did it!
She takes the bag from me as we walk to the register. When we approach, she turns towards me and says, “This bag has quite the history. Do you know why it’s called the 2.55 bag?”
“Um, because that’s its version number?”
She chuckles. “Sort of. The number 2.55 represents February 1955, the date of its creation. And see the lining of the bag, this burgundy colour?”
“Yes?” I’m completely enthralled.
“That was the colour of the uniforms at the convent Mademoiselle Chanel was sent to after her mother passed away.”
I never knew Coco was an orphan. My eyes get misty. This is all kind of overwhelming. Thoughts are running through my mind, but I push them away.
“And how will you be paying for this today?” she asks, breaking my reverie.
I’m back to the present. “Cash. I’ll be paying with cash,” I say, smiling. I reach into my purse, which looks dingy compared to the Chanel, and handover the money; all two-thousand dollars of it.
“I must say, this bag suits you. It’s a perfect match.” She meets my eyes and smiles.
“Thank you, that means a lot.” I’m getting misty again. What’s wrong with me? It must be the emotions building up after all these weeks and finally getting the ultimate prize.
“Let me finish wrapping it up for you, then you can be on your way.” She places it into the original dust bag. None of my other purses have ever come with a dust bag. This is a whole new world for me.
“There you go!” she says, handing it to me.
“Thank you for all of your help. You don’t know how important this bag is to me. It’s like finding a lost treasure.”
She gives me another warm smile and nods her head.
As I make my way towards the door, I remember that I forgot to ask her something. So I turn around and say, “I just realized, I never got your name.”
“Oh, yes, they don’t make us wear name tags anymore. It’s Elizabeth—but everyone calls me Lizzie.”
My body tenses, but I quickly regain my composure. “Thanks, Lizzie. I appreciate everything you’ve done for me.”
I hurry out of the shop into the darkening evening.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
I SLEPT WITH the bag last night. I must have passed out from all the excitement because when I open my eyes in the morning, it’s there, laying next to me, still in its dust bag.
So this is my first opportunity to see it up close. Every other time, it’s been behind glass. The one time I did have it in my hands, I was busy finding a hiding spot for it. But now that it’s mine, I can look at it as often and as long as I want. I carefully remove it from the dust bag.
It’s exactly as I remember.
When I was a kid, I used to play dress up with my mom’s bag for hours while she was busy working. She never knew—or, at least, I don’t think she knew. I’d always put it back exactly the way I’d found it. Except for once, when I’d nicked it somehow on my charm bracelet. It’d left a tiny snag on the bottom of the bag. My mom thought she was the one who’d done it. I’d forgotten about that. I flip over the bag to see if it’s still there.
It’s not.
But that doesn’t mean this isn’t my mom’s bag. Maybe the repair shop buffed it or something when they fixed the clasp.
I get up and begin transferring the stuff from my old purse into my new (but, technically very old) bag.
Hmm, my lunch won’t fit in here. That’s okay, I can go back to buying my lunches now that Project Coco has been successfully completed. I debated saving the bag for special occasions, but I spent all that money, I want to wear it as much as possible. (And I don’t really have special occasions.)
Afterwards, I search through my closet to find something equally fabulous to wear, but all my clothes seem shabby in comparison. Most of them don’t go with navy, either. A black bag would’ve been a more practical choice. Maybe I’ll keep the errand service going until I can update my wardrobe to match my designer bag.
In the end, I find a navy shift dress buried in the back of my closet. Not quite a little black dress à la Coco, but I think she’d still approve. My trench coat and my painstakingly-revived, red ankle booties finish off the look.
I’m kind of overdressed for a Friday, especially as it’s casual day at work. I’d normally never waste an opportunity to wear jeans, but today is different. Today is not only the launch of my new bag, but also the launch of the new me.
Before heading out, I give myself a once over in my full-length mirror.
Not bad, Erin. Not bad.
I’m all smiles as I enter the subway station. No need for pushing and shoving today. This is partly because I’m early, but mostly because I’m in such high spirits. Nothing can bring me down, not even being crammed into a tin can, like a sardine.
And as a reward for my good behaviour, I see that Suit Guy is standing inside my train car. He’s wearing my favourite navy suit of his: we colour-coordinate.
I’m sick of calling him Suit Guy—I want to know his real name.
So this morning, unlike so many mornings before, I’m going to talk to him.
No, really, I’m going to do it.
As I squeeze my way past someone reading a newspaper, I narrowly avoid getting coffee spilled on me by someone else.
C’mon, people! The subway is not your living room!
(I remind myself to think happy thoughts.)
When I’m a few feet away from Suit Guy, he sees me and says, “Hey, you. You made it.” And then, he smiles, a very, very sexy smile.
I’m taken aback. I’m sure my cheeks have turned bright red. This is going so much better than I ever imagined. He must remember me from the post office.
But as I’m about to respond in the sexiest voice I can muster, I hear a girl behind me say, “Hey, babe. Almost missed it.”
Turning to my side, I see a tall, blonde goddess who’s trying to get past me.
“Excuse me,” she says, flashing me a dismissive glance, but then, she notices my bag and gives me a slight, unconscious nod of approval. She struts over to Suit Guy and kisses him full on the lips to mark her territory.
Suit Guy is taken.
On any other day, this would be a devastating blow, but his girlfriend’s semi-acknowledgment of my bag helps to take a bit of the sting away.
Even the grey corridors and cubicles can’t bring me down.
As I walk past Carol’s desk, she looks up and takes me in, then glances down at her watch before saying, “Don’t you look nice. Is that a Chanel bag you have there?”
“Yes, it is!” I say, modelling it for her. “It’s a family heirloom.”
“Well, it’s lovely,” she says and goes back to her work.
Wow. Who would’ve thought, Carol, of all people, would be the first person to compliment me on my bag. It’s a funny, funny world. Guess she didn’t realize I wa
s gone yesterday afternoon, or, if she did, she isn’t saying anything.
Maybe she and I can find a way to get along better after all these years. She seems to like it when I come to work early. I can try doing that more often. (No promises, though.) As a peace treaty, I should offer to buy her a coffee.
So I walk back over to her desk.
“Hey, Carol!”
She looks up startled.
“I was wondering . . . do you want to go downstairs and grab a coffee? It’s on me.”
She narrows her eyes at me repeatedly for several seconds; probably thinks this is some sort of a trick. “I can’t,” she finally says. “I have to wait for Joe. The printer’s been jammed since yesterday afternoon.”
“Okay, some other time.” At least, I tried. That’s something.
I drop off my jacket at my desk before heading downstairs for my solo latte run. My first one avec Chanel!
Joe is at the end of the corridor as I’m coming out of my cubicle. We have so many printer issues that we’re on a first-name basis with the repairman. I tell Carol that he’s here.
She gets up from her desk and comes over. I ask her if she wants me to wait for her, but she says it’ll probably take a while and for me to go ahead.
As I’m walking towards the elevators, an image pops into my head. It’s of me hitting the print button yesterday. I wonder if I was the one who caused the printer jam. What was I printing again?
NO! NO! NO!
I sprint back down the corridor and around the corner, coming to a halt outside the copy room.
I get there just in time.
Just in time to see Carol holding one of my crumbled Erin Girl flyers.
Carol looks at the flyer, then towards me. It’s as if I’ve been given temporary access to the recesses of her mind; all the puzzle pieces are connecting with the final piece, at long last, falling into place.
She rushes out of the copy room.
“Carol! Carol! Please, stop! I can explain! Carol, please!”
