“Sorry,” I said. “Microwaved frozen tuna.”
“Ugh,” he replied. He gestured at the crumb cake display to my right. “False advertising. Why aren’t you in the freezer aisle?”
“I’m guessing management is trying to avoid another employee frostbite lawsuit,” I said. “Want to try my tuna burger?” Even as I spoke, I knew it sounded lewd.
“Hard to resist,” he said with the hint of a smile. “But I’m a vegetarian.” As he turned away, a leggy supermodel-type approached. She had Bettie Page bangs and wore a tailored rockabilly dress with peep-toe pumps.
“Texas! There you are!” she said, taking his arm. (Texas? I wondered if he had siblings named Arizona and Oklahoma.) They walked off, a perfect couple, which only served to remind me that I live with you, my ex-boyfriend, who doesn’t pay rent on time. It also reminded me that the only “man” I’ve been with in I-won’t-say-how-long is the purple merman. To make matters worse, several of the rich women shoppers were rather snippy about whether or not the tuna burger contained any guar gum as a stabilizer. I wanted to yell, “Have you seen living tuna? They are glorious creatures of the sea. Eating them is the problem, not a little guar gum.” But like a dutiful employee, I held my tongue.
Preoccupied as I was this morning with thoughts of Brant Bitterbrush and the anniversary of my heartbreak, I had forgotten to eat breakfast and was moving into a rather hangry mood. If you had been there, Everett, I’m sure you would have pushed some Brie on me, but as you were not, I let my mood descend. Then she approached. She must have been a little older than I am, maybe thirty, her long red hair in a perky ponytail, and a diamond ring the size of a cherry tomato on her finger. In the grocery basket slung so casually over her forearm I spotted two bottles of DUCKIE & LAMBIE MOISTURIZER!!! Today of all days! The sight of those bottles—a symbol of Brant Bitterbrush’s ultimate betrayal—was like a punch to my gut.
“Don’t buy those,” I said, pointing at the offending bottles.
“Why not?” the redhead asked. “It makes my skin so smooth.” She popped a chunk of reheated frozen tuna burger between her bleached teeth, chewed, and said, “Mmmm. Crumb cake!” (To endure the nightly pounding she surely receives from her rich, sagging husband, she must have become completely ungrounded from her physical body and is thus unable to distinguish cake from seafood!) I looked her up and down and realized that her trim figure was decked out from head to toe in the offending brand whose name my hand shakes to write—Lululemon!
The wave of outrage at what she and her brethren are doing to my hometown overwhelmed me (and, with the distance of eight hours, I can now admit it—perhaps some of my fury was misplaced). I wish my retort had been clever or even condescendingly kind. But what came out of my mouth was: “You. Dumb. Bitch.”
“Wait, what?” she said.
“You. Dumb. Bitch.” I enunciated that second time.
The conflict snapped her right back into her body. She dropped her shopping basket, came racing around the sample table, and shoved me with all the power of her sculpted frame. I staggered backward. I’m proud to say I kept my footing—I can’t say the same for the crumb cake display, which came crashing down around me. The cacophony of a hundred boxes of crumb cake hitting the tile caused every customer from Bakery to Hot Bar to turn and stare.
“So that happened,” the redhead said, before sashaying off toward the exit. But at the sliding doors near the checkout lines she paused and turned to wave at me, flashing a smile that was more conspiratorial than triumphant. I found myself raising my own hand to wave in return. Then she slipped through the doors and was gone. What a baffling woman! While I initially took her for a West Austin pedigree, perhaps she is trailer trash or a military brat cursed with good looks and recently realized aspirations of wealth through marriage.
It was then I heard Dirty Steve’s voice. He must have seen the whole thing as he headed out, probably for an early lunch of surf and turf at The Yellow Rose strip club. “Poxy Roxy!” he thundered. “I told you to keep a smile on your face, not incite an assault! Be in my office at ten tomorrow!”
Given that tomorrow’s meeting could very well result in termination of my employment, I’m now more worried than ever about money.
All this to say, Everett: it’s the 24th of June and you’ve been living in my house for almost two weeks, so by any measure your rent is WAY. PAST. DUE. I understand you are underemployed right now. In this town, aren’t we all? (I speak only for those of us with a shred of integrity, artistic or otherwise—the “new Austin” tech assholes are making billions as I write.) But I let you move into my spare bedroom on the condition that you would pay rent each month. The time has come for you to follow through on that promise.
Your frustrated landlady,
Roxy
P.S. I’m leaving this note on the kitchen counter so that you’ll be sure to see it when you sit down to eat my purloined yucca fries and tofu nuggets (in clear violation of #3a! Do rules mean nothing to you?).
June 25, 2012
Dear Everett,
I made it to work early today, so I’ve ducked into the coffee shop of BookPeople to sip an iced matcha latte with almond milk and let the air-conditioning cool me down from the sweltering heat as I prepare myself for possibly being fired. I’m also going to take this time to write to you about an indignity that just happened to me, an indignity caused by your failure to fork over your prorated June rent. I need that money to pay down my credit card a bit. And if I don’t make a payment in the next few days, my interest rate will skyrocket. I’ve begun to doubt you will hand over the cash in time. So as a last resort, I decided to hit up my parents. I’d planned to call them after my shift today, but as usual, my mother had her weird mom ESP turned on.
I was riding my bike to work and had just passed by that hideous new artisanal water shop—certain to sell $6 asparagus-essence water—that’s going in on the corner where the Pronto Mart used to be, when my cell phone rang. Since you refuse to get a cell, you’ve never experienced this inconvenience yourself. I answered it while pedaling and put it on speaker. A precarious move, but I pulled it off with grace. And then I could hear my parents’ voices, in unison, on speakerphone, which is annoying. Either they talk over each other, or to each other, or else one of them leaves the room without telling me and I don’t know who’s on the phone. Sometimes I’ll start telling a story meant mainly for my mom, but she’s wandered off to start a load of laundry or something.
“Hello, darling,” my mother said. “We are just calling to see if you are going to be able to come to Peru with us.” Have I informed you, Everett, that in late September my parents are planning on visiting my brother for a month at his Peace Corps outpost in Peru? “I think we are going to stay at an eco-lodge,” she continued. “No internet, no cell service. Just long hikes and majestic mountains. But we need to know if you’re coming so we can get our plane tickets and book rooms. We’ll cover lodging if you’ll pay for your own plane ticket. There are some great deals on tickets right now for fall.”
If there’s one thing my parents love it’s a deal! When we all go to the movies together, my mom still tries to get me the kids’ rate by joking that I’m under twelve. Often the person behind the ticket counter is so embarrassed for me that they just give her the discount.
“I don’t think I can swing a ticket,” I said, “or the time off work. Roscoe’s vet bill was a real financial hit.”
“Paying for you to go on a gap year and then to the Plan II Honors College at UT was a financial hit, too,” I heard my father mutter. “But no one’s reimbursing me for it.” My dad is usually a dear, but ever since he retired from his dentistry practice last year he’s been bored, and thus crabby.
I took a deep breath and tried to brace myself to ask them for money. But I couldn’t even bring myself to make a direct plea for funds, so I went with the hint-dropping approach. “I’m so broke I even let Everett move in with me to help with the mortgage,” I said.
“How are you ever going to find a new boyfriend if Everett is living with you?” my mom asked. An astute question, and one I’ve been wondering myself.
“Well, I have to do what I have do, Mom. I’m also working a ton to try to pay off the vet bill,” I went on. “Really long shifts.” I hated myself for pushing so hard for a parental cash injection, but what choice did I have?
“Roxy, what is your plan?” my mother said in her tough-love voice, which always infuriates me. “You’re never going to get ahead in life working long hours at minimum wage. It’s past time you decided on some next steps.”
“I don’t have a plan!” I was almost yelling. “That’s the problem! Do you have any idea what it’s like to feel so stuck?” Suddenly I felt completely overwhelmed by the whole conversation, and by the fact that I’m broke, have a crap job, and haven’t made any progress on my painting or drawing.
“I know it can be hard for artists,” my mother said, her tone turning sympathetic. She always knows when she’s pushed me too far and needs to change her tack. “When you were a girl, all I had to do to keep you busy was buy you a bucket of sidewalk chalk. You’d stay out until dark. Even when the sidewalk was scorching, you’d draw and draw and draw. I couldn’t stop you.” She paused. “Have you done any drawing or painting lately?”
I was desperate to change the subject before it veered any closer to the fact that I haven’t made any art whatsoever in six months. “Please, please, ask me about anything else.”
“How are Yolanda, Rose, Kate, and Barclay? Have you seen them lately?”
“Not in a while,” I said lamely. The truth is, I haven’t seen my college besties in ages. They all seem to have moved on from our previous sisterly solidarity to the boring land of real adulthood and office-casual wardrobes—a place I doubt I’d like to visit, much less live! “What have y’all been up to?”
“Well, last night I went to one of those girls-only parties at Suzanne’s,” my mom said. “Maybe you could do that for extra money until you figure out your next move.”
Just then I pedaled out in front of a douche in a black BMW. He slammed on the brakes and honked at me vigorously. I regretted that, having one hand on the handlebar of my bike and the other wrapped around my iPhone, I could not shoot him the finger. “Fuck you!” I mouthed. I remember only too well when an old VW van was status symbol enough for the average Austinite.
“Roxy?” my mother said.
“Yeah, sorry, I’m listening. Have parties for extra money?”
“It was like a Tupperware party, but instead of Tupperware they were selling really naughty lingerie. I bought the cutest little—”
“TMI! TMI!” I interrupted before she could describe an image I would never be able to forget.
“It’s called a NaughtyWear party. Get it? Tupperware. NaughtyWear? It’s quite clever. You’d be great at it, and you could earn extra money.” She paused dramatically. “But for now, I’ll send you five hundred dollars.”
“Thank you,” I said, both relieved and totally ashamed to be twenty-eight years old and still hitting up my parents for cash. (And also a little disappointed she hadn’t agreed to send me more money.) “And I’m really sorry about Peru.”
“It’s okay. Derek will be disappointed, but he’ll understand. Anyway, I have to run to tennis, but really, next time Suzanne has a NaughtyWear party you have to come. You can’t mope around forever.”
I know it’s childish to wish I lived in a society that valued my skills as an artist when I haven’t even made art in ages. But I can’t help comparing myself to my parents. By the time my dad was my age he already had a thriving dental practice, and my mom had married him so she never had to worry about making money for herself again. I just wish I’d been born fascinated with some subject—like rotten teeth and sagging gums!—that would allow me to make a good living. But as it is, all my skills and interests are leading me down a road of obscurity and financial ruin. And the despair from my call with my parents will surely be compounded by my meeting with Dirty Steve, which starts in fifteen minutes. At best, he’ll yell at me. At worst (and more likely), I’ll be fired! Wish me luck.
Frustrated, nervous, and a little ashamed,
Roxy
June 26, 2012
Dear Everett,
I’ve been waiting to tell you about my meeting with Dirty Steve but you never seem to be home. (Where are you, anyway? I mean, you can’t have that many dog-walking gigs. Do you have a girlfriend and you just aren’t telling me?) Since you REFUSE TO GET A CELL PHONE, I can’t even text you about my meeting. So instead of waiting and waiting, I’m going to write it all down for you while the glory is still fresh in my mind. I made my way to Dirty Steve’s tiny windowless office, where I found him with his feet up on his messy desk. His gel-spiked hair gleamed under the fluorescent lights. I had barely sat down before he started rambling.
“You don’t know about my life,” he said. “It’s so stressful. My advice to all young men is to never, ever fuck a girl too good. You do that, you can’t get ’em to leave you alone. It’s killing me.” He paused enigmatically, as if hoping I would press him for details or reveal that I myself am actually, despite appearances to the contrary, a young man and one in need of sexual guidance. “Anyway, we need to talk about what happened yesterday,” he finally said.
I made my face blank and stony—the Hindu goddess Durga meets PJ Harvey after a rough night. I never should have sworn at a customer! If he fired me, I’d be totally fucked. I need this stupid job. I need the benefits and the crappy pay. Without them, no way will I be able to make my mortgage. But no matter what happened, I promised myself I would not let Dirty Steve see me cry. “I made a mistake,” I said. “I should have been more polite. But that woman was seriously unhinged.”
He held up a hand to silence me. “I’m going to have to suspend you,” he said. “I would say effective immediately, but Groken and Numnuts called in sick. Sick from sucking each other’s dicks.” The last part he said almost as an aside to himself, and one that seemed to cheer him. One of the highlights of Dirty Steve’s sad life is raining politically incorrect and wildly offensive abuse down on his employees. (As much as I mostly hate Dirty Steve, I respect him for being a sort of one-man holdout against corporate culture. Since he started as a bag boy at the original Whole Foods location in the early nineties, he and his ways have essentially been grandfathered in. He’s worked here so long no one has the heart/balls combo necessary to fire him.) “Also, Larry isn’t coming back.”
“Wasn’t he supposed to be done with PharmaTrial last week?” I asked, worried.
“He called and told me he has some kind of permanent kidney damage from whatever drugs they tested on him. Now he’s on dialysis or something.”
“Fuck,” I said, saddened another good one had fallen prey to the PharmaTrial lore. Everett, you were the one who first told me about poor Robert Rodriguez and how he went—broke and unknown—into a month-long drug trial for the big, bad pharmaceutical company PharmaTrial. During his stint as a Big Pharma guinea pig, he wrote the screenplay for “El Mariachi” and came out with the $7,000 he needed to film it on a low budget in Mexico. You were always so enamored by the story, and you aren’t the only one. Every local Austin artist who goes into PharmaTrial convinces himself he’s going to be Robert Rodriguez #2. It’s sad to me that it’s one of Austin’s most enduring and widespread fantasy myths—it’s a dangerous one! As much as I want you to get a job and a substantial income stream, I hope you won’t succumb to this stupid myth. Hopefully by opening my home to you in your time of need I’ve prevented you from doing something so desperate!
“Your sadness for your coworker’s idiocy doesn’t change the fact that you’re suspended,” Dirty Steve said.
I stood up. “Well, I quit.” I held my head high like Nefertiti or Patti Smith—a regal queen unaffected by the petty decisions of common men.
“Seriously?”
I savored Dirty Steve’s surprise for an
all-too-fleeting moment. “I have a mortgage and two pets,” I said. “Of course I’m not quitting.” I tried to maintain my sense of nobility when Dirty Steve held up his hand for a high five.
“Good talk,” he said.
“How long will I be suspended?”
“A week?”
“Are you asking me?”
“No. I’m telling you. Seven days off, no pay. After you finish this shift.” He paused. Something about his face looked sort of unsettled and indecisive.
“Damn,” I said. “Okay.”
I turned to go, my mind already churning about the lost income. I was at the door when Dirty Steve called out, “Wait a sec! Look, my June resolution is to lie less. You’re fired. But I really need you to work this one last shift, okay? It’ll beef up your final paycheck. I know you need the money.”
“Fired?”
“I was going to tell you at the end of your shift, you know, so you’d stick around for it.”
I groaned in outrage and stormed out, but in a way that indicated I’d stay. He was right—I desperately need the money.
So I mustered my pride and went down to assume my position behind the deli counter. Luckily, Annie was there to listen to my outrage, looking gorgeous and statuesque in gold hoop earrings, her natural Afro in two big puffs.
I hope you meet her soon, Everett—she’s been a stalwart friend since we met during our volunteer shift at Austin Pets Alive! over three years ago. And actually, I have a confession to make: I met Annie only a short time after our breakup, and, amicable as it was, I still felt compelled to process some of the things that annoyed me about you, which is how I ended up telling her about your tempoary bout of erectile dysfunction brought on by your anxiety that hackers would film us having sex if I left my cell phone on the nightstand. I’m sorry, Everett. I know I swore to you I would never tell another living soul, but disclosing harrowing secrets about past relationships is one of the critical ways girls bond.
The Roxy Letters Page 2
