Based Upon Availability

by Alix Strauss

  “When you moved in, did you bring a broom with you?”

  “No.”

  “How about a loaf of bread?”

  Anne shakes her head from side to side. She can feel her throat closing. Can see the room growing darker.

  “Well, you definitely have negative energies here.” She drops her bag, a large clothlike sack, onto the floor and removes a huge green candle. “Tell me again what happened and why you want it back.”

  Anne relays the bracelet story while Darjeeling pours essential oils onto the candle before lighting it. She asks Anne to kneel beside her and the two chant—Darjeeling first, then Anne. Next, Darjeeling tosses fistfuls of crystallized sea salt in every corner of the apartment. “The windows and front door are to remain open for at least six hours. If the candle does not burn out during that time, you will find your jewelry within two days,” she claims before exiting. At 11:00 p.m. the candle still glows. Anne remains hopeful.

  While Anne is standing next to the new girl who is checking a couple into the hotel, she answers the phone hoping Morgan is on the other end. Morgan who makes everything look easy. Morgan who is thin and pretty and efficient and smart. Morgan who can hopefully help her find her bracelet. Instead she finds her boss on the line. He wants to see her now.

  He’s on the phone when she enters his office and with his hand beckons her to sit.

  “I’m sorry,” he says, hanging up and leaning back in his chair. “We’re doing some restructuring, and, well—” He looks at down at his tie, notices a stain, dabs his finger with some spit, and tries to remove the mark. He looks back up as if he’s forgotten she’s sitting in his cigar-smelling office. Her ears are buzzing. She mumbles Katta Katta under her breath, adding, Please, please don’t do this…

  “Anyway, I know you’ve been with the company for a number of years, but I think you’ve gone as far as you can here. The next step is assistant general director, and I just don’t feel that’s a position you’d be happy in.”

  “No, I would. That’s been my goal from the beginning.” She eyes the clock on his desk, waits for it to change from 11:59 to 12:00 and continues. “I know I can—”

  “Let me rephrase this. We wouldn’t be promoting you to a higher position, so it’s unfair to keep you here. I’m saying this as your friend. Really.” He leans forward. “We’ll write you a lovely recommendation and give you a generous severance package.”

  Anne knows she should leave the office, but the clock reads 12:01. The Katta Katta isn’t working and if she can just wait until the minute passes, then perhaps he will change his mind. Perhaps this is all a joke.

  Her boss stands and extends his hand to her. “It’s been lovely working with you. This is coming from upstairs, it’s not my decision.”

  The only thing upstairs was the third floor, the less expensive rooms. As far as Anne knew, corporate was two floors down.

  Hours later, in a fit of panic, Anne rushes through the hardware store and purchases several brooms, the kind you’d imagine a witch using for flight. She hits the new age store to retrieve a fresh box of sandalwood incense before stopping at the bakery for bread.

  At home she collects all of her “lucky” objects: her Good Luck book, a silver coin with the word “fortune” printed on one side, an angel on the other, a ladybug pencil sharpener, and a piece of black string given to her by a palm reader at a party her friend had. She gathers them up, like a mother with a newborn, and builds a small shrine on top of her glass coffee table next to Darjeeling’s green candle—which is still glowing. She lights incense. A broom is in each room and a loaf of sourdough bread sits open on her kitchen counter. She begs for luck to come back as she mutters the Katta Katta mantra while chanting in a circle. She wishes she owned a small silver cross like her mother wears. If she did, she’d add it to the mix. Pray over it while rubbing the sacred entity. She wants to call someone, but there are no sponsors, no twenty-four-hour hotline numbers that she knows of. She’s crying and shaking and chokes down the free Paxil. Chews them until they’re like powder in her mouth and swallows. She knows it can take anywhere from two to four weeks for them to work, but the chewing makes her think it will travel through her system quicker.

  She wakes on her living room floor.

  Her mouth feels stuck together. Remnants of the four chewed pills are caked in the crevices of her back teeth. She’s nauseous and hungry and dizzy and disoriented. She can barely stand up. Still she tries to dress for work, before remembering she no longer has a job. She tries to piece together last night as she phones Gage, a professional finder of objects. He will help her look. He will find her missing item. This is why they met online. It will all come full circle.

  She meets Gage on the corner of Prince and Greene and practically breaks into tears. She babbles on about her bracelet, the tapping, the counting. Vomits up her life so he can help, so he can understand why this is everything to her. He looks confused but wraps his arms around her, squeezing her tightly. Anne is surprised by how good it feels to be held, how her cheek rests easily, cozily on his broad shoulder, how strong and sturdy his chin feels on the top of her head.

  Gage promises to help, but insists on showing her something first. “It’ll only take a minute,” he swears. “Trust me.”

  He takes her shaking hand and the two walk silently for several blocks until Gage stops in front of a rickety-looking building on Fourth Avenue.

  He tells her to close her eyes, which she does. According to the psychic, she has five hours left to find her bracelet and because of the time factor, she lets Gage guide her through the massive doors without protesting. He helps her into the elevator and she tries to count the floors but loses track after what she thinks is four. She feels the elevator stop, hears the doors open, and is lead out carefully.

  “You’re doing so well. Just a few more steps and we’ll be there.” His voice is a comfort to her, and she squeezes his hand, leans her body into his arm.

  She hears a door open, and her eyelids tell her she’s entered a room with more light. She thinks about peeking, but doesn’t want Gage to get mad.

  “Okay, open your eyes.”

  She does and finds herself in a run down studio. The room is drab and cold and smells of paint.

  “I’m sorry I haven’t had a chance to phone. I’ve been so busy. But now you can see it before anyone else.”

  Six collages, each of women, lean up against the white walls. A phone rings but after the third trill a machine picks up. Gage moves her swiftly from one canvas to the next. Each is a mix of odd objects—those that Gage has probably found on the street, she thinks—and photos, cutouts from pop culture name brands like cereal boxes or detergents and paint. The work is impressive and Anne squeezes his hand to show her approval and excitement.

  The last picture is covered by black fabric. Anne thinks perhaps Gage has done a painting of her. Maybe something with her feet, and is about to ask when Gage puts his hand on the top corner. “This one’s my favorite,” he says, pulling at the cloth. “It came out the best.”

  It takes a minute for Anne’s eyes to settle on the image. A minute for her to grasp what’s going on. He has seen her so clearly—captured her and bottled up the ugliness of who she is, of everything she hates about herself. She is both nauseated and in awe. She steps forward.

  A distorted photo of her face is front and center. Her eyes look extra large, her mouth is open, and she’s out of focus. It reminds Anne of the moaning woman from the Red Cross. Her Sweet’N Low packet and straw, personal ad, and bottle top from the beer she had at the pool hall, even a meeting schedule is smattered throughout the painting. The leprechaun from the Lucky Charms cereal box and the letters from the word “lucky” cut up in pieces have been glued to the canvas, adding a dimensional look. “A charmed life” is written in green while gold painted horseshoes outline the frame. A large squiggly smear of blue chalk and a pink penny mirroring a sun appear in the upper right-hand corner. Her bracelet is there, too. The
word “tap” is printed three times in bold. The last item she eyes is her footprint. Written underneath is “Anne’s Achilles’ heel,” with a four-leaf clover painted on her big toe.

  If it wasn’t her up there—if it wasn’t her life, if she didn’t tap—the painting, the collage, would be beautiful. She wants suddenly, desperately, to jump into the picture, retrieve her life, lose herself.

  “I thought you work with found art. This is stolen.” Anne is unexplainably calm.

  “This is found art. I found you, didn’t I?”

  She remains still.

  “Smell it,” he urges. “Go ahead. I’ve sprayed it with sandalwood.” He’s almost gleaming and despite her hesitancy, she obeys, leans in, and sniffs. She smiles at the familiar scent, which she’s grown to appreciate, finds it comforting. She closes her eyes and puts her hands on the tightly stretched fabric, fingers the objects, runs her hands over the texture. She hears a click of something and flicks her eyes open. Gage is standing in front of her, a camera in his hands. He smiles and takes another photo, as if he is trying to steal something else from her.

  “I always offer my ladies first crack. It’s only fair.” He shrugs.

  The pieces come together, forming like a night of heavy drinking, slow and foggy. She eyes the other women hanging on the walls, and even though she’s never seen them before, feels as if she knows them. They are her, only different. Each portrait bares a small piece of someone’s soul. She wonders who they are. If he met them online, like her, or did he merely collect them, like the pieces of found art he supposedly finds in the street. She looks from wall to wall, making quick, swift movements until the gallery becomes a dizzying blur of Gage’s so-called art. She rests her eyes on him, then looks at herself on the wall. And then she understands the words uttered by the crazy woman at the Red Cross. They are the same ones that emerge wretchedly, quietly, from Anne’s own lips. “I can’t take it anymore. I just can’t.” It’s a small moan. Like bone breaking from the inside. “How much?” she asks, her voice cracking. She wants to know what he’s charging for taking her life and how much he wants for her to reclaim it.

  His eyes glow, a wolf hungry for his Red Riding Hood. “Five thousand.”

  He’s picked the perfect amount, an even, whole number. Not impossible to get, not too much to ask for. She has most of it in the bank. It’s taken her forever to save and now that she’s jobless she’ll need it to live. She could break her CD or ask her parents for help, tell them her rent increased tremendously, could they lend her some money. It wouldn’t kill them to buy the painting. They pay for her brother’s health care and this is imperative to her mental health. She thinks about her brother. Perhaps she should take the five thousand dollars and move in with him. Surely the hospital has room for her. She could inquire about receiving a discounted rate for relatives. A half-off for additional family members, maybe.

  “After today, the price goes up. It becomes part of the exhibit. Part of my show.”

  Anne can visualize herself hanging in some swanky apartment surmised and dissected by art wannabes swilling expensive wine and nibbling on cheese and foie gras. She sees them picking her apart, awed and amazed by Gage’s fine eye for detail and cleverness.

  She touches the painting again, gives it one last tap, and it’s done.

  She’s done.

  “Keep it.” The words fall out. She almost looks around to see who has spoken.

  “What?” His voice is an irritated disbelief.

  “Keep it.”

  “You’re kidding, right?” His eyes are squinty, his lip becomes a snarl. “You could have the bracelet now. It’s Velcroed to the painting.” He pulls it off, then reattaches it. “See?”

  Anne almost reaches for it, then stops herself. She doesn’t know what to do.

  “Okay. Four thousand dollars, cash,” he barks. “Tomorrow it goes for eight.”

  She doesn’t want it. She doesn’t want him, or her OCD or her life, even. She just wants everything to be gone.

  Anne has no memory of walking toward the door of his studio. No memory of twisting free from Gage’s grip, no canvas with her face on it under her arm, no handbag on her shoulder. She just remembers her hand, the way her fingers looked midtap on the door. She recalls pausing, letting her hand linger on the frame for a split second, and then releasing her grip.

  Chapter 11

  Trish

  The Party Room

  “This is perfect,” you say as you stand in the middle of the party room at the Four Seasons Hotel.

  The space is modern and warm. Sophisticated and classy, much like Morgan, the pretty, petite sales director who is helping you plan the event.

  “You see my best friend’s lost all this weight, and I wanted to do something special for her.”

  Morgan is nodding understandingly.

  Feel stupid for having trouble encapsulating the most important friendship you’ve ever had into a few sentences. “We met in college. We were photography majors.”

  It was you who saw Olive walking through the massive metal doors of the photo department eighteen years ago. She had long thick hair that ventured beyond her shoulders. A lit cigarette dangled from her burgundy-painted lips, she sported cat-style reading glasses, was dressed in all black. Her skin was pale and smooth and reminded you of a porcelain doll, the heavyset Russian kind. You remember how heavy she was. That her large body, which could have easily been 280 pounds, filled the room. Consumed it.

  Feel even dumber for trying to persuade Morgan to give you a discount on the food and space in order to celebrate Olive’s weight-loss. After all, you’ve invested everything you had to purchase an art gallery. You figured if you couldn’t make it as a professional photographer, you could at least nurture and represent those that can. This comes at the great disappointment of your parents, the people you’ve learned to call Mom and Dad. At least your lack of accomplishment answers the nature vs. nurture question. You are sure your adoptive parents tell people you’re adopted so they don’t blame you, or even themselves, for your lack of success.

  You don’t dislike the people who raised you, but you’ve never felt especially close to them. Fame is hard to compete with. Your mother is a best-selling feminist author, responsible for changing the lives of thousands, while your father is a renowned sculptor.

  You never asked if you were adopted, you just knew. Realized one day around your seventh birthday as you flipped through family albums that there wasn’t one shot of your mother pregnant.

  “Why is that?” you had asked her.

  She was writing in her study and looked up at you, horrified and pale. She picked up the phone and called your father, who was in his studio downstairs.

  “She wants to know why there are no photos of me pregnant,” she told him when he entered the room, his shirt smattered with clay, his hands wet and dripping.

  They sat you down on the couch, and your mother put a hand on your arm. You remember it feeling cold and uncomfortable.

  “We wanted to wait until you were older, but the shrink said you’d ask when you were ready,” she said. “I guess you are.”

  “Your mother couldn’t have children. Do you know what the means?” your father inquired.

  Your mother sighed and shook her head at your father. “Trish, you were chosen. It was very important to us to have a child and since we couldn’t have one naturally, since I had trouble conceiving, we went to a doctor…”

  “And then a lawyer,” your father added, “helped us pick you out.”

  “We were very excited to have you.”

  It wasn’t until your father used the word adoption and took out the dictionary that you started to understand. They swore they didn’t know who your real parents were. “Your mother picked you out instantly,” your father said, snapping the dictionary shut and smiling. “You were beautiful. Everyone said so.”

  Sometimes you think you were brought into their lives for creative purpose, divine inspiration. You love th
em the way you loved rock stars or soap actors as a child. They’re unobtainable, untouchable gods, worshipped by others, strangers who aren’t related to you. For the next two years, once a week, you talked to a shrink about how this news made you feel.

  Years later, while helping your father hang his artwork at a gallery in SoHo, you announced you wanted to be a photographer. Your parents looked at each other in surprise.

  “You know, you don’t have to be that for us,” your mother had said, unwrapping one of your father’s paintings.

  “Yes, two artists in one family is plenty,” your father added.

  You swore right then and there that you’d show them. That you’d be as famous as they were. That your real parents would have hugged and kissed you and told you could be anything you wanted.

  Morgan appears interested, almost captivated by your “Olive” story.

  Tell her that you snapped Olive’s photo without her noticing. The classroom was filled with other eager Penn freshmen. You had a zoom lens and she was far enough away not to hear the click of the camera. Later in the darkroom you watched her massive figure emerge on glossy paper. It was blurry at first as it floated in the developer, but, in a few minutes, it became something tangible.

  As she neared, you extended your hand and introduced yourself. “Hi. I’m Trish.”

  “Olive,” she said, short and crisp, like her handshake. She took the seat across from you and you could tell from her glare, then from the way she positioned her back, facing away from you, that she hated you on sight. This became a running joke shared with others, strangers you met at downtown bars, trendy restaurants, or charity events as each of you searched for possible future husbands.

  “She’s my oldest friend, my longest relationship,” you’d say. It’s been eighteen years of fights, trips, family emergencies, two photography shows, one abortion (hers), and one broken engagement (yours). Now of course, all that is over. Olive is just months from having a ring slipped onto her finger, you guess, by a man you can’t stand, and who you know can’t stand you.