Driving Lessons

by Zoe Fishman

  “Sarah, come on. It’s Sunday in the South. The roads will be empty. Everyone is at church.”

  “I’m not ready. You’re going to have to drive me.”

  “Fine.” I lay back on the bed beside him. “Maybe Iris can drive you home, though.”

  Super. Not only did she reduce me to a thirteen-year-old in terms of physical insecurity, but now she would be coming here, to my home, and making me feel inferior about my interior-decorating skills as well. Me and my ridiculous driving phobia, not to mention my big mouth. Why in God’s name had I asked her to coffee? Guilt because I hated her, probably.

  “I hope she wears a bra today. I’m too hungover for nipples.”

  “She wasn’t wearing a bra last night?”

  “Give me a break, Josh.” With his eyes still closed, he smiled slightly. I pushed him playfully, and he took my hand.

  “How come you never see ceiling fans in Brooklyn?” he asked, opening his eyes to watch ours go round and round overhead.

  “I’ve seen ’em before.”

  “At rich people’s apartments?”

  “Mmmm, not just.”

  “I don’t believe you. The ceiling fan is Brooklyn’s Loch Ness monster. An urban legend.” He cleared his throat. “Speaking of Brooklyn, can we talk about what you said to me last night? About moving back to New York?”

  “I said that?”

  “Don’t play dumb. I know you remember that.” He was right. I did remember it.

  “I’m just lonely, Josh. And that bar was depressing.”

  “I know. It was depressing.” He held my hand. “What can I do to make this transition easier for you? I don’t want to move back to New York, Sarah. I sort of like it here. The pace is so . . . what’s the word I’m looking for?”

  “ ‘Tranquilizing’?”

  “I was going to say ‘refreshing.’ ”

  “No, it is. I agree. I’m just going through some growing pains. Ignore me.” I hoped these were just growing pains and not permanent pangs of unhappiness. “If you get up and make coffee, I will give you a million dollars,” I said, changing the subject. He slowly sat up.

  “Okay. That sounds fair.”

  He got out of bed and I followed, heading to the bathroom resignedly. I had a half hour to spackle my face and emotionally prepare for what lay ahead.

  En route, I opened the blinds and gasped upon my discovery of a virtual ladybug superhighway. The insects traveled like teeny-tiny red, yellow, and orange cars—up, down and across the entire double-paned expanse. I looked around, unsure of what to do. There were so many. One by one, I picked ten off of the glass, crushing them mercilessly between my thumb and forefinger before continuing on my way.

  What’s with the scarf?” asked Josh, glancing at me in the passenger seat.

  “What? It’s ridiculous?”

  “A little, yes. I mean, it’s roughly ninety-five degrees out.”

  “Oh God, screw it!” I unraveled it from around my neck and threw it on the floor.

  “Sar, are you okay?”

  I covered my eyes with my hands dramatically. “No, I am not okay. I am hungover beyond belief. And, to add insult to injury, on my way to work at a place called Bauble Head.” I rubbed my eyes. “Oh fuck, I’m wearing mascara. I forgot.” I looked at him beseechingly. “Is it all over my face?” He glanced over again.

  “No, you’re good. I think you are, at least.”

  I pulled down the visor. “Great, no mirror. Anyway, remember I told you that Mitzi told me in no uncertain terms to jazz up my appearance? That’s what the makeup and this stupid scarf are about.”

  “You know, when you came out of the house in it, I thought it was a bit weird. Especially considering how adamant you were in New York about the hipster summer-scarf trend being ridiculous.”

  “I know. I’m ashamed. I panicked.”

  “Sarah, you’re beautiful. You don’t need jazz.”

  “Thanks, Josh. Mitzi, however, disagrees with you.”

  “You don’t have to do this,” said Josh again as he pulled into a parking spot to drop me off.

  “If you say that one more time, my head is going to explode and you will have to clean my brain fragments out of the air-conditioning vents. I accepted the job because hanging around the house all day is a bit too Little Edie for me. Even I’m tired of myself.”

  “Who’s Little Edie?”

  “Never mind. Okay, here we go. No more complaining. Time to hawk some rhinestones.” I leaned over to give him a kiss. “Do I really have to ask Iris for a ride home tonight?”

  “No, I’ll come get you. Just text me when you’re ready.”

  “Thanks.” I stood up, feeling immensely relieved, and waved good-bye. The coffee date itself was bad enough without the thought of an awkward ride home and invitation inside haunting me.

  In New York, you said to someone, Oh, we should definitely get together for coffee, and that someone nodded politely while replying, Definitely! and then you never made any plans. There was a mutual understanding of the social code wherein sure, you wanted to get together, but in all honesty, wasn’t it just too much effort? Here, apparently, you said something like that and the person on the other end of it answered with, Great, what about tomorrow?

  Bauble Head’s front window glittered in front of me like a bedazzled pocket square. I forced a smile and opened the door, setting off its cacophony of bells as I did so.

  “Hey there, ladylou!” Mitzi’s head popped up from beneath the cash register. “Just organizin’ this mess. The good news is that I found my stash of Peppermint Patties!” She held up the silver bag proudly.

  “Yum,” I replied. “I love those.”

  “Me too. Just don’t tell Nancy.”

  “Who’s Nancy?”

  “She runs my Weight Watchers meetin’s. Total stickler.” She shoved the bag back underneath the register. “Let’s just say that I’m not exactly one hundred percent honest about my points. You ever done Weight Watchers?” She looked me up and down. “Prolly not, you old skinny thang, you.”

  “Oh no, I have. Before my wedding.”

  “Oh right, the tried-and-true skinny-bride maneuver. I pulled that card too! Except I survived on celery and Tab for three months.” I raised my eyebrows in response. “It was the seventies, darlin’. I am tellin’ you, me and Clyde look at those pitchers now, and it’s like lookin’ at someone else’s photo album.”

  “Clyde is your husband?”

  “Thirty-eight years and countin’. Anyway, welcome, welcome. Your first day!”

  “I know, I’m excited.” I clapped my hands like a seal in an attempt to distract from the monotone in which I had delivered my reply.

  “Okay, first things first, let me show you the merchandise.” She flip-flopped away from me toward the front of the store.

  “Do you possibly have a notepad and a pen I can use? I should have brought my own, but things were a little hectic this morning—”

  “This isn’t Harvard, sweetie. All you have to do is watch and listen.” I scrambled to join her, willing my brain to cooperate despite the fact that it was sloshing around in a fishbowl of whiskey.

  For the next hour, Mitzi expounded on the differences between crystals, rhinestones, and cubic zirconia. She extolled the virtues of faux (Never say fake!) versus real (You can buy more of it; you can wear it to the pool and if you lose it, you’re not up shit creek) and schooled me on the varied rainbow of hues (This may look like it’s just blue, but it’s cerulean, honey, and that’s what you tell the customer. Take it up a notch). She tried on tiaras and brooches and earrings, urging me to do the same. (You’re the salesperson and the model. Show them purty and they’ll want purty.)

  By the end of my tutorial, I was wearing giant, dangling, silver-plated (Not silver, we don’t want to lie, now) earrings in the shape of sailboats, a strand of faux pearls and a pink-gemstone-and-cubic-zirconia ring that swallowed my knuckle. I felt like a Christmas tree.

  “You go
t all that?” Mitzi perched on her stool and reached for her trusty tumbler. Today, she was a vision in emerald—not green, but emerald. Purple—no, amethyst—earrings grazed the upturned collar of her tunic.

  “I think so.” I tried to smile convincingly.

  “Okay, then I’m gonna head out.” She took a last, long sip from her straw, coating it with her fuchsia lipstick.

  “Very funny.”

  “What?” She stood up and dusted herself off. “Oh wait, right. Let me give you yer keys and show you how to set the alarm.”

  “You’re serious? You’re leaving me here with eighty-five minutes’ worth of experience?” My voice cracked.

  “Sarah, you are a thirtysomethin’-year-old woman with a college degree and a decade-plus of New York livin’ under yer belt. I think you can handle a slow Sunday at a jewelry store.” She looped her handbag over her shoulder. “Quit lookin’ at me with those puppy-dog eyes. Follow me.”

  “But where are you going?”

  “Clyde and I have a lunch date at the Mongolian buffet up the street. There are few things in this world that I love more than a Chinese food buffet, let me tell you. If there was an award for eatin’ egg rolls, I would win it, hands down.”

  She stopped in front of the alarm.

  “The code is ‘grits.’ Just punch it in here”—she mimed doing so—“and run like hell.” I looked at her in alarm. “I’m just kiddin’, darlin’. So serious! But really, you should move quickly. My last associate was about as slow as a turtle. By the time he got out the door, a SWAT team was in the parking lot. Sarah! I’m kidding again! Well, sort of. Are you all right, honey?”

  “Yes, I’m fine. Just a bit panicked about manning the ship all by myself. What if I screw up the register?”

  “Listen. The odds of someone coming in here are about slim to none. Between you and me, business is slow these days.”

  “Oh.”

  “Yeah, I’m tryin’ to figure out a way to get more bodies in here, but so far my focus is laughable at best. I’d rather be eatin’ egg rolls, I guess. Soon, though, I’m chainin’ myself to my stool until that lightbulb goes off.”

  “I could help you if you wanted,” I offered.

  “Aren’t you sweet? Thanks, honey. Let’s make sure you don’t burn down the place first though, mmkay?” She glanced at the clock. “I gotta scoot. You be sweet, ya hear? Call me if you’re in trouble. And relax, for goodness’ sake! Your face is much prettier when it’s smilin’.” The door’s resounding jingle mocked me as I watched her sashay to her car.

  Great. This job was supposed to be, at the very least, a social life raft for me, and now it was becoming clear that not only did the store have no patrons, but its owner wasn’t even interested enough to stick around. I wandered dejectedly back over to the register and looked at the clock. The time was 1:22. I had three hours and thirty-eight minutes to stare into space.

  I put my head down on the counter and then immediately sat back up and scanned the ceiling corners. The lenses of two video cameras blinked back at me. An image of Mitzi and Clyde—who I assumed looked exactly like Wilford Brimley for some reason—watching surveillance footage later that evening as they nursed their MSG hangovers flashed through my mind and I quickly stood up. I may not have liked this job, but I certainly didn’t want to be fired from it.

  My stomach growled. So much for lunch. I crouched down to locate the Peppermint Patties. As I unpeeled one from its silver wrapper and popped it into my mouth, I eyed a feather duster that was crammed into the back of the shelf. Dust. I will dust.

  I pocketed a few more Patties and set out on my mission to dust everything within an inch of its life. The dusting turned into Windexing display cases turned into vacuuming turned into organizing receipts alphabetically, and suddenly it was 4:52. Eight minutes until closing. I had done it. Hallelujah.

  Now I only had to survive my coffee date with Iris and I would be home free. I removed my earrings, necklace, and ring, pretending to be a Hollywood starlet post Golden Globes but not quite succeeding. I held my breath as I keyed in “g-r-i-t-s” on the alarm panel and hightailed it into the warm evening air. Success.

  Not one customer today. That was a problem. My inner marketer went to work as I dragged my feet over to the coffee shop. How was Mitzi advertising? And why not skew her product line a little younger? This was a college town, not Fort Lauderdale. And Bauble Head? Why? Surely there was a more palatable, sophisticated store name she could be happy with.

  As I opened the door to the coffee shop, I said a quick prayer that Iris would be late enough for me to wolf down some sort of sustenance. Though I had managed to plow through almost the entire bag of Patties, I was starving. I made a beeline for the pastry case.

  “Sarah?” I turned too quickly and ended up checking Iris with my shoulder.

  “Oh God, sorry! My balance is off today—along with everything else. Hi!”

  She was dressed in workout wear that hugged her every perfectly proportioned curve and was literally glowing with sweat. It beaded on her forehead like a crown of diamonds.

  “Hi!” We hugged awkwardly. “I biked here,” she declared. “I just thought, oh, it’s such a gorgeous evening, I can’t let it go to waste.”

  Great. In addition to everything else that rubbed me the wrong way about Iris, she was an athletic bragger. I couldn’t stand athletic braggers—always casually mentioning that they ran seven miles that morning before work or boxed with a trainer for ten hours every Wednesday or walked eighteen miles to your apartment just to get some fresh air. It was the fake nonchalance that killed me.

  “I’m barely standing,” I answered. “I’m impressed. And jealous. You must feel great.”

  “Oh no, I feel pretty normal. Mac and I bike quite a bit.” She smiled at me condescendingly. I gave her a big, fake, dead-eyed smile in return. “Let’s order, shall we?” Iris pointed to the giant chalkboard menu behind the register. “I’m thinking beer,” she said, after a few moments of studied silence.

  “They have beer?” I practically shouted with glee. Thank you, lord. Thank you.

  “Yep, and wine too. See, over on the left-hand side of the menu, toward the bottom?”

  “Oh, awesome. And a cheese plate!” I practically wept tears of joy. “Are you interested in that at all?”

  “Oh no, trying to stay away from dairy these days.” She grabbed at her nonexistent love handles. “But you go ahead.”

  “Okay, thanks. If you change your mind, by all means.” We both placed our orders.

  “Hair of the dog,” Iris said as we sat down at a table by the window. The late-afternoon light played on the golden highlights in her hair. I self-consciously fiddled with my own mousy-brown ponytail in retaliation.

  “Seriously. I drank like a fish last night. Who knows what got into me?” I replied.

  “I’d say about a liter of whiskey.” She laughed a little too uproariously for my taste. That’s it, no Camembert for her even if she does change her mind. “I’m glad that you suggested this,” she went on. “I’ve been meaning to ask you to drinks myself, but with the start of the school year and everything, I’m sort of all over the place.”

  “Oh yeah, I bet. Thanks for coming.” We both nodded at each other awkwardly as the waitress slipped our drinks and my cheese plate onto the table in front of us. I tried my best to remain ladylike as I sliced off a piece of brie and popped it into my mouth. Heaven.

  “So what do you think of Farmwood?” she asked.

  “Oh, it’s lovely here. The pace is so refreshing, you know?” I answered, parroting Josh’s comment from earlier that morning.

  “Is that the politically correct way of saying nonexistent?” She smiled at me.

  “No! No, it’s not.” I took a sip of my wine. “I really do like it. I just haven’t really extended myself yet.”

  “What are you working on?” She took a sip of her beer.

  “Working on? Well, I was an associate marketing VP, but I’m hopi
ng to transition into something a little more fulfilling here.” Usually, I left out the “VP” part, but hanging out with Iris made me feel like I had to prove something.

  “Marketing wasn’t for you?”

  “Actually, I’m not sure if it was marketing as a whole or that particular job. At any rate, I have the freedom here to hopefully figure it out. I’m actually working at that jewelry store for the moment.” I pointed nowhere, hoping that she would just nod.

  “Bauble Head?” She looked at me in disbelief.

  “That’s the one.”

  “That’s . . . unexpected.” She took another sip of her beer.

  “Well, we’re in the middle of a recession, you know.” God, I hated her. “It’s not like jobs are growing on trees.”

  “I know. Sorry. Forgive me.”

  “It’s okay. You’re right, it is unexpected, considering I’m about twenty years too young for Mitzi’s demographic.” I smiled wryly.

  “Are you guys trying to have a baby?” she asked bluntly.

  “Come again?”

  “You and Josh. Sorry, was that too direct?”

  “I’d say so. Geez.” Her thinking about me and Josh’s sex life made me uncomfortable.

  “It’s not my business,” she said, reading my mind. “I just thought, oh, they left New York, she’s in her midthirties, they’ve been married awhile—yadda yadda yadda. Mac and I are never having kids. Too much work, plus how could we travel?”

  I put my wineglass down, envious of her unapologetic delivery. She regarded me with a small smile.

  “I just wanted to put that out there. Get it out of the way. I know it’s a controversial stance, believe me.”

  “No, no. To each his own, Iris. I like the fact that you own it. It’s not easy to do that, I’m sure.”

  “Yeah, a lot of people look at us like we’re the devil incarnate when we tell them. But you know, Mac and I were both very clear about the fact that we didn’t want children pretty early into our relationship.” Here, her voice wavered ever so slightly, causing me to wonder if there were tiny cracks in her bravado. “I take it that you and Josh do?”

  “Want children?” My throat went dry. “Yes, we do. But we’re not in a huge rush or anything. I’d like to be a little more settled before I hand my body and brain over to someone else.”