Cherry Money Baby

by John M. Cusick

  She learned a lot from their clothes.

  Some candidates dressed professionally, as if they were applying for a job at a bank. Others were deliberately casual, in jeans, shorts, or heavy Earth Mother dresses that fell to the ankle but barely covered their planetary cleavage. And some were in between, like the redhead Cherry saw pull up on a bike, walk halfway to the trailer, remove her blazer, untuck her blouse, and muss her hair. Cherry, who would have worn the same sweats every day for the rest of her life if it were socially acceptable, had never realized how much clothes said about a person. The girls chatted on, answering Spanner’s questions, while their outfits whispered subliminal messages: I’m reliable. I’m spiritual. I’m relaxed. I don’t care what you think.

  After Spanner rejected her first work outfit, Cherry took herself on a little shopping spree. It was her first day back at school, and Vi was eager to hang out, but this was something Cherry wanted to do alone. It was shameful, somehow, passing over the thrifty stores like ShagaRelics and Beater Tees and heading instead for Jennifer Walters and Fwoi!, where the mannequins leaned on invisible pianos and held invisible cigarettes in their delicate fingers. She ventured into Raich and Ems, and a salesgirl in a perfect white blouse and mile-high heels trapped Cherry in her tractor-beam smile. Cherry panicked. She pressed her phone to her ear, pretending she’d received a call, and ran out.

  After a hellish hour, she came home exhausted, dumping her bags on the bed. She considered herself in the full-length mirror. What did Cherry’s clothes say about her? Fun! said her Daisy Dukes. Sporty! said the mesh tank top. Laid-back! said the busted Chuck Taylors with the laces so old they were like cardboard. Working beside Spanner’s checklist had introduced some new words into Cherry’s regular rotation. Words like unreliable, unprofessional, unkempt, disinterested, disrespectful.

  Dumb, thought Cherry, and stripped off her old clothes. She rolled on new thigh-high stockings (whoops, a little shorter than she thought they’d be), stepped into the new heels (Jesus, they were higher than she’d realized), and shrugged on the simple black skirt and top. There was a band of exposed skin around her thighs where the hem of her skirt didn’t quite reach the top of her stockings. Oh, well. She completed the look with some new Ravishing Ruby lipstick and Ennui eye shadow. Apparently the point of makeup was to make you look exciting yet bored.

  “All right,” said the New Cherry in the mirror. “Okay, then.”

  Pop whistled when she came into the kitchen. “Looking snazzy.”

  Stew looked up from the TV. “Damn, Cherr. Way to class it up.”

  She peeked at her reflection in the kitchen window. “It’s just for work.”

  That evening the crew was shooting on location, just a few blocks away at the bottling plant. Walking over, she passed dozens of reflective surfaces: the shop windows along Hope Ave., all the tinted windshields and rearview mirrors. She tried to catch herself, to see what she looked like to others, but in each reflection she looked stiff, her eyes flicking back and forth, like someone trying not to look like she was looking at herself.

  It was impossible to see herself and be herself at the same time.

  The Star Haulers were lined up along Route 9. The craft service guys whistled as she passed, toasting her with steaming Styrofoam cups of coffee. Cherry knocked on Ardelia’s trailer door. Spanner answered. Her eyes bulged.

  “No.”

  Cherry flinched, pulled at the hem of her skirt. “Whaddya mean no?”

  Ardelia appeared over Spanner’s shoulder. “Oh, dear.” She covered her mouth, stifling a laugh. “Oh, honey.”

  “Come inside,” Spanner said, “before someone thinks we’re soliciting a prostitute.”

  From then on, Cherry’s work outfits were selected and vetted by her employer.

  She watched how the girls fidgeted. She watched how they spoke with their hands. She watched where their eyes went when they listened. Cherry had never examined anything this closely, let alone a stranger, and the long periods of concentration felt funny, like a warm spot between her temples.

  She learned a lot watching girls walk from their cars to the trailer. She had a good view from the trailer’s rear window and felt like a spy. Out there, the girls were more themselves, still girls, not candidates. They twirled their key rings, adjusted their clothes. One girl with black curls and red cheeks halted halfway, ran back to her car, and drove off, never to be heard from again.

  The flighty ones forgot something on the passenger seat, the nervous ones tripled-checked their locks. Some gave themselves psych-up speeches in their makeup mirrors. One girl crossed herself. Another took a sip from a flask. These women had nothing in common, except they all wanted to carry Ardelia Deen’s baby. They all wanted the money: $250,000 (the number was so large, Cherry couldn’t wrap her mind around it). Which meant, on some level, they were all greedy.

  Which was maybe why Cherry didn’t like a single one.

  “Thoughts?” Ardelia asked after a promising applicant had gone.

  “She’ll drive you crazy,” Cherry said.

  “She seems like an excellent fit,” said Spanner, lifting her binder by way of argument.

  “I thought she was nice,” said Ardelia.

  “She’s vain,” said Cherry with absolute certainty. “No one wears big honking granny glasses like that unless they’re (A) epically uncool or (B) think they’re way hot and can pull it off. Besides, she kept checking herself out in the window.”

  “Well, a little vanity isn’t so —” Ardelia started with a smile.

  “Dude, she’s used to being the hottest thing in the room. Did you see the way she tightened up when she saw you? Girl could crack walnuts with her ass cheeks.”

  As often happened, Ardelia and Spanner met Cherry’s appraisals with stunned silence.

  “This is ridiculous,” Spanner said at last.

  “No,” said Ardelia. “You know, I did get an envious vibe off her.”

  Vibe was a Cherry word, and it was cool to hear it with an English lilt.

  “I’m telling you,” said Cherry. “It’s like that Streets song. ‘Fit but you know it.’”

  And so Hot Girl with Glasses, whose name Cherry had already forgotten, was struck off the list.

  Driving to the set early Friday evening, Cherry spotted Lucas walking up the street toward Sweet Creek. He was dressed for his shift at Willie’s, black stain-resistant pants, orange striped vest over one shoulder. He looked like an out-of-work clown.

  She slowed, trolling along beside him. “Hey, stranger.”

  Lucas kept pace, bending to peer in the window. “Is that Ardelia Deen in that car?”

  “Hop in, I’ll give you a ride.”

  He climbed into the passenger seat, and Cherry headed for the highway.

  “How’s work?”

  She made an exasperated noise. “Skags and tight-asses.”

  “Wh-whoa.” He laughed it out.

  “No, I mean . . .” She sighed. “They’re nice, really. They’re fine. I’m sure they’re good people. It just fucks with your head. All these girls trying to seem impressive. And these clothes.” She tugged at her skirt. She was wearing an Ardelia-approved outfit tonight, a Jennifer Walters ensemble. Trim, clean, professional. “I feel like a lawyer.”

  “Well, I think you look very nice.”

  “Well, thank you.”

  She turned up Route 9, toward Willie’s towering neon sign hailing commuters and vacationing families off the highway for a $3.99 baked potato or the Delux Steakums BBQ Combo. The strip mall was always crowded on Fridays, mostly with kids hanging out after school, soaking up the pre-weekend sunshine, the best kind of sunshine there is. A security guard waved some skaters off the sidewalk. They flipped him off and rolled off toward the other end of the mall.

  Cherry pulled into a free spot outside of Sal’s Liquors. Lucas climbed out and came around the driver’s-side window. He rested his arms on the door, leaning in. He smelled like hazelnut coffee and wood polish.
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  “Call me after your shift?” she said.

  “Won’t be too late?”

  “Never too late.”

  The security guard was crossing back toward his little go-cart. The sight of Lucas leaning in her window made him adjust his course. He sauntered their way, and Cherry saw him coming.

  “Uh-oh. Am I in trouble?”

  “Maybe this is a no-drop-off zone,” Lucas said.

  The guard gave a little half-assed salute, one hand on his belt. “Evening.”

  Lucas straightened up. “Hey.”

  The guard ignored him and nodded at Cherry.

  “Ma’am, is this gentleman bothering you?”

  Cherry looked around, looking for the gentleman in question. She didn’t realize he meant Lucas.

  “Him?” she said. “This is my boyfriend.”

  “Hi.” Lucas did a lame little wave.

  The guard nodded and started to turn away. “All right, then.”

  Cherry stiffened. “What do you mean by that? Why would you think that?” The guard either didn’t hear or pretended not to. She leaned out her window. “Hey! Fucking . . . Barney Fife! I’m talking to you!”

  The guard didn’t look and kept walking.

  “Jeez, Cherr, don’t swear at men with nightsticks,” Lucas said, forcing a laugh.

  “Fuck him.” She slammed herself back into the seat. Her neck felt hot, and she knew she was flush — and not just from anger. She felt humiliated, though about what, or in front of whom, she couldn’t say exactly. “So, you see a black kid leaning on a white girl’s car, and suddenly it’s a mugging?”

  “Well, you do look pretty mug-worthy with the nice clothes and shiny car.” Lucas was smiling. Lucas was the cool one. “Maybe he saw the way I was leering at you.”

  “Yeah, maybe.”

  “I’ll call you, okay?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Okay?”

  Her jaw was set. She drummed her fingers on the steering wheel, just to keep them from trembling. “Just . . . sometimes this town is so . . . small. You know?”

  He leaned in the window and kissed her forehead. “She-Hulk angry.”

  Cherry smirked. “She-Hulk smash stupid security guard.”

  “Another no,” Ardelia said when the last girl had gone on Sunday evening. She checked the clock on the trailer’s microwave. “Care to do dinner?”

  “I have the thing with your publicist at eight thirty,” Spanner said, closing her binder. Ardelia turned to her.

  “Oh, you can come, too, Span. If you want.”

  Spanner’s cheeks mustered a little color. Cherry could hear her teeth grinding. “No, you two enjoy yourselves.” She stood and hobbled out the door on her sprained ankle, mumbling something Cherry couldn’t quite hear about the sooner, the better.

  “I should get home,” Cherry said. She had vague plans to watch The Hangover with Lucas on his tiny bedroom TV.

  “Oh, come on.” Ardelia gripped Cherry’s hands, bouncing them on her lap. “I haven’t had a night off in two weeks. I need to get away from this town.” She dropped Cherry’s hands and clapped. “Oh! I know what let’s do! Let’s go to Ascot. Have you been to Ascot?”

  “Ascot?” It sounded like a standardized test.

  “The owner’s a friend of mine. I love his places in London. I wanted to give the U.S. version a try. Can we go, please?”

  There was reheated Stouffer’s waiting for her at home. And about a million German verbs to conjugate.

  “All right, fine. But, seriously, I can’t be out all night.”

  “Early night, I promise.” Ardelia squealed. “Oh, this is so exciting. You don’t know how I’ve been craving food that isn’t deep fried.”

  Ascot was a fashionable restaurant on the top floor of a waterfront high-rise. Floor-to-ceiling windows encircled the large, blindingly white room, and Cherry felt like she’d stepped onto the bridge of a posh spaceship. A girl in a suit stood behind the front podium and smiled as they approached. She was about to welcome them when a fussy man with helmet hair brushed past her with open arms.

  “My fair ladies! How are you?” He executed a low bow. “Ardy, darling. How nice of you to grace us.”

  “Alan! What are you doing in the States?”

  “Making the semiannual rounds to all my American restaurants.” He bobbed as he spoke, rolling back on his heels. “And this is not Spanner, is it? Or is it?”

  “Alan, this is my friend Cherry.”

  “Ah!” Alan was overwhelmed with delight, clutching his heart. He shook Cherry’s hand. “My second favorite berry. Judith!” He whirled on the girl behind the booth. Her name tag said kate. “The best table in the house.” Judith or Kate flipped through her register, but Alan had a better plan. “Arrêtez-vous! Ridiculous!” He bobbed in their direction, hands folded. “Chef ’s table?”

  “Delightful!” said Ardelia.

  “Follow me, please.”

  Alan led them through the dining room. From movies, Cherry’d expected the patrons of a fancy restaurant to be straight-backed senior citizens with little spectacles on sticks, blue hair, and yappy lapdogs. The crowd at Ascot was younger and lively. The men wore shiny shirts. The women were all beautiful, with pale necks and sparkling ears. Everyone seemed to be laughing, toasting each other, as quiet girls in gray aprons tended to the tables like bees pollinating flowers. They refilled glasses, removed half-empty plates just in time for new ones to arrive; everyone seemed perfectly in sync, diners and staff, as if they’d all learned the steps and been rehearsing.

  Ardelia slipped effortlessly into the flow, sashaying behind Alan, waving when someone called her name. Cherry was in everybody’s way. She knocked into a waitress carrying a tray of oysters. A woman at a nearby table laughed at something, her eyes happening past Cherry and darkening in confusion, as if to say, Who let you in? Cherry concentrated on placing one foot in front of the other. What was it about people watching that made you forget how to walk?

  At last they passed through a pair of swinging doors into the kitchen, and here she was much more at home. The glistening ranges, the rubber mats on the floor, the heat and noise of men and women in spattered whites calling out to each other in two languages. It reminded her of a little Burrito Barn and Pop’s garage. All work spaces have the same matter-of-fact ugliness. They were built to stain, and she liked that.

  “This way.” Alan gestured toward a leather booth in the corner, a dollop of luxury amid the chaos. The girls sat. Alan raised a finger, said, “Un moment,” and disappeared.

  “I’ve never seen a booth in the kitchen before,” said Cherry. “Aren’t we in their way?”

  “I thought you’d like to see the geniuses at work,” Ardelia said.

  Alan materialized with some meats and cheeses on a wooden slab.

  “A petite charcuterie to begin.”

  “We didn’t order anything yet,” said Cherry.

  “We will,” said Ardelia. “This is just a little . . . present.”

  “Will we have to pay for it?” Cherry asked.

  Ardelia ignored her question and turned to Alan. “What do we have today?”

  Alan named the slices, arrayed in a fan pattern. The only word Cherry recognized was salami. There were also yellow, gray, and green lumps identified as cheese, which was ridiculous because cheese, as everyone knew, was orange, unless it was way past its expiration date. Ardelia held a squishy lump under Cherry’s nose. “Try this.”

  Cherry recoiled. “It smells like gym socks.”

  “Camembert,” Alan corrected. “An earthy aroma.”

  What was wrong with these people?

  “This. Has. Gone. Bad.”

  Ardelia’s brow settled into a furrow, really hunkered in there like it wanted to spend the winter. “We need to work on your palate.”

  “My what?” Cherry said.

  “Darling, Marshmallow Circus Peanuts are fine, but you’ve got to expand your repertoire if you want to enjoy the finer things in lif
e. You’ll thank me, I promise.”

  “I don’t like fancy food,” Cherry said. She turned to Alan. “Do you have, like, chicken tenders?”

  Ardelia touched her arm. “You don’t know what you like. You haven’t tried anything.”

  Cherry wanted to protest but in the spirit of fairness conceded. After all, Ardelia hadn’t turned up her nose at 7-Eleven. At the starlet’s instruction, Alan produced a sampler of tiny platters, which he referred to as “the major food groups.”

  Ardelia handed her a small bowl with anonymous black chunks. “Try this. And smell first.”

  Cherry sniffed her food. “Smells like . . . nuts. And dirt?”

  “Now taste.”

  She chewed. It tasted like dirt. Worse, it tasted like dirt mixed with old coffee grounds. She spit into her napkin. “What is that?”

  Ardelia laughed behind her hand. “Chocolate!”

  “You lie.”

  “It’s pure. No milk and very little sugar. It’s divine, once you get used to it.”

  Cherry wiped her mouth. Even dark chocolate M&M’s weren’t that bitter. “Moving on. What are those bubble things?”

  “Try them. They’re salty.”

  She scraped a few off the plate and put them on her tongue.

  “Some kind of fruit?”

  “Caviar,” said Ardelia. “Fish eggs.”

  Cherry reached for her napkin, but Ardelia stopped her hand.

  “Give them a chance!”

  “This tastes like . . .” The thought was too dirty to utter in front of Alan. She forced down the caviar and shuddered. “Gross.”

  “This you will love.” Ardelia handed Cherry a small bowl with jam. It was thick and dark red, almost black. “Try it.”