Dreamboat

by Judith Gould

  Crissy nodded. “It sure has, Beatrice,” she replied amiably, “but don’t worry. We’ll get you fixed up.”

  “I was in Europe,” Beatrice said, “and I didn’t have my hair done the whole time I was gone. I don’t trust just anybody, so I decided to wait till I got home to see you.”

  “Oh, that’s so sweet,” Crissy said, dropping the hank of hair and picking up a brush. She began brushing the woman’s hair in long strokes, examining it as she did. “But I’m sure there’re lots of great hairdressers in Europe. Where did you go?”

  “Here and there,” Beatrice said, crossing her age-spotted hands in her lap. Crissy noticed, as she had many times before, the beautiful rings that the woman always wore. Large diamonds set in yellow gold. A huge aquamarine surrounded by diamonds. “London for a week, then Paris and Venice.”

  “It sounds so fabulous,” Crissy said. She had been saving up for a trip herself, she just didn’t know where to go.

  “Well, I can’t get enough,” Beatrice replied.

  “Do you want to go with the same colors today?” Crissy asked. “We did two the last time.”

  Beatrice nodded. “Yes,” she said. “I love the lighter and darker streaks the way you do them.” She laughed genially. “They help hide some of the gray when my roots begin to show, too.”

  Crissy smiled. “I think you always look great, Beatrice,” she said, meaning it. “I’m going to go mix your color, and I’ll be back in just a minute. Do you want a magazine?”

  Beatrice glanced at the stack on the counter. “I’ll take the Vogue,” she said.

  Crissy handed it to her. “Be right back.”

  Beatrice nodded and began flipping through the pages of the magazine.

  Crissy went to the back of the shop and opened the door to the supply room, closing it behind her when she went inside. It was a relatively quiet refuge from the noisy shop. Today the pop music on the radio and the chattering of the hairdressers, manicurists, and customers were grating on her nerves. She took a sip of the coffee she’d left in the room some time ago. It was cold and tasted terrible, but she drank it nevertheless. Anything to jump-start my motor today, she thought. She pulled on plastic gloves to protect her hands from the dye, then chose the appropriate color for Beatrice’s roots, a medium chestnut brown. She put some into a plastic container, then put in the developer and began stirring the mixture thoroughly, taking longer than necessary. Usually cheerful and energetic, Crissy felt tired and grumpy today. What’s wrong with me? she wondered idly, even though she knew the answer to the question. She was bored with her job and bored with her life outside work. I’m just bored, period, she thought.

  Nothing exciting ever happens to me, she thought. Nothing. I’m in a dead-end job, and I don’t know what to do about that. I don’t have a boyfriend or any prospects. I never go anywhere interesting, like Beatrice, or do anything particularly interesting either. I’m always listening to other people talk about the excitement in their lives, and I don’t have anything happening in mine.

  She gave the mixture one last stir with the brush, then went back to Beatrice, who was engrossed in the pages of Vogue. “Here we are,” she said, setting the container down on the counter.

  Beatrice closed the magazine and left it in her lap while Crissy began gently pulling up hanks of her hair and generously brushing in the dye along her roots, repeatedly dipping the brush in the plastic container to replenish the dye.

  “You don’t seem so happy today,” Beatrice said in a quiet voice. Her head was angled downward, her chin almost resting on her chest, while Crissy went to work on the back of her head.

  “Oh . . . I’m okay,” Crissy said, surprised that the older woman had picked up on her gloomy mood.

  “No, you’re not,” Beatrice said. “I may be old, but I’m not stupid. You’re unhappy about something.”

  Crissy laughed lightly. “You’re too shrewd, Beatrice,” she said.

  “And you are young and beautiful and have your whole life ahead of you,” Beatrice retorted. “You shouldn’t let things trouble you so.”

  Crissy felt flattered by what Beatrice had said, but she didn’t really believe the words. “You’re so nice to say that,” she replied.

  “And I mean it,” Beatrice said. “What’s bothering you, sweetheart? Boyfriend trouble?”

  Crissy shook her head and laughed again. “No. I don’t have a boyfriend,” she replied.

  “Aha!” Beatrice exclaimed. “So, that’s it. No boyfriend.”

  “Not really,” Crissy said. Then she added, “Well, maybe that’s part of it. I’m just . . . I don’t know. I feel sort of tired, you know?”

  “Crissy, sweetheart,” Beatrice said. “You’ll have a new man in your life in no time, I’m sure. You’re too beautiful not to. You must have men after you all the time.”

  Crissy shook her head. “I wish,” she said, sighing. “But I don’t.” It was true, too, Crissy thought. She didn’t have men after her. Not like most of her friends. And she never had. Growing up in Albany, she’d always felt left out and different, in part because she was Asian American. She’d had girlfriends, but the boys had often teased her, calling her “slant eye,” “chink,” “China doll,” or “Tokyo Rose.” More recently, she’d heard men refer to her as “sushi.” She’d laughed, telling her friends that the growing popularity of Japanese food had provided a whole new vocabulary of slurs, but in truth she had been crushed.

  “I find that hard to believe,” Beatrice said, abruptly raising her head and looking at Crissy in the mirror.

  “Well, it’s true, Beatrice,” Crissy said. “I really don’t.”

  “Oh, sweetheart, I didn’t mean to upset you,” Beatrice said. “I-”

  “You didn’t,” Crissy broke in. “I’m sorry, Beatrice. I guess I’m just tired today.”

  Beatrice shrugged. “No offense taken.”

  They fell silent for a little while, and Beatrice turned back to her Vogue. “There are so many things in here that you’d look darling in,” Beatrice said at last, tapping a clear-lacquered fingernail against the magazine.

  Crissy laughed. “Sure, Beatrice. Like I make enough money to buy anything in that magazine.”

  Beatrice smiled. “They make great knockoffs nowadays.”

  “Don’t I know it,” Crissy said. “I get a lot of ideas from there, then go shopping at discount stores.”

  “You always look great,” Beatrice said.

  “Thank you, Beatrice. You’re still very attractive, too,” Crissy said honestly, “and you’re certainly young in spirit.”

  “Thank you,” Beatrice said. “I think that’s part of what attracted Sidney to me. We may have been in our sixties when we met, but we were both still interested in life and what’s going on in the world.”

  “You didn’t meet him until you were in your sixties?” Crissy said. “I didn’t realize that. I knew he was your second husband, but I didn’t know you’d married that recently.”

  “I met him about a year after Harry died,” Beatrice replied. “I missed Harry, of course, and I was lonely. I have some good friends, you know, but it’s not the same without a husband. So, I set out to find one.”

  “You did?” Crissy asked, somewhat astonished with Beatrice’s straightforward honesty. “What did you do?”

  Beatrice laughed. “I went on a cruise,” she said. “A very long cruise.”

  “No,” Crissy said with a laugh.

  “Oh, yes,” Beatrice said. “I knew it would mostly be older people because it was a three-month-long trip. Most younger people can’t get that kind of time off if they work, so it was mostly retirees.” She laughed. “Also, it was very expensive, so I knew that the price would eliminate a lot of younger people. Usually only older people have the kind of money it cost.”

  “You’re so smart,” Crissy said. “I would’ve never thought of that.”

  “But it wasn’t just about the money,” Beatrice said. “It was about widowers. She slapped the V
ogue with a liver-spotted hand. “When you get together a boatload of old people, there’re bound to be some widowers aboard, even if they’re outnumbered by widows. And, sure enough, that’s how I met Sidney.”

  She and Crissy both laughed. “I don’t believe it,” Crissy said.

  Beatrice shrugged. “It’s called putting two and two together, sweetheart. The funny thing is, Sid was on the cruise for the same reason I was. Grace, his wife, had died a little over a year before, and he was lonely like I was. So . . . bingo! We hit it lucky, and we’ve been happy ever since.”

  “That’s so wonderful, Beatrice,” Crissy said.

  “And you could do the same thing,” Beatrice said. “Maybe you can’t take a three-month cruise, but you could take a shorter one. Besides, sweetheart,” she went on, “you need to see some of the world. Something besides Albany, New York. And see it while you’re young and can still get around.”

  “I’d love to do something like that, Beatrice,” she said. “I’ve always dreamed of traveling.”

  Crissy proceeded to add the highlights. After the bleach mixture had done its work and Crissy shampooed it out, she began trimming Beatrice’s hair, taking pains to do a good job, studying her work both close up and in the mirror’s reflection. When she was finished, she massaged a light setting liquid into her hair, then blew it dry. “Okay, Beatrice,” she said, “how do you like it?”

  Beatrice looked at her reflection straight on, moved her head to one side, then the other, and finally gazed into the hand mirror that Crissy held up so that she could see the back. “I love it, sweetheart,” she said. “You always do a terrific job.”

  “Thank you, Beatrice,” Crissy said.

  “And you’re the best colorist between here and New York City,” Beatrice added. “Everybody says so.”

  Crissy laughed. “There’s not much competition, is there?” She helped Beatrice out of the protective smock she was wearing and shook it out.

  “Don’t belittle yourself,” Beatrice said, looking at her with an arched eyebrow. “Good colorists are hard to come by, and you know it.”

  Crissy nodded. “You’re right,” she said. She scribbled out a payment slip for Beatrice, then handed it to her. “Pay Rosy up front as usual.”

  Beatrice gazed at the slip, then picked up the black alligator handbag she’d placed on the Formica shelf running along Crissy’s workstation. She rummaged in the handbag, finally pulling out a wallet. Crissy discreetly turned away while Beatrice got her tip out.

  “Listen to me,” Beatrice said in a low voice, holding out her gnarled hand. “Take this and tuck it away someplace safe. I want you to use it as a down payment on that trip you’ve wanted to take.”

  “Oh, Beatrice,” she replied, palming the money without looking at it. “You’re so sweet.” She slipped the folded bill into the pocket of her smock.

  At the front of the salon, Beatrice exchanged pleasantries with Rosy while she paid her bill, then slipped into the dark mink coat Crissy held open for her. “Thank you,” she said. “I’ll see you soon, and remember what I said.” She winked, then left the salon.

  Crissy watched her cross the parking lot to her big silver Mercedes, then turned to Rosy. “Who do I have scheduled next?”

  Rosy looked at her over the top of the glasses that rested near the tip of her nose. “Connie Parker. She called and said she was on her way, so you’ve got a couple of minutes. Why don’t you make yourself useful and make some fresh coffee for us?” She stared up at Crissy belligerently.

  “Sure, Rosy.”

  She didn’t ask why Rosy hadn’t done it herself, since she’d long finished with her last manicure and had sat slurping coffee for the last twenty minutes or so, gossiping with waiting customers and beauticians while she flipped through People magazine. Instead, Crissy went to the back of the shop where the coffeemaker was and started a fresh pot. Then she went back to the storeroom and closed the door behind her.

  She reached in the pocket of her smock and felt the crisp, folded bill that Beatrice had given her. She took it out and looked at it. Crissy could hardly believe her eyes. Beatrice had given her a hundred-dollar tip. For a moment Crissy was stunned. Then she took her pocketbook from the shelf and put the money in her wallet. Sitting down, she wondered at Beatrice’s generosity. What was it the older woman had said? Something about using the tip as a down payment for a trip? She already had built up a sizable nest egg, and this would add to it nicely.

  The door abruptly opened, and Rosy stuck her head in the room. “Why don’t you turn on your fucking cellie?” she groused. “Jenny’s on the phone, but I’m going to tell her to hang up and call your cell number.”

  “I’m sorry, Rosy,” Crissy said, restraining herself from lashing out at the ill-tempered woman. “I’ll turn it on right now.”

  Rosy eyed her malevolently, then slammed the door shut.

  Crissy shot the bird at the closed door, then took out her cell phone and switched it on. She knew that Rosy was an extremely unhappy woman, obese, unattractive, and resentful, but her nastiness was hard to take. Crissy didn’t have much choice—not if she wanted to continue working at the shop. Rosy was the manager, and Tony Ferraro, the owner, trusted her completely.

  Her cell phone rang, and Crissy answered it. “Hi, Jenny,” she said.

  Jenny laughed. “That bitch told you to turn on your cell phone, didn’t she?”

  “Oh, yes,” Crissy replied. “In fact, she told me to turn on my ‘fucking’ cell phone.”

  “That’s just one of the things that makes her so attractive,” Jenny said. “Her lovely way with words.”

  “She’s really getting hard to take,” Crissy said.

  “Don’t let the bitch get you down,” Jenny said. “She’s just jealous.”

  “I don’t know why she’s jealous of me,” Crissy replied. “She’s got a boyfriend, and she’s got Tony eating out of her hand. She runs this place like she’s some kind of queen and we’re all her servants.”

  “Oh, you’re feeling blue today, aren’t you?” Jenny ventured. “Come off it, Crissy. You know why that ugly bitch is jealous. You’re pretty and nice and popular. None of which she’ll ever be.”

  Crissy sighed. “I guess.”

  “Listen,” Jenny said. “Why don’t we go out tonight? There’s a hot new club on Central Ave. that’s got a great DJ. Nine One One it’s called, and I’m dying to try it out.”

  “I . . . I don’t know,” Crissy prevaricated. “I’m trying to save my money, and—”

  “Oh, come on, Crissy,” Jenny said quickly. “I’ll treat. I just got my alimony check from Pete the Prick.”

  Crissy laughed. “Can’t wait to spend it, huh?” Maybe she should go out tonight, Crissy ruminated. Yes, she decided, that’s what she ought to do. She and Jenny always had a good time together.

  “I’ll swing by your place about eight, eight-thirty. How’s that?” Jenny said.

  “What’s this place like?” Crissy asked.

  “Really cool, I hear,” Jenny said. “Fancy enough that a lot of the guys who work at the Capitol go there, expensive enough to keep the rednecks out.”

  “You mean the parking lot won’t be full of pickup trucks with gun racks?”

  “That’s exactly what I mean,” Jenny said, laughing. “Come on, say yes, and I’ll pick you up.”

  “Okay,” Crissy said. “What are you going to wear?”

  “Something sexy,” Jenny said.

  “Tell me something I didn’t already know,” Crissy said. “I meant, like casual or what?”

  “Probably slacks and a cute top,” Jenny said. “Maybe this new glittery number I’ve got that shows a lot of boob.”

  “You’re shameless,” Crissy said.

  The door to the storage room swung open, hitting the wall with a loud bang. Rosy stood in the door frame, her body occupying it entirely, with a highly unattractive scowl on her face. Crissy, her mood considerably improved by talking to Jenny, almost laughed aloud. R
osy looked as if smoke would pour out of her nostrils at any minute.

  “Your next customer is here, if you care,” Rosy snapped.

  “I’ll be right there,” Crissy said sweetly.

  Rosy didn’t budge, nor did the expression on her face change.

  “I have a customer,” Crissy said into the cell phone, “so I’ve got to run. I’ll see you tonight.” She pressed the call end button, flipped shut the phone, and rose to her feet. Yes, that’s what she should do. She decided she would really make an effort tonight, get dressed up and made up, and try to put a little extra zing in her step. Who knew? Maybe she would meet the man of her dreams at Nine One One.

  Chapter Two

  Dark had already descended when Crissy parked her little blue Neon on the street and got out with her big carryall. Friends often joked that she ought to leave the keys in the car’s ignition to make it easy to steal. They could laugh all they wanted, Crissy thought as she locked it, but she loved her used, banged-up wreck of a car. It was hers, and it was paid for. She looked over toward Washington Park as she walked down the block to the old house where she rented a studio apartment. Most of the people she knew lived on the outskirts of Albany in modern apartment complexes with swimming pools and saunas, but she loved being in the center of town. She enjoyed the little park with its large old trees and ponds, and liked to ride her bicycle there in good weather.

  She reached the old gray house where she lived, and after unlocking the front door, she checked her mailbox in the entry hall. Nothing but junk. Advertising fliers and catalogs she would never order anything from. She pitched everything in the wastebasket provided by Birdie, her ancient landlady, then went to her door, just to the left.

  Her apartment had originally been the dining room of the once-grand house, which had long since been broken up into apartments, and it retained a semblance of its former glory with heavy moldings and ornate plasterwork on the ceiling. At the far end of the room, a kitchenette stretched along one wall and a door led into the small bathroom. The apartment was painted eggshell white, and on the scratched parquet floors were rugs that had once been a dusty rose shade. Like the house itself, the furniture was old and worn—flea market finds—but was serviceable and comfortable. Crissy treasured the apartment, down-at-the-heels as it was, because it offered a refuge. She had tired of sharing with friends, discovering that as well as she got along with them, they were often irresponsible, messy, and noisy. Even though it had been a strain on her budget, she had managed to hang onto this place by herself. Now, with a growing following, her tips alone took care of the rent.