Alligators in the Trees

by Cynthia Hamilton

  “And I see you’re expecting,” the dyed blonde cooed, indicating the young woman’s protruding belly. The couple blushed and smiled in unison, a sight that made Roxanne grimace. “How exciting! Is this your first?” A double nod. “That’s just wonderful! Have you been in this area long?”

  “Three years,” the young father-to-be answered.

  “Delightful. And you own your own home?” the blonde asked slyly. With that last question, Roxanne knew in a nanosecond what this woman was up to. She might as well have been wearing a flashing neon sign around her neck, though once Roxanne looked her over, it was obvious enough without one. There was just something about the hair, nails and jewelry—especially in combination with the business suit.

  “Well, we’re working on that, too,” the pregnant woman answered, with a self-conscious giggle.

  “Splendid. Are you working with anyone?” the realtor asked, already digging for her cards without waiting for a reply. Roxanne watched on in mild disbelief as the woman closed in on her prey.

  “My name’s Lois Bronsen, by the way. I work for ShoreSide Realty,” she said, her voice dripping sweetness, as she slipped one of her business cards into each of their hands. “I’ve helped dozens—maybe hundreds—of first-time buyers realize their dream of home ownership.” The couple mumbled politely as they studied the cards in their hands.

  “Your total comes to one-twenty forty-six,” Roxanne said, pushing the last of the items toward the bagger.

  “Oh, here’s my ValuWise card,” Lois Bronsen said, feigning regret for not paying attention. Roxanne took the card and swiped it through the customer keypad and handed it back to the realtor.

  “One eleven thirty-five. You need to enter your pin number,” Roxanne directed, taking the opportunity to wipe off her scanner while her chatty patron dithered around like she’d never done this before. Only forty-one minutes till quitting time, Roxanne consoled herself, hoping she could make it through her shift without getting fired or losing her mind.

  “You’re a homeowner, aren’t you…Roxanne?” the diehard agent asked, craning to read Roxanne’s nametag. “I know I’ve seen you in here many times,” Lois said, as she replaced her discount card and retrieved another business card in one fluid motion. “They hire the nicest people here. That’s why I always shop at this store,” she told the couple.

  “Here’s my card. If you ever need to buy or sell, I’d be more than happy to assist you,” she said, thrusting it at Roxanne, who took it, mistaking it for the woman’s credit card.

  “Thanks…but how will you be paying, Lois?” Roxanne asked. She glanced down at the card while Lois flipped through her wallet.

  “Silly me! I got so caught up in our nice conversation, I forgot what I was doing!” she said, handing the card to Roxanne, instead of swiping it as she should have. Roxanne let out a resigned sigh and turned the keypad in her direction.

  “I know it’s my job, but I never get tired of talking about real estate and homeownership. Even in these uncertain times, I still think it’s the most important investment a person can make.” Roxanne handed the woman her credit card and receipt, then tuned her out as she began checking the pregnant couple’s goods.

  Once her shift was finally over, Roxanne wanted nothing more than to flee ValuWise as fast as her feet would carry her. But unfortunately, she was out of certain necessities—like toilet paper, coffee and cigarettes—so she was forced to grab a cart and join the throng of afternoon shoppers.

  She raced down the aisles, weaving through the dawdling customers, pausing only momentarily to decide which of the white wines on sale was actually potable. She chose one and put it in the front of her cart, flipping up the plastic flap to keep the bottle from slipping out. As she did so, she was assailed by the second realtor of the day, this one smiling at her from the plastic placard—to her mind, one of the cheesiest forms of advertising ever invented.

  God, they’re everywhere, she lamented, as she recalled Lois Whats-her-name. Though she thought real estate agents ranked a close second behind used-car salesmen when it came to pushiness, she also knew that many of them made huge amounts of money. It wouldn’t surprise her if that Lois woman was one of the top agents in the area. The jewelry that flashed on every speck of bare skin was no cheap imitation. The woman was diamond central. Everything about her said she had money to burn, yet the woman was a complete ditz when it came to the simplest tasks, like purchasing groceries.

  Go figure, Roxanne groused silently, as she loaded her items onto the conveyer belt, nodding in solidarity to one of her fellow checkers. It was a living, their fleeting glance seemed to say, though there were moments when that was small consolation.

  Two

  Roxanne kicked open the front door of her condo with her left foot and struggled toward the kitchen table, grocery bags threatening to slip from her grasp. She dropped them haphazardly and made a dash for the bathroom. She stayed there longer than necessary, luxuriating in the fact that she was finally sitting down.

  “Free at last,” she said out loud, reveling in the fact that she could sit there all night if she wanted to. Not only was this the beginning of two days off, Connor was with his father for another five nights. It was almost as good as winning the lottery, to her burnt-out frame of mind.

  Only thing that could make it better was a glass of Blue Swan chardonnay—where do they get these names?—and a conciliatory cigarette or two. Of course, a new job would be nice, she thought as she opened the wine. She poured a glassful and snagged the newspaper from the grocery bag, idly planning to peruse the want ads, if she could muster the fortitude.

  “Actually winning the lottery would be even better,” she decided as she forced her work shoes off the hard way, without benefit of untying them first. She took a swig of wine, recoiling as it assaulted her tongue.

  “Yipes,” she gasped, seizing the bottle for closer examination. Well, what do you want for 3.99? She took another sip, more cautiously this time, and discovered if she bypassed the front taste buds and sent it straight to the back of her tongue, it wasn’t quite as offensive. A few more sips confirmed her theory, and also improved her outlook noticeably. She was almost feeling like a human being again.

  “Oh, God—I’m not a human being anymore,” she groaned. “I’m a ValuWise drone with an attitude problem.” Disgusted by this revelation, Roxanne relocated herself and her assorted paraphernalia to the sofa, where she’d be more comfortable should she slip into a depression. She added her cell phone to the arsenal, just in case she had the need for contact with the outside world. For the meantime, she pacified herself alternately with the suspect chardonnay and an unlit cigarette.

  As she was down to her last cigarette, she had the foresight to bring the fresh carton along with her. With the cigarette dangling from her lips, she tore open the carton, marveling at the ever-increasing cost of her not-quite-so-nasty habit.

  “I could save a lot of money if I could cut back on these things,” she said to her living room at large, belatedly seeing the irony in such a ridiculous admission. A laughing fit came on as a low gurgle, building as the absurdity of spending a couple hundred dollars a month on cigarettes she didn’t even smoke hit home.

  She toppled sideways to the sofa, her psychological crutch dropping to the floor as she convulsed with laughter. “Oh my God!” she yelped, her sides hurting, but still at the mercy of the preposterous realization.

  When she thought she had laughed herself out, she leaned over and searched for the fallen cigarette, now more mindful of the cost of her strange indulgence. She smoothed the paper and wiped the filter on her sleeve. But when she stuck it in her mouth, the silliness of what she was doing struck her anew. Her shoulders shook as she tried to control her laughter. But it was no use. She laughed so hard the second time, tears trickled down the sides of her face. She had just gotten a grip on herself again when the phone rang, making her jump.

  “Hello?” she said on the second ring.

  “
Hey, what are you doing?” Andrea asked. Roxanne took a swallow of wine and reclined against the sofa before answering.

  “Berating myself for being such a fool,” she replied, catching herself as she held the cigarette to her lips. A weak titter escaped her throat as she flung it across the room, saving herself from another laughing fit.

  “Are you all right? You sound funny.”

  “I am funny.”

  Andrea was silent as she tried to assess her friend’s strange behavior. “You got somebody there?” she asked, putting Connor’s absence together with Roxanne’s two days off.

  “In your dreams. In my dreams,” Roxanne said, reaching automatically for another cigarette. Now truly aggrieved by her weird compulsion, she smashed the offending cigarette against her forehead and let the ruins fall down her front. “Are you doing anything right now?”

  “Just calling to see what you’re doing.”

  “Good—let’s go do something. I’m going to go crazy if I sit here any longer.”

  Roxanne parked her car around the corner from The Lazy Dog, Andrea’s favorite first stop after work, the sole reason being it was two doors down from her salon, a geographical glitch as far as Roxanne was concerned. There were a least half a dozen decent watering holes within a four block radius of The Cutting Edge, but Andrea used her aching feet as an excuse for favoring the coffee house-slash-wine bar.

  Everything about this place bugged Roxanne: the worn, low-slung leather sofas that were meant to be the epitome of comfort, but weren’t; the gloomy atmosphere, not helped in the least by the loaner “art” looming ominously on the walls; the young, insipid staff that fluctuated from spaced-out airheads to pretentious wine-wizard-wannabes.

  In Roxanne’s opinion, the establishment’s over-reaching ambition of trying to appeal to both those craving stimulants and those needing a nerve-settling glass of wine had given it a multiple-personality disorder.

  Roxanne stepped cautiously around the sprawled-out golden retriever—the company’s namesake—and pushed her way past the potted ficus trees to join her friend at her usual spot at the wine bar.

  “Hey,” Andrea said, as she traded her empty glass for a new one.

  “Hi. Looks like you’ve got a head start on me,” Roxanne said, reaching for the laminated list of wines by the glass.

  “Yeah, well, you sounded like you already had a pretty good start on me when I talked to you, so I thought I better get caught up,” Andrea said, her broad grin indicating Roxanne was the one who had some catching up to do.

  “What are you drinking?” she asked.

  “A cabernet-something. What’s this called again?” Andrea asked the waiter.

  “It’s a 2004 cabernet franc from Sycamore Peak,” the young snob informed her in his smoothly professional tone. “Lighter and more approachable than the traditional cabernet, balanced without being weak.” Roxanne drew back, amazed that anyone could take a simple glass of wine so seriously.

  “It’s a cabernet franc,” Andrea relayed unnecessarily.

  “Is it any good?” Roxanne asked, deliberately ignoring their attendant.

  “Yeah, it’s pretty good. Try it.” Roxanne took a sip. It was a little jarring after the bargain white wine, but she figured in the long run she’d be much better off.

  “I’ll have the same,” Roxanne said, after getting their server’s attention again. Apparently, her lack of wine reverence had put him off.

  “Let’s go sit on that free sofa over there,” Roxanne suggested, not being in the mood for temperamental employees. She’d had enough of that with her own self already. Andrea collected her things and followed in her friend’s wake. She was barely able to carve out enough room to sit, as Roxanne had claimed the lion’s share for herself.

  “Comfortable?” Andrea asked sarcastically. She underscored her point by unloading her purse and jacket on an adjacent chair.

  “It’ll do for now,” Roxanne said from her nearly supine position.

  “If you want, I can go sit somewhere else,” Andrea cracked.

  “No, you’re fine.” Roxanne stretched lavishly, feigning more comfort than she actually felt. After shifting this way and that, she finally gave up and reached for her purse. No sooner had she placed a cigarette between her lips, did she have not one, but two Lazy Dog employees rushing to warn her off.

  “Sorry, this is a smoke-free environment,” a girl from the espresso bar said, trying to be both assertive and polite.

  “See the ‘No Smoking’ signs?” the second girl asked snidely, a tray of used coffee cups in one hand, the other braced on her hip.

  Roxanne eyed them both with an amused smirk. “Don’t worry,” she said nonchalantly, “I’m not going to light it.” The two defenders of the “smoke-free environment” looked unconvinced.

  “See? No matches,” Roxanne said, holding up her empty hands as proof of her harmless intentions.

  Andrea viewed the unfolding drama with only mild concern. She knew that in Roxanne’s current frame of mind she was likely to blow a gasket over the smallest issue. On the other hand, Andrea wasn’t opposed to a little early-evening entertainment. Roxanne could come up with some pretty energetic displays of righteous indignation when provoked.

  Andrea sat back, quietly smiling, as she waited for the next salvo. She didn’t have long to wait. Roxanne took an imaginary drag off her unlit cigarette, and exhaled extravagantly.

  Andrea was starting to have second thoughts; the girl with the tray could’ve easily doubled as a bouncer at a biker bar, with her impressive array of tattoos and improbable body piercings. Not only was she looking as if she could use a good brawl, the idiotic confrontation was starting to attract the attention of other employees and curious customers. Andrea was half-afraid the girl might have a reputation to defend.

  Roxanne remained unfazed. “See?” she said, unperturbed at having to explain the obvious. “No smoke. No matches, no smoke—no smoking,” she concluded triumphantly.

  The air—smoke-free or not—seemed to quiver with tension. The large girl glared at her, no doubt evaluating the most viable plans of attack. After some internal debate, she resigned herself to an insipid threat.

  “If I see one wisp of smoke, I’m calling the cops,” she said in a low, menacing growl as she glided passed the troublesome patrons. A smile of ornery delight spread across Roxanne’s face.

  “You’re lucky she didn’t rip you limb from limb just for the hell of it,” Andrea said, taking advantage of Roxanne’s change in posture in order to claim a decent share of the sofa for herself.

  “Give me one of those,” she added, kicking her shoes to the floor and tucking her legs underneath her. Roxanne was happy to oblige. Even though the employees had returned to their usual duties, several customers continued to watch on with concern.

  With an audience to play to, Andrea and Roxanne hammed it up like a couple of incorrigible teenagers. They stifled their giggles and puffed on their unlit cigarettes like two nicotine junkies in the throes of withdrawal. But this kind of charade only went so far with grown women at the end of a trying day, and soon Roxanne’s smug pleasure faded back to her former glumness.

  “What is it?” Andrea asked when she realized Roxanne had dropped out of the pantomime. Roxanne shrugged petulantly, requiring further prodding.

  “Did something happen at work?” Andrea tried again.

  Roxanne rolled her eyes. “Don’t even ask.”

  Andrea was happy to let that line of inquiry slide, for she was far more familiar with the perils and pitfalls of grocery store cashiering than she needed to be.

  “I’ve got to get another job,” Roxanne declared, tearing at the end of her cigarette, slowly. As the tobacco began to trickle onto her lap, she realized she had no proper receptacle for the mess she was about to create. Not that she should care if she left a trail of tobacco debris in her wake, certainly not after the treatment she’d just received. She may have her faults, but she was no slob—not in public, anyway.
>
  She spied an empty cappuccino cup on a neighboring table, and got up to retrieve it. As there happened to be an abandoned newspaper next to it, she snagged that as well. She sat down, partially torn cigarette dangling from her lips as she flipped to the want ads.

  “You crack me up,” Andrea observed, glass of cabernet in one hand, unlit cigarette in the other. Roxanne gave her a questioning, sidelong glance. “You squint even though you’re not really exhaling,” she said with a deriding chirp. Roxanne let out a pained sigh, but realizing it was true, she was unable to pretend she was offended. She needlessly ground her cigarette in the bottom of the cup, and divided the classifieds in two parts.

  “Help me find a new job,” she said, shoving half the section at her companion.

  “You’re serious?” Andrea asked. This wasn’t the first time Roxanne had made discontented noises about her employment.

  “Yeah, I’m serious. If I stay at ValuWise much longer, I’ll either end up in prison or at the end of a noose.”

  If Roxanne’s mood hadn’t been so black, Andrea would’ve written off her prophesy as benign hyperbole. But there was a hint of desperation on Roxanne’s face as she scanned the want ads that Andrea had never witnessed in her intrepid friend before. She ran her finger down the columns, not sure what she was supposed to be looking for.

  “Jeeze—nothing but real estate ads,” Andrea said, as her eyes ran down each column. “Some of these people are hilarious—‘Let me make your dreams of home ownership come true.’ ‘Looking to buy or sell—I’m the one!’ ‘Experience makes it happen!’ Wait, here’s something—‘Make two thousand a week, part time,’” she announced hopefully.

  “Yeah, right. I guess we’d all being doing it if it were that easy.”

  “I wonder what kind of hustle it is,” Andrea mused.

  “I don’t know. Why don’t you call and find out,” Roxanne suggested dismissively, her mind on more pressing matters.

  “I think I will,” Andrea said, reaching for her cell phone. Roxanne eyed her skeptically as she turned the page. After listening for a few seconds, Andrea laughed and hung up and redialed.