She'll Take It

by Mary Carter

  Despite Kim and Tommy’s best efforts to cheer me up (and fatten me up), I’m still morose over my breakup with Ray and my subsequent fight with Zach. Even though I sent him and Corinne a family pass to the American History Museum and have apologized to him a million times, I still feel horrible about it. Then I told him it was that time of the month, which was a lie, but I think it made us both feel a little bit better about it. And so it’s no surprise that when Greg Parks pops his head in the file room to see me the next Monday, I’m not very friendly toward him.

  “How about getting out of here for the rest of the afternoon?” he says with a devilish smile.

  “What’s the catch?” I say sullenly.

  “Does it matter?” he replies.

  “No. I’ll get my purse.”

  Greg looks snappy in a tan suit with a light blue shirt. He is carrying a briefcase and has a long black coat thrown over his arm. I’m suddenly extremely self-conscious in my drab brown skirt and cream-colored sweater. Images of Trina’s trendy suits flash through my mind. I’ll have to do a little clothes shopping next weekend. Did you hear that? I said shopping. And despite my mute telephone, I have maintained my anti-klepto streak. Ha! I was going shopping next week. Shopping. Now all I had to do was visualize walking up to the counter and paying for something like a normal human being. It’s not logical, but the thought makes me a little nauseous.

  “Are you okay?” Greg says, stepping toward me. I nod and move back. We’re on Park Avenue, and Greg is trying to hail a cab. I still don’t know where we’re going and I don’t care. Anything is better than filing. “Bloomingdale’s,” Greg says to the driver and I gasp. Greg laughs.

  “Shopping?” I say. “We’re going shopping?”

  It’s too early, I tell myself. I can’t do it yet. Greg mistakes the anxiety in my voice for excitement and laughs even harder. Even the cab driver joins in, until I give him a dirty look.

  “No, we’re not going shopping. We’re giving a training to the security guards at Bloomingdale’s on loss prevention.” I nod while visions of lipstick, scarves, and small purses float through my head.

  “Can I ask you a question?” I say after a moment.

  “Shoot,” he says.

  “Did you get the position on Side Court TV?”

  Greg laughs, and I can’t help but notice how kind nice his eyes are when he smiles. “Margaret running off at the mouth?”

  “You could say that.”

  “Well I don’t know yet, but I think I’m close. They’re going to have another cameraman there today. It’s between me and a female attorney with much better legs.”

  “I wouldn’t worry about that,” I say. “They hardly ever show their legs on that show.”

  “You’re a fan then?” Greg asks.

  I feel my face flush. I’d only started watching it after Margaret mentioned that Greg was up for the position. “I watch now and then,” I say casually. “Mostly I’m working on my clocks.”

  Greg scoots closer to me. “You know I’d really like to hear more about that,” he says.

  Great. Me and my big mouth.

  “What do you need me to do today?” I say, changing the subject.

  “Nothing too difficult,” Greg says with a wave of his hand. “Pass out handouts, things like that.” I bite my lip, the phrase “nothing too difficult” caught in my throat. “What?” Greg says watching me intensely.

  “Nothing,” I say, then swallow and look out the window.

  “No,” Greg says. “That was definitely something. Tell me.”

  What was with this man? I turn to say something sarcastic, but I’m trapped by his piercing eyes.

  “Well,” I say honestly. “I didn’t like the “nothing too difficult” bit. I told you—I’m more than just a file clerk. In fact, I could give a training on loss prevention.”

  Greg looks at me for a while and then turns and looks out the window. “I’m sorry if you thought I was implying that you couldn’t,” he says. “I just don’t need much help on this—that’s all.”

  “Then why am I here?” I demand, regretting it the second it’s out of my mouth. Besides the fact that this man is my boss—if I didn’t watch it he’d send me right back to the file room. Let’s see. File room. Bloomingdale’s. File room. Bloomingdale’s. A monkey could figure that one out. “I’m sorry,” I say. “I didn’t mean it.”

  To my surprise Greg laughs again.

  “What?” I say, my defenses popping back up.

  “You’re a horrible liar, Zeitgar,” he says smugly. “I’m sorry? That’s just the point! You’re not sorry. So why act like it?”

  I bite my lip again and scan the floor of the cab for pennies.

  He puts his hand on my chin and turns me to face him. “I like that about you, Melanie. Haven’t you figured that out by now?”

  There is a crack in his voice, and our eyes lock way beyond the culturally appropriate three seconds. It’s more like ten. I know because I’m holding my breath. I look away first and wonder how much he would like me if he knew the real me. The answer is not at all.

  “Welcome back, shoppers,” Greg says to the twelve Bloomingdale’s security guards sitting around the sterile conference room. Nobody laughs so I laugh for them. It’s a tough crowd. “First of all, let me introduce Bob.” He turns to the cameraman in the corner. “Not to worry, he’s here to watch me, not you.” Again nobody laughs. Bob gives a weak little wave. “As you remember,” Greg continues, “last week we covered employee thefts. Everybody’s favorite subject, right?” He is greeted with thick, hostile stares. “Well,” he says clearing his throat. “Today we’re going to talk about nonemployee thefts. Shoplifters.”

  I shiver, but luckily no one seems to notice. The woman to my left removes her glasses, puts them on the table in front of her, and then places her hand over her eyes as if she can’t even bear to look at him. “Last week I surveyed the store and found that you could use a few more signs,” Greg lectures. “You need more in the dressing rooms and a few more by the exits as well. Signs, cameras, sensors, mirrors. All very important deterrents. But you—the security guard—can go a long way in preventing a shoplifter. How, you ask?” They hadn’t, but politely nobody draws attention to that little fact.

  “Talk to each and every person who comes into your area,” Greg lectures. “Make eye contact. Say hello. Pay careful attention to the people who won’t look you in the eye. Also look for people with baggy clothes—and people who are loaded down with shopping bags.” Greg is speaking quickly now, as if trying to outrun their boredom. As an actress I could have given him a few tips on jazzing up the presentation, but he made it clear I was just a paper pusher. As if reading my mind, Greg hands me a stack of papers to pass out. I dutifully hand each zombie/security guard a handout.

  Ten Secrets Shoplifters Don’t Want You To Know

  1. They will rarely make eye contact with you. They want to be in and out without being noticed.

  2. They will often be wearing baggy or layered clothes.

  3. They may try to bring more garments in the fitting rooms than is allowed.

  4. They—

  I didn’t mean to do it. I swear. I forget I’m sitting at the front of the table where everyone can see me. I forget I am supposed to be Greg’s “assistant.” Most of all, I forget that nobody in here is accusing me of being a thief. But somewhere along the line, I start overheating. I can feel pressure building up under my arms and a flush rise to the surface of my face. My hands are shaking slightly, and I am suddenly, inexplicably angry. These stereotypes are ridiculous. And dangerous. Teenagers wear baggy clothes all the time.

  Does that mean they were now going to be under automatic suspicion? And what about people who were shy, huh? Just because they don’t want to make eye contact they’re a thief? Ridiculous. I make eye contact with employees all the time. In fact they were the ones who were usually looking elsewhere. Chatting on the phone, reading, plucking nonexistent lint off the merchandise, goss
iping. I could steal twelve tubes of lipstick while looking them in the eye. It was simply a slight of hand. In fact the friendlier I was, the less they would suspect me.

  The security guards notice what I’m doing first. It starts when a heavyset woman in the back with curly black hair giggles. She turns and whispers something to the red-headed man sitting next to her, and they both look at me and laugh. Soon the whole table is snickering. At first, Greg beams. He thinks they’re finally “getting him.” Then he glances at me, and it’s not until Bob zooms in with his camera and Greg’s gaze drops to my hands that I realize what I’ve done. Tiny shreds of paper are scattered on the table in front of me. I am tearing Greg’s handout to pieces.

  My hands freeze mid-tear as I ponder the best course of action. Everyone is staring. I have to do something. “Confetti!” I shout, throwing it up in the air. Greg’s mouth drops open, as do most of security guards’ mouths. I jump up. “Are any of you paying attention to this?” I say, circling the table like a shark. “Or do you think you know it all already?” Heads turn and bob in every direction. The employees look wildly around for help like trapped animals.

  “Melanie?” Greg says, stepping toward me.

  “This man is a genius,” I continue, shooting him a “back off ” look. Bob has taken the camera off the tripod, and he’s now following me on foot. It’s too late to turn back now.

  “I want to ask each and every one of you something, and I want you to be honest.” I pause again and look around. “How many of you are bored to death?” I ask. Silence. Then a few giggles. Finally a woman in the back holds up her hand. “I’m bored,” she admits. I point to her handout. “Then rip it up,” I say.

  “Melanie?” Greg tries again.

  I ignore him.

  “Rip it up?” the woman repeats.

  “Yes,” I confirm. “I want anyone who is bored—anyone who has heard this crap a million times—to take their handout and rip it up.”

  Some of the guards reach for their handout and hold it at the ready, but nobody makes a tear.

  “Now!” I shout. “Do it now.”

  “All right!” one man yells, and he begins to rip up his paper.

  “That’s it,” I encourage. “Tear it to shreds!” Papers start ripping all around the table. We are having our own ticker tape parade. Greg has retreated to the back wall where he is standing with his arms crossed. He’s not a happy man, but there is no turning back now. “Throw it. Throw it!” I shout. Paper swirls around us like snowflakes. It’s our own winter wonderland, and soon every single handout is ripped to shreds. “So what’s the point?” I say when most of the paper has settled down. “Why are we doing this?” Again nobody answers, but this time at least they’re listening.

  The woman who had covered her eyes is feeling around the table for her glasses. “My glasses,” she says. “Has anyone seen my glasses?”

  “Are they under the table?” I ask. She and a fellow coworker look under the table.

  “They were sitting right here,” she says. “They’re brand new.”

  I walk around the table as several of the guards search for the glasses. “Right here?” I ask her, pointing to the table space in front of her. “In plain sight?”

  The woman curls her fist and puts it near her mouth. “Yes, they were right here,” she says. “I swear.”

  I point to the security guard sitting next to her. “Did you take her glasses?” I demand.

  “Of course not,” he says.

  I turn on someone else. “How about you,” I say, “you’re sitting right across from her. Did you see anyone take her glasses?”

  “No,” the large black woman says carefully. “I thought she was wearing them.”

  I nod. “Who else thought she was wearing them?” I say. Greg’s arms are still crossed defensively against his chest, but like the twelve guards, every fiber of his being is paying attention to me. A few hands shoot up in answer to my question. “Who noticed she wasn’t wearing them?” I ask. The woman herself and a man next to her raise their hands. I point to him. “Now why would you notice something like that?” I ask him.

  “Because she has nice eyes,” he says, smiling. “I remember noticing her glasses when I first sat down—and thinking she has nice eyes—so when she took them off—”

  “When she took them off,” I finish for him, “it stuck in your mind.”

  “Exactly,” the man says.

  “So why can’t you tell us where they are now?” I ask.

  He shrugs.

  “Is it because you were bored?” I prompt. “Distracted?”

  He laughs. “All of the above,” he says. I pace back and forth, gathering up speed. “Twelve security guards who know it all,” I say. “Twelve of you bored to death—heard it all before—there’s nothing this man can teach you, right?” I acknowledge Greg with a jerk of my thumb. “But not one of you can tell us what happened to this woman’s glasses? How can that be? They were sitting right here—in plain sight—she swears to it.” Several heads around the table drop, and people shift uncomfortably.

  “And that, ladies and gentlemen, is the genius of Greg Parks,” I say, pointing to him. I walk over to Greg and take the final intact handout from him. He has the look of a wounded animal that wants to trust you but is in too much pain, but I can’t pay any attention to that now. “This isn’t anything you haven’t heard already,” I say, waving the handout. “But this isn’t the problem!” I shout. I reach into my blazer and pull out the glasses. Murmurs ripple around the table. I hold the glasses up in the air. “I am not the problem,” I say, waving the glasses in front of them before handing them back to the grateful employee. I walk a few steps toward Greg and then wheel around and point at them.

  “You are the problem. You’re bored. You’re distracted. You’re making assumptions.” I pick up the handout again. “Sure some thieves might wear baggy clothes—or carry multiple packages—but does that mean you take your eyes off the ones who don’t? Anyone, anytime, anywhere. That’s all you have to remember. It could be anyone, anytime, anywhere.” I point to the glasses. “It could be me,” I say. “It could be you.”

  Bob is the first one to clap. It’s a bit muffled because he’s trying to hold the camera at the same time, but soon the Bloomingdale’s employees join in. I’m stunned. They like me. They really, really like me. I turn to Greg. He’s looking the other way.

  It’s alarmingly quiet on the way back to the office. Greg and I travel down the elevator, through Cosmetics, past Menswear, and out to Lexington Avenue without a single word. After such applause I thought he’d be pleased. They were congratulating us and shaking our hands and vowing to have us back again. Bob was smiling! And this is the thanks I get? We’re in a cab going six blocks or so back to the office and he’s sitting in the front seat instead of back with me. Nobody sits in the front seat of a cab. I want to say something to him, but everything I practice in my head sounds wrong. Besides, he should be thanking me. I saved him in there. When we arrive at Parks and Landon, Greg pays the fare and waltzes into the building without as much as a backward glance. I run to catch up with him, and we ride the elevator up to the twenty-second floor without making eye contact. The silence is deafening.

  “Greg,” I say when he heads into his office without turning around. “Can I talk to you?”

  “I think you’ve done enough talking for today. Don’t you, Melanie?”

  “Please. I’m sorry. You see it’s a nervous habit—”

  “No need to explain,” Greg says, straightening up his desk with a vengeance. “You’re a creative person. An actress. You thought you’d have a little fun at my expense.”

  “No, it’s not like that. I—”

  “You what?” He comes toward me. “You shredded my presentation in front of my clients. In front of the camera.”

  “I know.”

  “Why?” It’s an excellent question, and Greg is really waiting for an answer. He’s still looking at me like a wounded animal.<
br />
  “I don’t know. I—I just rip things when I get nervous. I didn’t even know I was doing it.” I move toward Greg. He doesn’t step back. It’s progress I think, and then he looks to the doorway.

  “Is everything all right?” Trina calls from behind. “Shouldn’t you be in the file room, Melanie?”

  I look to Greg to shut her up. He turns away from me and goes back to his desk.

  “Side Court is on line 1,” Trina says.

  Greg looks at me, and although it’s slight, I catch it. Greg had looked at me and flinched.

  “Melanie, I don’t have anything else right now so you’ll just have to stick it out,” Jane Greer says when I call and ask her to take me off this assignment. “I’ll let you know if something else comes up.” It was the “if” that sent my warning bells clanging. She didn’t say “when,” she said “if.” She was lying, and I could smell it. Dr. Phil says “You teach people how to treat you.” I was teaching Jane Greer that I was a pushover. No more. It was time I laid down the law.

  “Listen, Jane. You’re not treating me fairly and you know it. I’m a highly skilled administrative assistant. I type ninety-five words a minute. I did you a huge favor taking this lame job for two weeks, and I’ve had it. I am not, nor will I be ever again, a file clerk. I’d rather be a cashier at the Quality Food Mart than stay here filing one more bloody minute.”

  Chapter 22

  This is how I die. Jumping from a diving board on a warm summer day. I’m thin and tan and my legs are perfectly straight, pointing toward the sky while my head and hands reach for the water. Moments later I hit, but instead of the cool wet grip of the water, I feel crackly soft edges of a million $100 bills. I fold into them, gathering piles to my breast, inhaling the luxurious scent of instant wealth. That’s the last thing I remember—pure joy—and then the sun dies.

  Its rays are blocked by a figure standing on the diving board. It’s a cat burglar from New Jersey. We stare at each other, and I’m just about to suggest a little romp in the dough when he pulls out a .22. (Could be a .21.) I’m still marveling at his baby blues when he cocks the pistol and a shot rings out. My last thought just before the bullet pierces my brain is that he’s going to have a hell of a time getting my gray matter off all these Ben Franklins.