by Mary Carter
I have to be at the Quality Food Barf every morning at 6:00 A.M. I have to scan Cheez Whiz and Miracle Whip and fungus creams. I have to wear an orange and brown smock with a yellow pin that reads IF I DON’T SMILE, IT’S FREE!! I’ve only been here a week, but I’m only two scans away from seeing Jesus in a tortilla. I have to find another job, but I still can’t go back to temping. After Jane Greer refused to give into my ultimatum (i.e., she hung up on me) I called her back and told her to forget it, that I was going to be touring Europe with my one-woman show. It was March. I wasn’t due back until the end of summer.
I hadn’t heard a word from Greg Parks. Not that I wanted to. But I did have moments (fleeting, of course) when I wondered what he thought when I didn’t show up for work the next day. Or the next. I’m sure he didn’t think a thing of it. They probably had a party to celebrate my absence. Psycho file boy and Wicked Witch of the West Side must have been beside themselves with joy. I, on the other hand, am the living dead.
“You look hung over,” Murray yells at me the minute he shuffles in the Out door. Murray is the world’s oldest bag boy and a self-proclaimed pervert. I don a fake smile and tilt my head. The first I learned from my mother, the latter from my childhood dog Sonny.
“Good morning to you too, Murray,” I say civilly. He doesn’t blink or move as he advances toward me with hairy outstretched arms. He is constantly trying to sneak a touch or a hug. I know you’re supposed to be nice to the elderly, but I draw the line at dirty old men. I turn away and try to look busy. Since I have already punched in and counted my drawer, that leaves putting on cherry lip smack and turning my obnoxious yellow pin upside down.
“What is a pretty young thing like you doing here anyway?” Murray says. “I’ve got a granddaughter your age, and she works at a public relations firm. Pays $75,000. She doesn’t even have tits like yours.”
“That’s nice, Murray. I have to open.” I hurry away from him just as the corner of my upper left lip begins to twitch. Anxiety rising, I relieve some stress by pounding a roll of quarters on the counter. Murray approaches and begins talking to my aforementioned tits.
“I hear they’re going to be hiring an A.M. manager when Hon Li goes off to grad school,” he drools. “You should apply. The A.M. manager gets to open on Saturday. I open on Saturday.”
I make the mistake of glancing up at him, and he winks at me suggestively. Hon Li is the only person in here I like, and I feel a stab of jealousy. “Hon Li is going to grad school?” I say more to myself than to Murray.
“Gonna study biomechanics,” Murray answers. “Columbia University,” he adds.
“I see.”
“Bio-mech-an-ics. People like you and me don’t even know what that means! I’m right, am I right?”
“I have to open, Murray.”
“I’m right. Luckily there’s this joint for people like you and me.”
“This is a temporary job for me, Murray.”
“That’s what I said. Twenty years ago.” He shuffles away chuckling.
I throw mental darts at his backside as I review the trajectory of my life. Who am I? An actress and a thief. Not a grocery clerk! This is just a temporary stop on my way to fame. Everyone needs a story of their struggles. Maybe I’ll even confess my secret habit to the tabloids years from now when it’s all behind me.
In fact, having a secret shame probably makes me a better actress. And although I try to keep my kleptomania and my thespian activities separate, there was at least one occasion in which there was a blurring of the lines. But I couldn’t help it, and you would have done the same thing if you had to spend five minutes under the (hairy) thumb of Director Jeffrey Gray.
It was a nonpaying independent play staged in a video arcade in Hoboken, New Jersey. We could only rehearse after midnight when the racing and beatings and shootings had finished and the kids dragged their clawed hands and blurry eyes home for the night.
The play—written, produced, directed and ruined by Director Jeffrey Gray—was called Stuff. There were only four actors in the show—two materialistic young couples, secretly lusting after each other’s stuff. The first act dealt with the accumulation of the couple’s stuff, crotch-grabbing raving monologues from the men, and tearful confessions from the women in their skimpy lingerie. I was thrilled to be a part of it all. That is until Director Jeffrey Gray started throwing the stuff.
The first item to fly across stage during the middle of a lukewarm rehearsal was a silk potted plant. My character was in the middle of confessing her secret desire to put a fireman’s pole in the middle of their living room when it whizzed by. At first, I tried to stay in character, noticed the plant and ad libbed, “There’s certainly some breeze in here,” like the consummate professional I am, and continued my monologue.
“I know it sounds crazy, Darren, but I want that pole to go through the middle of our bed and I want to slide down it and onto you each every morning of every day for the rest of our lives.”
I was staring lustily into “my husband’s” eyes when a lampshade struck me on the side of the head.
“What the fuck?” I said, breaking character.
“I’m not feeling it,” Jeffrey shouted, leaping onto the stage and hopping around. “You’re not making me feel it.” And then all hell broke loose. He started throwing every single prop on the stage as I ducked for cover. “You have to desire the pole, Melanie!” he said with a rotary phone perched in his left hand. “Do you? Do you desire the pole?” I hid behind the couch as the phone was hurled like a football. “That’s a wrap,” Jeffrey said when there was nothing left to throw.
Actors and directors are emotional people. We all know that. You have to be moody and intense to be in this profession, and that night as I lay in bed, I realized that Director Jeffrey Gray was actually a passionate genius and that he recognized in me a smoldering, slumbering talent, one that could only be nurtured by having a prop or two thrown at my head. I had inspired insanity in him—and what actress could ask for more? I was going to throw myself into this role and live up to his every expectation.
The next day a wooden owl actually nicked my ear.
The day after that the gun struck me in the crotch. (If you see a gun in Act 1, it had better go off by Act 3!)
The third and final day a box of Wheaties hit me in the ass.
On the fourth day the props were gone.
I actually saw Jeffrey reach for a phantom throw pillow and go through the motions of hurling it toward me. He hesitated, cocked his head like a cocker spaniel, and pawed for the pillow again. Then his intense, beady eyes raked over the bare stage, which fifteen minutes ago had been crammed with stuff. I held my head as straight as I could with a gun down my pants and two lemons stuffed in my bra. In my mind’s eye I could see every single place in the arcade where I had stashed his stuff. He should have never given us a fifteen-minute break. He and I held eyes like wild animals circling a wagon train, and I smiled.
“It’s genius, Jeffrey, that you’ve decided our stuff should be symbolic manifestations rather than physical things.”
Director Jeffrey Gray stared at me for a very long time.
“Thank you,” he said.
“No, thank you,” I answered. “I’m really starting to feel it.”
My trip down memory lane rejuvenates me and puts me into a zenlike scanning zone. Before I know it, two hours have flown by and a man’s hand is pushing a jar of olives toward me. It’s a very nice hand. “Did you find everything you were looking for today?” I say politely.
He holds my eyes. “I found exactly what I was looking for,” he says.
“I’m glad. Although I find it strange you had to come all the way to Brooklyn for a jar of olives. Too many martini parties in Manhattan?”
He laughs, and despite my wish to stay an ice queen, I join in.
“I couldn’t find an olive branch, so this was the best I could do,” Greg says, extending the jar of olives toward me.
“I would have pr
eferred a chocolate bar,” I say, taking the jar of olives.
“I’ll remember that for next time,” he says.
I’m trying to pretend that I don’t tingle at the mention of a “next time,” but I’m soon distracted anyway. The line is starting to pile up behind him. There is a little old lady with three cans of Friskies and a bag of peanuts and behind her a nervous-looking man in his twenties with a carton of cigarettes and behind him a housewife with a screaming toddler and a heaping cart of frozen entrees. Oh joy. “I have customers,” I say quietly.
“I know,” Greg says. “What time is your break?”
I meet him at a deli down the street and we sit by the window with cups of coffee. “How did you know I was here?” I ask after we finish the small talk. (Would you like coffee?/yes please/black?/cream one sugar/so—Quality Food Mart huh?/It’s just until my clocks take off.)
“That’s another reason I should apologize,” Greg says in answer to my question. “I’m afraid I called your temp agency.” Uh-oh. “And for some reason they thought you were in Europe doing a one-woman show.”
I roll my eyes. “That’s Jane for you,” I say dismissing it. “She gets us all mixed up.”
“That’s what Trina said,” Greg continues. “She insisted you couldn’t be in a one-woman show—so I asked Trina if she could help me out. She got me in touch with your roommate Kim and voilà! I found the mysterious Melanie Zeitgar.”
“I’m surprised you didn’t just call my mother,” I say sarcastically and watch in horror as he turns several shades of red in under a second. “You didn’t,” I say.
“I didn’t,” he confirms. “She called me.”
I groan. “Not again.”
Greg nods. “I’m afraid so.”
“What did she want now?”
“She said she was putting together a calendar and wanted to know my birthday.” I hung my head. “She didn’t know you were no longer with working for me either. So I guess that’s the third apology I owe you.”
I drain the rest of my coffee and experience a sick enjoyment from the scalding that ensues.
“You should probably call them,” Greg says sheepishly. “She was a little nervous when I asked if your clocks were taking off. I get the feeling they’re not very supportive of your work. That’s why they were so quiet when I brought it up at dinner too, huh?”
I nod and start to crush the paper coffee cup. Greg glances at me and I immediately flush, remembering the day I ripped up his presentation. “Look—”
“Listen—” we say at the same time.
“Okay, I’ll look and you listen,” Greg says, leering at me.
“Stop it,” I say swatting him. “Listen—”
“Look—” We stop, laugh.
Greg gestures to me. “Ladies first,” he says.
“I’m sorry about your presentation,” I say. “I didn’t mean to ruin it.”
“Melanie, I overreacted. You were right. My presentation was a little—dry.”
“No it’s not—”
“Melanie.”
“Okay. A little.”
“And I should be thanking you.”
“Thanking me?”
“Melanie, they loved it.”
“They did?” I have to admit, a feeling of pride washes over me. They loved it. They loved me.
“I got the commentator position,” Greg announces.
“That’s great.” I grab his hand. “Congratulations.”
He’s smiling at me and I’m smiling and him and he’s yet to let go of my hand. In fact, he’s putting his other hand over mine, sandwiching my little hand between his two very nice hands.
“I’m filming my first slot today. We’re on live at 5:00. I suppose you’ll be working then.”
“I’ll get my roommate to tape it,” I say. “That’s so great.”
“You’re great,” Greg says. “That business about the glasses. I didn’t even see you take them. I was like—what the hell is she doing—and then wham—here come the glasses out of your pocket. Risky. Risky little move, Zeitgar. How on earth did you do it without anyone noticing?” (Practice, practice, practice.)
“I just saw an opportunity and ran with it,” I say.
The conversation is making me a little nervous so I casually try to pull my hand away, but Greg clamps down harder and won’t let me go. “Melanie help me understand something here.”
Uh-oh. I hope we’re off the subject of my amazing, sneaky fingers. “Yes?”
“File clerk? Grocery clerk? Look, I’m not trying to insult anyone doing those jobs but—I just think you’re capable of so much more.”
This time I do manage to yank my hand away. “The file clerk was a favor to my agency. Nobody else wanted to work with the Wicked Witch.”
“Who?”
“Trina,” I say and then stop. Uh-oh. Did I just make a really big faux pas? Greg looks seriously pissed off. Oh God, maybe he really likes her. “I’m sorry,” I say. “That wasn’t very nice of me. Trina’s great—it’s just that—what? What are you laughing at?”
Greg pounds the table. “I love it when you lie,” he says. “Your whole face gives you away.” I swat him. “Really,” he teases. “You should have seen the look.” I glare at him.
“I did wonder why we were going through so many temps,” he continues, ignoring my glare. “I thought maybe Steve Beck was putting the moves on all the girls.” The thought of needy little Steve Beck putting the moves on me makes me laugh, and Greg joins in. We’re laughing so hard that we’re drawing dirty looks from nearby patrons. I don’t care. I can’t remember the last time I laughed so much. “Okay, so that explains the file clerk job,” Greg says, “but what about this.” He gestures to my obnoxious IF I DON’T SMILE, IT’S FREE! pin. “Why are you working at the Quality Food Mart?”
“Because of my clocks,” I say. “I needed more time to work on them and since this job doesn’t require much of me I’ve really been able to crank up my creativity.” I don’t like lying to Greg, but I can’t help it. I really like the way he looks at me when I talk about my clocks. It’s my moment to shine. Besides, I’ll probably never see him again anyway, so why not leave him thinking I’m a creative genius. But maybe he doesn’t think that. In fact I’m not sure he’s even listening to me. He’s still staring at my lips.
“I have a confession,” he says.
Every nerve ending in my body comes to life. As long as they’re not mine, I love confessions.
“I’m glad you’re no longer working for me,” Greg says.
What? Here I am miserable that I don’t get to brush by him in the hall anymore or stare into his beautiful office, but he’s thrilled I’m gone. Why did he have to tell me that? I bite my lips self-consciously. He reaches up and touches my mouth with his index finger.
“Don’t,” he says softly. I stop biting my lip, but he keeps his finger right where it is and then ever so gently begins trailing his finger along my upper lip and then my lower, tickling them softly like he’s painting them. “I’m glad you’re not working for me because now this is no longer sexual harassment.”
“What’s no longer—”
“Shut up, Zeitgar.” Greg puts both of his hands behind my head, pulls me toward him, and kisses me. It is a full-on, fourth-gear kiss. Our mouths fit together perfectly, and even though it’s new and exciting, it’s also feels as if I have been kissing him all of my life. I could stay here and kiss him forever. I would have too, except for the fact that he’s suddenly yanked himself away and is hopping up and down yelling, “Jesus. Hot. Hot.” For a split vanity second I’m flattered, and then I notice the huge coffee stain on his crotch.
“Oh God!” I say as he hops around. “What can I do?”
“I’m just going to go to the little boys’ room,” he says, deflecting my hand as I reach toward his crotch with a napkin.
“Oh. Good plan.” But I have to admit I’m disappointed. It was looking forward to squeezing the Charmin. Good God. I was going to ha
ve to change my underwear.
Since I have to get back to work and Greg has to go home and change his pants, our little make out session has officially been rained out. He walks me back to work holding his briefcase in front of his crotch. “I almost forgot,” he says as we’re in front of the store. “They’re having a little party for me next Saturday to celebrate my new anchor position. I was hoping you could make it.”
I take a few minutes to look like I’m considering in while inside I’m jumping up and down for joy. An invitation within seconds of kissing. This is very, very good.
“Next Saturday?” I say, pretending to ponder my social calendar. “I’ll try my best.”
“Great,” he says, then kisses me on the cheek. “My place, eight o’clock.” I’m about to say that I don’t know where he lives when he hands me a business card with his address and phone number written on the back. Oh yeah. He’s into me.
Chapter 23
The rest of the afternoon I’m on cloud nine. Even Murray doesn’t bother me. So when my last customer of the day slides a small box toward me with shaking hands, I’m so caught in fantasy land (Greg and I are married and I’ve just told him I’m pregnant with twin boys) I don’t even look up at her. I scan the item and throw it in a plastic bag. It’s not until I say “Fifteen ninety-nine” that I make eye contact. She is a tiny thing with stringy brown hair and big hazel eyes. “What?” she says in a wavering voice that sounds like a flute warming up. “Fifteen ninety-nine,” I repeat, turning the green digital numbers on my register toward her.
“Oh.” She pours a pocket full of change on the counter and starts to separate it into piles of nickels, dimes, and pennies. Her fingernails are chewed beyond recognition. It is then that I glance in the bag and see the small square box. On the front is a picture of a woman holding up a plastic pee stick with an unbridled look of joy. The young girl before me wears none of the same anticipatory glee on her face as she counts her sweaty coins. She stops in the middle of counting and looks at me. “I didn’t know how much they cost,” she whispers.
