by Mary Carter
It hits me like a brick—she never even considered stealing it. She has a sweat suit on too; her pockets would have hidden the box no problem. Murray and I were the only ones in the store—I was obviously not on the prowl for thieves, and Murray was in the back alphabetizing soup. A mixture of guilt and shame washes over me. I make a mental note to go back to confession. I take the box and quickly stuff it in the front pocket of her jacket. “Go,” I say.
“Hey!” she cries. “What are you doing?”
I give her a look. Was she really that dense?
“Go,” I whisper again, looking around.
“I’m not going to just take it!” she screams. “Who do you think I am?” She reaches in her pocket and waves the box at me accusingly. Just then, J.D. walks in the front door.
“Listen,” I say to the girl, “you misunderstood me.”
She plants her hand on her hip and waves the box again. “You put it in my pocket,” she insists. J.D. looks my way.
“Morning,” he says.
The girl looks at him and then back at me. “Maybe I should tell your manager about our little misunderstanding,” she threatens. “You think just because I might be knocked up I’m a thief too?”
I have to do damage control quick. “Of course not,” I say. “I’m paying for it. That’s all.”
“Why? Do I look like I want your pity? I don’t want your pity. I just want . . .” She starts crying and her nail-bitten fingers curl up like claws. “I don’t know what I want,” she sputters.
“It’s my fault,” I say, patting her hand. “I don’t pity you,” I continue. “Look, did I smile at you?” I ask her. She looks at me as if I’ve gone mad. I turn my obnoxious yellow pin right side up so she can read it.
“Um—no?” she answers.
“I didn’t think so,” I say, ripping the receipt off the register and putting the pregnancy kit in a plastic bag. “If I don’t smile, it’s free!” I repeat, smiling.
She grabs the bag. “Thank you.” She scurries away, leaving me three dollars and fifteen cents in neat little piles. I pocket it and cancel the transaction.
Doing a good deed for that girl felt good. Not smiling felt great. In fact, it made work kind of fun! What if I don’t smile all day? People will get free groceries, I’ll have fun and the time will fly! Hoorah! I’m not going to smile at a soul all day. In fact, I might as well scowl just so people really get what’s going on.
Three hours later, J.D. Pinkett leads me to his office (a crate and card table in the back room next to the “Jane” and “John”) and shoves a form my way with a crooked index finger.
“You’re firing me?”
“You’ve had twenty complaints in the last hour.”
I play with the dust on the table, stalling for time. “But they got free groceries,” I say at last. J.D. pounds his fist on the little table. The legs bow out like a fawn standing for the first time, and the pen I’m holding smears all the way across the table.
“You’re not supposed to give away free groceries!” J.D. yells. “That’s going to come out of your paycheck.”
“That’s not fair. I couldn’t smile. I have weak lip syndrome.”
“Weak lip syndrome?”
“Yes. It affects the lip muscles. They become so weak it’s physically painful to smile. That’s discrimination you know! You can’t discriminate against the weak lipped!”
“Does this syndrome also affect your attitude?”
Was this a rhetorical question? I pray to the Saint of Divine Quips for a snappy comeback, but nothing great comes to me. It makes me wonder if the Saints are on a continuous coffee break.
“Huh?” I manage instead.
“You told Bill Sorrenson his twelve-year-old son was in here buying condoms—”
“Which he was—”
“And you made Liliah Jones cry—”
“Well she is a little young for dentures—”
“You told Sarah Grimes that her husband was having an affair!”
“Why else would he buy champagne and lobster in the middle of a Wednesday afternoon?” It was all an act of course. As an actress, I couldn’t just “not smile.” I had to invent a character who couldn’t smile, a character devastated by the state of the human condition. What are a few insults when you’re getting free groceries? I’m constantly insulted, and I get zippo in return.
“What kind of person are you?” J.D. yells at me.
That one kind of stops me. Because normally, I’m a very kind person. In fact, I’m usually extremely sensitive to other people. I just didn’t know what I was missing being so damn nice all the time.
“What’s this?” I say, looking at the form in front of me, craning my neck to read upside down.
“Policy and procedure,” J.D. says, pushing it an inch closer as if that will help the acrobatic angle at which I had to read. “Just in case you’re thinking of going to the competition, it guarantees you’ll protect our trade secrets,” he adds. The competition? Does he think I’m going to make a beeline to the 7-Eleven? J.D. stares at me, squinting behind his thick black glasses, while I examine the form. He belches. “ ’Scuze me,” he says, when I give him a dirty look. I sign my name, Melanie Zeitgar with the flourish and confidence of the unemployed.
“I won’t be staying in groceries,” I say, waiting for a response. Surely there would be some pleading, some words of encouragement, something along the lines of “Well, up until today, you were the best scanner we ever had and we hate to lose you but we knew we’d outgrow a talented girl like you” speech. Come on! But he just stares at me and I stare back at him until there is no choice. It’s either kiss him or look away.
I look away and scan the edge of the table for dust. Good God, I am going to cry. No! I will not cry. I’m crying over a job as a grocery clerk? Jesus, no. Please no. I pray to the Saint of Dry Eyes and bite my lip. J.D. reaches over and pats my hand. I yank it away. “Do you want me to mail your last check?”
“Sure. No.”
“No?”
“I’ll pick it up.” Or will I? Come back to this dump that won’t even spring for a lousy good-bye cake from the bakery five feet away? Good luck, Mel. We’ll miss you, Melanie. Kiss my ass. “Mail it.”
“Mail it?” His pen bops up and down like the head of a jack-in-the-box. He adjusts his glasses and nods, demonstrating his condolence for my mental state, his patience for my neurosis. When I don’t answer right away he leans forward and glares at me like a driver stuck in ten miles of traffic. I stand. That’s it, look tall.
“Mail it. Definitely mail it,” I say confidently. I should be waltzing out the door about now, but I continue to stand. My feet are stuck. I want to kick his crate out from underneath him. “Is that it?” I demand as if he were holding me there. Please say something. Don’t let me leave like this. J.D. nods and points to the door. I feel like a jilted lover. On my way out I steal a can of Pringles, a pack of AA batteries, and a NutRageous bar. Once again I am a jobless, clockless thief.
I go to Central Park, sit on the bench, and daydream about shoplifting. I see myself taking the glowing blue topaz ring in Tiffany’s, sliding my hands over imaginary cashmere sweaters, and quickly slipping Manolo Blahnik shoes into my oversized Gucci bag (also stolen). When I’m finished mentally shoplifting, I fantasize about taking things out of people’s pockets as they walk by. I sit and wonder what secrets people have tucked away.
Does the man in the gray suit buying Muscle Magazine have a Kit Kat in his pocket or a business card for a call girl? Does the woman with the little black glasses on the bench next to me see a therapist? If not, she needs to—she’s been crying for the last fifteen minutes. Or is she a plain clothes cop pretending to be living a subatomic life, changing colors under the surface like the autumn leaves in the west end of the park? And what am I thinking going out with Greg Parks? He helps prosecute shoplifters, Melanie. Do the math. Would he be smiling at you like that if he knew you were a klepto?
Not that he
has to find out. I can just quit now and no one will ever know the difference. I lay the can of Pringles and pack of batteries on the bench. (I’ve already eaten the NutRageous bar.) There. I’m through shoplifting, and now I can date whomever I like.
I take the subway to Grand Central and wander around the lobby, stopping to stare at the large green clock hanging in the center of the station. It has huge brass hands and elegant roman numerals against a cream background. At night the face lights up. I imagine myself putting the pieces together and having an opening to celebrate my clock. I wonder what kind of clock I would make if I were given the gig to replace it. I picture a shoe clock—high heels clicking around the face like Cinderella. At the stroke of midnight, the ruby shoes would rub together and run off. I giggle to myself, silently laughing until I notice the man who was circling the clock and talking to himself has stopped to give me a wary look. When you frighten homeless, crazy people, it’s time to get a grip.
Chapter 24
“Why are you smiling like that?” Kim is on the living room floor doing Pilates. I turn on the television. “Do you have to watch now?” Kim says. “I’m supposed to tune out the world and focus on my core.”
“Are you sure you wouldn’t rather watch my new boyfriend?” I sing. Kim stops scissoring her legs and sits up.
“Your new what?” she says.
“What time is it?” I say, turning on the television and flipping through the channels until I get to Side Court. And there he is. The camera likes Greg as much as I do. He is sitting at a table next to a pretty blonde. “Thanks again to today’s guests and thanks to my new partner, Greg Parks, attorney and Loss Prevention Consultant. That’s our show for today. Tune in next week when we’ll be taking your calls live. I’m Deborah Green.”
“I’m Greg Parks.”
“We’re Side Court Live.”
“I missed it,” I whined.
“Greg Parks? That’s your old boss, right?” Kim asks, pulling her leg into the air.
“Old boss who just kissed me and asked me out for next Saturday.”
Her leg stops moving. “Get out. Tell me everything.”
I flop on the couch and hug the pillows. I start talking. It’s a long time before I stop.
“Your boyfriend has nice digs,” Tommy says to me as the cab pulls in front of the brownstone at Seventy-second and Riverside Drive.
“Don’t call him my boyfriend in front of anyone,” I warn him for the third time.
“Why again?” Kim says. “What’s the big secret?”
“Look we’ve had one kiss, okay? I don’t want to scare him off. Besides I don’t want to give Trina Wilcox any more ammunition. So just act normal.” Tommy rolls his eyes and gives me an air kiss.
I would know it was Greg’s place even if he weren’t standing in the living room and pictures of him weren’t propped up on a little table in the hallway. It has the same welcoming feeling as his office. First of all, it is the type of space most people would kill for in Manhattan. It is an older brick building with old-world charm, dark wood floors and massive arched doorways. I stand in Greg’s entry admiring the crown molding, high ceilings, and large windows looking out over Riverside Park. Ray’s place had been like a college dorm, and I’m reminded again that I’m dating a man. After rolling their eyes at my warning for them not to drink too much, Kim and Tommy immediately go into social mode and start to mingle.
I note nervously that there are at least sixty people in here, including Deborah Green, Greg’s co-anchor on Side Court. I spot Greg across the room talking to Steve Landon and Margaret Tomer, but I refrain from rushing him like a linebacker. My plan is to get a drink and mingle. I’ll wait for Greg to come to me.
“It’s quite a place, isn’t it?” I turn to find Deborah Green next to me. I’m halfway through a martini and making eye contact with Greg across the room. I turn to Deborah, who I’m annoyed to find, is just as pretty in person as she looks on television.
“It certainly is,” I say, looking around wondering if Greg is still watching me.
“I’m Deborah,” she says, holding her hand out to me.
“I know,” I say. “I’m a big fan.” She laughs. She has a nice handshake. I glance at her smooth, ringless hand. “Is your husband here?” I ask hopefully.
“Oh, I’m not married,” she says cheerfully.
“Of course,” I say. “You have such an exciting career. You’re probably not looking to be saddled with a husband and a couple of kids.”
“I want three. Kids, not husbands. I just want one of those.” She laughs gaily. I swallow the rest of my martini. “It’s so hard to meet men in this city who aren’t intimidated by my success.” She’s looking in Greg’s direction.
“And yet you probably want to meet someone who has a completely different career,” I say. “Imagine dating someone just like you. How boring would that be!” Her smile fades slightly. “Oh. I don’t mean you’re boring. I just meant—you know—it would be boring if you were dating—say—Greg Parks.”
“Oh, I don’t think that would be boring. Inappropriate perhaps, but not boring.” She laughs again. “How do you know Greg?”
“Oh. I worked with him on a few presentations,” I say. “Nice to meet you, will you please excuse me? There’s a crab-stuffed mushroom over there with my name on it.”
“Having a good time?” he says from behind me.
“You have a beautiful place,” I say, turning to face him.
“You fit right in,” Greg says.
“I caught the tail end of your show yesterday,” I say. “You were great. And that Deborah. She’s a beautiful woman.” What am I doing? Now I’m going to sound insecure. Of course I am insecure, but I don’t have to advertise it now, do I? But Greg is laughing. He moves a step closer to me.
“She is,” he says. “But I’ve got my eye on a sexy artist.” For a moment I’m thrown. I forget all about my imaginary clocks.
“Who?” I say harshly. Greg lets out a loud laugh. Oh. “Ha ha,” I say. “Just kidding. You mean me. Right?”
Greg laughs again and then leans in and kisses me. I immediately pull away.
“What’s wrong?” he says, searching my eyes.
“Someone might see us,” I say.
“So?”
“So, I mean, don’t you want to—you know—keep this quiet for now?”
“No. Do you?” He steps even closer. I giggle again. “It’s not like you work for me anymore,” Greg says. “So what’s the problem?”
“No problem,” I say. “It’s just—this is so new—and you’re in the public eye now, you know?”
“God I never even thought of that. I mean, I was in the public eye for the Anita Briggs thing—but that was just for a few months.” He hasn’t tried to kiss me again but we’re still standing so close you could barely pass a straw between our bodies. “You might have a point.”
“I definitely have a point,” I say.
“Okay, Zeitgar,” Greg says. “We can wait and see how this goes. But if it goes the way I hope, I’m not going to hide you for long.” Oh God. And now he’s doing the staring thing again. You know, the staring thing that makes me want to rip off his clothes and ravish him. “So we’re sneaking around is that it?” he says in a low, sexy voice.
“Can you do that?” I flirt.
“With pleasure” he says. And sure enough, I feel his hand sneak around and land on my ass.
“Greg, there you are.” Trina grabs his arm and practically glues her breasts to the side of his body. “Melanie,” she says. “I’m surprised to see you here. Did you know there was a rumor going around that you ran off to Europe to do a one-woman show? I’ll have to call Jane and tell her it’s not true. Because here you are. In the flesh.”
I narrow my eyes. Was it just me or did she look at my thighs when she said that? “Here I am,” I say. “Oh Greg,” I add. “I have something for you,” I say, taking the small package out of my purse and handing it to him. “Just to congratulate yo
u.”
“That’s very kind of you,” he says. I smile at Trina while Greg opens the box. He whistles when he opens it. “This is a beautiful watch,” he says.
“I’m glad you like it. A client of mine gave it to me after I made a clock sculpture for his jewelry store. I couldn’t think of a better person to give it to.”
I can’t help but be thrilled when Greg removes the watch he’s wearing and replaces it with the Omega Seamaster. “Where is the jewelry shop?” he asks. “I’d love to go see your sculpture.”
“Yes, where is it Melanie?” Trina echoes.
Oh shit. I pray to the Saint of Removing Foot From Mouth. Clean up on aisle three!
“Well unfortunately he went out of business. That’s why he gave me the watch.”
“He commissioned you to do a sculpture and then he went out of business?” Trina grilled.
“Yes, he did,” I say. “He put a lot of money into renovating the place, but unfortunately he just couldn’t make it work.”
“Well what about your sculpture? Does he still have it?” Greg asks.
“Oh yes. He liked it so much he decided to keep it for his personal collection.”
“God, I can’t wait to see your work,” Greg says. Trina’s head snaps toward him and her eyes narrow.
“Will you two excuse me,” I say. “There’s a shrimp cocktail across the room with my name on it.”
“Oh my gay God. Is he sexy or what?” I take a sip of the martini that really had my name on it and smile at Tommy.
“I think so,” I say.
“So why are you letting the Wicked Witch crawl down his throat?” he says, poking me in the back.
“Ow. Stop it. Because I’m playing it cool,” I say. “Besides, now that I’m dating a man and not a boy I don’t have to worry about him falling for the likes of Trina.” As soon as I say it, I realize it’s true. Greg is a man. He’s mature, funny, honest. He’s perfect! “Will you excuse me, Tommy? There’s an olive tray over there with my name on it.”
