by Elle Casey
HE GRABS ME BY THE arm and tries to wrestle me up, but I’m not having any of it. Because in the midst of my catastrophe, something has caught my eye. As the water settled and the sun struck its surface just so, a sparkle became apparent. A sparkle that was coming from the spot where I had just lost my balance.
“Time to go to jail,” he says, huffing and puffing and sloshing all over the place. He’s messing up the water so I can’t see beneath its surface anymore.
“Get off me,” I grind out, shoving him backwards as I get to my feet.
He falls to the wayside, making it possible for me to limp over to the naked lady. I lean over the higher edge and run my hands along the bottom of the fountain, praying I’m not going to cut my fingers off on some sort of razor or crystal. What are the chances someone threw a crystal goblet into the fountain? Probably not good, but that’s what it looked like — like a shard of crystal.
Just as the butthead in the way-too-tight uniform comes up behind me and tries to grab me again, my hand runs up against something lying on the bottom of the fountain that’s not one of the ten thousand wish-coins. My fingers close around the metal and glass thing and come up out of the water clenched in a fist.
I catch him right in the gut with it as I scream, “Take your hands off me!” I’m still yelling as I get to my feet. “Help! Assault! I’m being assaulted! This man is assaulting me!” My horrible hair has fallen out of the clip I put it in earlier and is hanging around my face, probably looking like random clumps of seaweed. I figure it’s making me look more like a victim, so I leave it. Goodbye, Disney princess. Hello, Ursula the Sea Witch.
He’s bent in half, groaning out a response as he gasps for air. “You’re the one hittin’ people, not me.”
I leave him in my wake, taking giant steps through the water over to my shoes.
My poopy shoes.
My long skirt flows out behind me in the water. Very soggy. Very heavy. I’ve pretty much soaked up about half of the fountain’s water.
Ugh. I climb over the concrete edge of the pool and slide my very wet feet into my sandals before hightailing it out of there, leaving a trail of fountain-water behind me. With every step, my shoes make farty sounds. Perfect. The smell matches the sound effects. Could I be any more disgusting? No. I could not.
“Hey, get back here, lady! You’re under arrest!”
I can tell from the direction of his voice he’s still in the water and nowhere near a threat to me.
I flip him the bird over my shoulder. “Arrest yourself, rent-a-cop!”
Several of the onlookers who gathered to witness my shame laugh at my retort.
I move as fast as I can to get away from there. In my efforts to disappear before the rent-a-cop can get on dry land, I slam into someone headed right for me.
“Hey!” I yell, bouncing off his chest and almost falling on my ass. Again.
He looks down at himself, his briefcase held out high to the side in one hand and coffee cup in the other, his suit jacket looped over his forearm.
“What the hell…?” He’s staring at the giant wet stain I’ve left on his crisp blue shirt.
“Why don’t you watch where you’re going?” I ask, annoyed and flustered. I look like a drowned rat, and he looks … perfect. Handsome. Possibly mouthwatering. Yes, definitely mouthwatering.
He looks up at me, obviously furious. “That better be water.”
I scowl at the implication. He’s not nearly as cute as he was half a second ago. “What else would it be?”
He lifts his eyebrows. “God only knows.” He frowns. “Oh, Jesus, what is that smell?” He looks down at his shoes and lifts one up.
I glance over my shoulder and see the crowd parting near the fountain. Rent-a-cop is out now and headed my way.
“Screw you,” I say, shoving past him and his gorgeous, perfectly put-together, rude self.
“Is this water?!” he yells after me.
“No, it’s sweat!” I yell back.
I cringe when I realize what I just said about myself. What kind of weirdo is so covered in sweat they leave a full-body print on the front of a stranger she bumps into? Ugh. Me. I’m that kind of weirdo; or a least, that’s what that guy thinks now. Thank God I’ll never see him again.
My apartment is normally eight subway stops from the shop, but there’s no way I can ride soaking wet like this. I’d be too easy to catch there, a sitting wet duck. Plus, I look like a crazy person and I’ve already suffered enough humiliation for one day, thank-you-very-much. The long walk ahead of me will not only save my pride, it will dry me off.
It’s a whole block later when my adrenaline finally calms down and I suddenly remember that I picked something up off the floor of the fountain. I open my hand to look at it, figuring I’m about to see a bottlecap or something equally worthless.
My breath freezes on my chest and won’t come out for a few seconds. When it does, it’s more like a wheeze than actual respiration.
In the middle of my palm is a giant diamond ring, the rock about the same size as a frigging dime.
“Oh my god,” I say, all the blood draining from my face.
I have no idea how I got home that afternoon. The next thing I know, I’m sitting on my couch, soaking the cushions through with fountain water that unfortunately did not dry on my walk, staring at a monstrous rock of an engagement ring while my poopy dog shoes sit on the floor next to me, stinking up the joint. What. The. Fudge.
Chapter Four
I TURN THE RING AROUND and around in my hand, squinting to read the small print on the inside of the band. There is no identifying information. All it says is 18k. I suppose that means it’s real gold. Or white gold, apparently.
The diamond, if it’s real too, has to be worth a ton of money. I’ve never shopped for a diamond before, but I know I’ve never seen a ring like this on anyone’s finger except for in photos of celebrities in People magazine. Those kinds of rings are usually for the marriages that last less than five years. If I were a Hollywood person, I’d tell my man to buy me something smaller just so we’d have a better chance of working out. This ring screams divorce to me. I guess that makes sense since I found it in a fountain.
A knock at the door disturbs my visions of Hollywood stardom.
“Open up, Leah,” comes the heavily Bronx-accented voice from the hallway. “I gotta get the rent from you.”
Dammit. It’s Larry, the landlord’s son and self-appointed harasser of yours truly. Maybe I got lucky and he didn’t see me come in the front door. If I just sit here as quiet as a mouse, he’ll eventually go away. I know this from experience. I hold onto my bracelets to keep them from jangling.
“I see the trail of water going into your apartment, so I know you’re in there. Come on, open up.”
Chewing my lip, I consider my options. I only have about half the rent money, and he told me last time I tried to partial-pay that they couldn’t let me do that anymore. It’s all or nothing with these blood-sucking bastards.
I could slip out the window, using the fire escape to disappear for the rest of the day, but that won’t do me any good later when I want to sleep. I don’t have any friends I can crash with since they’ve all either moved away or gotten married, and I can’t ask Belinda if I can stay with her because then I’d have to explain why I can’t go home, and she’d feel terrible about not paying me much and it would ruin our relationship. And since Belinda’s my stand-in mother figure, I can’t do that to us.
Larry’s voice comes in softer, but more urgently, like he has his mouth right up to the crack of my door. “You know, if you can’t pay with money, maybe we can work something else out.”
Screw being as quiet as a mouse.
Disgusted, I leap off the couch and slide back the locks in record time. I fling the door open, and before I can stop to consider whether it’s a good idea or not, I slap him right across the face. My palm is stinging like a bitch, but I’m not complaining. He totally deserved that, the little perve
.
He puts his hand up to his chubby, beard-prickly face. “Ow. What’d you do that for?” He’s scowling at me as he rubs his cheek and moves his jaw around.
“Ask me to pay you in hootchie one more time and see what happens, Larry.” I almost barf a little just thinking of being with him that way. Even on my worst day, I’d never… Oh, God. My salivary glands are working overtime and my stomach is churning. Think about puppies! Kittens! Lasagna! Anything but …. Oh, God. I’m seeing him naked. I’m nauseated. There’s hair … and gold chains … and …
He holds up his hands and backs up, the jacket of his maroon and bronze track suit opening up to reveal the wife-beater undershirt underneath and several gold chains nestled in his wiry chest hair. “Hey, ain’t nobody said nothin’ about paying in hootch. We don’t allow drugs in here.”
My equilibrium is instantly restored by his idiocy and the knowledge that even if he were the last man on earth, I would never come within a ten-foot radius of his naked noodle. The human race would just have to cease to exist. My stomach stops churning and the sour taste in my mouth disappears.
I roll my eyes as I cross my arms. “I didn’t say hootch, doofus, I said hootchie, as in sex.”
He drops his arms. “Oh.” He smiles and wiggles his eyebrows around. “You offering me sex instead of rent money?”
I reach up to slap him again and he ducks, watching me from under his arms. “Yo, hey, watch the violence, would ya?”
I stick my chin out a little, trying to control my temper. “I’m not kidding, Larry. Don’t ever suggest we have sex again. Like … Ever.” I shudder involuntarily.
He shrugs and stands up straight again, letting one arm drop to his side as the other rests on his chest. I notice he has a new pinkie ring, and I’m tempted to ask him which gumball machine he got it out of, but I resist.
“You’re the only one talkin’ about sex, not me. I said we could work somethin’ out. I was talking about … you know … a trade or whatevah.”
“A trade? For what, exactly?” I lift an eyebrow at him, daring him to try and explain himself out of this one.
His face contorts as his puny brain attempts to create a new story, but eventually, it proves to be too much. His expression turns sour and his arms start flapping around like he’s some kind of guido rapper. If it weren’t so hilarious it would be disturbing, since it looks like he’s having a semi-conscious, standing-up seizure.
“Yeah, well, whatevah. You owe me eight hundred bucks rent and it was due last week. You need to pay or you’re gonna get evicted.”
“I can write you a check.”
“No, huh-uh, no checks. Cash only, you know that. Your checks are like rubber balls, bouncing all over the place.”
“Excuse me very much, but they are not. You’ve only taken one check from me in the year that I’ve lived here.”
“Yeah,” he scoffs, “and it bounced from here to Jersey.”
He’s still laughing like a hyena at what he considers grade-A hilarity when the door slams shut in his face. Shut down. Hoo rah.
I walk back over to my couch and flop down, staring at the ring again, ignoring Larry’s muted threats coming through the door. This thing is probably worth so much money it could pay my rent for the next decade.
I try to do the math in my head but give up after the first sign of multiplication appears. I need paper and pen to do that stuff, and I’m too lazy to get up off the couch right now. And since I couldn’t afford to pay my cell phone bill as of three months ago, I let my phone die and the calculator app that’s on it went too. My thoughts move on to other issues.
How would I get money for it if I wanted to sell it? Bring it to a pawn shop?
I shake my head at that idea. No, pawn shops don’t give you jack doody for anything good like this. They’d probably offer me a grand, and this thing has to be worth at least fifty grand. Maybe more. It makes my blood heat up just to think of that kind of money. I’ve never made that much in a year, let alone found it in a fountain. I’d have to go to a real jewelry store and try to sell it, not a pawn shop.
My conscience starts to niggle at me. What was this thing doing in a fountain, anyway?
I attempt to picture the woman who would take such a valuable thing, a ring that signifies a man’s deep love and commitment to her, and toss it out at a naked concrete lady and her fishy friends. It had to be that she’d thrown it and not just dropped it, because it was too far up in the fountain to have just fallen off someone’s hand.
I try it on for size. It fits perfectly, but weighs way too much. If this thing left my finger, I’d notice the difference right away. If she’d thrown in a wish-coin and the ring had flown off, she would have felt it leave her hand.
What kind of dumb chick throws a ring like this away? Probably a really angry one. She must have been royally pissed. It made me wonder what the guy had done to deserve such a blatant eff-you. I sure didn’t want to meet up with him, whoever he was. With my luck, I’d fall in love with him and he’d destroy me, just like my last three boyfriends had.
To say I’m bad at picking men would be like saying Larry is just a little gross … a massive understatement. I’m done trying to find Mr. Right. Belinda’s happy being single her whole life, so I can be too. That’s what I keep telling myself anyway, but it’s kind of hard to believe me when I’m lying in bed half the time wishing there was someone there beside me.
I put the ring next to my couch, on the stack of books that serves as my side table, and stand up. I’m going to take a shower, find some clean, dry clothes, and then decide what to do with my fountain treasure. And then I’ll have to figure out how I’m going to slip out of here without Larry catching me. Day planned. I’m so organized.
Chapter Five
THE FIRE ESCAPE LADDER MAKES a horrible screeching sound as it drops down to the street below, but thankfully there’s some construction going on in the building next door that covers it up.
I escape to the sidewalk without Larry catching me and take off at a brisk walk. It’s four in the afternoon and I’m going to do a little research before I decide what to do with the ring.
The entire time I was taking my shower I was thinking about what my life would be like if I had a nice savings account, and it started to make me feel high, like I’d literally taken drugs. Yet that high was a little off, because my conscience kept reminding me that the ring doesn’t really belong to me.
If it had been anything else, like a pile of cash with no wallet, or a watch or something like that, I probably could have talked myself into just ignoring the owner and taking the money for my rent. But this ring is a different story. It’s not just that it’s so big and so obviously expensive; it’s that it was a gesture of love for someone, a promise of a future together for two people out there. I can’t get past that, and it’s making my high not as enjoyable as it could have been.
Stupid conscience. Hate you sometimes.
I stop at the doors of a jewelry store four blocks down from the fountain, figuring I might as well start here closest to my work subway stop and near the fountain. Grabbing the handle and pulling does me no good at all; the entire door rattles in the frame. I frown in confusion because there are people inside, both employees and a single customer.
They all look at me like I’m crazy.
I read the sign stating their hours and see that I’m here before closing. What the fudge?
A buzzing sound comes and I realize that this is the kind of place that doesn’t leave their door open for just anyone to waltz in. I’m relieved to know that I’m not considered a threat and pull the door out so I can enter.
The cool air washes over me and makes me shiver. I’m immediately intimated by the fact that I look like a homeless bumpkin in my gypsy skirt and that this place actually smells expensive. Is there a scented candle called money? Because if there is, they’re burning the shit out of it in here.
“Hello, how may I help you?” asks an older woman in a busin
ess suit.
I swear she looks like the lady who started eBay. I saw her on Yahoo once.
“Um, I … uh … have a ring I’d like to know what the value of it is?”
She looks at my hands and sees the chunky costume jewelry rings I wear pretty much all the time and smiles uncomfortably. “I see. And is this appraisal for insurance purposes, or…?”
“No, it’s just for me to have a general idea.” I reach down into my bag and pull out the wad of tissues I used to protect the ring. “I … uh … got this ring from my mother, and she said she didn’t know the value but that it was probably a lot and I just wanted to know.”
Since my mother passed away ten years ago, I don’t feel any guilt bringing her into the picture. Maybe it sounds weird, but it was actually nice to think that she was somehow doing this with me. I guess that’s what made me feel like elaborating so much. Or maybe it’s that when I panic, I kind of tend to lie a little. Here it comes. The lies. Oy.
“She was dating this guy for a long time, but he never wanted to get married, so she broke it off and then he showed up with this massive diamond and begged her to marry him, so she did, but then he cheated on her with a tranny and she left him and they got a divorce and he told her to keep the ring, but then every time she looked at it, she got angry and thought about a woman wearing size fourteen heels, so she gave it to me and told me to do whatever I wanted with it.” I smile at the woman, hoping my lie made any kind of sense. “So I was just wondering what the value might be. I don’t need anything official or anything.”
I scratch nervously at my neck. I should mention I also get lie-hives from time to time.
The woman says nothing, she just watches as I place the tissues on her glass display case and start unwrapping them.
When the first sign of the ring appears, she clears her throat. “Hold on a moment, let me get a loupe.”
She reaches under the cabinet in front of her and pulls out a black velvet tray, a white glove, and a metal thing shaped like a thick teardrop.
