Authors: Elyse Friedman
On my way to the video store, I stopped briefly at
Mister Loonie to pick up a cheap purse or knapsack. My plan was to buy condoms, and I didn’t want to be toting them around in a not-quite-opaque drugstore bag. Oddly enough, Mister Loonie had a wide assortment of inexpensive purses as well as discounted condoms. Mister Loonie also stocked towels, gift wrap, boxed chocolates, underwear, electronics, plumbing supplies, canned goods, shampoo, cigarettes, greeting cards, West Indian foodstuffs, Kleenex (with Christmas-motif boxes), glassware, breath mints, socks, fishing tackle, potato chips, and out-of-print self-help books. It was vaguely upsetting that all of these items were available in the same store, but the price was right and I didn’t have time to waste. I selected an inoffensive black bag and a six-pack of Sensi-Thin (with Ribs and Dots for Extra Pleasure). The cashier smiled and gave me a semi-flirty look when he rang up my purchases. He was a teenager of, what I guessed to be, West Indian extraction. He had glossy black hair (a tad Elvis-y), gentle bovine eyes, and fantastically white teeth. For a moment, I considered asking him if he’d like to have intercourse with me, but before I could seriously mull it over, he sneezed, rather wetly, and then wiped his nose with the back of his hand. That put me off. Plus, I didn’t want to get a cold. Plus, the 1950s hair was a bit much.
It was just after two o’clock when I arrived at my destination. The back of Nathan’s curiously shaped head was visible through the glass storefront, and it gave me a start when I saw it. I felt like a spy. Or a stalker. I paused for a moment and pretended to study the movie posters and box sets displayed in the window while I calmed myself. Obviously, I couldn’t be more incognito. There was no way on earth that Nathan could recognize me. Still, I felt nervous. I had a terrifying, worst-case-scenario vision of Reverting back while I was in
the store. Picture Nathan calmly cashing out a customer when he is suddenly pinged in the neck by a flying chunk of metal—the button from my blue jeans as I erupt out of my borrowed clothing like a cross between the Incredible Hulk and two hundred pounds of McCains rising pizza dough. Not pretty.
I did go in, though. I proceeded directly to the back of the store, plucked a video cassette randomly from a shelf, and tried to appear suitably absorbed as fragments of box hype flitted nonsensically before my eyes:
revolutionary storytelling technique…penetrating exposé of the nature of power…brilliantly, savagely funny…
I put it back in its place and continued faux-browsing.
After a minute, I summoned the courage to sneak a peek at Nathan. He was chewing on a hangnail and staring at a ceiling-mounted TV monitor, watching a strange movie. I started to watch it, too. A naked young man, a real Adonis—all muscle and chin and puffy lips—was frolicking on a pristine beach with an elephant. An incongruous image. The elephant was lolling on its side in the surf, letting the foamy water surge over its slick hide, while the naked young man splashed and played, caressed and patted it. Then the young man draped himself innocently over the beast’s wide side in a limp and childish gesture that said,
I helplessly and hopelessly adore you
. The elephant looked drunk happy. Smiling, it struggled to its feet, extended its loopy trunk, and seductively encircled the young mans torso, lifting him off the beach and sweeping him slowly, slowly into the sky, holding him high and happy in bright sunshine. It was possibly the most beautiful thing I had ever seen. Mesmerizing. Without being entirely aware of it, I had drifted toward the front of the store, closer to the monitor.
“What is this?” I asked.
Nathan looked at me and then looked quickly back at the TV.
“Chop Suey,”
he said. “A documentary by Bruce Weber.”
“Oh…Um, what is it about?”
“Well, as near as I can tell, it’s about the beautiful things
that Bruce Weber worships and possibly wishes he could be.” The reply was entirely Nathan-like, but the tone was impersonal, borderline unfriendly. I wasn’t used to that. His gaze remained fixed on the monitor, and I got the feeling that he was purposely not looking at me.
A customer intercepted our exchange then. He plonked a stack of videos on the counter and handed his card to Nathan, who immediately busied himself with entering the necessary info into the computer. I watched his fingers tap-tap on the keyboard. The nails were gnawed ragged, and one particularly pulpy hangnail was caked in dried blood. The customer, a handsome middle-aged man with a salt-and-pepper buzz-cut, an earring, and a faded motorcycle jacket, looked me up and down and smiled unctuously.
“Nice day, eh?”
“Yeah,” I said, looking away, waiting for him to complete his transaction and clear off. For the first time in my life, I was deflecting the attentions of a man, and a good-looking man at that. I had seen women do this on TV and in the movies, so I sort of knew the drill. Still, it made me uncomfortable, a tad guilty, as if I owed him something.
“Ten thirty-one,” said Nathan.
The customer handed over a twenty. Then he cocked his head to one side, squinted his eyes, and with a wry expression, studied my face. “I’ve seen you in something,” he said, pointing at me. “You’re an actress, right?”
I saw Nathan’s lip curl slightly as he made change and handed it to the man.
“No,” I said, smiling in spite of myself. “I’m not an actress.”
“You sure about that?” said the man, as if I was trying to pull a fast one and he was on to me.
“I guess I’d know,” I said.
“’Cause you sure remind me of someone. An actress.”
“Really?” I have to admit it made me curious.
Nathan placed the videos on the counter opposite, past the
anti-theft gate, and went back to watching the documentary. The man made no move to depart. He just kept standing there grinning stupidly in my direction. I also kept standing there grinning stupidly, but mostly in Nathan’s direction.
“Yeah,” he said, “that gal…the gal in that racing movie. You know, the one with Sly Stallone.”
“Hmm, I’m not familiar with that one. Anyhow…” I started to back away, not entirely sure how to politely extricate myself from the conversation.
“You should check it out,” he said.
“Driven! Yeah, Driven
. It’s a good little flick.”
I saw Nathan smirk. A silent scoff.
“You want me to find it for you?” said the guy, “Hey, buddy, you got
Driven
here?”
“Yes,” said Nathan dryly. “It’s almost always in.”
I felt embarrassed then, talking to the man. I was there to put the moves on Nathan, and this guy was wrecking it. He was making me look like a dumb blonde. I am
not
a dumb blonde. “That’s all right,” I said, retreating further into the store. “I’m actually looking for an Antonioni film.”
“Which one?” said Nathan, looking at me for the first time since I interrupted his viewing. “We only have a few.”
Shit!
I insta-scanned the hard drive of my brain, trying to conjure the name of any Antonioni title. Nathan had recently been talking about one.
What the hell was it
? Oh, yeah!
“Sex in the City,”
I blurted out.
Nathan stifled a laugh. “I think you mean
Love in the City
. We don’t have it, unfortunately. It’s hard to find.” His attention went back to the Bruce Weber movie.
My face blushed hot with embarrassment. Perhaps I was an idiot. What I did next was certainly idiotic. “Right,” I stammered.
“Love
in the City, ha-ha. Duh! What a twit.” Then I bolted out of the store—not exactly running, no, not quite, but moving unnaturally fast, past the man in the motorcycle jacket, who said, “Hey, hold up a sec—”
I did not hold up. I walked as quickly as I could away from
Art & Trash, away from Nathan and the leering motorcycle man. I was thinking:
Love
in the City, yes, yes, yes, not
Sex
in the City. Love.
Two all-beef-patties, special sauce, lettuce, cheese, pickles, onions on a sesame-seed bun. And a large fries. And a hot apple pie. Food was still a comfort. With every gobble of grease, I felt slightly less mortified, slightly more tranquil. My appetite hadn’t diminished with the Change, but my capacity had. As I poked the last few fries down my throat—the stragglers, the ones that had spilled from box onto tray—I realized that I probably wouldn’t be able to do the pie. My stomach had shrunk. As I sat back to take a breather, I noticed that I was being watched. A few tables away, an expensively attired middle-aged woman was staring at me. She looked somewhat familiar. She looked somewhat amused. What, did I have a pickle slice stuck to my cheek, some special sauce congealing in my eyebrow? I wiped my face and checked my shirt for spills. Oops…a trickle of ketchup on Virginie’s white shirt. I dabbed at it with a Sprite-soaked napkin and glanced back at the woman. Still staring. Still amused. I was about to say something like “Take a picture, it lasts longer” or “Stare much?” when she leaned over and spoke.
“Excuse me,” she said, in a husky voice. “Sorry to disturb you while you’re eating—and by the way, I think it’s
fabulous
that you’re eating—I was just wondering who you’re with?”
“Um…” The woman was obviously dotty. I glanced at the vacant seat opposite mine to indicate the obvious. “Just here on my own,” I said.
“No,” she laughed. “Who are you
with
, what agency?”
“Oh.”
Huh
? “I’m not with any agency.”
The woman swept up the numerous shopping bags at her feet and moved swiftly to my table, resting her purchases on the chair opposite. She was tall and burly, and reminded me of a man in drag. Prodigious feet bulging out of too-tight pumps. Thick bologna ankles. Bronko Nagurski shoulders.
“You
must
be a model,” she said in a perfect cross between incredulity and menace.
I laughed. “No. Actually, I’m a cleaning lady.”
“A cleaning lady!” she roared. (I know that people generally don’t “roar,” but there’s really no other word for how she said it.) “You’re kidding me, right?” She pressed a massive, bejeweled hand to her heart.
“I’m not kidding. I empty trash cans for a living.”
“Well, thank you, Jesus, Buddha, and Mohammed,” she muttered, digging into her buttery leather briefcase and fishing out a business-card holder—elegant, brushed steel. “Listen, I’m a modeling agent, and
you
, my dear, are a knockout. Really stunning. Exceptionally beautiful. How tall are—Oh, my God, you’re blushing. Are you blushing?! You’re new to the city, aren’t you?”
“I sort of just got here.”
“Of course you did. And how tall are you, sweetie?”
“Um…I’m not sure.” I have to admit, the “sweetie” warmed me a bit.
“You must be at least five-nine. Oh, you’re wonderful. Perfect. And I have no doubt I can get you work right away if you want it. Would you like that?”
“Modeling work?” I laughed.
“Well, it beats cleaning up other people’s messes, I’ll tell you that much. And the money can be very good.” I must have appeared skeptical because she said, “This is on the level, dear. The agency will pay for your photos.” She fished out a card and handed it to me. “Of course, you’ll probably leave me as soon as you hit, but what the hell, it’d be worth it to be the one who discovered—What’s your name, sweetie?”
“Um…” I tried to instantly conjure a pseudonym, but the only name that leaped to mind was Mayor McCheese. “Allison Penny,” I said.
“Allison Penny…” She rolled it around in her mouth, memorized it. “I’m Fiona.”
I read the card. Fiona Ferguson. Malcolm Anders Agency—
the B-grade talent agency on the first floor of 505 Richmond. That’s why she looked familiar. I must have seen her in the office at least once, probably emptied her garbage can a couple hundred times.
“You know, Allison, I hardly ever eat at McDonald’s, but today I had one of those stupidly strong Big Mac cravings. Happens every six months and I’m powerless in the face of it. Resistance is futile!” She laughed loud. I saw mercury fillings. “Well, I’m glad I gave in. It must be fate.”
“Must be,” I said, shaking the giant, knuckly hand that was offered to me.
With Fiona’s card tucked in my new purse, I headed to the park across the street for a little digestion session. It was just warm enough to stretch out on the grass and absorb some sun. The park—a narrow strip of city green between two squat buildings—had attracted a bevy of vitamin D-starved individuals. I gave my less-than-hot apple pie to a scabby man on a bench and then wove my way around bike couriers and pasty shop-clerk types until I found an unpopulated smidgen of earth on which to settle down. I was sleepy, a bit headachy, and more than a little overwhelmed by the events of the day. Also, my encounter with Fiona Ferguson had left me feeling unsettled. She seemed nice enough and, to be honest, I sort of took to her right away. Despite her heft there was something warm and mother-henish about her, like John Lithgow in drag in
The World According to Garp
. Nevertheless, I found it absurd and irksome that I could go have a burger at McDonald’s and come out with an offer of gainful employment, and the prospect of earning good money almost immediately. As the old Allison Penny, I had spent years attempting to land a half-decent job, with virtually no success. The new Allison Penny had achieved it—without even trying, mind you—in a little less than seven hours.
I suppose my abysmal career history had a lot to do with not staying in school to pursue a vocation. Still, I never expected my inevitable foray into the menial job market to
prove so inauspicious. Offices didn’t want me greeting their visitors or filing their files. The food service industry didn’t want me mixing their drinks or serving their grub. Retailers, in particular, didn’t want me anywhere near prospective customers. Eventually, I had to settle for a series of odious telemarketing assignments, obtained through a temp agency that specialized in that most mind-dulling and low-paying of fields. I can’t tell you how many times I was (justifiably) bawled out by indignant, exhausted, or irate individuals who just wanted to enjoy an evening at home unmolested. “Rot in hell!” someone once screamed at me. “Fuck off and die,” was something I heard more than once. I was grateful to those who simply and huffily hung up on me. Almost worse than calling people who didn’t want to speak to you was calling people who desperately needed to talk. Old coots, shut-ins, perverts, maniacs…I’m trying to tell them about a 75-percent-off-the-newsstand-price subscription deal to
Pet World Magazine
, and they’re trying to tell me about their wayward children, bladder infections, foreign policy views, or sexual proclivities. It was unpleasant. It gave me headaches. I found no relief in my coworkers, who were boring and brain-dead and all too willing to embrace the farcical strategies designed, no doubt, by a team of social psychologists to increase sales. Empty strategies, devoid of genuine incentive, that included placing a bell on top of the upholstered dividers between cubicles, and demanding that workers leap up, bellow “Five and alive!” and ring said bell each time we racked up five subscription sales. The idea was that we would take such immense pleasure and pride in ringing the bell that we would phone that much faster and try that much harder to convince Joe Dipshit that he needed what we were hawking. The tragic thing is, it worked. Not on me. I refused to touch the bell, but my coworkers gleefully seized the opportunity to jump up, ring, and make rubes of themselves. It pleased the supervisors, who were working on commission—an odious bunch of bitter failures who had been granted the tiniest
quark of authority and felt the need to exercise it whenever possible (i.e., laying down the law when it came to unscheduled bathroom breaks, gum chewing, or dress-code infractions). Typically, I would put in as many weeks as necessary to qualify for the dole and then skedaddle.