Champagne Life (12 page)

Fungus

E-coli

Fecal matter

Yuck!

I reached down into my pocket and grabbed the folded up envelope with the number to the cell phone company. As anticipated,
they didn't even have an 800 number to call, or at least I couldn't find it on the bill!

I punched in the numbers and was immediately met with a recording, explaining I was being put on hold due to a high number of calls.

Thank goodness for the coin stash,
I thought, while nervously shifting back and forth inside the cramped space.

Finally, a live customer service representative came on the line. The representative asked for my information. Annoyed, I gave the same information I had given to the automated system not two minutes ago.

When the girl said she was putting my card through for payment, I squeezed my eyes shut and silently prayed right there in that dirty, constricted, graffiti-ridden phone booth. Minutes later, the rep came back and said the payment had gone through and that the phone was pending activation in approximately ten minutes. My prayers had been answered. If only that worked for the pick six lottery.

I practically skipped all the way back to the house, with people in passing cars looking at me as if I was a crazy woman. When I got back to the house, I grabbed DeShaun's phone from the kitchen countertop and tried it. It was on.

I started dialing my parents' number and got to the last number, but for some reason, I hesitated pressing that final button. I took a deep breath. When I exhaled, I pressed the last digit at the same time. The phone only rang once before someone picked up.

“Hello?” It was my mother, sounding like I woke her up.

I took another quick breath, trying to muster up a little cheeriness. “Hi, Mom.”

“Naomi, baby, how are you?” Her tone perked up when she heard my voice. A good sign.

“We've been great,” I lied. I hit the speaker button and placed the phone back onto the kitchen counter. On speaker phone, I didn't feel as intimidated.

“I didn't recognize this number when it popped up,” she said. “Did you get a new number?”

“This isn't my phone.”

“Oh. So anyway,” she continued, as if she was the one who had called me to shoot the breeze. “Your father is getting another award from the hospital. He's gotten so many, I lost count.”

“That's great.” My voice was beginning to crack like it always did when I was nervous. “Tell him we said, ‘Congratulations.'”

She fell quiet. Anytime I referred to DeShaun, her pep zipped right out of her.

“So, how
is
your husband doing?” Mom asked.

I could not recall one time that I heard my mother say his name. I mean, I know she had before, she had to have, but it had been so long that I couldn't even remember. She always referred to DeShaun as
your husband
or
him
. When she felt like being really rude, she referred to him as
that guy.

“DeShaun's fine. But listen, we may need to borrow some money.” I decided jumping right in was the best approach. If we made too much idle chit-chat, I'd lose my nerve.

It fell quiet again.

“What happened this time?” She sighed. Not a good sign.

I bit my bottom lip. “We ran into a little trouble. It would only be for a short time. We'd pay you back in a couple of months.”

“Let me guess, he lost his job,” she said.

“What? No, he didn't lose his job.” It annoyed me how intuitive she was. “We ran into some financial issues, that's all.”

“That's what you said last time. You seem to run into quite a few financial issues lately, but that's to be expected when your husband is a waiter. He needs to go back to school and get his degree. Maybe then he can get a real job that pays real money instead of relying on the crumbs of customers. I believe in his world they call them tips. Speaking of which, why are you still working as a teller? I didn't spend all that money for you to get a degree and then not use it.”

“I know, Mom. I'm just waiting until I find the right job.”

“What's his excuse?”

It seemed like I spent every phone call with my mom defending our career choices. This call was no different. “He doesn't have the greatest job, I know, but it is a decent job.”

At least
it was
a decent job.

“I told you not to marry him, didn't I?”

“He's a nice guy, Mom,” I defended. “And he treats me well.”

“Sure, he's a nice guy and he makes you dinner here and there, but that doesn't pay the bills. Face it; you married beneath you. Everyone thinks so—your aunt, your uncle, your cousins, everyone. The thing is, you know it, too.” She paused. “The truth is, I don't feel comfortable loaning you money again. You both have to learn to stand on your own two feet and not call us every time you find yourself in trouble. If your father and I keep bailing you out, when will you learn to take care of yourselves? He needs to step up and—”

“Never mind, Mom. It's not that serious.”

“Then why call in the first place and get me all upset? Your husband needs to learn how to provide for you.”

I got quiet, attempting to figure out how to respond without
getting into an argument. I understood where she was coming from, but DeShaun was my heart. Nothing I said would change her mind. If I continued to engage in this conversation, I'd be on the phone for hours.

“Hang up!”

I whipped around. DeShaun was standing at the front door with a combined look of defeat and anger—but mostly anger.

“How long were you standing there?” I asked.

“Long enough.”

“Mom, I'll call you back.” I hung up the phone, preparing for yet another argument.

H
e had pulled into the parking lot of the third restaurant he'd applied to. It was tiring, but he had to do what was needed. Naomi was home asking her parents for money and he had to do his part to help stay financially afloat.

He stepped into the first restaurant. When he inquired as to whether or not they had attempted to call him for a job, the first two restaurant managers looked at him as if they thought he was crazy. The young girl, whom he assumed was the hostess, simply said, “No,” without so much as a glance in his direction. He had stood there, looking like an idiot as he tried to explain to the girl that his phone was out of order and that he may have missed the call. The girl smirked, as she told him, “No,” once again and then followed it up with, “We're actually not hiring at this time.” Then she added, “Even when we do start hiring, we'll be picking from the pool of resumes already on file.”

Bitch! She didn't even know him and she was treating him like a dog.

The second restaurant was a little nicer, but still a no. The manager, the guy DeShaun had dropped off his application to, had come to the front and explained in a polite manner that he had a stack of resumes on his desk that he hadn't had the time to get to. He followed up his rejection with, “If there's a fit, we'll call.”

In the parking lot of the third restaurant he had applied to, he took a deep breath as he prepared to step out of the car. He went
to open the car door but couldn't bring himself to do it. He couldn't take any more rejections. He was sick and tired of begging for jobs, positions that a chimp could do.

He stuck the key back into the ignition, pulled out of the parking lot and headed home.

He turned onto Swedesford Drive, a backroad he often took when he wanted to think, and eased up on the accelerator. As he slowed, he spotted a tiny diner with a “For Sale” sign jammed into the corner of the front window. He swerved the car and pulled into the parking lot of the diner.

That was it! Why hadn't he thought of this idea a long time ago? Maybe this entire situation was God trying to tell them that they should open their own restaurant. He always thought about it, and even in the back of his mind, planned to do it someday. Maybe that someday was today. He was out of a job. Naomi was out of a job. This was the perfect time. The idea was so crazy, he might be able to pull it off. He grabbed a piece of tissue and a pen from the glove compartment and jotted down the phone number on the “For Sale” sign. He started the car and jumped back onto Swedesford Drive. As he drove along the winding road, he started crunching numbers in his head. Naomi was home asking her parents to borrow some money, but instead of asking for money to cover their bills for the next month or so, they could ask for a down payment to the restaurant. It wasn't like it had to be a loan either. He could bring her parents on as business investors.

He pulled over to the side of the road and grabbed his phone from the glove compartment. His fingers fumbled when he tried to dial, he was so excited. After three rings, she picked up.

“Hey, babe, I have a great idea,” he said. “I think you're going to love it. It's something I should've thought about a long time ago…it doesn't matter, I've got the idea now.”

She was silent on the other end for a moment. “What is it, DeShaun? I'm on the other line with my mother.”

By the tone of her voice, their conversation wasn't going so well. It was even more reason to share his good, no great, idea that could end their money troubles. But before he could tell her, she said, “I've got to go. I'll see you when you get home.” She hung up.

Never mind. This was something he wanted to tell her in person anyway. He stepped on the accelerator and turned off the back road and onto the main highway. It was faster. He couldn't wait to get home to tell Naomi about his business plan. This could really work.

He had to do this right, though. He had to get a presentation together first. Naomi could do that, she was good at creating graphs and charts and all that other stuff. Like a real business, he would present the numbers to her parents, the profit, the losses, expenses, everything. He'd detail how they could triple their money in less than five years. It would be tight in the beginning, but it could be done. It had to be done. When he looked into his wife's eyes, he saw the disappointment. Maybe he was being overly sensitive, but it felt that way. He didn't want to feel that way again.

He stepped on the gas, careful not to exceed the speed limit too much. This was the first time in years he felt excited about something and it felt good. He was going to give this restaurant idea his all. Her parents would then see that their daughter had married the right guy. It may have taken a little while, but he was going to show her parents that he was not some idiot waiter with no aspirations in life, like they thought. He needed the right opportunity and right now, he could not think of a better time.

When he had walked through the front door to give his wife the good news, he heard her talking to her mother on the speakerphone.

Apparently, the credit card charge had gone through.
Another sign?

DeShaun had dropped his keys onto the foyer table and raced toward his wife's voice.

He was shocked at what he heard when he walked in on Naomi and her mother talking. Naomi was sitting on a stool at the kitchen counter, her back was toward him.

He heard Naomi's mother say, “Face it; you married beneath you. Everyone thinks so—your aunt, your uncle, your cousins, everyone.”

His heart dropped to the floor as he listened at the entranceway. It was as if someone had taken a serrated knife and dug it deep into his heart and twisted as he listened to his mother-in-law continue.

The thing is, you know it too.

His mother-in-law's words stung, but what had socked him in the gut like a two-ton sledgehammer was what he
didn't
hear. Naomi had not stepped up to defend him. At that exact moment, his dream of owning a restaurant slowly deflated like a hot air balloon with a slow leak.

DeShaun grabbed another beer from the fridge. “You want one?”

“Yup.”

He grabbed two Kalik beer bottles from the fridge and handed one to me. He opened up the kitchen drawer and rifled through the utensils. “Have you seen the bottle opener?”

“It's not in there?”

He shook his head. “Nope.” He checked the dish drainer and the drawer under the sink. Finally, he grabbed one of the bottles, lifted it to his mouth and bit down hard. Seconds later, I heard the
pfffft
of the bottle and off popped the cap. He lifted the next bottle to his mouth.

Pfffft.

He handed me one bottle and took a swig of the second one. “Problem solved.”

“How in the world did you ever find Kalik beer in Pennsylvania?” I asked.

“Would you believe they sell them at the beer distributor in King of Prussia. A Bahamian beer in the Philly suburbs? The best part is that it was even less than the brand name beers here. I guess it's because no one was buying it. Maybe they mispriced it. Who knows? Had to buy a case before they realized their mistake.” He took another big swig, leaving only an inch or so left inside the bottle. “You know what else I could really go for?”

“What?”

“A good hit.”

“A joint? You must be kidding. I haven't done that since my college days.” The one and only time I smoked a joint was with my college roommate and two guys she invited over, and even then I hadn't really smoked it. I pulled a Bill Clinton and didn't inhale. That was only because I had no idea how to inhale. Rod Bowie was the friend of the guy that my roommate was seeing and when they came over to our room, they were fully stocked with weed filled cigars and some sugary drink called Cisco that they had picked up in Delaware. I later learned Cisco was also referred to as liquid crack, which was something I found out the hard way.