Cosmo's Deli (8 page)

Chapter Nine

It is ten minutes before five according to the enormous clock that hangs at the corner of 34
th
Street. Gaby notices that the crowds are already starting to spill out from office buildings. People rush toward bus stops and subway stairs. Gaby holds tight to the shopping bag she's been carrying all afternoon. Inside are two sweaters she bought last week and meant to return hours ago, on her way to work. The valium she took in the wee hours of the morning gave her five unbroken hours of sleep, the longest stretch she's had since her mother died. She left her apartment at noon, with plans to coast into a normal day, or what was left of the day. Instead she has meandered the afternoon away, going from store to store, drawing her ‘just looking' shield each time a sales person came by.

Pausing to examine earrings on a street vendor's table, her cell phone rings. Gaby sees the number is from the magazine. They were expecting her hours ago. Why did she say she'd be in today? Now her editor must be pissed.

“Fuck him!” she says, shoving the ringing phone in her bag and startling the vendor.

Gaby contemplates grabbing a cab to the office, but then she realizes that the sweater store is only two blocks up the street. She walks briskly on 34th toward Third Avenue, only to have her eye catch on the sign for Phosphorous like a fish hooked on a line. The small jewelry shop was highlighted in the first article Gaby wrote for the magazine about out-of-the-way basement stores.

Before her profile, only a hip few were in the know about this little shop tucked away at the bottom of a brownstone. Post article, a gaggle of celebrities started buying their stuff. Gaby heard a rumor a few weeks ago that owner Griffin Maxx, a very arrogant garmento, was planning to open a second Phosphorous in LA. Griffin was trying to turn the place into an Ultra, which Gaby thought was a big mistake. But typical if you knew Griffin.

“They do have great jewelry.” Gaby's spirits are buoyant as she skips down the cracked cement stairs. “I'll just have a look see.”

Inside, Gaby inspects a case of earrings, one pair in particular catching her eye.

“Can I help you?”

Gaby looks up at the salesman and catches her breath. Just her type—handsome in a grungy rockstar way. He even has a dark knit cap perched on his unwashed hair, despite the unusually warm April day.

“Can I see that pair?”

“I thought you must be looking at these.” He takes them from the case, obviously approving of more than the earrings.

“They're darling!” Gaby smiles. The pair features rubies dangling from flat gold circles etched with Sanskrit.

He turns to get a mirror.

Nice butt, she observes, feeling lighter. It's the shopping, she thinks. Her mother always said, “That's better therapy than therapy. I'll never go crazy, because I just go shopping and then I'm fine.” Every night when Gaby was a little girl and her father came home from work, she'd see him pause for a bit in the foyer. Gaby assumed it was to unwind from his day. Then as a teen she realized he was counting the shopping bags on the front bench. “What are you counting those for, Daddy?” she asked.

“Just fixing to see what mood your Mama is in, and what kind of night I'm in for,” he'd joked.

The salesman cuts in on her memory, “Do you want to try the earrings on?”

“Huh?” Gaby says, trying to reconnect to the present.

“The earrings. Do you want to try them on?”

“How much are they?” Gaby asks.

He checks the tag. “They're twenty-four hundred, but if you want them, we may be able to do something for you.”

The familiar feeling of being in control seeps through her. Just looking, she reminds herself. Yet, she can't help asking, “How much something?”

He leans over the counter, “Twenty-two hundred.”

“What does the writing mean?”

“Fearless. Somehow I sense it suits you.”

It used to, she thinks. Gaby slips them on and admires herself in the mirror. Then slyly she asks, “Do you think you could talk to Griffin to see if he could do a tad better.”

“Griffin is in LA, but I'm his partner and his brother.”

Gaby blushes. “I am so sorry. I had no idea.”

“That's okay; most people think I'm a stock boy. I actually design all the jewelry and Griffin handles the business. I'm Todd Maxx…and you are?”

“Gaby.”

He smiles, “Gaby, nice to meet you. So how do you know my brother?”

She interviewed Griffin Maxx for the article. He hit on her, but Gaby wasn't interested. But then Griffin only wanted her because she was the first Unmentionables model in their print ads. On a fluke the ad ran in half a dozen women's magazines just after the first celebrity endorsement and the U-shaped mole to the left underside of Gaby's belly button became a part of pop culture. For guys like Griffin, Gaby Bowers' mole was a sexual trophy to be won and then bragged about. She didn't mind the attention and a little flirtation, but that's as far as guys like that got with her. Funny, she thinks, Griffin never mentioned that he had a partner or a brother.

“I think we met at a party. You know, friend of a friend thing,” Gaby lies.

“You look so familiar. I could swear we've met before.” Todd says, his eyes lingering on her face.

“I don't think so.” Gaby's carefree mood starts to slip, supplanted by the seeds of anxiety.

“I'll tell you what. Two thousand and you're practically stealing them from me. I'm a sucker. I like how they look on you.” Todd reaches over and moves a strand of hair to expose her ear. “I designed them to be exotic and I couldn't have hoped for a better setting than where they are now.”

“I'll take them,” Gaby says. “My fiance told me to pick something out for myself. He's in Asia this week. He feels so bad about leaving me alone, it being our anniversary and all. These should keep me good company though.”

The smile fades from Todd's face and Gaby wonders why she just threw a bushel of lies on their flirtation.

“Shall I put them in a box for you?”

Gaby feels queasy as she hands them over.

“So how long have you been together?” he asks her as he wraps the earrings.

“Hmm?”

“You and your fiance, how long have you been together?”

“We've only been engaged a month.”

He holds up the artfully boxed earrings. “How would you like to pay for these?”

Gaby gives him a credit card, praying there's enough balance left to cover them.

Their hands joined by the card, he tells her, “Sorry to hear about your fiance. I was hoping to negotiate your phone number with this sale.” After swiping her card three times, he awkwardly returns it. “It's been denied.”

“That's odd.” Gaby fumbles with her wallet trying to find a card that isn't maxed out. “Here, try this.”

He takes the new card and comments, “No ring?”

“Excuse me?”

“No engagement ring,” he motions to her hand. “That's why I thought you were available. And I could have sworn you were flirting with me, too. I'll be just a second.” He disappears in the back.

“Fuck him and his cute ass,” Gaby whispers while rubbing her ring finger self-consciously. Perspiration glues the back of her shirt to her body. She contemplates walking out, but realizes he has her card, so she waits.

He thrusts a pen in her face. “Sign here and they're yours.”

Putting her name to the receipt, Gaby adds, “It's at the jewelers being sized.”

He looks puzzled.

“My ring. It's at the jewelers.” Gaby drops the pen and snatches the little box with the earrings from the counter.

When she reaches the door, Todd calls after her with a knowing tone. “If your ring doesn't make it back from the jewelers, stop back in. I'd love to take you out.”

He knows I'm full of shit! Gaby stumbles up the stairs to the street, feeling kryptonited by his words into the one thing she's always dreaded—ordinary.

Chapter Ten

Dropping her white plastic fork inside the empty salad container, Renny steps away from the kitchen counter, nauseous after eating too fast. Night after night she comes home from a job she hates to eat dinner out of a container, be it bag, box or plastic. Her new habit is to inhale her take-out meal standing at the scratched Formica counter, making the solitary dining experience quick. She throws the empty container in the trash and surveys the seven potato chip bags laid out on her small kitchen table. They run the gamut from ordinary to gourmet. The checkout guy at the bodega rang them up with “Where's the party?” and “I'll be there,” comments free of charge.

“No party. They're just for me,” she told him.

“You just get dumped or what?” he commented in a slackened tone.

“No.” Renny handed him the money. “It's research.”

“Yeah, right.” He gave her the receipt and a pitied look.

Renny grabs a bag of chips from the table and tears it open. Extracting one extra-large unbroken chip she bites, focusing on the taste and texture. “Crunchles,” she says between chews. “No, that's not it.” Using her Diet Coke as a palate cleanser, she sips and swishes the fizzy liquid in her mouth before swallowing. Tearing into another bag of chips, she promptly devours two. “Salties. No.” She puts chip after chip in her mouth as if her hand were a conveyor belt, hoping something will spark an idea. “Shit.” A smirk stretches across her face exposing the crushed potato chips in her teeth. “Shit Chips! No one will buy them, but hey, it's a name.” A knock at the door interrupts her rambling. “Who is it?”

“Who do you think?” Jeff calls back.

“I'm working.”

“Just open up.”

“And I'm on the phone.”

“For a minute. I won't even come in. I want to show you something,” he pleads.

On her way to the door Renny grabs the phone, putting it between her shoulder and her ear before swinging the door open. Jeff holds two tickets fan style. “Can you hold a minute?” Renny says into the phone, pretending that someone is on the line. “What are those?” she asks him.

“Two tickets to James Taylor at Jones Beach, Saturday night. What do you say?”

Renny shakes her head. “I can't.” She won't take the risk of tying up her Saturday night with Jeff while there is still a chance Georgie might call. “You look like shit,” Renny adds changing the subject.

“I had a big project. I slept in the office last night. How about dinner next week? Say Thursday? It'll be a belated birthday dinner.”

The phone rings in Renny's ear.

Jeff throws an arm up. “Nice, very nice. You're pretending to be on the phone.”

“I told you I was working. Hold on.” Renny clicks the phone, praying that it's Georgie. “Hello.”

“Are you busy?” her mother asks.

“Hi, Ma.” She waves Jeff inside and heads back to the table. “I'm doing some work.”

“Well, I won't keep you. I just want to know if he's called you yet.”

“Georgie called when I was on the bus last night.”

“Who the hell is that?” her mother says, as if Renny told her I was dating an axe murderer.

“Georgie, the deejay I told you I met. Who are you taking about?”

“Marty, Mrs. Meyerson's nephew.”

“Jesus Ma, I told you I'm not going out with him.”

“You should consider yourself lucky he's interested.”

“Way to boost the self esteem, Ma.”

“Do you expect me to sit back while you use your life as a toilet scrubber?”

“Maybe I wouldn't do that if you didn't give me so much shit.”

“Fine, just run over my feelings. I don't care. I would lay down in traffic for you. You better go out with Marty. He's a prince, not a slab of hamburger like the other's you go out with.”

“I like hamburger!” Renny shouts.

“I'm not going to be the one to watch you choke on it!” her mother hollers before slamming the phone down.

“She hung up on you again?” Jeff asks mid-crunch, his arm stuffed up to his elbow in a bag of chips.

“Hey!” Renny grabs the bag away. “Those are research!” She puts the phone down with a bang.

“Research for what?” He stuffs his last handful in his mouth.

Renny glares at the phone, wishing she could lay her anger down as easily. “Val's given me two weeks to come up with a name and marketing campaign for a new brand of potato chips. If I win the account, I'll get promoted.”

“That's great!” Jeff exclaims.

She rolls her eyes, annoyed by Jeff's sunny attitude. “If I don't win, I get fired. Lance and I are pitching against each other.”

“Are you serious?” Jeff grabs her soda from the table and takes a swig.

“Help yourself,” Renny waves.

“Thanks.” He points out between sips, “You know it could be good.”

“Excuse me?” Renny takes a seat at the table and rearranges the chip bags.

“Since we met, all I've heard from you is how much you hate being just another cubicle. You should go out on your own.”

“Great idea,” Renny counts off on her fingers, “I have no clients, no capital, no rent money and then no apartment. Here's my pitch to new clients. Hire me, I'm homeless.”

Jeff shakes his head. “I did it. You could do it, too.”

“All I want to do right now is come up with a name for these damn potato chips.” Renny stares at her notes. “Hey, how about that?”

“These damn potato chips?” He crinkles his nose and nods toward Renny's notes, “Read me what you have so far?”

Renny picks up her pad. “Crunchles.”

Jeff shakes his head no.

“Cruncheroos.”

“You should get back to work.” Jeff grabs a bag of chips. “Can I have these?”

“Take them. They're not doing me any good.”

He heads out the door. “And we're on for dinner next Thursday.”

Renny air writes as she hears the door close behind him. “I'm putting it in my calendar now,” she calls out.

“I know what you're doing,” he yells through the door.

She laughs and settles back in for a cozy night with her potato chip buffet.

***

Two hours later, the name of the product is still Generic Chips. Lying on the couch with her laptop propped on her thighs, Renny knows she better think of something or she will end up generically fired. The phone rings. Renny searches between her body and the sofa cushions before finally pulling it out. She sucks in a deep breath hoping it is Georgie, yet praying that it's anyone but her mother. “Hello.”

“Renny?” Sara's voice is small.

“Sara? You know it's after ten.” Since Sara had a kid, she considers any call past nine a transgression deserving of jail time. “Are you in labor?”

“No.” Sara falls silent for a moment. “I found out that Bart is New York.”

Renny sits up, startled. “I thought you said he was in California.”

“That's what he told me.” Sara relays what happened at Dr. Rumson's office. “He lied, Renny. He's in the city. I just don't know where.”

“What about his parents or his sister? They must know where he is.”

“The Matthews clan is at the country house through the weekend. I left a message, but I'm not holding my breath.” Sara pauses, “I'm so tired of thinking about this. Let's talk about you. Did that guy call?”

“Not since the bus ride,” Renny sighs.

“He'll call you,” Sara says.

“I hope so. Sara, listen, if you need anything I'm here for you. I can come watch Megan on Saturday if you want to drive out to the country.”

“No, I'm not going to do that. But thanks. I appreciate it. I'll talk to you tomorrow.” Sara hangs up.

Renny feels helpless. The breakup of a marriage is uncharted territory for her. As she puts the phone down, it rings again.

“It's about time you answer,” Mendelbaum barks. “A person could starve vaiting.”

Renny finds Mendelbaum and his gastronomic albatross as a welcome diversion from the anxiety over her friends. At least it's not her mother calling to harass her again. “So what will it be tonight?”

“Lentil soup. And a corn beef on rye. Don't forget the cole slaw this time. And qvick. You've been very slow to get here.”

A sly smile stretches across her face, “Where is here?”

“You have mine address.”

“I can't find it. Tell me again,” Renny probes, knowing a dial tone will probably be her answer.

“Vilna,” Mendelbaum answers, his voice shedding some harshness and becoming softer, even conversational.

Renny holds the phone away for a moment. “Where?”

His voice sounds as far away as the time he's recalling. “Vilna. My father, he vas tailor. My mother, she vas beautiful. My sister and I, vee had a cat. My mother, she loved that cat.” Like snow on a sunny day, a chill seeps into his words, “Vhen the var came and they liqvidated, it helped that my father had a trade. Vee vere allowed to stay, but had to get rid of the cat. That's the only time I ever saw my mother cry.”

It takes Renny a moment to digest this unexpected revelation. The most she'd been expecting as an answer was Queens or Brooklyn. “Mendelbaum, I had no idea.”

“Vhat, vhat?” he yells, his gruffness falling back in place. “Bring mine food!” The rough clanging of the phone assaults Renny's ear.