Nine Women, One Dress (17 page)

I was so nervous that when we settled into the limo I began biting my nails, and I wasn't even a nail-biter. I wanted to chicken out, call the whole thing off, but one look at Albert and Tomás and I realized that this road trip was no longer entirely about me. In fact, from the way they were looking at each other I calculated my relevance to be at about 10 percent. This was confirmed by Tomás's enthusiastic announcement of our first scheduled stop: a quick lunch at Miss Florence Diner, just outside Northampton, Massachusetts. Before I could say anything, or even ask if it was on the way, Albert blurted out with equal enthusiasm, “Oh my god, I've never been to Northampton!”

But a stop meant more time to work myself up into a nervous wreck. My face must have indicated as much, because Tomás spoke as if I had protested out loud.

“Natalie, he's never been there!”

I wouldn't have cared, really, I was happy for them and their sparks that were flying around me, but I am a rip-the-Band-Aid-off-quickly kind of girl and this would take forever. I tried to think of it from their point of view: Northampton isn't just any cute town. It's the LGBTQ capital of the Northeast, a place that promised acceptance and solidarity and something for Tomás and Albert to bond over. Unless I was willing to get into a whole conversation about my heterosexual privilege, I would need to just smile and acquiesce. Besides, we would probably be hungry by then.

When we arrived at Miss Florence, my anxiety seemed to melt as quickly as the cubes of butter on my scrumptious blueberry pancakes. I don't know if it was the quaint town, the good company, or just that hopeful feeling that seems to ride along on a road trip, but I was thinking less about the possibility of a disastrous outcome and more about just enjoying the ride. In true buttinski form, Tomás convinced us that we should go all out to surprise Jeremy. Going all out for Tomás always began with the right outfit. Now that I was enjoying myself I was totally game. His plan included a stop at a ski shop in Bennington, where I would buy head-to-toe skiwear so I could disguise myself on set. I thought for sure Albert would veto the whole thing, but he was so smitten with Tomás that he didn't want to dampen his spirit. I was all in—it was the most fun I'd had since Turks and Caicos. But once I zipped up my ski suit my nerves kicked back in and I begged Albert to call Jeremy and feel him out. What if he never wanted to see me again? Albert dismissed me, saying he didn't want to bother him during filming—a pretty absurd answer, considering we were driving up to crash his set. But I let it go.

According to my close friend and personal concierge, Siri, we would arrive at the set just before dark. This was apparently of great significance, because Albert became particularly adamant that we not interrupt the last hour of daylight at the shoot in any way. We swore we wouldn't, arrived on the set, and did just as we'd promised. I even wore my ski mask to ensure that Jeremy wouldn't recognize me and blow his scene. Albert ran off to pee and Tomás and I stood quietly on the side as discreetly as possible. We were both nervous and excited. It was in between shots and the director was calling for the extras to come up. A group of ski bunnies paraded right by us, and Tomás nudged me into the line. Swept away in the moment, I didn't protest—the right outfit can really give a girl confidence, I guess!

A stylist quickly perused the group, tucking, zipping, and unzipping seemingly at random. When she got to me, she ripped off my face mask. “Where did this come from?” she asked.

“Quiet on the set!” someone shouted, saving me from answering.

I remembered the scene well from reading the script. Spoiler alert: it was the final scene, an après-ski in front of the lodge, following that frustrating ten to twenty minutes in the last act of a romantic comedy when the boy and girl break up due to some unavoidable obstacle, only to realize the foolishness of their ways and travel by foot/cab/horse, or in this case snowmobile, to reach each other and confess their undying love. The irony was not lost on me.

Jeremy was supposed to sit with his feet up, gazing at the mountain, melancholy, while sipping a hot chocolate. I looked around for him but only saw Albert wildly gesturing for me to cease and desist. I searched the crowd for Tomás, hoping for a nod of support, but he was nowhere in sight. He had been eyeing the craft services cart when we walked in; hunger or nerves must have gotten the best of him. Some ride-or-die chick he turned out to be!

Jeremy walked onto the set in all his glory and my heart dropped to my knees, which both began to wobble. All the confidence that I'd had around him when he was gay seemed to have disappeared, along with any anger I'd felt over the whole misunderstanding.

The director yelled, “Action!” The scene began just as I remembered from the script. Jeremy sat, sipped, and gazed up at the mountain, the sound of a ski patrol rescue snowmobile revving in the distance. Another skier, fresh from the slopes, ran to him and grabbed him by the jacket. It was Lance Ludwig the Third, Jeremy's character's arch-nemesis.

“It's Nancy—she took a horrible fall,” he said, sobbing. “I'm not sure she's gonna make it.”

Jeremy stood and shouted with guttural anguish up the mountain, “Nancy!”

As his cry echoed in the woods, he grabbed his ski poles and headed for her. He was so convincing and I was so crazy for him that my gut impulse was to stop him from reaching her. It was a legit knee-jerk reaction—I stuck out my leg and tripped Jeremy Madison mid-ski, causing him to lunge forward and bang his head on a tree stump. As he grabbed his head and rolled to his side, groaning, I ran to him and kneeled down, taking his face in my hands. He opened his eyes and smiled at me, and I responded by kissing him sweetly on the lips. He stood up and shook the whole thing off like a tackled linebacker at the Super Bowl. He grabbed my arm and raised it in the air like we were champs, and then pulled me toward him for the kiss of all kisses, the one formerly destined for his leading lady.

The director screamed, “We're wasting light here!” while Albert ordered everyone with a camera to take photos and post them to their feeds. We were trending by sunset.

And so it was that I finally ended up on the pages of the
New York Post
. “Who is that mystery girl with Jeremy Madison? The enchanting”—that's a quote—“Natalie Canaris.”

Go on, ask me if Flip Roberts saw it.

My answer? “I don't know and I don't care!”

There are three different types of salespeople in a department store: those who hang out in the dressing rooms (“Do you need another size?” “We have that in a beautiful aquamarine if you'd like”), those who hang out by the register and get the “Did anyone help you with this?” leftovers, and those who walk the floor asking if anyone needs assistance. When I first started out I was a big floorwalker, not much interested in gossiping in the dressing room with the other salesgirls.

About a hundred times a day I would say, “Hi, I'm Ruthie, can I help you with anything?”

The answer was sometimes an enthusiastic yes, but it was usually no. Mostly a polite no, or an “I'm good, thanks.” But I would sometimes get a grimace or a condescending or impatient “No, thank you!” I'm sure you've received this kind of “No, thank you.” The
no
comes with a scowl and the
thank you
comes with a look that says, “Why are you even speaking to me?” After getting enough of this kind of “No, thank you,” I stopped asking the question and began walking the floor quietly, just close enough to be of assistance if needed. It was kind of boring. I liked interacting with people and missed the personal contact. But then about ten years ago it got a lot less boring: suddenly everyone and their grandmother had a cell phone. It was then that my decade of eavesdropping began.

The recent obsession with multitasking kicked cell-phone etiquette right out the window of the store onto East 59th Street. What started as a hand-over-mouth, whispered faux pas evolved into a full-volume, I-don't-care-who's-listening conversation. You wouldn't believe the things people feel comfortable yelling into a cell phone in public.

Today I was following a well-dressed woman around the floor as she talked on her cell. It was soon evident that this particular woman was of the horrible variety. She is the center of this story and the reason I began by telling you that A. This story ends badly and B. You won't feel so bad about it.

I won't give her a name, because you know her and can name her yourself. You met her at summer camp, or in high school, or maybe even just last week at your kid's soccer game. You've spent many a night unable to sleep, going over what you should have said to her in your head, and sometimes you have even woken in a bad mood thinking about her. Her name is ____ ______. We all know her.

She is the friend who greets you with the question “
What
are you wearing?” or tells you in the name of honesty that your jokes aren't really funny. The judgmental type who is quick to point out your flaws. “Overdid it a bit with the tweezers, I see!” she says, laughing as you pull out your compact to examine your eyebrows. It's strange how a compliment can go in and out of our ears in a moment but an insult can fester in there for days, even years.

She was that girl who was part of your fast-formed friend group on your cross-country teen tour, who stopped you at the entrance to the Ferris wheel at the county fair and shook her little finger at you. “Four per car,” she said. “Sorry—you're out.” Never to be in again.

She was that girl in tenth grade with the long legs who you were nice to 'cause she was new in town. The one that wrapped those same long legs around the boy you confided in her that you had a crush on.

She was the girl I met my first year in the Bloomingdale's training program. The one who said she'd formed a knitting club: “Oooh, sorry, Ruthie, I didn't know you knit.” And then, “Sorry, Ruthie, we all took our boyfriends out for drinks after work and I didn't think you had anyone special so I didn't invite you.”

Or the worst: the one who pretends to be your friend to your face but is the first to talk about you behind your back.

Don't worry—except for the knitting club and the tenth-grade leggy bitch, these didn't
all
happen to me. But I am around women all day long, and I hear a lot of stories. A woman in her late twenties came in just last week for some retail therapy. As she browsed, I could tell she needed an ear to bend; you learn the signs. It was a Tuesday. She confided in me that on Tuesdays she usually met with her baby group. She was one of the founding moms, in fact. But soon some social-climber mom had climbed right over her, winning over all the other moms with nothing but a fistful of her husband's cash. She then changed the group meeting to Wednesdays, knowing it was the only day our girl couldn't make it, on account of her little Johnny having a lazy eye. Wednesdays were when the lazy-eye group meets. Let me tell you, if I ever met that witchy mom myself, I'd sell her a dress that made her look bad from behind!

Stop and think. Who is your nemesis? Even the most popular, confident, put-together adult can call to mind that one girl who made her feel inadequate.
She'll get hers
, you said to yourself, praying that it was true as she walked away from you, leaving you feeling like roadkill to be scraped off the pavement. Well, fill in the blanks, ladies, 'cause today, I promise, she will get hers. Today the road-killer becomes roadkill.

I followed _____ ______ as she weaved in and out of the dress racks, sometimes stopping to feel a fabric, sometimes to look at a price tag. I knew pretty quickly that she was a mean girl of ultimate proportions. Cruella de Vil on steroids. She was on the phone with her friend, asking for fashion advice. Her cruelty was slow and subtle. It began with, “I need advice because you're my friend,” so that her victim was all eager and ripe for the zinging. Of course I could hear only one side of the conversation, but in my head I heard both. It went like this:

Click.

_____ ______ turned to me, holding the Max Hammer dress. “Do you have this in a small. I don't see a small.”

She was one of those entitled women who assumes that everyone exists only to serve her, so she didn't bother phrasing her demand as a question.

“I'm sorry,” I said, not sorry at all. “It's the hottest dress of the season—we only have the two larges left. Try one on.”

“I don't have time to try one on and I'm not a large!” she ranted. “You would think if it's the hottest dress you would have more!”

I hated her. “I don't do the buying, but I have been told the manufacturer ran out as well. Sorry, seems you're out of luck.”

When I turned to walk away, she mumbled under her breath, “Out of luck…something you're used to, no doubt.”

Tomás overheard her and stuck out his tongue behind her back. She went back to dialing her phone.

“Celeste! Are you ready for your party? Guess who I just spoke to—Veronica Block! I had no idea she wasn't invited.” She waited a beat. “Well, you must have forgotten.” She laughed. “She's easily forgettable!” Another beat. “Oh, no, I'm sure she doesn't care—she even said she had better plans that night.” And another. “Yes, I think she said
better
. Maybe it was
more exciting
—can't remember exactly. In any case, you know Veronica and her husband are such bores. What makes a party is who you don't invite, not who you do.” And with that last bit of nastiness she hung up.

She was the worst, this broad. She might take the nastiest-customer-ever cake. But I knew how to get my own quiet revenge on people like her. That sweet, desperate young girl with the long story had returned the overloaned size small Max Hammer this morning as promised. It was even more of a mess than when she left with it, but I didn't care. I went in the back and got it for the nastiest customer ever, hoping that when she got it home and saw what a wreck it was she would try to return it. I couldn't wait to accuse her of damaging it and refuse to take it back. “I guess you're out of luck again,” I would say.

Nasty was back on the phone again, in mid-conversation with poor Veronica. “Well, I mentioned it, darling, but she didn't bite. She explained that it's really just an intimate get-together for her nearest and dearest. Maybe next time, you know, when she widens the net.” Poor roadkill Veronica, in way over her head. “No, I had no idea—a kidney,
really
, well, thank god she didn't need it. You know you should be more careful whom you offer a kidney to, Veronica, really.”

I didn't trust myself not to wring her neck with it, so I gave the dress to Tomás and went out for a smoke. Normally I wouldn't do that to him, but I was still a bit pissed that he and Natalie had left the floor uncovered the other day to go on their little love quest. The last thing I heard was, “I guess she needed your younger eye to find a small.” I hate to admit it, but that stung. After Lillian I was probably the oldest salesgirl here. Salesgirl—even the name made me feel old. Maybe I needed a two-cigarette break.

I was standing on the corner with Lillian, a few puffs into ciggy number two, when I saw the nastiest customer ever leave the store. I had just told Lillian the whole story. “There she is!” I pointed. She was just a stone's throw away. My kingdom for a stone.

Lillian took her in. “She doesn't look so bad. Look, she's helping that old lady get a cab.”

That didn't sound right. I took a look for myself. It was bizarre. She was actually helping an old lady get a cab. She smiled at her and said something we couldn't hear. We craned our necks to try. The old woman thanked her as she stepped into the street and raised her hand for a taxi. The old woman seemed touched by her kindness. And then it happened. A cab pulled over, and the nastiest customer ever became the nastiest New Yorker ever. She got in, slammed the door, and rode away.

Lillian yelled, “Oh my god, she stole that woman's cab!”

We both rushed to the old lady's aid.

“Did you see what that bitch just did?” she asked as we approached.

I love that about New Yorkers, frail old ladies giving it out like gangsters. As I stepped to the curb to hail her another cab, the ground shook. At first I panicked, thinking it was a bomb. People were screaming as the earth rumbled again. I looked across 59th Street just in time to see the ground open up, like something out of a sci-fi movie, and swallow up the Yellow Cab with everyone and everything in it. I was never one to believe in karma, but on that day I was converted.

The next day Tomás and Natalie gathered round while I read them the front page of the
New York Post
. They were both still kissing up to me, trying to make up for their little disappearing act. I was over it—it was nice to see them both so happy. Neither of them had been very lucky with love since I'd known them. I've worked with a lot of younger people over the years, and I can honestly say these two were my favorites. They even invited me to join them on their upcoming double date. I declined, but how sweet are they to have asked?

Natalie thought the headline “Holy Sinkhole!” was a bit tacky, since a woman had actually died, but the
New York Post
has its own moral compass. From its most infamous headline, “Headless Body in Topless Bar,” to my personal favorite, “Osama bin Wankin',” which ran when they found porn in bin Laden's foxhole, they clearly go for the laugh above all else. I get it—I often have a tendency to do the same. This was as close as I had ever been to front-page news.

The earth really outdid itself yesterday when a sinkhole opened up and swallowed a Yellow Cab, killing one. Onlookers outside Bloomingdale's feared a bomb as the ground shook at the corner of 59th and Lexington. But the culprit was a 10-foot long, 12-foot-deep sinkhole caused by a break in the sewer line. Employees of local businesses say they had noticed a growing crack in the pavement but hadn't thought it anything serious.

The taxi driver, who emergency workers said had been protected by the front cage, survived with a couple of broken bones. Police have yet to release the name of the deceased passenger. She had a Bloomingdale's bag with her, and witnesses confirm that she had just come from the department store.

“Do you think Celeste canceled her dinner party?” Tomás asked coyly.

“Now there's a spot at the table for the other one!” I answered, laughing to myself. I had been calling the wrong girl roadkill!

I knew we sounded insensitive, but really, the woman had been so horrible. I almost felt worse that our beautiful Max Hammer dress had met such a dreadful fate.