She'll Take It (11 page)

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Authors: Mary Carter

BOOK: She'll Take It
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“We're not bi or metro, Tommy,” I say.
“Plain old hetero,” Tommy laments. “Not cool. So not cool.”
“Manhattan,” Kim says into the phone.
“Kim. What are you doing?”
“Ray. Shit, what'sis last name?”
“Arbor,” Tommy says. “Like a sunny field of trees.”
I glare at him. He smiles at me.
“Ray Arbor,” Kim says into the phone. “Got it.” And then she smiles.
It's like watching an artist at work. Kim purrs. She coos. She even concocts a fake cry that sends waiters flying to the table with free fried ice cream. For her. “I'm so sorry to bother you, Ray, but I had to ask you if Melanie's acting any different lately?” Tommy wiggles his eyebrows across the table at me. I cover my mouth with my hand. “Well it's just that—I think my boyfriend Charles is falling in love with her.” I start to choke. Kim glares at me.
“Can you speak up?” Kim says over my choking. “I'm on the subway.” This makes me laugh. But I'm still choking so I sound like a motorboat starting up. “Well have you picked up on anything with Melanie? I mean she's spending an inordinate amount of time on her hair, wearing new perfume, and dressing sexier than I've ever seen her. And she's been going out a lot lately, and if it's not with you—I mean, do you think she's losing interest in you?”
I cough into my napkin as happy as a girl choking on her own saliva can be. “Oh, so you've been really busy? I thought maybe you'd broken up because Melanie hasn't even mentioned you. And what with Charles hovering all over her—yeah, give her a call. Feel her up. I mean out.” She hangs up just as Tommy and I explode with laughter.
“Feel her up?” Tommy shouts.
“Yes!” I shout.
Ten minutes later, my cell phone rings.
“Don't answer it,” Kim whispers as if he can hear me. “Let him leave a message.”
Except for the fact that I'm going to have to start dressing sexier and spending an inordinate amount of time on my hair, I'm ecstatic. Kim is a beautiful genius.
Chapter 10
To Whom It May Concern:
Dear Webmaster:
Hey Webmaster:
To: The Webmaster
Attn: Webmaster
From: Parks and Landon Attorneys At Law
To Whom It May Concern:
We are writing to request the removal of a certain photograph on your Web site. It features a beautiful woman, Melanie Zeitgar, who was innocently impersonating Kiss when her picture was snapped. The spoon in the photograph that you insinuate is a wooden penis is actually a microphone. Melanie does not have a penis. She doesn't even own a set of wooden bowls.
To the Webmaster of
Shedivas.com
I find the photograph of “Pinocchio Girl” offensive and misleading. I happen to know that the woman in the picture has never used kitchen utensils to represent anything other than—well—kitchen utensils and the occasional microphone while drunk. Please remove her picture immediately or the law firm of Parks and Landon will be forced to take action.
P.S. The photograph in question also adds at least ten pounds to the Melanie we know in real life.
Listen assholes. I was drunk. The spoon is a microphone. If you don't remove my picture immediately I'm going to slap you with a lawsuit so fast your freaky little heads will spin.
Sincerely,
Melanie Zeitgar
Things still in their packages. Round things. Square things, things in tubes, things in plastic, useful things, silly things, pointy things—things you could put your eye out with! As I imagine these things I break out in a little sweat.
That's odd
, I think to myself.
Is it hot in here?
I am wearing a sweater, so I slip it off and hang it about my chair. Much better. But it's not. My hands feel funny now; a tingling sensation is running up and down my fingers, and I can't stop thinking about the drugstore in the lobby of this building. This morning I casually strolled through it, and I can clearly see the layout in my mind's eye. There are three cashiers up front, a pharmacy in the back, and a security camera that scans the middle of the store. The pharmacist has a good look at the left row and the cashiers face the middle rows, but there is one little neglected corner in the back right-hand side where it would be very easy to acquire a) reading glasses, b) a jar of Vaseline, or c) plastic hair clips.
Automatically, my hand curls around the pocket of my sweater, and like an accident victim feeling the phantom limb long after its been cut off, I can actually feel the reading glasses in there, and guess what—there is still plenty of room for the Vaseline and the hair clip.
Stop it
, I tell myself.
You no longer need to steal.
It's true. Ray had left me several messages as of late, and after the third I called him back. He was sweet and funny and apologized like crazy for not calling me lately. I wanted to jump into a cab and into his bed so that I could (among other things) try out my new belly map, but Kim made me wait. So we're all going to see his show next week. It's horrific that I have to wait a week, especially since today is Friday and I don't see why we couldn't see his show
this
week, but Kim insisted it's part of the master plan.
My hand starts to hurt, and I realize that my fingers are still curling around the navy glasses that I'm not going to steal and instead I'm actually digging into the file I'm holding. Unfortunately, I seem to have ripped it a bit. When I ask file boy what I should do about it, he barks at me to get a new folder from the supply cabinet. I look at him questioningly until he silently extends his arm and points in the direction of the next room like the Grim Reaper ordering me off to hell.
Only it's heaven. Ten rows of spanking new ebony staplers are parked next to each other like stretch limousines, flanked by crisp white boxes of Bic pens (blue, black, and red ink), surrounded by stacks of bright yellow legal pads and guarded by a wall of genuine black and brown leather binders. I forget all about the file folders as I lean forward and inhale the scent of the supplies. I think I'm going to faint with joy. I'll just take a pen and a legal pad. Surely I need a pad to take notes. Why hasn't anyone offered me one before? And just as I'm about to close the door, I notice a whole other cabinet I've yet to explore.
Glue sticks, rolls of Scotch tape, staples, clips, pencils, erasers, and sticky pads in every color of the rainbow. Everything I need to do a good job. In fact even a leather binder is a necessary accoutrement for an assistant at a law firm. Granted, I wasn't exactly an assistant yet—but it was only a matter of time, wasn't it? I have to force myself to close the cabinets and stroll back to the file room like I'm not on fire. Then I have to wait an excruciating hour (while visions of glue sticks dance in my head) until file boy goes to lunch. As soon as he does, I slip back to the supply room like a kid on Christmas morning.
I should grab one of each, just in case. I commend myself for bringing a large satchel with me and I proceed to put supplies (one of each, just one of each!) in my bag. Finally I remember the file folder, and I grab a few of those too. My bag is starting to sag. Just as I'm throwing another leather binder in my bag, Margaret Tomer walks in.
At first she's smiling so I smile back. Then her eyes slide down to my pregnant satchel and her smile disappears. I hold up the bag. “It's ready,” I say.
“I beg your pardon?”
“The bag,” I say. “For the children.”
“For the children? What children?”
“School PS 47. Anna at the front desk told me we were donating school supplies to them since Mrs. Kragel's third-grade class lost most of theirs in a flood.”
“I don't know anything about this.” “Oh. Well apparently the janitor left the sink on overnight. Must have been quite a drip.”
“I still don't see—”
“It was all over the radio. They were begging local companies to pitch in. Anna told me to fill this bag.”
“Anna was a temp, and yesterday was her last day.”
“Oh. Then why did she call me and tell me to fill this bag for the children?”
“Why indeed. Did she give you that bag? Is that her bag?” Margaret grabs my bag and starts rifling through it. “Why do the children need leather binders?”
“You don't think. I mean—this isn't for Anna herself is it? Margaret, I believed it was for the children. Anna said she would pick it up and—oh God, I am so stupid.”
“Hold your horses. We shouldn't go around accusing her of anything, mind you. There could be children. It just seems a little strange. Doesn't it?” Margaret looks through the bag again.
“I know,” I say. “Why don't I call the school and see if there really was a flood. If her story checks out I'll talk with Greg or Steve first to see if they'll authorize us supporting the children. And if her story doesn't pan out—well then I'll let you know and you can take the appropriate action.”
Margaret smiles at me. “You're a dear. Just keep this on the down low. We wouldn't want to start any rumors.”
I nod respectfully and hold my finger to my lips. “Now what did I come in here for?” Margaret says to the ceiling. Oh. Greg Parks wants to see you in his office.” I try not to let the surprise show on my face. I hadn't seen Greg since the incident in the elevator. I nod and start to walk out. “Melanie,” Margaret calls after me.
“Yes?”
“Why don't you leave the bag with me. You know. Until we find out about the children.”
“Of course,” I say and grudgingly hand her my bag.
Greg is sitting at his desk talking on the phone. The nervous feeling in the pit of my stomach takes me by surprise.
It's just because I take my work seriously,
I tell myself. Greg senses me in the doorway, looks up, and gestures for me to come in. “Well, I don't see why not. That's okay. Yes, yes, you can call anytime. Yes, as a matter of fact she's right here.” To my surprise Greg hands me his phone. I must look as horrified as I feel, for he says under his breath, “There's that poker face again.”
“Hello?” I say into Greg's phone.
“Melanie, dear. I was just having the sweetest chat with your boss.” Oh. My. God. No, no, no. The Saints are going to pay for this one.
“Mother,” I say. “Can I call you later this evening?”
“Of course, dear. I really didn't call to speak with you anyway.”
“You didn't?”
“I was just introducing myself to Gregory, dear. Why didn't you tell him that Zachary was a lawyer too?”
“I'll talk to you later, Mom.”
“He sounds like a wonderful boss, Melanie. I'm sure this is the beginning of wonderful things for you, dear. Oh. I forgot to ask him about the health plan—”
“Bye, Mom.” I hang up the phone. Greg is turned around in his chair, and I can see his shoulders shaking. “I am so, so, sorry,” I say. “I swear it won't happen again.”
He turns around, his face flushed with laughter. “It's okay. It's kind of sweet actually. Except she seems to be under the impression that you're here full time.”
“I can explain—”
“As my assistant.”
I nod and make hand motions around my head. “She's got his condition,” I say.
Trina barges in the office with my satchel. “Melanie, what's this about children in a flood?”
Margaret pops in behind her. “Melanie, the clock in the lobby is off by fifteen minutes. Do you think you could fix it?”
“Margaret,” Greg admonishes. “I'm sure fixing clocks is not in Melanie's job description. Call the custodial staff.”
“But she's a clockmaker,” Margaret explains. “Or do you prefer Clock Sculptor dear? She makes art that tells time,” she murmurs reverently.
“Is that right?” Greg says. “That sounds fascinating.”
“Fascinating,” Trina repeats. The three of them stare at me as if expecting me to break into song and dance.
“I can't fix the clock, Margaret,” I stammer. “I create the art,” I explain, “and leave the inner workings of my clocks to—uh—the Swiss.”
Trina folds her arms across her chest and glares at me, Margaret cocks her head and Greg slightly raises one eyebrow in my direction.
“I'm going to go call about the children,” I say, grabbing my satchel from Trina and hightailing it down the hall.
I spend the rest of the day filing and sketching clocks. Before I know it I have a flower clock, a ghost clock, a staple clock, a yellow sticky pad clock, a blue sticky pad clock, a glue gun clock, and a metrosexual clock. I'm doing everything I can to drown out the voice in my head chanting glasses, glasses, glasses. I know I'd take the one on the top left with the navy rims. I look at my metrosexual clock and think
I'm a thief and a pervert
. And when five o'clock hits I have every intention of just heading home. But who doesn't need something from the drugstore? I mean, can you honestly think of one time in your life where you had all the supplies you needed? Razors, aspirin, makeup, gum, tampons, deodorant, rubber bands, water guns—the list of necessities is endless. And it's right downstairs. Incredibly convenient. It would be a crime not to take advantage of it.
CONTRACT WITH SELF
I, Melanie Zeitgar, being of sound mind and body (minus twelve pounds) do solemnly swear:
1. I will never shoplift again!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
2

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