What Was I Thinking? (14 page)

I squandered the rest of the weekend on money
worries, guilt, and stress, with a few breaks to wonder why Bert hadn’t called,
and why Pete hadn’t asked for another date. Ah, variety.

Monday, of course, of course, I arrived late,
exhausted, and worried. It seemed to be my new norm. That polished
businesswoman I used to be—well-dressed, on time, confident, armed with an
impressive degree from an impressive university—seemed to have disappeared
entirely. Maybe I had only imagined her.

Of course, Campbell was standing by my cube as
I arrived. Of course, he shouted at me in front of the whole group. You’d think
I’d get used to being treated like that. Well, I guess I was getting used to
it. That was probably what had happened to all of my confidence and energy.

It seemed we had an emergency Gibson Girl
meeting, and my being late had made it all much worse. Now that I had finally
arrived, we could go into our team room and deal with the new problems. It
turned out that Mr. Banerjee had called Campbell in at six this morning and had
finally delivered a verdict on the dress rehearsal we’d shown him.

He hated it. Absolutely hated it, Campbell
said. And Campbell himself was in a blind panic, because we were already
scheduled into department stores every evening this week—including
this
evening.

Canceling was out of the question, he raged,
though no one had suggested it, or had, in fact, said anything at all. We had
to fix this and we had to fix it now!

I thought he was a jerk, but I’d never seen him
act like this before. The only thing I could guess was that he was scared of
Banerjee for some reason. I had plenty of time to theorize because he was just
ranting and I had mentally retreated to my happy place. I had a sincere,
concerned look on my face, and I was carefully not paying much attention. There
was nothing to be gained by engaging with someone this far out of control.

Finally, he came to a point that I had to pay
attention to. I didn’t like it. “The whole point of the Gibson Girl is
boobs
!” he shouted. “Mr. Banerjee said
so, and I have to agree! Nobody cares about her politics!” Because she didn’t
have any, I thought, thanks to my history instruction from Bert.

“We need to completely remake this skit,
starting with Addie’s costume! It’s not sexy enough! And get rid of the damn
sign! The suffragette bit is just stupid!” Well, Bert would be glad he finally
recognized that, I thought.

When Campbell had finally run out of steam and
thoroughly ensured that all the shit had run downhill, he started issuing
instructions.

I was to focus on working with Janice to have
my costume altered. He and Pete would rewrite the script. As they got pages
completed, I would receive copies so I could memorize while being pinned and
basted.

For once I didn’t care about being left out of
the thinking part of the job. This was clearly way past rescuing and I just
needed to survive it and polish up my résumé. Why hadn’t I done that on Sunday?

At the end of the day, I had a much tighter,
lower cut costume and a completely new script. The new script was much more
sexist, which was an impressive accomplishment right there. Now, I would be
speaking directly to the customers as they walked by, encouraging them to use
this miracle cream that will keep them young and beautiful. Then, Pete would
drag me away bodily, and apologize to customer, or, if luck was with us and the
customer was accompanied by a male, apologize to
him
—for allowing the little woman to speak in public.

The only good news was that we would each drive
there separately. At least I would have some solitude before and after the
performance to help me cope.

And that was all of the good news. The whole
evening was awful, just as bad as you would imagine. At the end, I dragged
home, showered, and tumbled into bed.

For the rest of the workweek, the routine was
the same: rush into work, be bullied and harassed as tweaks were made to the
script, my costume, and my dwindling sense of self, drive to department store,
change into costume at store, harass customers, get rejected, cope with Pete,
and finally change back into my own clothes, stumble out to my car carrying
various props and oddments of gear, and go home.

The walk to and from the car was always long.
All the stores we visited had policies that employees and others like us had to
park far out, leaving the good spots to the customers. Fair enough, the
customers should get priority, I thought. But after a lifetime of good parking
habits—park close, park in the light, don’t go into a dark parking lot or
structure alone, be aware of your surroundings—I felt an almost superstitious
discomfort going back to the car, laden with piles that were hard to juggle and
almost impossible to see over.

All of us had stuff to carry, it’s true. But I
noticed that no one ever offered to help me, or to walk me to my car, far
across the dark parking lots. I probably wouldn’t have given it a thought,
before Bert.

So, Saturday night, I was stumbling out the
employee exit of the Galleria
Macy’s absolutely exhausted and desolate. Pete and I
had spent the whole day at the mall way out in Richmond Heights from
nine-thirty in the morning, to set up before any customers arrived, until now,
ten-thirty at night. Even when it went well, and it did sometimes, it was hard
work and excruciatingly uncomfortable—and not only physically. Accosting
strangers had never been my thing. I don’t know how Pete felt about it before
this week, but I was betting he didn’t like it now if he ever had.

Except for lunch and two short coffee breaks,
we’d been on our feet, within eighteen inches of each other and approaching
customers from ten to ten. Our feet hurt, our throats were raspy from almost
nonstop talking, and we were heartily tired of each other. I can’t imagine
anyone liking anyone else enough to spend that kind of time in such close
proximity without getting heartily sick of each other. My costume had felt
tighter by the hour, and I had that uncomfortable sweat you get from being
indoors and in the same clothing too long. No doubt Pete felt almost as bad,
and I probably smelled at least as bad as he did. All in all, I couldn’t blame
him a bit that he’d taken off while I was still wrestling out of my corsets in
the back dressing room.

I was all alone now and I had Sunday off.
Picking my way across the big, dark lot, I planned the remaining bits my
weekend. I’d take a bubble bath, sleep until I was slept out, and then I was
going to rewrite my résumé and post it on Monster. No matter how tired I was,
or what other chores and worries beckoned, I was going to make a major start on
finding a new job.

I had arrived at my car. I juggled my boxes of
samples with my costume draped over the top of the load, fishing for the keys
in my shoulder bag. Something jabbed me in the back and I dropped the whole
jumble. I cried out in surprise, and grabbed for my purse, which had started to
slide down my arm when I dropped everything.

Too late.
Someone—someone other than
whoever was jabbing me in the back, because that hadn’t stopped—grabbed the
strap, gave a vicious yank, and took off with the purse. I tried to follow, but
rough hands yanked me backward and knocked me to the ground with a casual,
almost effortless shove.

That pissed me off. I got up. I was going to
punch the jerk
who
knocked me down, and then I was
going after the one with my purse, dammit! Unfortunately, the jerk
who
knocked me down saw me move, and killed the whole plan
by putting a shoulder into my midsection and pushing me back down, harder this
time. My poor, abused midsection that was tender from the week of tight
lacings! It hurt amazingly. It also knocked the wind out of me and landed me
hard on my ass, which also hurt.

I sat still, gasping, while the jerk rummaged
through the stuff I’d dropped, decided there wasn’t anything of interest, and
took off with his buddy, who had my purse.

They were going to be very disappointed, I
thought. I didn’t carry much wealth ever and I had packed the purse minimally
all week, with the knowledge that it would be unprotected in an employee lounge
most of every day. My driver’s license was in the back pocket of my jeans,
having spent the day tucked in a corset. There wasn’t anything in my purse but
the change from lunch, the useless Visa, makeup for midday repairs, and a
tampon for just in case.

And my car keys.
Damn! They didn’t fit
comfortably in a pocket, and I had gambled that it would be too much trouble
for anyone to figure out which car was mine even if they stole the purse, but
damn! Now what?

I was on the ground, alone, in a dark parking
lot. The mall security car was nowhere in sight, and the nearest people were
several stores down. They probably wouldn’t hear me if I called out, and they
would be gone before I could stand up and limp over to them. I was right next
to my car, but I couldn’t get into it. I had a lot of cosmetic samples in
cardboard boxes, an old-fashioned dress and matching boots, my driver’s
license…and my phone, also tucked into a pocket.

I blessed the bad habit that made me rumple my
clothes by always shoving my phone into a pocket instead of leaving it tucked
neatly into a purse, and pulled it out. I would call for help.

I stalled out with the phone in my hand. Who
would I call? Pete would be only a few miles away by now, but I didn’t have his
cell number. I didn’t have Susan’s number—we’d been communicating in person
only. Everyone I routinely called was out of town. Bert! I had Bert’s number in
my phone!

I called. It took a few rings for him to
answer, but when he did, he was wonderful. He didn’t waste any time on
unimportant details. I told him the problem, he asked exactly where I was, I
told him, and he said he’d be right there, and to stay safe while he came to
get me.

I sat huddled on the tarmac, leaning against
the front tire and holding my knees. There wasn’t any place safe to go while I
waited. I couldn’t get into my car and walking back across the lot to the
building would just get me to a different dark, exposed place. There was no way
to get back in the building. So I huddled, shook with reaction, and waited.

Bert arrived amazingly fast for someone who was
a nervous night driver.
For anyone, really.
The mall
was probably a thirty-minute drive from Bert’s place, if you knew the way and
hit absolutely no lights and no traffic. He made it in twenty-nine. I know—I
watched the time on the cell phone screen.

He pulled up with a screech—and flashing lights
went on across the lot, and a security car headed our way. Oh, for God’s sake!

Bert didn’t even look their way. He got out,
walked over to me, and knelt beside me. I was starting to get up, but he
stopped me.

“There’s no rush now, Addie,” he said gently.
“Are you badly hurt?”

“No. No, they just knocked the wind out of me,
and I’m a little stiff, but I’m okay. I can get up.”

“Well, let me help you.” He stood up himself,
and bent down, offering me a hand. I took it, and straightened up painfully as
a screech of tires announced the arrival of the mall cops.

A slam of doors, and a loud voice said “hold it
right there, mister! Get your hands off her and put them up!”

Bert ignored them while he finished helping me
up, and then he turned to face them.

“Get your hands up, I said!” the speaker
repeated loudly, pointing a gun unsteadily in our direction.

Bert had enough instinct for self-preservation
that he did put his hands up, but he wasn’t taking any nonsense.

“Put that thing down and explain yourself, sir!
Where were you when this young lady was attacked and robbed? Is this your duty?
To ignore crimes and then arrest those who come to assist the injured?
For shame!”

The cop and his buddy, who was standing back a
little, with his hand on the butt of his gun,
both
looked at me. The buddy said, “Is that true, ma’am? Is he helping you? Do you
know him?”

“Yes. I called him for help after I got
mugged.” I turned my attention toward the cop with the gun out. “Could you
please
put that thing away?”

“Oh. Oh, yeah. Sorry.” He tucked it away, and
everyone relaxed a little. “But you should have called us. Why didn’t you?” He
sounded aggrieved, which I thought was a bit much. But I did wonder why it
didn’t even cross my mind to call 911.

Bert apparently thought it was
more
than a bit much. “Perhaps she
called someone she thought would help her rather than point a gun at her and
make accusations! Why don’t the two of you make yourselves useful by picking up
the merchandise those louts knocked out of her hands, and arranging for her car
to be guarded until she can return to retrieve it?”

He didn’t bother to wait for an answer.
Instead, he turned to me and said, “Let’s get you safely into my car, and then
we’ll see what needs to be done.” He put an arm gently around my waist, led me
to the passenger door, and handed me carefully in. I sat back, gratefully.

To my surprise, he opened the door to the
backseat instead of getting in his side. He reappeared in a moment with a small
blanket and a thermos. He tucked the blanket around me as if I were a small
child in need of comfort. It felt wonderful.
Both the blanket
and the solicitousness.
Then he opened the thermos and poured a little
liquid into the cap.