Dirty Steve came by right away to check on me. “Are you keeping a smile on your face, Poxy Roxy?” he asked. (Right after I started working at the deli, I contracted adult chickenpox. That’s when Steve made up that hideous moniker! He’s never let it go.)
I gestured at the display of crumb cake. “If I was handing out crumb cake, at least I could cheer myself by snacking on the samples.”
“I always put vegans like you and Annie on meat samples. It cuts down on ‘unexplained product loss.’ ” Dirty Steve seemed to take great pleasure in making air quotes.
“Touché,” I replied, as Dirty Steve lumbered off to harass some of his other employees.
Everett, for three hours I was the poster child of Sample Grrrls—grinning, nodding, offering tiny freebies, mostly to ritzy women who circle the store eyeing one another, convinced they must stay vigilant or miss a crucial fashion trend. These hideous trophy wives treated me as if I was an extension of their help—invisible only as long as I did not displease them. I was entertained when two cops came in for their usual lunch and every deli maid with a warrant out for his arrest (i.e., Jason and Nelson) ran out the back door to hide in the alley. I was also cheered by the occasional broke musician cruising the sample stand multiple times with the overt casualness of the seasoned “sample abuser.” I could at least offer them a human wink and receive a grateful nod in return. Like me, they probably suffer as wage slaves at underpaid and unfulfilling jobs. Like me, life has trampled their artistic dreams. Like me, perhaps they are platonically shacked up with an ex to keep a roof over their heads.
Then this guy sort of just appeared in front of me. He had a fit bod, tousled, indie-rocker hair, and totally cute dimples that I could see even under his Clive Owen stubble. He wore jeans (not skinny, thank Goddess) and a tight black T-shirt. The outline of the state of Texas was tattooed on his forearm. He was the kind of good-looking that told me he’d probably never had to bother to learn how to be good in bed. Definitely a musician. “Yeah! Crumb cake,” he said. By the way he smiled at me, I might have been the crumb cake. But somehow it wasn’t cheesy or icky. It was nice. (Everett, perhaps you don’t want to hear about my moment of connection with a stranger. But until you pay up, too bad!)
“Sorry,” I said. “Microwaved frozen tuna.”
“Ugh,” he replied. He gestured at the crumb cake display to my right. “False advertising. Why aren’t you in the freezer aisle?”
“I’m guessing management is trying to avoid another employee frostbite lawsuit,” I said. “Want to try my tuna burger?” Even as I spoke, I knew it sounded lewd.
“Hard to resist,” he said with the hint of a smile. “But I’m a vegetarian.” As he turned away, a leggy supermodel-type approached. She had Bettie Page bangs and wore a tailored rockabilly dress with peep-toe pumps.
“Texas! There you are!” she said, taking his arm. (Texas? I wondered if he had siblings named Arizona and Oklahoma.) They walked off, a perfect couple, which only served to remind me that I live with you, my ex-boyfriend, who doesn’t pay rent on time. It also reminded me that the only “man” I’ve been with in I-won’t-say-how-long is the purple merman. To make matters worse, several of the rich women shoppers were rather snippy about whether or not the tuna burger contained any guar gum as a stabilizer. I wanted to yell, “Have you seen living tuna? They are glorious creatures of the sea. Eating them is the problem, not a little guar gum.” But like a dutiful employee, I held my tongue.
Preoccupied as I was this morning with thoughts of Brant Bitterbrush and the anniversary of my heartbreak, I had forgotten to eat breakfast and was moving into a rather hangry mood. If you had been there, Everett, I’m sure you would have pushed some Brie on me, but as you were not, I let my mood descend. Then she approached. She must have been a little older than I am, maybe thirty, her long red hair in a perky ponytail, and a diamond ring the size of a cherry tomato on her finger. In the grocery basket slung so casually over her forearm I spotted two bottles of DUCKIE & LAMBIE MOISTURIZER!!! Today of all days! The sight of those bottles—a symbol of Brant Bitterbrush’s ultimate betrayal—was like a punch to my gut.
“Don’t buy those,” I said, pointing at the offending bottles.
“Why not?” the redhead asked. “It makes my skin so smooth.” She popped a chunk of reheated frozen tuna burger between her bleached teeth, chewed, and said, “Mmmm. Crumb cake!” (To endure the nightly pounding she surely receives from her rich, sagging husband, she must have become completely ungrounded from her physical body and is thus unable to distinguish cake from seafood!) I looked her up and down and realized that her trim figure was decked out from head to toe in the offending brand whose name my hand shakes to write—Lululemon!
The wave of outrage at what she and her brethren are doing to my hometown overwhelmed me (and, with the distance of eight hours, I can now admit it—perhaps some of my fury was misplaced). I wish my retort had been clever or even condescendingly kind. But what came out of my mouth was: “You. Dumb. Bitch.”
“Wait, what?” she said.
“You. Dumb. Bitch.” I enunciated that second time.
The conflict snapped her right back into her body. She dropped her shopping basket, came racing around the sample table, and shoved me with all the power of her sculpted frame. I staggered backward. I’m proud to say I kept my footing—I can’t say the same for the crumb cake display, which came crashing down around me. The cacophony of a hundred boxes of crumb cake hitting the tile caused every customer from Bakery to Hot Bar to turn and stare.
“So that happened,” the redhead said, before sashaying off toward the exit. But at the sliding doors near the checkout lines she paused and turned to wave at me, flashing a smile that was more conspiratorial than triumphant. I found myself raising my own hand to wave in return. Then she slipped through the doors and was gone. What a baffling woman! While I initially took her for a West Austin pedigree, perhaps she is trailer trash or a military brat cursed with good looks and recently realized aspirations of wealth through marriage.
It was then I heard Dirty Steve’s voice. He must have seen the whole thing as he headed out, probably for an early lunch of surf and turf at The Yellow Rose strip club. “Poxy Roxy!” he thundered. “I told you to keep a smile on your face, not incite an assault! Be in my office at ten tomorrow!”
Given that tomorrow’s meeting could very well result in termination of my employment, I’m now more worried than ever about money.
All this to say, Everett: it’s the 24th of June and you’ve been living in my house for almost two weeks, so by any measure your rent is WAY. PAST. DUE. I understand you are underemployed right now. In this town, aren’t we all? (I speak only for those of us with a shred of integrity, artistic or otherwise—the “new Austin” tech assholes are making billions as I write.) But I let you move into my spare bedroom on the condition that you would pay rent each month. The time has come for you to follow through on that promise.
Your frustrated landlady,
Roxy
P.S. I’m leaving this note on the kitchen counter so that you’ll be sure to see it when you sit down to eat my purloined yucca fries and tofu nuggets (in clear violation of #3a! Do rules mean nothing to you?).