The Joy of Funerals, page 5
“What is this, a fucking cocktail party?” I say, loud enough for Snoopy to hear. I try not to look in his direction, but I’m praying he’s staring. I can almost feel his shaded eyes on my face.
Irritated, Mickey fires another shot. More plaster falls. The air becomes thick with powder. “Are you still waiting for personal invitations?” he shouts. Like an earthquake, the movement is sudden and careless. Customers are coughing and choking as they bump into one another, each trying to get to their appointed spot like school children. Women cry as disgruntled men curse under their breath. I’m the first to reach my target, nabbing a spot toward the front.
As frantic women push their way in, I get nestled in between a woman with bad breath and a big hat and another who smells like she’s been dipped in perfume and smoke. I look for Less-Boy and see him pinned between two men in tan trench coats. I eye the line and notice that Mark is whiter than everyone. One man lights a cigarette, another bums one off him. The clicking of the lighter is loud and sounds out of place. I see the tiny stream of fire, watch the smoke leave their mouths, watch them inhale, then exhale together, like twins breathing. Some men try to act macho, looking flip and uncaring, older men seem withdrawn and frightened. I look at the women in line with me—they, too, are a mix of horror, agitation, and depression. We look like a school dance, boys on one side, girls on the other, with nothing but the floor to separate us.
Donald and Dumbo take to the registers; Mickey works the men, Snoopy collects from the women. “Here we go—Christmastime,” Mickey says, a lyrical joy to his voice. “Drop it all in—wallets, watches, phones, and jewelry into the bags. Do it clean and easy, and we’ll have no problems.”
I see Snoopy walk past me and I think about having sex with him in the back of the Food Emporium in the cold cuts department. I visualize slabs of fresh meat, pounds of coleslaw, pasta salad, our naked bodies on crushed ice. I imagine his muscular body as he rips off the mask and sunglasses, unzips his costume, and stands in front of me in a white T-shirt and boxers with green dollar signs printed on them.
During collection time, someone’s cell phone rings. Like a climactic point in a tennis match, we all shoot looks in the shrill’s direction.
“It’s my husband,” a woman says apologetically, as she digs through her oversized black handbag. “Should I answer it?”
“What do you think?” bellows Snoopy sarcastically. His voice is intoxicating. Even angry, he sounds sexy.
The closer Snoopy gets, the more the familiar tingling inside me increases. It spreads like ants crawling over my body, irrigating my blood stream, making me feel a prickly heat in my fingers and toes.
There’s some discussion coming from the men’s side. I take my eyes off Snoopy and scan the line to see what the problem is.
“Hand it over, man, all of it,” Mickey snarls at one customer.
I can’t see who because Mickey is covering him. Next to him, though, is Mark, who is hovering like a frightened cat recoiling from a predator.
“Hey, man,” I recognize Mark’s whimpery voice, “just give them what they want.” Then to Mickey, “Here you go,” and hands him his Velcro wallet, phone and keys to his apartment. He offers them up to Mickey like Oliver Twist, hoping for exemption, or a second helping. “Just don’t hurt anyone,” he adds.
I roll my eyes up at Snoopy, then grimace. I can see Snoopy smirking, too. His lips curl up ever so slightly and just touch the edges of his plastic mask. He has perfect teeth. And they’re real, too. Not the capped kind. He runs his tongue over them. I mimic him, then wink. I flash him my toothy, white smile and try to flirt as I remove my ring, the stolen one Mark brought me a few months ago. Coyly, I drop it into the black sack. I smile, feeling like a pro, and add my name and phone number, which I wrote on someone’s register slip I found on the floor, to the lot. Then I wink again.
Snoopy pauses, probably assuming I have a nervous twitch. His gloved hand picks out my note. My body feels on fire as I watch him open it. He looks back at me, head tilted, and licks his top lip with the tip of his tongue.
“Call me,” I mouth while I make the official phone signal, thumb and pinkie extended, other fingers curled in, and bring my hand to my mouth and ear. He smiles and shows his pearly whites. The light catches them, making him appear as though he’s in a toothpaste commercial.
He takes a small step toward me and raises his gun in my direction, stopping only when it’s aimed at my head. Snoopy is five, maybe six feet away from me. My heart stops. He cocks the metal, jerking the gun upward slightly, indicating that I’m to stand, I do as I’m told. My body feels electric, my mind races.
There’s dead silence.
Everyone’s eyes are on us. I’ve never felt so alive in my entire life. I hear the humming of the fluorescent lights, then the ticking of the clock overhead. Snoopy and I stand still. My heart is pounding. I’m sure he hears it, too. I can get out of this. Think. Think. Dodge a bullet, say something witty, smile, flirt … The room fades and the light ringing in my ears becomes louder. I see myself standing there in the supermarket. See Snoopy and the pointed gun. Then I see my father. See the photo in the newspaper. See him lying on the cold floor of the zoo, insects crawling on him, pieces of glass surrounding his body, neck broken. I blink and Snoopy comes back into focus. I stare back at him.
“Take me with you,” a voice says. I look around and realize it’s mine. Not meek or soft, but strong. Confident.
A beeping starts. I look from Snoopy to Mickey, who’s holding up his wrist. “That’s it, boys. Show’s over.”
The two D’s collect the black bags from Mickey. The three pull out their firearms and stride over to the cellar doors, heave them open and drop them loudly on the floor. It resonates with an awful, booming sound. Mickey scurries hurriedly in first, followed by Donald. Dumbo remains still and clears his throat.
“Sorry, love,” Snoopy says, British accent in full swing. “Not this time. Perhaps next go-round.” He nods, taps his forehead with his gun, and salutes good-bye. I watch his body disappear into the dim stairs until there’s nothing in the spot but darkness. Dumbo follows. As furry paws reach out to close the metal doors, Snoopy pops back up and tosses something at me. I flinch but catch it after it hits my chest. It’s my piece of paper. My hands are shaking as I open the crumpled-up ball. I look down, thinking I’ll see my own number, but it’s been crossed out. The name Hunter Clark is scribbled in its place.
The cellar doors bang shut; I can feel the heavy metal closing in my chest. The sound of thick chains and a lock comes from inside the storeroom.
Then silence.
No one moves at first. It seems like everyone is either holding their breath or expecting someone to shout “Cut!” Eventually people start to gather themselves. A few men come to the women’s side and help them up. Some hold each other, some cry, some just remain frozen. Four men try to pry the automatic doors open, while others look for ways to remove the wood that’s been affixed to the windows, or break the glass.
The store manager climbs onto the middle conveyer belt, his foot slipping every so often. “Please calm down. First, is everyone all right?” When no one answers, he continues. “Okay, there’s an alarm in the back of the store. Stan has pushed the button, so the police have been notified and, I assume, are on their way.” He takes a deep breath, trying to suck in all the air in the room. “If you can stay and give statements, that would be wonderful. For those of you who need to get home, you’re all on the honor system. Take your groceries and pay us tomorrow.”
People cheer like they’ve just seen the New Year’s Eve ball drop. Some men slap hands, women pile groceries into brown paper bags.
I watch everyone move past me. Through me.
I put the paper in my pocket and find Mark hurriedly packing up our groceries, shoving cans of ginger ale and the box of HoHos into his knapsack while asking someone what time it is.
I wait to see how long it will take him to look for me. How long it will take him to realize I’m already gone.
Shrinking Away
Helen is dreaming of snakes. Massive, slimy creatures that wind themselves around her body and throat. They are heavy and thick and make it impossible for her to move. In other dreams, sneering black birds latch onto her shoulders and fly off with her while bugs crawl into her mouth. She often wakes, gasping for air or leaping out of bed to jerk on the light and search for roaches or spiders that have crept under her sheets. Her therapist, Marty, says she’s repressing guilt and this is how her body deals with it. Helen thinks he’s wrong. Helen thinks it’s Marty who interrupts her thoughts, attaching himself to her fantasies and controlling her subconscious.
The sound of the alarm is jarring and hauls her out of this reverie. Her shirt is wet and clings to her damp skin. The room feels dizzy. She feels dizzy, as if she’s been treading water for too long. Boxes, newspaper, and brown tape litter her Upper West Side apartment. She hasn’t packed the coffee machine yet and the fridge is still stocked. On the door is a list of meetings which is pinned down by magnets in the shape of handbags. Next to it is her gym schedule. If she can get organized, she can hit her 9:00 a.m. debtor’s meeting followed by the 10:30 a.m. aerobics class.
Helen keeps a dress list, recording what she’s worn to each meeting. Every week, in honor of the occasion, she purchases a new outfit. No one in the group has noticed that she’s never worn the same thing twice. And if they did, no one has commented.
No matter what she buys, whenever possible she pays in cash. That way, her father won’t find out. All of her credit card bills are sent to him and he must give his verbal approval before any purchase is rung through. Her father asks the salespeople a litany of questions ranging from “What is my daughter charging?” and “How much is the outfit?” to “Do you feel this is something she needs to have or is she being extravagant?” Every now and then she gets an eager seller who is desperate to make their commission. They disobey the annoying notice that pops up on the screen when the card’s numbers are punched in. Sometimes, she bribes them or gives them head in the back room. Last week she swayed the manager with a hand job for twenty percent off of the earrings at Bergdorf’s. It was surprisingly easy. They were leaning up against the end of the glass case, he on one side, she on the other, their hips just touching at the corner. She slipped her hand into his unzipped fly and earned her discount. She never told that to Marty. She simply showed him her new purchase, leaned in close, invading the special space between patient and therapist, outlined by the two identical leather chairs. He liked them. She could tell. They dangled from her ears and she asked him to touch them. If Marty were her husband, she would dress him in T-shirts from the Gap and suits from Armani rather than the crewnecked sweaters and crisp Polo shirts his wife buys him. Helen thinks this makes Marty look too “Father knows best,” and ages him by ten years. She bought him a pipe once, but he didn’t get the joke.
Helen likes Marty. He’s tall and charming. Though he won’t tell his exact age, he did say he was in his early forties, which makes him six or eight years older than she. Sometimes she doesn’t talk, she just watches him. Takes visual notes of his sympathetic eyes, his pressed-together lips, his open and accepting face as if trying to take a tiny piece of him with her. He has a small scar over his left eyebrow and sometimes during a session, when she is close to crying, Helen stares at it. Her friend, Tess, told her that at $150 an hour, twice a week, she should stare at Marty’s dick. Tess is also in Debtors Anonymous. The two have been going for almost a year and a half. If the meeting is taking place in the late afternoon, they gather for lunch first with other women from the group and sometimes shop afterward, perusing the sales racks, browsing department stores. Helen doesn’t mind the meetings—she rather likes them. A handful of gruff men talk about Home Depot. Or they spew stories about appliances and home fix-it jobs, shiny cars, and box seats at sporting events. Some bitch about their wives and the enormous bills they ring up. That they can’t keep going to work and coming home to stuffed closets and empty bank accounts. The women discuss shopping trends, sample sales, outlet stores, and warehouses. Last week one woman explained how the tactile feeling of suede turned her on. That a velvet shirt gave her an orgasm in the stall at Neiman’s. Other women talk about the void shopping fills, the supposed hole they are trying to cram with objects and clothing. The need to be loved. This might be true for most, but not for Helen. It’s not about the void, it’s about the taking in. The holding onto. Bags make her hands feel occupied. They hold her down, anchor her to the ground, make it impossible for her to take flight. If she were to drown, her many bags would keep her afloat. She can almost see herself coasting on a huge raft made out of protective bubble from Crate & Barrel.
She likes jewelry best. Small trinkets that fit comfortably, easily into pockets and handbags, slip off her fingers or wrists before dinners with her parents, sessions with Marty, meetings in church basements. Pockets allow her to caress them without anyone knowing. The safety of objects, she thinks. That’s what it’s all about.
She and Tess are shopping at Tiffany & Co. The necklace, a gold link chain, is too constricting and reminds Helen of her snake dream. The air is cut off from her throat and her hands shake as she rushes to remove it. In her harried state, she almost cuts her finger on the safety clasp.
Earlier that day, she and Tess saw the perfect sweater for Marty—a navy blue cashmere V-necked sweater. She longs to dress him up, take him out for dinner, pretend he isn’t married and he isn’t her shrink. Her parents would approve of him, finally feel as though she had done something right with her life. Marty would be what her mother calls “a lucky snatch.” She visualizes having a family dinner at Mr. Chow’s. Her brother and his wife, her mother and her much older, wealthy acquaintance, her father and his secretary (or hat-check girl or some woman he met on the subway), and her and Marty. Her mother would order steamed vegetables and several glasses of wine, her father would feed his lady friend, and her brother would haggle about the bill, commenting how the lo mein tasted pasty. Helen can see Marty clasping her hand under the table as he bites into an egg roll or chomps on a rib. In between the digs and vicious looks her father would throw her mother and the sneers and nervous coughs her mother would make, Marty would lean into Helen and say, “Your father’s so clearly passive aggressive and I had no idea how truly dysfunctional your mother was.” Then he’d kiss her right under her ear lobe, smearing a hint of Peking sauce on her pricey earring. But instead, all she has are weekly fuck sessions with Marty that take place at the Four Seasons.
The urge to hit Bloomingdale’s supersedes her morning meeting at work. Her boss won’t miss her. He’s an alcoholic and as long as she looks pretty, provides coffee and Advil, she could come in at 3:00 p.m. and he wouldn’t care. He allows her the long lunches. He takes them, too. Her job often requires her to be out of the office most of the day, scouting for locations. She works on Scavengers, a reality show where real people are given a list of items that they must acquire. The first team to complete the list wins. Helen is in charge of securing the objects, finding the sites, and obtaining the rights to film in them. Department stores and malls love her. It’s because she’s a good customer, and they feel comfortable with someone who frequents their shops so often. The free publicity doesn’t hurt, either.
People like Helen. She’s friendly and effervescent, a brilliant negotiator, and knows the ins and outs of every mall and specialty store from Manhattan to Vermont. They are unaware she’s afraid to sleep. That she takes pills and drinks pots of coffee before bed. That she often feels invisible. That the receipts and the useless objects she insists she have make her feel alive. Very often she leaves these stores with free stuff or coupons and discount cards given to her by well-meaning managers and zealous salespeople.
At 6:30 p.m., the realtor stops by with the new clients/soon-to-be homeowners. Mr. Kramer wants to add molding to the ceiling and make the two closets into one large walk-in. Mrs. Kramer is adamant about turning Helen’s small office into a baby’s room. They are lovely people, and Helen almost offers to help them furnish the apartment with the perfect home decorations and fabrics.
All Helen can think about is the profit she’s making, practically doubling her investment, and the things she’ll buy. The gifts she can give friends and co-workers. Once a week she visits the children’s ward at Sloan-Kettering. She brings stuffed animals or painting sets, coloring books, and packages of pretty pastel beads.
Selling her apartment is a smart move. She really needs the money, and her parents never visit. What they don’t know won’t hurt them. She’s promised Marty she’ll pay off all her debts and fix her credit rating. It’s part of the deal. She’s staying at her brother’s for the next six months while he’s away on business in Tokyo. His office is sending him there to head up a new banking system or something. Every time she asks him specifically what he does for a living, he gives her the same non-linear answer so that Helen never really knows what he does, except that he works for a bank but isn’t a banker. “Your brother is a very important man,” her mother told her last week. “They’re investing millions in him.”
Helen plans to spend the next four months looking for another apartment, maybe a walk-up. Something smaller. Something near Marty’s office or even in his apartment building. She needs no doorman. She’s hardly home. Besides, her apartment is more for storing her possessions than it is for storing Helen. She wonders if moving closer to Marty means she’ll see him more. Catch him jogging or walking with his frumpy wife. A woman who, Helen envisions, has a bad sense of style, frosted hair, and sports last year’s suits cut too big and hemmed too short.
