Alligators in the Trees (48 page)

A Novel

By Cynthia Hamilton

Copyright 2010

All Rights Reserved

“Carly, put that magazine back,” the distracted shopper barked before resuming her phone conversation. Roxanne’s gaze roved warily from the scraggily child with a penchant for tabloid rag sheets to her unruly little brothers, one of whom was kicking the front of Roxanne’s checkout stand for all he was worth. The other boy, a toddler no more than two, was seated in the front of the cart, eying Roxanne with menacing glee as he chomped on a grape-flavored candy stick, wrapper and all.

As if suddenly tuning into the scene in front of her, the woman yanked the candy out of the boy’s hand and thrust it at Roxanne, who reached for it with the tips of her forefinger and thumb. She passed what was left of the wrapper over the scanner and handed it back to the woman, who in turn stuck it in the mouth of her squalling child.

“The total comes to one-forty-eight seventy,” Roxanne said, her tone flat and hard, as she rubbed sanitizer on her hands, killing time while she waited for the customer to get her act to together.

“Wait—I’ve got coupons for the milk and the diapers,” the woman said. “Hey, I’m going to have to call you back,” she said, digging through her purse with one hand as she ended her call. “Who put this in here?” she asked her children, as she snatched a box of chocolate-flavored cereal from the bagger.

“Joey did it,” the girl chimed happily.

“Did not.”

“Liar!”

“I don’t want this,” the frazzled mom said, handing the cereal and the coupons to Roxanne. “Take it off the bill,” she snapped, as if Roxanne were somehow responsible for this oversight. Roxanne’s mouth opened, a scathing reproach for the woman’s horrendous lack of parenting skills dying to be let loose, when the toddler leaned over and spewed a copious quantity of purple vomit down the side of Roxanne’s check stand.

“Oh, Jesus,” Roxanne groaned, watching in horror as the barf seeped toward the conveyer belt. “Clean up on check stand six!” she bellowed. She immediately repeated the May-Day call, her agitation pushing her to the brink of her self-control. “I need somebody over here now, goddammit!” Daniel, the assistant manager, was already behind her as she turned to abandon ship.

“Where are you going?” he asked, as she pushed past him.

“I’m taking my break,” Roxanne called out over her shoulder.

“
Now
? But what about your customers?” Daniel asked of Roxanne’s retreating figure, his voice verging on panic as he quickly assessed the mess and the long line of impatient shoppers. Roxanne clapped her hands over her ears to block out Daniel’s protests and quickened her pace.

Stationed at her customary perch on the steps of the loading dock, Roxanne reached into the pocket of her ValuWise smock for her cigarettes. She held one between her lips as she shook another one free from the pack. She drew hard on the unlit cigarette; a desperate attempt to satisfy her craving. She exhaled deeply out the side of her mouth, as though she were actually releasing a large plume of smoke.

The pantomime had the desired effect, nonetheless. She immediately felt calmer, calm enough to enjoy the ritualistic shredding of the second cigarette. She gently tore at the paper, tearing it in a rough spiral as the tobacco fell in clumps on her lap.

She had long given up smoking—per the judge’s orders—but she couldn’t kick the habit of cigarettes. Not only did they provide the smoker the addictive nicotine fix, they were also a most valuable prop. Nothing can convey the same attitude of self-assurance and indifference than lighting and smoking a cigarette.

As her mind wandered, Roxanne considered all the ways to light a cigarette: with a book of matches, a lighter, a Lucifer match struck on the bottom of a boot—cowboy, motorcycle, stiletto-heel patent leather. Then there was the act of lighting one for someone else—extending a match or lighter; lighting it and passing it on; lighting two at once and passing one on. And the way it was smoked: harried and self-absorbed; serenely and oblivious to everyone and everything; absent-mindedly as if you didn’t even realize you had one lit.

Naturally, what was set on fire had to be put out. Roxanne’s mind swam with all the pleasant visions of stubbing out cigarettes in heavy glass ashtrays, soda cans, the ever-disappearing sand-filled stands, once as common as trash cans. Stubbing them out angrily, distractedly, hastily. Dropping them to the ground and grinding them with your heel.
Was
there any
better way to show the fates you don’t give a damn
, Roxanne mused as she tore the filter into fine strips and let them float away on the breeze.

“I figured I’d find you out here,” Daniel said from the doorway. “I should write you up for abandoning your register in the middle of a shift. Your break isn’t scheduled for another hour,” he said, hands on hips, his face stony with indignation. “Not that you give a damn, but that woman threatened to complain to Stan. She said you were very rude to her and used obscene language in front of her kids.”

Roxanne brushed the tobacco off her pants, but didn’t make a move to stand up. “The little cretin puked all over my check stand,” she said, her annoyance palpable. “And she has the nerve to complain about
me
?” Roxanne took the cigarette she had been using as a pacifier and began dismantling it in the same fashion as the first one.

“
Well
? Aren’t you going to apologize?”

“For what?”

“For abandoning your register…for leaving me to clean up that mess.”

Roxanne almost laughed as she got to her feet, expelling another pile of cigarette remains as she stood up. “Daniel, I don’t think it says anywhere in my job description I have to clean up baby vomit,” she said as she came face to face with her superior.

“That’s not the point—”

“What’s the point, then?”

“You were rude to a customer.”

Roxanne snorted disdainfully. “Do you realize what’s going on here? You’re reprimanding me for my lack of graciousness after some out-to-lunch mother let’s her kid eat candy wrappers and wretch all over the place. Are you for real?” she asked spitefully as she pushed past him.

Daniel’s jaw dropped in disbelief. “Roxanne,” he called out plaintively, taking long strides to catch up with her before she reentered the store. “Look,” he said, as she glared at his hand on her arm, “I know you need this job, so I’m telling you this for your own good. Stan is not as forgiving as I am. He’ll can you if he gets one more complaint.”

Roxanne huffed indignantly but realized Daniel was right; she did need her job, miserable as it was. But admitting that to herself only made her feel more out of sorts. She also knew the only reason she was still employed at ValuWise was because of Daniel’s futile crush on her. Those two admissions left her feeling mean-spirited and a tad guilty.

“Okay—I’m sorry, Daniel. I’ll bite through my tongue before I use profanity while on ValuWise property ever again. Swear to Christ,” she said, holding up her hand as a testament to her oath. “But I must insist that a ‘No Hurling’ sign be posted at my register.” Daniel’s face—only moments ago looking hopeful—dropped at her irreverent suggestion.

“That’s not funny, Roxanne,” he whined piteously, completely missing the humor of her remark.

“I know. Nothing around here is,” she said sullenly, as she pushed through the swinging steel doors and out onto the store floor.

“It says it right here in black and white—‘Pop singer in love triangle with Mom,’” the twenty-something intoned loudly into her cell phone. Roxanne gritted her teeth while visions of pitching the chick’s phone across the store played out in her head.

“Fifty-eight ninety-two,” Roxanne said, as she began dropping groceries in plastic bags.

“Oh, this too,” the customer said, handing the tabloid to Roxanne.
Why are purchases the last thing on their minds?
she asked herself as she ran it across the scanner and shoved it into the bag holding chicken parts, secretly hoping for leakage.

“Sixty-one twelve,” she said, displaying a mere hint of her impatience as she waited for the customer to dredge the crumpled bills from the pocket of her jeans. Roxanne smoothed each one out as she waited for another to appear.
It’d be a lot easier if you PUT DOWN THE PHONE!
she thought, wearing a pinched smile to hide her rancor. She snatched the last bill and made the woman’s change, then left her to gather her own bags, as she perfunctorily began scanning the next shopper’s purchases.

Another blabbermouth,
Roxanne noted with distaste. She wondered idly why Stan Kemplehoff was so fanatical about the cordiality of his employees; there hadn’t been a person in her line all day who seemed to notice her existence. She could be a robot or even stark naked for all they knew. Even the ones who parroted back her salutations did so in the same disinterested fashion in which they were served.

Let’s face it
, she rationalized,
none of us wants to be here. Except for this one
, she amended as she observed her latest customer, chatting it up with the couple behind her as though she were at some kind of social event.

“And I see you’re expecting,” the dyed blonde cooed, indicating the young woman’s protruding belly. The couple blushed and smiled in unison, a sight that made Roxanne grimace. “
How exciting
! Is this your first?” A double nod. “That’s just wonderful! Have you been in this area long?”

“Three years,” the young father-to-be answered.

“Delightful. And you own your own home?” the blonde asked slyly. With that last question, Roxanne knew in a nanosecond what this woman was up to. She might as well have been wearing a flashing neon sign around her neck, though once Roxanne looked her over, it was obvious enough without one. There was just something about the hair, nails and jewelry—especially in combination with the business suit.

“Well, we’re working on that, too,” the pregnant woman answered, with a self-conscious giggle.

“Splendid. Are you working with anyone?” the realtor asked, already digging for her cards without waiting for a reply. Roxanne watched on in mild disbelief as the woman closed in on her prey.

“My name’s Lois Bronsen, by the way. I work for ShoreSide Realty,” she said, her voice dripping sweetness, as she slipped one of her business cards into each of their hands. “I’ve helped dozens—maybe hundreds—of first-time buyers realize their dream of home ownership.” The couple mumbled politely as they studied the cards in their hands.

“Your total comes to one-twenty forty-six,” Roxanne said, pushing the last of the items toward the bagger.

“Oh, here’s my ValuWise card,” Lois Bronsen said, feigning regret for not paying attention. Roxanne took the card and swiped it through the customer keypad and handed it back to the realtor.

“One eleven thirty-five. You need to enter your pin number,” Roxanne directed, taking the opportunity to wipe off her scanner while her chatty patron dithered around like she’d never done this before.
Only forty-one minutes till quitting time,
Roxanne consoled herself, hoping she could make it through her shift without getting fired or losing her mind.

“You’re a homeowner, aren’t you…Roxanne?” the diehard agent asked, craning to read Roxanne’s nametag. “I know I’ve seen you in here many times,” Lois said, as she replaced her discount card and retrieved another business card in one fluid motion. “They hire the nicest people here. That’s why I always shop at this store,” she told the couple.

“Here’s my card. If you ever need to buy or sell, I’d be more than happy to assist you,” she said, thrusting it at Roxanne, who took it, mistaking it for the woman’s credit card.

“Thanks…but how will you be paying,
Lois
?” Roxanne asked. She glanced down at the card while Lois flipped through her wallet.

“Silly me! I got so caught up in our nice conversation, I forgot what I was doing!” she said, handing the card to Roxanne, instead of swiping it as she should have. Roxanne let out a resigned sigh and turned the keypad in her direction.

“I know it’s my job, but I never get tired of talking about real estate and homeownership. Even in these uncertain times, I still think it’s the most important investment a person can make.” Roxanne handed the woman her credit card and receipt, then tuned her out as she began checking the pregnant couple’s goods.

Once her shift was finally over, Roxanne wanted nothing more than to flee ValuWise as fast as her feet would carry her. But unfortunately, she was out of certain necessities—like toilet paper, coffee and cigarettes—so she was forced to grab a cart and join the throng of afternoon shoppers.

She raced down the aisles, weaving through the dawdling customers, pausing only momentarily to decide which of the white wines on sale was actually potable. She chose one and put it in the front of her cart, flipping up the plastic flap to keep the bottle from slipping out. As she did so, she was assailed by the second realtor of the day, this one smiling at her from the plastic placard—to her mind, one of the cheesiest forms of advertising ever invented.

God, they’re everywhere
, she lamented, as she recalled Lois Whats-her-name. Though she thought real estate agents ranked a close second behind used-car salesmen when it came to pushiness, she also knew that many of them made huge amounts of money. It wouldn’t surprise her if that Lois woman was one of the top agents in the area. The jewelry that flashed on every speck of bare skin was no cheap imitation. The woman was diamond central. Everything about her said she had money to burn, yet the woman was a complete ditz when it came to the simplest tasks, like purchasing groceries.

Go figure
, Roxanne groused silently, as she loaded her items onto the conveyer belt, nodding in solidarity to one of her fellow checkers. It was a living, their fleeting glance seemed to say, though there were moments when that was small consolation.