Alligators in the Trees (51 page)

“No.”

“Thank you for shopping at ValuWise and have a good…” Roxanne stared at the retreating woman with her mouth hanging slack.

“These are meant to be filled out by your customers, not thrown in the trash,” Stan whispered in his spooky good father voice, while he smiled at the patrons lined up at check stand four. He had an uncanny ability to materialize at the most inopportune times.

“Jee—you scared me,” Roxanne said with a start. “Um…she said she was in a hurry…” Roxanne watched in disbelief as Stan bent down and removed the discarded score sheet from the trash. Out of reflex, she began to scan the next order, racking her brain for the proper opening line.

“Hello, how are you today?” she began.

“See me in my office after your break,” Stan whispered sweetly. Roxanne nodded dutifully, her cheeks flushed with both humiliation and anger. Her breathing was fast and hard.

Let him fire me—I don’t give a damn
, she was thinking while blindly working her way through customer after customer. If he was going to can her, what was the point of twisting herself in knots trying to play kiss-ass to a never-ending line of folks who couldn’t be less interested in ValuWise’s new martial politeness campaign?

At the first opportunity, she seized Daniel’s attention.

“How are you doing?” he asked, giving Kelsey a hand with the bagging.

“Plastic,” Roxanne corrected him.

“Right,” Daniel said, smiling awkwardly at the young mother with the newborn in a body sling.

“I’m about a millisecond away from losing my mind,” Roxanne said beneath her breath, a faux smile plastered across her face.

“Your break is in thirty minutes,” Daniel replied discreetly.

“I can’t wait that long,” Roxanne informed him, staring him straight in the eye lest he miss the seriousness of what she was saying.

“I’ll see what I can do…” Daniel tried to dash away, supposedly with her request as his utmost priority, but Roxanne held him in place by his sleeve.

“Daniel…do not leave me here. I…need…a…break…NOW.” Daniel’s expression said he had gotten the message loud and clear this time. He took a key from his pocket and inserted it into the register. He canceled out Roxanne’s access and keyed in his own. “Go, I’ve got it.”

Daniel wasn’t thrilled by the position Roxanne had put him in, but the look on her face was one he’d never seen before. She seemed scared and vulnerable, a combination in her that gave him a cold chill down his spine.

Roxanne stood on the back steps of the warehouse, gulping breaths of air as she searched for her keys. She found them and began to automatically scan the lot for her car as she descended to the employee parking lot. It wasn’t until she reached the bottom step that she realized she didn’t have a car to go to. Her miserable piece of crap was at home, stubbornly fixed to its parking space. She sank to the steps, as listlessly as if she had been poured there.

It had been so long since she had cried, she idly wondered why her cheeks were wet. She swiped roughly at the rivulets, sniffing hard as she fought back a powerful wave of self-pity.

“Goddamnsonofabitch,” she swore for openers. That felt good enough to encourage more creative curses. The more she swore, the less she felt like crying and the more she felt like punching someone in the face, namely Stan Kemplehoff. Maybe Andrea’s cocky boyfriend, too.

She let loose a few more inspired epithets, then reached for her cell phone. She called Andrea’s salon, only to get the auto-attendant. She thought of trying her cell number, but checking her watch, figured she was in busy at work on someone’s head. She continued to stare at her cell phone, willing it to come up with some useful suggestions. It remained mute and uncooperative.

“What am I going to do?” she said in an uncharacteristic whimper. “I have no car and almost no job, and zero options. Oh, my God—I hate my life!” Her gaze rose to the tarmac, but no further. She was feeling so dispirited, she couldn’t even bring herself to mutilate a few cigarettes. Finally, out of her dreary reverie came an inspiration. Within seconds, she had her ex-husband on the line.

“What’s up—I’m about to go into a meeting,” he said without preamble.
Ah Derek—always Mr. Impatient.

“I’ve got a problem,” Roxanne said, willing to skip the small talk and cut to the chase if he was. “My car’s dead. It’s the starter or something.” Derek missed a beat, as he attempted to figure out how this was a problem that concerned him.

“Have it towed to the garage and get it fixed,” he said, as if the conundrum was simple enough for a child to solve. In fact, it made so much sense, it took Roxanne aback momentarily.

“Well, I could do that Derek, but that’s easier said than done. I’m at work, I have no way of getting home or getting back to work tomorrow—”

“Okay, so you need a car. Rent one until yours is fixed.” Roxanne gritted her teeth and tried not to let her ill feelings show.

“Derek, I can’t afford to rent a car or have mine fixed. Besides, you know as well as I do that’s probably a waste of money. The car is fifteen years old. What’s the point of putting three hundred into a car that’s only worth about seven?”

“What do you want me to do, Roxanne?” Here it came, the grudging persecution act. Poor old Derek Platt, being forced to endure the eternal burden of having once said “I do” to her.

“I don’t know, Derek… Maybe I’m hoping you’ll loan me the money to buy a new car—a new used car, I mean.” Derek exhaled audibly, switching the phone to his other ear, a tell-tale sign that he was about to lose his equanimity, what little he possessed when it came to dealing with her. “Hello?”

“Why are you asking me?”

“Because you’re the only one I can ask.”

“Ask your parents,” he said, throwing the first dagger. Only a person once in possession of total trust could know how to place the point so accurately.

“You know that’s not an option,” she said, acknowledging he’d hit a nerve.

“They would be the most logical people to hit up for a loan,” he said, giving the blade a twist.

“Derek, they’d just as soon see me lose my home than help me out financially.” This was only a marginal exaggeration. Harold and Daphne Burrows firmly and unflinchingly believed in never making loans or monetary gifts to their children, unless it was solely for educational purposes. A perfect example of this was her brother, Wes, on whom they had spent a sizable fortune for Harvard Medical School. Two other siblings both graduated from UC schools, which was no cheap ticket, either.

Roxanne was the only scholastic underachiever in a family which prided itself on higher education. For that reason alone, Roxanne sometimes felt they owed at least a little something for letting them off the hook. Like maybe the price of a “pre-owned” car. Derek had a point, but she wasn’t going to let him know that.

“That still doesn’t mean
I
should have to loan you the money,” he protested.

“You need to not think about it as lending me money, when in reality I need a car just as much for Connor’s sake as I do for any other reason,” she argued.

“Roxanne—I’ve got to go. They’re waiting for me.”

“Will you at least think about it? Derek…? Derek?” Roxanne glared at the disconnected screen on her phone. “Asshole,” she mouthed, as she flicked the phone closed. Well, so much for that idea. She was going to have to come up with something, though, or she’d be hoofing it home after work.

“Oh, crap!” she exclaimed, jumping to her feet as she realized she hadn’t clocked out before her impromptu break. Plus, her fifteen minutes of freedom were up, which meant she had an assignation with Stan the Slave Driver, most likely so he could give her her walking papers.

She scrambled up the steps, wracking her brain for plausible excuses for her many and varied transgressions. She didn’t have much time for rumination; she ran into Stan as soon as she burst through the loading dock door. She smiled reflexively as her armpits stung with perspiration. Her smile froze and faded as Stan curled his finger in a sinister, beckoning way.

Roxanne passed into Stan’s office, her chest thudding despite her desire for nonchalance. There was a hint of the menace that was to follow in the way he sharply closed the door behind her. She took a seat as directed, determined to take whatever he was going to brow-beat her with in stride. She sat lightly in the chair, tentative and wary, almost forgetting to breathe while she waited for Stan to let loose on her.

Being prone to dramatic displays of authority, Stan took his time, doing his best to unnerve his prey before attacking. Roxanne studied him as he studied her, his hands wrapped around the armrests of his chair, his posture slightly cocked, as if he might pounce at any moment.

After the stare-down that resulted in a draw, Stan turned his attention to the manila file folder on his desk, the contents of which he undoubtedly knew by heart. Nevertheless, he leafed through the pages with mock-absorption, glancing up at her occasionally.

Alright, already—let’s get this over with, for God’s sake
, Roxanne thought, her jaw set defensively, her fingers drumming a beat on her leg, her annoyance building by the second.

“So…” Stan began. The mere sound of his condescending voice made her cringe. “You’ve been here a long time, Roxanne—twelve, thirteen years?”

“Thirteen,” she dutifully answered.

“There are a couple things about your file that caught my attention. You’ve seen your share of managers come and go, haven’t you?”

“More than I can count,” Roxanne confirmed with a breezy smile. Stan chewed his tongue methodically as he considered her response.

“The first anomaly is that, in all those thirteen years, you’ve failed to be promoted.”

Roxanne shrugged indifferently. “I’m not the managerial type,” she said. “I guess I just don’t like to boss other people around.”

Stan took the insinuation with a predictably incensed smirk. He regarded her coldly before continuing his long-winded appraisal of her. “Nor, curiously—and here’s the thing I find really interesting,” he said, leaning into his work with evident malice, “nor have you ever been cited for any misconduct or insubordination.” Stan let this statement hang threateningly in the air.
Is he asking me or telling me
? Roxanne wondered.

“That’s right,” she finally said, hoping to get the inquisition moving along.

“Am I to conclude, then, that you’ve decided to only butt heads with me?” The question seemed so ludicrous, Roxanne almost laughed.

“I didn’t decide anything like—”

“…because not one of your other managers had anything derogatory to say about you.” This line of reasoning left Roxanne grappling for comprehension.

“Uh…I don’t know what to say… I’ve never had any problems with any other managers before…”

“So you admit, then, that you do have a problem with me,” Stan declared, delivering his coup d’ grace with all the vigor of trial attorney who’s picked up the scent of blood.

“I don’t have a problem with you, Stan—other than the fact you make a career out of riding my case,” Roxanne replied. By this point, she had lost any trepidation about losing her job and was calculating what her unemployment checks might net her.

“See? See…? This is exactly the kind of disrespectful attitude I’m talking about!” Stan bellowed, leaping out of his chair to wag his finger in her face.

Roxanne’s mouth dropped in amazement. The guy was losing his grip right in front of her. She stiffened in her chair, worried for a moment he might strike her. But seeing him flip his lid had given her the upper hand, though Stan did not seem to fully realize this yet.

“This is the kind of
insubordination
and lack of respect that leads to widespread disobedience! Your bad attitude toward me
can
and
will
affect the entire staff,” he continued to rage.

“Stan,” Roxanne replied calmly, “I think you’re being rather paranoid. I don’t have a problem with you, and I don’t incite the rest of the employees against you. I just come to work, do my job, and leave. That’s it, that’s all. I’m just a working mom trying to support myself and my son,” she said, piety and earnestness written all over her features.

“I don’t think you understand the effect your attitude has on your fellow workers. I don’t think you even realize how bad your attitude is,” Stan said, resuming his seat, falsely believing he was still in control of the situation.

“Stan, are you firing me? Because if you are, you need a reason, a real reason. By law, you really can’t fire me just because you think I’m out to undermine your authority. You need some sort of proof, some incident to back up your accusations.”

By now, Stan was starting to catch on. Though Roxanne hadn’t come out and said it yet, Stan got the distinct impression Roxanne had more than a passing familiarity with labor law.

“Are you threatening to sue?” he blurted out. Roxanne smiled. “Is that what this is all about?”

“You tell me, Stan. You’re the one who called this meeting. I don’t have a problem with you or ValuWise,” she lied. “I just want to do my job, get paid and be left alone. So, you tell me—am I going to be able to continue doing that, or is this going to become an…issue?” Stan stared her down, his eyes blazing with contempt and a flicker of fear.

“Consider this a warning,
Ms. Platt
,” he said, as he grabbed his pen and began to document this altercation. “It’s in writing now, so
don’t push your luck
,” he hissed

Roxanne pursed her lips to keep her tongue inside her head. Nothing wrong with a clean victory, she decided, though she knew for certain she had to walk a very straight line from now on. “Are we done?” she asked sweetly, as she rose to leave.

“You can go now. But a word to the wise, Roxanne—you want to play hardball with the big boys, you better watch your back.” Roxanne rolled her eyes heavenward as she trudged back to the relative sanity of her check stand.

Roxanne executed one final kicking leg-lift before collapsing flat-out on the carpet. She lay there, mouth hanging open as she panted, until she could no longer stand the sound of the instructor’s impossibly energetic commands. She rolled back onto her side and slithered to the coffee table, where she seized the remote control and switched off the DVD.

That Pilates guy is a maniac
, she thought as she sprawled out again and stared at her dingy ceiling, idly counting the number of daddy longlegs that thought enough of her shabby condo to call it home. At least the sadistic exercises had taken her mind off work and other quandaries, namely what to do about her car. But acknowledging this brought them both back to the forefront of her mind, where they pirouetted in unison, taunting her inability to reckon with them.

“Okay, I still have a job—for the time being anyway.” She struggled to her feet and made for the sofa, grabbing her cigarettes along the way. She sat back, thoroughly spent, grateful she had forced herself through forty-five minutes of grueling self-abuse. It
did
make her feel virtuous, at least on one level.

She pulled two cigarettes from the pack and stuck one in her mouth, letting out a huge sigh as she did so. The other one she rubbed between her fingers, loosening the tobacco and watching it trickle to her lap, a sight she found highly satisfying, for reasons she could not explain.

She wanted to call Connor before he sat down to dinner with Derek and his new wife, Lana. But she also wanted to enjoy these few fleeting moments of contentment while they lasted. As much as she loved her son, talking to him on the phone when he was at his dad’s always made her feel oddly disconnected from him, as if he were on the other side of the planet and not merely six miles away.

But she couldn’t blame him for seeming so distant; the duality of his life must be less than desirable. When he was with Derek, he had everything a seven-year-old boy could want: his own room, his own TV and computer and oodles of games, a big house, nice neighborhood to play in.

Still, he didn’t have the same kind of closeness with his dad as he had with her. He once asked if she could come along when Derek came to get him. He loved being with her, but it had to be like Cinderella after the ball. She did what she could to make it up to him, but it was comparable to substituting an algebra book for a trip to the video arcade.

Roxanne took in her surroundings, wondering how she could make them more cheerful and inviting.
I could paint the place again—something a little brighter
, she mused half-heartedly. But she didn’t really feel like painting. What she really wanted to do was put a “for sale” sign in the window and walk away. She let this lofty notion linger in her head, savoring the power she only dreamed she could possess.

“Why can’t I change my life?” she asked herself. Instead of the myriad of usual excuses, Roxanne found a germ of possibility edging its way around the periphery of her mind. That germ was leftover from the other day, when she briefly and absurdly entertained the idea of pursuing a career in real estate.

“A
career in Real Estate. A career in Real Estate.” The words lingered on her tongue like something sweet and foreign, like Crêpes Suzettes or baklava. The phrase also brought up images of herself she barely recognized, visions of speaking with authority to people who hung on her every word. Giddy visions of gazing upon her first commission check. Dreamy visions of giving ValuWise a single-finger salute goodbye.

This last mental visual was enough to get her off the sofa in search of the morning paper. She found it in the trash, mottled with brown dampness from the coffee filter. She retrieved the section she was looking for and dropped the rest back in the wastebasket, along with the two cigarettes. She was on a mission now. No time for useless props.

She began scanning the real estate ads as she took a seat at the table. From what she could determine, homes in her area ranged from $350,000 for a two-bedroom starter condo, to a million-plus for a house on the ocean or one of the marinas. Without taking her eyes off the paper, she retrieved the calculator from the junk drawer and punched in a few hypothetical scenarios.

Taking a rough average figure of $700,000 and multiplying that by six percent… Whew—forty-two thousand bucks! But that was the gross commission. She knew enough about real estate to know the six percent was split if two different companies were involved… Twenty-one thousand. If the agent got sixty percent of that… Twelve-thousand six hundred.

Not bad, not bad at all. And that was just one sale. If she could do a minimum of four sales a year… Fifty grand. She could live on that. Heck, three measly sales a year would net her what she was making at ValuWise. And she wouldn’t have Stan Kemplehoff breathing down her neck, just waiting for her to commit some infraction of his Gestapo-esque rules.

Without hesitating, she booted Conner’s computer and quickly retraced her steps from the other night. After a few minutes of comparison, she settled on Elite Real Estate School. She filled in her information, and right before she clicked on ‘submit,’ gave her pessimistic side a chance to dissuade her.

For starters, it was two hundred and seventy-five bucks that she didn’t have. Whatever she could beg or borrow had to go to fixing her miserable wreck of an automobile. Okay, she couldn’t afford it. But she couldn’t ignore the fact that her days as a checker were numbered. She was beyond burnt-out. If she didn’t find another line of work—and soon—she’d end up in the rubber room. So…it was immaterial that she didn’t have the money. She’d just have to get it, somehow, some way.

Then there was the matter of suitability. After all, this sudden desire to sell real estate was a dramatic departure for her. What made her think she possessed the aptitude for that kind of work? She’d always shied away from sales, just as she shied away from salespersons. Could she really see herself talking up the good points of a place that lacked real merit, like her own dump for instance? Hmmm…that was a challenge.
Good starter condo for first-time homebuyers, centralized location, large sunny patio.
Piece of cake, she thought, as she clicked on the submit button.

The thrill of initiating such a profound change in her life made her tingle all over.
Besides, real estate companies train you before turning you loose on the world
, she tried to convince herself. She pushed away from the computer; it was done. No turning back now.

As she wandered toward the kitchen, she entertained images of what the process would be like, what it would feel like to show clients homes for sale. This thought stopped her dead in her tracks.
Show clients around in what? A car that didn’t run? A car that virtually screamed LOSER from twenty paces?
Everyone knew a real estate agent had to have a great-looking car to impress clients. The better the car, the more successful the agent. Everybody knew that
.

Damn, I forgot that one tiny detail
, she thought miserably as she sank onto the sofa. Her stomach flip-flopped as the reality of wasting two hundred and seventy-five bucks set in. She blindly reached for her cigarettes, but even as she did so, she knew fake-smoking wasn’t going to cut it this time.

She staggered to the kitchen and tore through her junk drawer until she located a matchbook. She took a long, anxiety-calming drag and exhaled as she made her way out to the patio. She perched herself on one of the cheap resin chairs, once white, now streaked the color of nougat, caked with dead leaves and dirt.

After a few more drags, she chided herself for her impulsive stupidity. But by the time she was finished with the first cigarette, she had grown weary of self-abasement. Despite the setback, her tenuous optimism began to once again flicker and flare. Changing her life wouldn’t be easy, but keeping with the status quo was not an option. Neither was not buying a new car. It was unthinkable to live in California without a car. It simply wasn’t done. There had to be a solution, somewhere; she just had to find it.

With another amazing burst of clarity, she hit on the answer. It was so foolproof, she laughed out loud. She stubbed out the cigarette on the deck and practically skipped to the phone, making a mental list of all her upcoming expenses. She cleared her throat and donned her sunniest outlook, as she prepared to make the first sales pitch of her new career.