Ginger Krinkles (4 page)

Tood Fruck is not my passion. Cooking is not my passion. Sore feet and aching cheeks from smiling: Frown-faced emoticon here. I was early for work and waiting for Lauri at the mall.

Endless holiday songs blared from the mall’s loudspeakers. I sat on a bench to people watch. I had my public smile pasted on, disguising my angst as I took a quick peek inside my head at tightly wrapped secrets crammed in the corner, shoved inside shopping bags that I couldn’t bear to throw away.

One of my secrets is that sometimes I think I am an elf. I swiped the top of my ear. It makes no sense. I was more of an anti-elf. I would be the last one picked for any elf gift-wrapping party, toy-making club, or Treehouse for Humanity shindig, or whatever it is that elves do. The best I could muster had an extra syllable along with a few zillion flaws: myself.

Oh, poor, pitiful me. Lurking next to my elf secret was another one, the real reason I was fired from my job. And it wasn’t because I badmouthed one of my bosses. There was a little more to it than that. I clasped my hands in a half-assed plea for forgiveness. Maybe one day I wouldn’t feel like a snail-smashing monster.

“Shh,” I said as Lauri sat down beside me. I tilted my head. A couple was fighting at a table across from us.

“What’s going on?”

“The girl doesn’t like another girl, a mutual friend of theirs, but he thinks she’s nice.”

“Friends make terrible enemies.”

“
House of Cards
?”

“
Game of Thrones
.”

I laughed. “That’s not right. It should be ‘whosoever my girlfriend hateth so doth I.’”

I refocused my attention on Lauri. People charged by us with shopping bags jostling against their legs. Business was good, if Frankie was to be believed. We saw people spending money, and happy to do it. Buying gifts is a pretty heady responsibility and from the looks of it, it’s the most wonderful time of the year. It was also seventy degrees and sunny, so, maybe that had a lot to do with it, too. I, however, was in a funk. I welcomed the sunshine but had no idea what I was going to do for presents this year. And so help me, I refused to be on the receiving end of “please-don’t-get-me-anything” followed by the unspoken and oh-so-virtuous “we know you can’t afford it.”

Besides. I couldn’t remember what I gave for gifts last year, let alone what anyone got me.

“What did you get me for Christmas last year?” I asked her.

“Why? Do you need a new one?” Lauri squeezed her hands, like the notion of spending money on something for someone else made her a better person.

I tried a different tactic. “Do you remember what I got you last year?” I didn’t, but I was testing her.

“Ginger, you are too generous. Of course I remember.”

“I’m waiting.”

“Didn’t you get me …” Her voice trailed away. “Oh. That sweater.” She smiled.

I shook my head.

“Are you sure?”

“See! It’s all a scam. We get all hopped up on the thrill of the pursuit, spending money we don’t have for people we don’t like buying stuff they don’t need.”

“You don’t like me?”

“You, I like just fine. I didn’t like my boss, but had to deliver last year.”

“You don’t this year,” she said, lifting her eyebrows.

“There is that. I got fired. Yay me.”

“You didn’t like the scarf I gave you?” Curse her memory. That was my gift from her.

“Oh, that’s right.” I snapped my fingers. “Yes. I’m just not much of a scarf-wearer. I want to be, though. I try.” I do, too. Just yesterday I had stood in front of my mirror, folded the scarf in half, wound it through the curve and adjusted it around my neck. Women who wear scarves look so cool. The scarf was a great rich teal, my color, with starfish on it, how perfect. It matched absolutely nothing, and looked like I had draped an old curtain around my neck.

“How’s the bank account?” Lauri rubbed my back. “I can loan you some money.”

“Terrible, and no you can’t.” We watched a mom give her little baby in a stroller a lick off her ice cream cone. It was magical. The baby’s eyes nearly a-oogahed right out of its bald baby head. Its hands and feet lifted in the air and spiraled, fingers and toes stretched and straining, spinning pinwheels of damn-where-has-this-been-all-my-life?

“Look at that baby, Lauri.” We both smiled, feeling a tug on our ovaries. “Why can’t life go back to being that simple? A sweet little moment in time.” That baby was so happy. And that’s all it took. A few seconds of bliss. The joy of contentment. I stared hard.

“Too bad you can’t buy that,” I said, at the exact same moment Lauri spouted off her expected response. “See, she’s in the now.”

“That baby is a girl?”

“Shh,” Lauri shushed me.

“That’s it.” I covered my mouth.

“What’s it?” Lauri asked, still watching the baby. It wasn’t my imagination that her stick-up-the-ass posture looked a little wilted.

“It’s a secret,” I said. I waved at her and rushed off to the food truck.

($1,325.00 What, I’m going to sit at the mall and not have a frozen yogurt?)

Note to self: If one day you find yourself wondering why you are in a hand basket and where you might be headed, it might be time for a little introspection. I don’t believe in co-inky-dinks. I’m kidding, I bounce off supposed coincidences as guideposts for living life like I’m a pinball wizard. There’s got to be a twist.

I headed to my shift, not realizing the catastrophe that awaited. As if the gum I stepped in (I’ve started a petition to make improper gum disposal a felony) wasn’t warning enough, I dismissed the slow-walking, loud-talking phone-a-friend weaving in front of me, not letting me pass. The signs were there.

I wrapped my apron around me, filled with hope for a good day. Frankie cued me up with what to pitch for the day, he had a lot of Asiago and wanted to push the Gay Cheese sandwiches. A breeze had kicked up some puffy clouds and the temperature had started to slip just below seventy degrees, perfect grilled cheese weather. Transplants from other states became nostalgic, holiday music helped set the ambiance, and the chill in the air made for a perfect Grilled Cheese Sandwich Day. It’s a thing. Cheese and carbs can comfort what ails you. There was a long line and I was doing my thing, meeting and greeting and taking orders.

Frankie asked me how Lauri was, and I tossed off, “Mother Superior? Say ten Hail Marys, drop into Downward Dog and listen to her spout off the Power of How Now Brown Cow.” How did I know Lauri decided to have a Grilled Cheese Sandwich Day? And heard me. I looked up just in time to see her. Her eyes blinked, her lip quivered.

“Come on, Lauri. I was just kidding. Come back. My treat.” Her yoga pants slipped into the crowd. I squeezed my hand into a fist and wanted to punch myself in the face, which it probably looked like I had, since I could feel my cheeks burning with shame.

With her perfect lame-ass Buddha smile, Lauri is a barefoot goddess of goodness. I sometimes think she’s a scam artist, laying claim to some higher level of self-actualization than she actually deserves. Half the time she doesn’t even say or do anything. I love her, but she is one seriously serene shape shifter. People who can effortlessly flow into downward dog, on a surfboard, in the ocean (where she sometimes holds special retreats), are so cool. I waste a lot of energy being jealous of her. And even more worrying about being jealous. And now I blew it big time.

“Way to go, genius,” Frankie said.

“Shut up.”

“You do that a lot you know. Your mouth always gets you in trouble.”

“I’m taking advice from you now? That’s how low I’ve sunk?”

I pressed my lips together. I was such a jerk. I couldn’t believe I ragged on Lauri. I had only been kidding around with Frankie. I sometimes wonder why Lauri even bothers hanging out with me, and after today, I bet she was thinking the same thing. “Pain eats pain,” she would say. And I just swallowed a heaping helping. It tasted salty, with what-a-witch tears and a side of regret.

Lauri would forgive me. Right? The universe must have been gunning for me, because when I looked out at the customers again, arch enemy number one, V. Hickle herself, was down in front of me, arms folded. Ready to order. Harp music vibrated from my back pocket. One of these days I needed to delete that dang app.

“Hello, Ginger.”

Well, honk-honk, beep-beep. I leaned down from my perch in the window. I held out my hand and then changed my mind to go in for a hug then pulled back. That awkward moment. “Hey, Violet. How have you been?”

Her lips were pressed in a mere formality of a smile.

“Please accept my apology. Please. Please. I didn’t know.”

“I know. Do you want to make good?”

“Anything. I’ll do anything.”

If only she hadn’t lifted her eyebrow in that superior way of hers, as if she were channeling Stephen Colbert. “Are you enjoying working here?”

“Living the life. Thanks for noticing.”

“Ginger, I was being sincere. We miss you, you know.”

“Then I’m so glad you fired me.”

She shook her head. “It wasn’t like that. You know that. You are a smart girl and I think you’ll figure it out.” She gave me a prissy smile. “What do you want to do?”

Nosy much? “I’ll have plenty of time to figure that out, since I’m moving back to Ohio.”

“I’m sorry to hear that. I’m doing some pro bono work for the hospital, and I could use some ideas. Some of your ideas. The good ones,” she added. She actually looked in my eyes and I thought I saw a spark of forgiveness.

I paused. “How can I help?”

She gave me a sheet of notes and ordered the Girl Cheese. She took her food and paid. And then that woman left me a five dollar tip. Ouch. It was official. I was the charity case.

To round out my morning, as we were closing up, Frankie chose that time to educate me on customer service.

“You can be a little snide, Ginger.”

My ears sucked in a vacuum, as if they could divine what he was going to say next. Some deep intuition inside me sensed the words of import that were about to fall out of his mouth. Hmm, I always wanted to be psychic. Words have power. And as he opened his pie hole, the universe stilled, like the eye of a storm. The calm beautiful paving the way for the havoc that was to follow. “You’re just like your grandmother.”

I froze. The words echoed. Carved out a path in my soul. Stabbed me in the heart. Ice picked my ears. I stood there for two whole seconds, taking the fatal blow before reacting. I leaped toward Frankie, my fists flying. I punched him in the arm as if he were my brother who just insulted me and I was twelve.

He grabbed my wrists. “Knock it off.”

“I am not like her,” I said.

“Fine. You’re not.”

“I’m not.” I jerked my wrists out of his hands so I could bash the tear that threatened to sneak out.

He rubbed his shoulder. “Who hits people?”

My hands hung by my side. I punched Frankie. I talked trash about my BFF. I mouthed off to my ex-boss. I was acting like a sixth grade girl. Or my grandmother.

“Truth hurts,” Frankie said, not looking at me.

“So do my knuckles,” I said, rubbing my hand. “You’re such an ass.” But it didn’t have its usual sting. The universe had moved on. I had received some sort of message. I had been getting a lot of those lately.

“What did Violet want? I thought you were going to get your job back.” He saw my expression. “What really happened there, anyway?”

I hung my head. “It was in the news.”

“What are you talking about?” Frankie rolled down the metal louvers at the order window. He pulled me up front and we sat down. “Spill.”

“When they fired me, my boss’s girlfriend did get my job.”

Frankie folded his arms. “Yeah? So?”

“So, I deserved to be fired. We had this athletic sportswear account. They’re based in San Diego and were a sponsor for the half-marathon.”

Frankie nodded. “Go on.”

“It was my job to spread the word, get their name out. You know, make people want to buy their clothes.”

“What happened?”

“Do you remember that story a couple of months ago, that made fun of ‘so-called athletes’ that wear tutus?”

His eyes widened. “That was you?”

“Guilty.” I barreled on. “I didn’t know there was a Tutus for NICUs charity. For Children’s Hospital. For premature infants. Neonatal Intensive Care Unit.” Ba dum bum. There. I said it. I started crying.

“Wow, Ginger. That’s bad. What were you thinking?”

Through the snot and tears I told him. “I suck. I didn’t know. It was just a snarky campaign aimed at elite runners, to sell really expensive running clothes.”

“Oof.” Frankie leaned back and swiped his hand over his chin. “What happened?”

“They got a lot of publicity all right and asked for my head. My bosses, Jeff, and Violet, tried to contain the story as best they could and make it go away, but they had to fire me.”

Frankie hugged me. “Oh, honey.”

I wanted to be a calm, sweet person, accepting joy in each moment. However, I was so sick of the self-help “being present” hoo-hah that I couldn’t find the moment if I tried. If I had to guess, it’s buried beneath my nonexistent G-spot. I couldn’t rely on my friends or food or my family or Frankie to fill my gaping hole of unmet needs. I was so tired of being Snarky Ginger who hates everyone, especially at Yuletide.

Shit talking is like eating potato chips. You do the math.

($1,825.00 Frankie paid me.)

There are magic moments when that rat bastard, Maturity, comes barreling along, but I guess I hadn’t been paying attention to its knock-knock-knock upon my door.

I knew I was growing up when I was little and snuck out of bed to wash off that nasty serum my mom had painted on me to make me stop sucking my thumb. Of course I got caught. I was naughty, not smart. Piercing my ears didn’t turn me into a femme fatale, though it felt like an infected badge of honor. Onto my training bra, learning how to use tampons, driving the family car, heading to college—milestones that arrived whether I was ready for them or not. Nobody told me life extracts payments in kind for gifts bestowed. Nothing is free. I guess the universe didn’t get my thank you note. Because I forgot to send it.

I got home, hit the floorboard, no Ming. “Come on, big guy, what are you doing?” My apartment is super small, and he had made himself at home on my yoga pants I had left on the couch. He sat like a Sphinx, a little drool hanging off his fastidious upper lip. “What in the world?” I sat next to him. “What’s that smell?” He did not run away like usual when I ran my hand over his fur from his tail to his ears. “Poop.” Seriously, that’s what that smell was.

“Well, good news,” the after-hours vet said, who must have received his DVM tipping cows at the turn of the century. “Ming is a girl, and she must have eaten something that didn’t agree with her. We did x-rays, and there is no obstruction. We gave her some fluids and she’s doing better. I understand you are a new cat owner, so she probably got into something she shouldn’t have. You need to be careful what you leave out.”

“She tips over my wastebaskets! And plays with the trash.” No use flirting with this one; I resolved my daddy issues eons ago. I could have lived without his sarcastic look, though, that read: you have to be smarter than the cat.

“Maybe get her some toys,” he added.

Thanks, Dad.

($1,650.00 Vet bill, laser pointer, catnip mouse with bell)