Rules of the Road (6 page)

I gripped the wheel and stared through the wipers that were whizzing full blast against the heavy rain. The Chicago wind picked up a garbage can lid and hurled it over the Cadillac. I turned left, keeping an eye out for arks, and headed toward Lake Shore Drive,
slowly.
In Driver’s Ed we spent an entire period on hydroplaning (what happens when you drive too fast in the rain)—water sticks to the tires, the tires ride up on the water, you have no control of the car. It basically means you’re doomed. I drove fifteen miles an hour in a thirty-five mph zone, which the truck driver behind me didn’t appreciate. Some people have a built-in prejudice against teenage drivers.

I looked at Mrs. Gladstone through the rearview mirror. She took a blue pillow out of her big purse and tried to place it under her right hip. She looked up, caught me staring.

“Eyes on the road,” she barked.

I drove—past Oak Street Beach, Navy Pier, Grant Park, Soldier Field. I stared straight ahead at the Stevenson Expressway sign, just visible through the downpour. I could hear Mrs. Gladstone moving around, trying to get her leg pillow in place.

“Are you okay, Mrs. Gladstone?”

“I am.”

“Did you hurt your leg?”

“This leg will make it to Texas,” she declared and rapped her cane against the door.

That was good. You hate to leave things like legs by the side of the road. I pulled onto the expressway ramp, signaling to all approaching vehicles that I was attempting to merge in a monsoon. I prayed, gripped the wheel, pushed my right foot on the accelerator, and steered the Cadillac between an old school bus and a stationwagon.

I watched the Chicago skyline move away from me, caught the last of it in the rearview mirror. I had so many plans for this summer and now everything had changed. I waved goodbye to Gladstone’s and Murray and all my regulars who would have to be fitted without me. Said good riddance to the dirty gray hallways of John F. Kennedy High, my so-so performance on the basketball team, the awful memory of Dad reeling drunk in Gladstone’s, the drunken late-night calls. My heart tugged at the thought of my grandmother in her green chair; my mother being brave; Faith trying to be strong; Opal needing to talk about
things.
I had a quick flash of Matt Wicks and wondered what it would have been like if he’d
just noticed me once. My stomach rumbled at the loss of thick-crust Chicago pizza and Polish sausage with grilled onions.

I thought of all the places I was going where I had never been and wondered how I would manage.

But when you sell shoes, you learn first-hand about flexibility.

I embraced my motto, Cope or Die, breathed deeply, and headed for Peoria.

We made it to Peoria in southern Illinois in four hours flat due to the torrential downpour and the road construction on I 91 that kept traffic to one lane even though the construction crew had given up long ago and gone home.

I was getting pretty good at driving in the rain and so far Mrs. Gladstone had slept in the back, having taken two yellow pills. She did snore, unfortunately—loud, snuffling, Texas-sized snorts. My grandma always said that people who snored were sleeping with enthusiasm. I tried to remember this, but there’s just so much enthusiasm a person can handle in close quarters.

Mrs. Gladstone and I had lunch in a diner overlooking the Illinois River, which was about to reach flood stage. Any moment now people would begin hurling sand bags along the banks. Mrs. Gladstone pushed aside her meatloaf Wellington lunch special.

“I suppose I should call Miles and let him know we’re coming.”

She was referring to Miles Wurlitzer, manager of the Gladstone’s Shoe Store in Peoria.

“It’s better to give employees short notice,” Mrs. Gladstone said, pulling her cellular phone out of her canvas bag. “Gives you a better sense of what’s really happening at the store.”

Mrs. Gladstone pressed phone buttons. “Miles, dear, it’s Madeline Gladstone. Surprise. I’m just down the road.”

I pictured the poor man slumped in horror.

Mrs. Gladstone slapped her phone shut and watched the river, looking sad.

I thought about what it had to be like to be retiring from her business after all these years. My mother always said the best way to get to know someone was to walk around in their shoes. I didn’t think my 9
¹
⁄
₂
S could squeeze into her size 6s, but I gave it a go.

“I bet this is a pretty complicated trip for you, Mrs. Gladstone, with you retiring and all.”

She sucked in air and stared out the window.

“I heard when my grandfather retired from the meat department at Grossinger’s, he missed it pretty bad, just spent hours opening and closing the refrigerator at home because he was so used to working in the cold slicing up all that beef.”

Nothing.

“Well, I think like anything, Mrs. Gladstone, it’s going to take some getting used to, but like my grandma always said, change is good for you. It might not seem that way in the beginning, but if you stay with it, you’ll see. My grandma knew about change, too, because she owned a tailor shop. She said all
she needed was for people to gain weight or lose it, or for hemlines to shoot up or down—it didn’t matter to her.”

I told her how Grandma had been widowed three times. How when her third husband, Lars, died, she said if I saw her heading for the altar again I’d better scream bloody murder until she turned around.

“After that she just dated,” I explained.

“Your grandmother sounds like a piece of work.”

“She was that, Mrs. Gladstone. You could stick my grandma in a room full of men and in thirty minutes tops she’d find the richest one in the place.”

Mrs. Gladstone made a little noise close to laughing. “Is this a gift that runs in your family?”

“No, ma’am. We don’t hang with rich people much.”

Oops. I tried to save myself.

“Not that there’s anything wrong with rich people. I mean, personally, I like rich people.”

I needed to change the subject.

“And what do you like about them?”

Jeeze. My mind reached for something.

“Well, I like you, Mrs. Gladstone, and let’s face it, you’re not hurting. I mean, you could have had any driver money could buy probably, but you decided to give me a chance and all this responsibility, not to mention a good salary and . . .” I trailed off here.

Mrs. Gladstone leaned forward, chuckling. “Jenna, in Texas we say there’s rich and there’s Texas rich. Just so you know, I’m somewhere in between.”

Miles Wurlitzer was buzzing around the cash register with a dust cloth and very wild eyes. He hid the cloth behind his back when Mrs. Gladstone walked through the glass door.

“Mrs. Gladstone,” he croaked out, “what a wonderful surprise.”

Liar, liar, pants on fire.

Mrs. Gladstone looked quickly in every corner, her gray eyes missed nothing. “Just exactly how are things in Peoria?” she asked.

Miles wiped his moist brow with the dust cloth. “Just great, Mrs. Gladstone. Really great.”

I looked around the store, too. Only one customer. One customer on Saturday afternoon during peak shopping time after a rain storm. Not too great in my book. A thin salesman put a black pump on a woman, who made a face.

“Much too tight,” she said, taking them off. Then she gathered her shopping bags and left. I wondered why the salesman hadn’t shown her something else. Any true shoe professional could see that woman was on a mission for black pumps and she wasn’t going to rest until she found the right ones. You’ve got to stay with a customer, even if they go through ten pairs. He just shrugged and watched her go. I sniffed the air. Something about this store didn’t feel right. A rich-looking older woman walked in. He sighed, shuffled to her side.

“Need some help, ma’am?”

Now, true, I wasn’t looking for shoes, but this guy didn’t
know that. Mrs. Gladstone hadn’t introduced me to anyone. I, a potential customer, was getting ignored and I knew why.

I was a teenager.

“Excuse me,” I said to the salesman, “I’d like to see these loafers in a nine and a half wide.”

“I’ll be with you in a minute, miss.” He returned to the older woman.

I stood extra tall, looked down at the thin salesman, and announced, “I believe I was here first.”

Mrs. Gladstone planted her cane, watching.

Miles bit the end of the dust cloth.

The older woman smiled at me and said, “Yes, she was here first.”

This was too much for the thin salesman who got maroon and flustered and knocked over half the Nike display which was near the back by the purses, a really dumb place, since anyone who knows anything about selling shoes knows the Nike display goes up front in any store because Nikes bring customers inside. And the purses by the Nikes weren’t the nice, thick leather kind that we had in the Chicago store either. I checked the inside of one. Cowhide, the label read. I felt the grade. Not much of a cow.

The salesman scurried out with a shoe box, quickly put the loafers on my feet. I took two steps.

“They’re tight,” I said, feeling the cheap heels.

“They’ll break in,” he said, eyeing the older customer.

I told him no, I didn’t think so, not today, put my stacked leathers back on, and studied the Nike display that Miles was
putting back together like he was a game show contestant and had sixty seconds to get it right or be rolled in glop. I picked up a pair of Nike cross-trainers. “Can I use these effectively for running?” I asked.

“Oh, yes,” he said.

“For long-distance running?”

“For any kind of running.”

“Thank you.”

I walked away, not saying that I knew that cross-trainers were okay for short distances but not for long ones.

Mrs. Gladstone motioned me to the door with her cane. I walked slowly past the displays that did not show off the shoes in the best light. The work boots were right across from slippers, which you don’t want together, no matter how small the store is. Work and leisure have to be on opposite walls. I looked at the fake leather pumps, felt the plastic soles on the children’s oxfords. I strolled out the double glass door to the parking lot.

Jenna Boller, shoe spy.

I walked to the Cadillac, feeling the moist, hot air of freedom. I stared at the double glass door of Gladstone’s Shoes/Peoria Branch, stared at the Gladstone’s slogan,
WE’RE NOT JUST SELLING SHOES, WE’RE SELLING QUALITY
.

Could have fooled me.

Finally, Mrs. Gladstone limped out.

She was walking stiffly, every step seemed an effort. Her cane made clicking noises on the asphalt. I opened the back door and held it open like a palace guard.

She looked at me. “What did you see in there?”

I bit my lip because I’d seen a lot, but I wasn’t sure if I should say it.

“Jenna Boller,” she said, “
what did you see?
”

I took a fat breath and told her as she got into the car. I was getting worked up right there in the parking lot and I got very heated when I came to the work boot part because I am very good at doing shoe displays and know how to bring out the character in any brand. Put them in their natural environment is my secret. Display them so they look tough. Work boots always go on brick. Then I mentioned the part about being ignored because of my age and put in a word for teenagers everywhere.

“It happens a lot, Mrs. Gladstone. Our money is just as good as an adult’s, sometimes we’ve had to work longer and harder for it. Kids deserve respect when they go into a store.”

I didn’t mention the shoddy merchandise.

“And what would you do with that store?” she asked.

I thought about that. “Well, I guess first I’d change the traffic flow, move the Nikes to the window, get the slippers in the back by the purses. It doesn’t matter if purses and slippers are together, Mrs. Gladstone—most customers don’t head for the back of the store first. I’d get the good, fast-moving stuff up front, retrain the salespeople so they understand what the shoes can do, and if they couldn’t be retrained, well . . .”

“You’d hire new ones.”

I coughed. “Yes, I would.”

Mrs. Gladstone adjusted her pillow under her thigh. “My son hired Miles.”