The Penny Pinchers Club (22 page)

“It’s only a matter of months until Laura’s graduation, when he’s going to leave me, anyway, for his assistant, so what do I have to lose?”

In a quiet voice, Velma said, “He’s not going to leave you, Kat. Don’t ask me how I know that, I just do.”

Velma was sweet, but for a convicted felon she was painfully naïve. “If you’d read those emails, you’d worry like I do.”

“Yes, but you’re still having sex.”

“Velma!” Opal whipped around. “That’s none of our business.”

Sherise said, “Well . . . are you, Kat?”

Truth be told, we were having more sex than ever. Hot sex. And not in our bedroom, either. In the living room. In the laundry room. Even on the kitchen table, like in the movies. That episode on the Corolla had unleashed some monster within us that made me blush when I flipped open a
Newsweek
and saw an ad for Toyota.
(“I love what you do for me!”)

I honestly had no idea why I wanted Griff more or why he would want me when he was having an affair with his assistant, Bree. Was it because we were spending more waking hours together? Possibly. But if I’d had any real backbone, I would not have permitted myself to sleep with a man who was cavorting behind my back with another woman, even if he now made dinner four nights out of the week. (The ultimate aphrodisiac.)

Or, was it because with Liam back in the picture I simply felt more sexual, and Griff, being my husband, conveniently reaped the rewards? And, if so, was
that
akin to cheating? Or was that normal?

But I didn’t dare discuss any of this with the group. “We do it occasionally.”

“See?” Velma said.

“Oh, men will have sex whenever and with whomever,” Opal said, taking one last inventory of her coupons. “That doesn’t mean he’s
not
going to leave her.”

Inside the Shop-N-Buy, a manager was unlocking the doors just as Opal’s watch beeped. She flipped through the spreadsheets on her clipboard, checking off this and that to ensure it was all systems go. The invasion of Normandy required less planning than Opal’s Sunday morning attack of two-for-one chicken.

“It’s seven,” she said. “Go time.” She slid out her side of the car as Velma, Sherise, and Opal headed toward the doors where a manager, seeing them arrive en masse, stepped back with trepidation. Not as organized, I trailed behind, shoving my coupons into my purse and folding my shopping list, already beginning to crumple in the damp morning air.

“Hey, Kat.”

Wade emerged from the fog holding a cardboard box and a long metal rod with a set of pincers at the end. “Can you spare five minutes?”

“Why?” I took a wary gander at that claw. “What are you up to?”

“You don’t have to do anything illegal. . . .”

Bad beginning.

“I just need you to serve as lookout while I raid the Shop-N-Buy Dumpster.”

Wade’s Dumpster-diving was not as shocking to me as it was to, say, Steve. There’d been many a time right after college when we were so broke, my old roommate, Suzanne, and I would rifle through discarded couches, tables, and whatnot left on sidewalks after yard sales. If it just so happened an item of interest was peeking out of a trash can, well then, all the better. That was how we got our Mr. Coffee. A couple of vinegar douches to remove the buildup and it was as good as new.

But Dumpster-diving at the Shop-N-Buy? That was plain gross. That was jumping into a metal bin filled with rotten oranges and molding meat, putrid smells of decay and mildew. And, considering it was Jersey, the occasional discarded body.

“I’m not going to do that!”

“Why not?” Wade took off the long way around the parking lot, folding the metal claw into three parts so as not to be seen. “It doesn’t say there’s no trespassing. And this is the best time to do it, when the rest of the group goes in and the manager’s making sure Opal’s not clearing them out of chicken or sponges or whatever’s on her list.”

I should have been in there with her since the sales really were outstanding. But he’d piqued my curiosity, so I followed him.

“She’ll fill two shopping carts with six types of things, use her coupons to pay squat, and be good for a year.” He assessed the Dumpster and the sky above it. “I love fog. Provides all the cover of darkness without necessitating a flashlight.”

I loved fog, too—even if it did magnify the odor of rotten eggs and vomit wafting from the garbage bin. In what seemed like a far-away time and place, I’d stood on a foggy beach down at the Shore only last summer when we rented a house for $2,500 a week on a line of credit I then all but ignored. Now, I was in the fog serving as lookout while Wade foraged through trash for food.

That’s what I got for blithely spending $2,500 on a weeklong summer house.

“So you’ll do it?”

I nodded, but I had my doubts.

Wade instructed me where to stand watch and what to say if we were caught. If anyone approached, I should claim we were searching for boxes. That was Wade’s standard excuse and, so far, no store manager had cottoned on that people looking for boxes might also be looking for food to put in them.

He pulled himself up to the edge of the Dumpster and surveyed its contents, opening and closing his Unger Nifty Nabber—the pincer device—as he decided which to pick first.

I thought:
What about rats?

“Keep your eyes peeled. This’ll just take a few minutes.” Bending over, he chose his selection. Lettuce. Two cartons of orange juice. A bunch of carrots. A canister of whipped cream. A quart of milk. A bag of apples. Bagels. A broken brand-new hairbrush still in its packaging. A block of cheddar cheese. Also, one package of ground beef.

“A day past the expiration date.” He shook his head and jumped off, heading toward my car. “Criminal. There’s also fish in there hauled from halfway across the world that men risked their lives to catch, that planes flew and trucks carried. All for naught.”

“Wait a minute!” I called after him. “I wanna see.”

Inside the privacy of the Corolla, we sifted through the booty. Everything he snagged—except the lettuce and the carrots—was marked by yesterday’s expiration date. It all seemed perfectly fine, smelled okay, and, according to Wade, had been dumped no more than a few hours before.

I held up a slightly bruised apple. “I’ve paid money for produce that’s worse than this.”

“I know, right? Steve used to get on my case about garbage raiding being illegal. Now you can see why NOT garbage raiding is the real crime.”

What Wade said brought to mind a theory Griff had about the flaws in the current consumer marketplace. In short, Griff claimed ALL of us could be paying much, much less if we learned the art of patience. If we waited, items would eventually be marked down as weeks went by. However, there was a certain secret price point beyond which retailers
wouldn’t
sell. After that, it was to their advantage to actually dispose of an item rather than mark it down further.

Partially, this was because retailers needed the shelf space for new goods that would provide a greater profit. But, also, it was because they didn’t want to train consumers to wait for lower prices. After all, they’d loaded millions of dollars into advertising to teach us quite the opposite, that we
shouldn’t
wait, that we should hurry now while supplies last! (At the highest price.) Which was why we ended up paying twice what was fair for the newest tech toy, the recently released DVDs, or outrageously priced Birkin bags. Because we had been trained—like monkeys.

“Pretty cool.” I played with his Unger. (Not nearly as dirty as that sounds.)

“Really?” He puffed up proudly, like a little boy displaying his found toad. “Bakeries first thing in the morning are better: yesterday’s
pain au chocolat
, croissants, bear claws, bagels—you name it. Though you know what’s the best?”

He took a deep breath. “The last Sunday night of the month. People tend to move over the weekend and they get so tired and fed up with packing and sorting that they end up throwing away great stuff that won’t get picked up until Monday. You wouldn’t believe what I’ve found after moves.”

“Try me.”

“Plants. I don’t know what it is, but people hate moving plants. I’ve found ivy, spider plants, even a bonsai that was dying. Also, cheap bookshelves
and
books. VCRs. Even computers. But best of all,” he added, “I’ve found collectibles.”

Now he was talking my language. Unless he was talking about Hummel figurines or Beanie Babies. “As in . . .”

“Rare books. Artwork.
Lots
of antiques.”

The magic word. I moved closer. “Go on.”

He looked off, trying to remember. “Well, there was a broken bronze mantel clock I found last fall that I repaired and sold on eBay for about $150. Also a fireplace mirror that was shattered, though it had a beautiful oak frame. Had that assessed at about $1,000 before the glass was replaced.”

“I had no idea you could find stuff that nice. And for free!”

“You have to know where to look. Most people don’t, so they end up with crap.”

Naturally, I thought of Liam and his search for period furniture. “You think there might be any eighteenth-century stuff?”

“Hmm. That’s a stretch since most people assume something that old is valuable and they tend to keep it or sell it. However, it doesn’t hurt to look. I can take you to where I found a pair of scissors that an auctioneer told me were at least two hundred years old.”

“Could you?” Goody, goody. “I would really, really like that.”

“I
could
. . .” He debated with himself. “But you have to keep in mind that, like Steve said, it
is
technically illegal to take from other people’s trash. And it’s not at night, when I prefer to raid, so there’s a better chance of us getting caught.”

“I don’t care.” I didn’t. I was positive that with Wade’s guidance I’d find an old hand-carved wooden rocker or trundle bed. I just knew it. I could feel success at the tips of my fingers just as I could feel how wonderful it would be to surprise Liam with an authentic Revolutionary War pitcher.

“You’re willing to take the risk?” he asked.

“I’m willing to take the risk. But I want to get there before the fog lifts.”

“Hey, you’re all right,” he said, rewarding me with a genuinely bright smile. “You know, when you walked into the group that first day, I figured you’d never show again, that you were one of those dilettantes who didn’t have the stamina for bucking consumerism. But you’re catching on pretty fast, aren’t you?”

I told him I was. And that, by the way, I had never had more fun.

“How did you get into this Dumpster-diving stuff to begin with?” It was an innocent question to kill time as we drove to Wade’s mystery location.

“I’m a freegan,” he said. “Stems from the word
vegan
. Freegans are anti-consumers who believe there’s so much waste in the world, it’s possible to live for free. Out west, they call it living by the Compact.”

I’d heard of the Compact from Griff who, being a native Orego nian and being in academics, associated with that ilk. “So you don’t buy anything new for a year.”

“I don’t buy anything new. Ever.”

I followed his directions to turn onto Route 206, headed north. If my hunch was right, he was taking me to the Millerville section of Rocky River, an area of old farms that had gradually succumbed to the encroachment of office parks. Brilliant, since I bet those aging homesteads sported attics jam-packed with treasures.

“And have you always been an anti-consumer? Or did something happen that changed your mind?” I thought of my afternoon with Velma and Sherise when they uncovered my $37,000 of debt. “Seems no one comes to the Penny Pinchers without having survived some trial by fire, like Sherise getting sent by her father or Velma getting sent to jail.”

“You know about that?”

“Of course.”

“Velma. What a chick.” He chuckled to himself. “Well, my path to the Penny Pinchers wasn’t too far from Velma’s. But for various reasons—most important, your trust in me—I’d like to bury my past as an angry young man. I’d like to think I’ve grown into a more serene person.”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to . . .”

“It’s okay. Really.” He put his hand on my thigh and gave it a pat. “I like you, Kat. Anyone who’s willing to be my lookout is A-OK in my book.”

He kept his hand there, making an already unusual situation that more awkward. There was no diplomatic solution, either. If I moved his hand, he’d be insulted. If I let it stay, he’d be led on. I thought of Libby and worried. She deserved a man who was loyal and kind and attentive, not one who put his hand on the thigh of the nearest female.

With a loud clap, he lifted his hand and slapped the dashboard. “Stop. Stop here!” He was so adamant, I nearly swerved into the oncoming traffic.

We were at one of those office parks, hardly the place to find antiques. But Wade insisted he knew what he was doing as he gestured madly to the right. “Now, before you miss it. The gate’s open.”