Aftermath of Dreaming(12)

I jumped in such fright it stopped my tears.

“You were attacked, weren’t you, miss? I seen you walking down the street, half your clothes gone, shakin’ and cryin’.”

I tried to comprehend what he was saying. He looked about seventy, with clipped white hair on a dark head, and wore neat pants and shirt with a green sports jacket too heavy for the temperature. I glanced down at my slip. The strong sun made my legs completely visible through its thin inky silk, and it suddenly became all too clear what the old man had thought my crying was about.

“Oh, God, no,” was all I could say. It was impossible to explain that an inappropriate clothing choice had happened to coincide with a really bad day, so I just threw my truck into gear and drove away, leaving him staring after me in confused dismay.

Thus began my own kind of “light checks.” Not as stringent as Momma’s, but not as lax as before. Though occasionally I will change clothes in my truck—or my shirt, I should say. Some days, when it seems as if every article of clothing I own has transformed itself into an item I suddenly loathe, I give myself backup. I go out in whatever is my current favorite—even though it doesn’t feel like a favorite, like eating food you love with a cold and having to remind yourself the whole time how it really does taste—with a couple of options brought along in case I decide that I could be happy if only I were wearing that other shirt.

And I watched Momma do her own version of this while I was growing up. It wasn’t unusual for her to change outfits three times a day. Every social function’s attire was highly stratified, even a trip to the grocery store had its own code—Daddy didn’t allow her to wear pants there. And in the small town that we lived in everything was so close, and Momma could just pop home, exchange one perfectly accessorized look for the next, and head back out. But in L.A., most places I go are a good twenty minutes away, so driving home is not an option.

Which is how I decided that if I really needed to, I could change my shirt in my truck. A bra covers just as much as a bikini top, I decided, so surely a quick switcheroo on a side street would not be that different from a swimsuit stroll on the beach past completely clad customers at a café.

Not that I do this a lot. Only once in a while, when it is absolutely necessary. Like now, today, after a morning with my sister-the-bride before an appointment to show my jewelry at a recently opened store. Rox is what it’s called, for the owner, Roxanne, who previously ran a rock star’s wife’s store on Sunset before going out on her own, backed by the rock star’s producer, Bill, whom coincidentally I used to work for and who very kindly set up this appointment for me. Which I’m thrilled he did. I feel ready, but also a little nervous.

Because I haven’t really done this before. Sold to a store. I mean, I do have my jewelry in Tizzie’s, a small shop in Venice. One day while window-shopping, I wandered into the store, and the owner admired my earrings and necklace, then flat out said she’d love to carry my stuff, even got me to give her the pieces I was wearing, so sure she was they would sell. And I was flattered since I had been designing jewelry for only six months. I’ve been selling pieces there for almost a year, but I haven’t tried to sell to other stores because private commissions have kept me really busy. But when this connection to Rox appeared, I thought, why not follow it up? My goal is to sell to department stores and go national. And I guess showing my jewelry to the women who commission counts as practice somehow, but they have already seen one of my pieces on someone else and call me specifically to get something that will be at least as good as or usually better than their friend’s.

But here I am, parked on this street off Beverly Boulevard, around the corner from Rox, with fifteen minutes to kill until it is time to go in, and the idea of changing my shirt is relaxing me a little somehow. I wish Reggie had been home when I phoned him after Suzanne’s; he would have made me feel better about this appointment. With all that Michael-brunch insanity between us on the phone this morning, I didn’t remember to tell him that my appointment with Rox was today, so he has no idea. Maybe I’ll try him at the editing room after all. Stop. Now, just relax. The appointment’s going to be fine. She’ll either buy my stuff or she won’t. Please, God, make her buy a ton. Now c’mon, focus on something I can control, like…which top should I change into? Black is the obvious choice, but dark blue accomplishes almost everything black does while still being blue. I take my pins off the pale pink top I am wearing that I hoped would subconsciously convey to Suzanne my happiness about her impending nuptial bliss and affix them onto the dark blue fitted knit one. I whip off the pink top, put it on the seat next to me, and as I am about to pull the blue one down over my head, I notice an elderly Hasidic man in a large station wagon watching me as he slowly drives by. His expression indicates that he does not equate my partial nudity with a day at the beach.



If sea water were a store, it would be Roxanne’s boutique. Tiny, aquatic-colored tile descends the walls from pale to deep. Clumps of clothing sprout up in beams of light focused from below and above. Three aquariums, each a different letter of “ROX,” hold languid blue angelfish. As I wait for the salesgirl to get Roxanne, it is hard even for me not to be overcome by the extensive color-coding, especially when it strikes me that the shirt I changed into matches.

Emerging from the depths of the store, Roxanne glides to the counter where I am waiting, puts her overly manicured hands on her hips, and says, “Let’s see what you got.”