Aftermath of Dreaming(13)
No “hello” or “nice to meet you,” so I quickly decide to forgo all that, too. I read somewhere once that mirroring the other person’s behavior in a business meeting helps you establish a rapport—I just never thought that would mean being curt, but it’s her store; I’m only selling to it.
I lean down, unzip the fake Vuitton travel bag, and start taking the black trays out. I bought the bag when I began going to women’s homes to show my jewelry for private commissions and sales. I needed something large enough to carry the trays in, and I realized that with the amount of gold and gems (semiprecious, but still) coming out of it, the women would assume the bag was real, and the implied fiscal success might make them feel better about the prices they were going to hear.
“These are the earrings, bracelets, and rings I told you about on the phone.” I have set three trays on the counter side by side. Straightening a ring in one of them, I glance at Roxanne to see which pieces have caught her eye, then unhook a bracelet since her attention is on the earrings, and lightly blow imaginary dust off it, turning it this way and that, as if to check its gems, but really to give her time to see everything without me staring at her or off into space. I put the bracelet back, wait a long moment, and then bring the last tray out.
“And these are the pins, though they can also be worn as pendants on a chain. See this…” I pick one up and turn it over to reveal a small loop on the back. “But I prefer them for what they are.” I have jumped in, my words escaping in an air-bubble rush, like a sea diver adjusting his mask. “The whole idea is a further personalization of our clothes. That simple black top we all have, well, you put one of these on, or two really, and the odds of someone else…I mean, how many parties have you been to where thank God for different hair or we’d all look just alike.”
Roxanne sees me see her blow-dried, dyed-blond, appears-everywhere hair. “Plus,” I say, trying to fix my gaffe, “being pinned.”
“Pinned?” Roxanne’s eyes swim over my body, as if trying to find this new form of piercing that somehow slipped past her au courant antennae.
“It’s an old-fashioned promise thing. A guy would pin his sweetheart with his fraternity pin before she got the ring. Of course, this is 1998 L.A. so the concept is pinning yourself instead of waiting for someone else to do it.” I silently bless Momma’s stories of Daddy’s Sigma Chi days for this immediate inspiration.
A fish in the X is staring at me from one eye while his fins silently keep him in place. I have a sudden image of each fish in the alphabet tanks sporting one of my pins, yet still swimming—a mobile hydrodisplay.
“And the prices are?”
The make-or-break moment has arrived. I pull out a price sheet from the bag and place it on the counter in front of her. Every item in the trays is on it: listed, described, and priced. I figured out a while ago that a piece of paper is much better than pointing to each piece of jewelry while saying a number, then sometimes having to go back and repeat a price since people couldn’t remember so many at once. And a tangible sheet of paper makes it seem as if the prices exist separately from me, so if a customer is teetering, I can drop the amount a bit, instantly becoming good cop to the price sheet’s bad.
Roxanne studies the figures, looking from them to the trays and back again. I try to read her expression, but she just looks professionally guarded. A prayer for my jewelry to be in her store suddenly starts chanting over and over in my head.
Roxanne picks up one of the rings, puts it on, then holds her hand out in front of her, like the opposite of a palm reader, farther away will tell her more. She squints at it, turning her hand this way and that, takes the ring off, looks at all of the trays one more time, then glances around behind her, catching the eye of the salesgirl who has been standing in a far corner refolding perfectly stacked cotton tees.
“I’ll take one of each of these four rings, plus an extra of this for me,” she says, pointing at the one she had on. “These three bracelets, one of each of the ears, and one, two, three, four, yeah, these five pins.” Roxanne’s fingers skipped, landed, and hopped over my wares, as I quickly jotted notes of her selection, to transfer to an order form later on. “Figure out the details with Sandra here.”
And as the salesgirl sidles up, Roxanne angles away.
5
“Reggie, can you believe it, I got in another store.” I am holding my cell phone with my right hand, steering my truck with my left, and trying not to let my euphoria increase my speed as I weave through the choked lunch-hour traffic on Beverly Boulevard.
“It’s that new one I told you about last week that Bill hooked me into and, okay, short version for now, but she bought tons of stuff, so now I’m in two stores. Well, Tizzie’s probably counts only as half since Lizzie still hasn’t paid me for that last batch that sold, but you know what I mean, and Jesus, I’m so happy, I feel so much better since this morning with Suzanne which, you know, fine, she’s my sister and a bride so that’s like everything annoying about either role multiplied, but who cares, I just made a sale, okay, sorry sorry sorry for the long message, but I just had to tell you, and call me later, I’ll be home tonight, okay, I love you, bye.”
I press the red button to end the call, then continue holding it down, turning off the phone. Suzanne always tells me I should leave it on in case of an emergency, and after Momma’s accident, I guess I should, though maybe that’s why I don’t. Traffic has taken over the road. I crawl through two more intersections, then push the red button on the phone to turn it back on to check my voice mail at home even though I am on my way there. Maybe Reggie’s left a message since I called him this morning after Suzanne’s. Or maybe Michael called. Thank God Reggie got over our Michael contretemps. I hope. I punch in the number to autodial my home as I come to a dead stop behind a car that is double-parked.