Arrogant Devil(37)
Jack must foresee the incident a moment before it happens, because he emits a loud, sharp whistle. I peek just as Alfred’s attention jerks to him and in a flash, he sits and stays, happy to obey his owner.
“Good boy,” Jack says, patting his head.
Damn. “I really need to learn how to do that whistle.”
“Jack, please tell me you’re going to get a haircut today,” Edith interrupts with a disdainful shake of her head. “You look like a damn hipster.”
Hipster? Edith is full of surprises.
“Plannin’ on it,” he says as she waves me over to her truck.
“Let’s go,” Edith says briskly. “If we don’t get there early, the thrift store’ll be overtaken with old biddies, and we still need to stop by the bank on the way.”
Edith seems to be oblivious to the fact that she is technically a biddy herself, but I sure as hell don’t point that fact out to her. I just keep my lips zipped and dutifully hop into the passenger side of her truck. Jack waves us off from the porch before he pats his thigh to summon Alfred and they both turn back for the house.
We stop at the bank and somehow turn a task that should take 20 minutes into an hour-long affair. Edith knows everyone. Every employee inside the branch stops to chat with her, which inevitably leads to an introduction with me, “Helen’s little sister”. As a newcomer in a small town, they want to know it all: where I’m from, why I’m here, blood type, SAT score. I get it, and while I’m careful to sidestep their personal questions, I’m still happy to chat. I’ve had very little in the way of human interaction for the last few days, so I will happily accept the company of Lisa, the rambling teller, and Dotty, the elderly manager, with their bouffant hair and southern accents and nosy niceties. By the time we leave, I feel like I’ve made a whole group of new friends. This must be what it feels like to have a girl squad.
When we arrive at the thrift store, I expect the same kind of greeting, but other than the short white-haired man with the coke-bottle glasses behind the counter, we have the place to ourselves, and boy, do I clean up. I was expecting California prices, but these tags have me feeling like I can walk out and buy a Coke for a nickel.
“EDITH! THESE SHORTS ARE FIVE DOLLARS!”
She yanks them down from where I’m hoisting them over my head, looks at the fabric, and shakes her head. “We can talk him down to three.”
Am I dreaming? How is everything so cheap?!
I find a few fitted t-shirts I can wear while working and snag two pairs of denim shorts. I even toss in some pajama shorts and two sundresses, one of which is a little fancy. I have zero places to wear a dress like that, but it’s too pretty to leave on the rack. After that, I stumble into a section of the store filled with bras and unopened packages of underwear, and I’m shaking with excitement. Sure, they’re Fruit of the Loom tighty-whities, but the entire pack costs $3.50, and if I buy them, I won’t have to wash the same freaking pair over and over again.
I basically acquire an entire wardrobe for $18.25, and then we head to the back corner where home goods and knickknacks are piled up, one on top of another.
I crack my knuckles, accepting the challenge. By this point, I am a scary good negotiator.
“Hey Robert! Robbie! There’s a little stain on the corner of this rug. I’ll take it off your hands for $5!”
Between you and me, the stain is minimal and nothing I can’t scrub out once I get home.
“How bad is it?” he hollers back, too lazy to get up from behind the counter.
“I think it’s blood! It’s probably evidence from some horrible crime—”
“Fine! I’ll give ya half off.”
I turn to Edith, eyes wide. “Edith,” I hiss. “That’s six bucks!”
I add the blue Moroccan-style rug to my growing pile of purchases, along with a little antique lamp and a worn wooden stool I want to use as a bedside table. It looks artfully distressed, which makes me laugh. I know people back in Beverly Hills who pay interior designers thousands of dollars for furniture like the stuff I’m finding in this hole-in-the-wall shop.
When I happen upon an antique mirror that looks straight out of an Anthropologie catalogue, I bring out the big guns. It was originally marked at $25, and I wear Robert down to $10 (“Think of it as a new-in-town discount!”). Edith throws me a conspiratorial thumbs-up, and I decide to call it a day. I feel like I’m basically robbing the place at this point. Besides, the cute picture frames (4 for $1) we pass on the way to the register aren’t necessary. Edith tries to convince me to get them, but I tell her we have enough stuff as is. In reality, I’m just too embarrassed to tell her I have no one I’d want to fill them with. My parents? Hard pass. A ripped-down-the-middle photo from my wedding? Yeah, I’m good. I seriously consider just keeping the generic stock photo of a family enjoying a beach day. It’s tempting, but too sad even for me. Plus, the kid’s eyes follow me wherever I move—no thanks.
We load up my purchases in the truck and then I hop in, ready for lunch.
“What are you doing?” Edith asks, standing out on the sidewalk with her hands on her hips.
I pause in buckling my seatbelt. “Aren’t we going to eat now?”
We better be. All that deal-making really worked up my appetite.
“Yeah”—she points across the street—“the diner’s right over there.”