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Authors: Zoe Fishman
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lose it, you’re not up shit creek ) and schooled me on the varied rainbow of hues ( This may look like it’s just blue, but it’s cerulean, honey, and that’s what you tell the customer. Take it up a notch ). She tried on tiaras and brooches and earrings, urging me to do the same. ( You’re the salesperson and the model. Show them purty and they’ll want purty. )
By the end of my tutorial, I was wearing giant, dangling, silver-plated ( Not silver, we don’t want to lie, now ) earrings in the shape of sailboats, a strand of faux pearls and a pink-gemstone-and-cubic-zirconia ring that swallowed my knuckle. I felt like a Christmas tree.
“You got all that?” Mitzi perched on her stool and reached for her trusty tumbler. Today, she was a vision in emerald—not green, but emerald . Purple— no, amethyst— earrings grazed the upturned collar of her tunic.
“I think so.” I tried to smile convincingly.
“Okay, then I’m gonna head out.” She took a last, long sip from her straw, coating it with her fuchsia lipstick.
“Very funny.”
“What?” She stood up and dusted herself off. “Oh wait, right. Let me give you yer keys and show you how to set the alarm.”
“You’re serious? You’re leaving me here with eighty-five minutes’ worth of experience?” My voice cracked.
“Sarah, you are a thirtysomethin’-year-old woman with a college degree and a decade-plus of New York livin’ under yer belt. I think you can handle a slow Sunday at a jewelry store.” She looped her handbag over her shoulder. “Quit lookin’ at me with those puppy-dog eyes. Follow me.”
“But where are you going?”
“Clyde and I have a lunch date at the Mongolian buffet up the street. There are few things in this world that I love more than a Chinese food buffet, let me tell you. If there was an award for eatin’ egg rolls, I would win it, hands down.”
She stopped in front of the alarm.
“The code is ‘grits.’ Just punch it in here”—she mimed doing so—“and run like hell.” I looked at her in alarm. “I’m just kiddin’, darlin’. So serious! But really, you should move quickly. My last associate was about as slow as a turtle. By the time he got out the door, a SWAT team was in the parking lot. Sarah! I’m kidding again! Well, sort of. Are you all right, honey?”
“Yes, I’m fine. Just a bit panicked about manning the ship all by myself. What if I screw up the register?”
“Listen. The odds of someone coming in here are about slim to none. Between you and me, business is slow these days.”
“Oh.”
“Yeah, I’m tryin’ to figure out a way to get more bodies in here, but so far my focus is laughable at best. I’d rather be eatin’ egg rolls, I guess. Soon, though, I’m chainin’ myself to my stool until that lightbulb goes off.”
“I could help you if you wanted,” I offered.
“Aren’t you sweet? Thanks, honey. Let’s make sure you don’t burn down the place first though, mmkay?” She glanced at the clock. “I gotta scoot. You be sweet, ya hear? Call me if you’re in trouble. And relax, for goodness’ sake! Your face is much prettier when it’s smilin’.” The door’s resounding jingle mocked me as I watched her sashay to her car.
Great. This job was supposed to be, at the very least, a social life raft for me, and now it was becoming clear that not only did the store have no patrons, but its owner wasn’t even interested enough to stick around. I wandered dejectedly back over to the register and looked at the clock. The time was 1:22. I had three hours and thirty-eight minutes to stare into space.
I put my head down on the counter and then immediately sat back up and scanned the ceiling corners. The lenses of two video cameras blinked back at me. An image of Mitzi and Clyde—who I assumed looked exactly like Wilford Brimley for some reason—watching surveillance footage later that evening as they nursed their MSG hangovers flashed through my mind and I quickly
By the end of my tutorial, I was wearing giant, dangling, silver-plated ( Not silver, we don’t want to lie, now ) earrings in the shape of sailboats, a strand of faux pearls and a pink-gemstone-and-cubic-zirconia ring that swallowed my knuckle. I felt like a Christmas tree.
“You got all that?” Mitzi perched on her stool and reached for her trusty tumbler. Today, she was a vision in emerald—not green, but emerald . Purple— no, amethyst— earrings grazed the upturned collar of her tunic.
“I think so.” I tried to smile convincingly.
“Okay, then I’m gonna head out.” She took a last, long sip from her straw, coating it with her fuchsia lipstick.
“Very funny.”
“What?” She stood up and dusted herself off. “Oh wait, right. Let me give you yer keys and show you how to set the alarm.”
“You’re serious? You’re leaving me here with eighty-five minutes’ worth of experience?” My voice cracked.
“Sarah, you are a thirtysomethin’-year-old woman with a college degree and a decade-plus of New York livin’ under yer belt. I think you can handle a slow Sunday at a jewelry store.” She looped her handbag over her shoulder. “Quit lookin’ at me with those puppy-dog eyes. Follow me.”
“But where are you going?”
“Clyde and I have a lunch date at the Mongolian buffet up the street. There are few things in this world that I love more than a Chinese food buffet, let me tell you. If there was an award for eatin’ egg rolls, I would win it, hands down.”
She stopped in front of the alarm.
“The code is ‘grits.’ Just punch it in here”—she mimed doing so—“and run like hell.” I looked at her in alarm. “I’m just kiddin’, darlin’. So serious! But really, you should move quickly. My last associate was about as slow as a turtle. By the time he got out the door, a SWAT team was in the parking lot. Sarah! I’m kidding again! Well, sort of. Are you all right, honey?”
“Yes, I’m fine. Just a bit panicked about manning the ship all by myself. What if I screw up the register?”
“Listen. The odds of someone coming in here are about slim to none. Between you and me, business is slow these days.”
“Oh.”
“Yeah, I’m tryin’ to figure out a way to get more bodies in here, but so far my focus is laughable at best. I’d rather be eatin’ egg rolls, I guess. Soon, though, I’m chainin’ myself to my stool until that lightbulb goes off.”
“I could help you if you wanted,” I offered.
“Aren’t you sweet? Thanks, honey. Let’s make sure you don’t burn down the place first though, mmkay?” She glanced at the clock. “I gotta scoot. You be sweet, ya hear? Call me if you’re in trouble. And relax, for goodness’ sake! Your face is much prettier when it’s smilin’.” The door’s resounding jingle mocked me as I watched her sashay to her car.
Great. This job was supposed to be, at the very least, a social life raft for me, and now it was becoming clear that not only did the store have no patrons, but its owner wasn’t even interested enough to stick around. I wandered dejectedly back over to the register and looked at the clock. The time was 1:22. I had three hours and thirty-eight minutes to stare into space.
I put my head down on the counter and then immediately sat back up and scanned the ceiling corners. The lenses of two video cameras blinked back at me. An image of Mitzi and Clyde—who I assumed looked exactly like Wilford Brimley for some reason—watching surveillance footage later that evening as they nursed their MSG hangovers flashed through my mind and I quickly
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