Read Online I Wore the Ocean in the Shape of a Girl by Kelle Groom - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Kelle Groom
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that.
At work, I draw letters on small white bags, fill them with grain. A mountain of lopsided paper cakes. Sometimes, by mistake, I write Bill’s name on the bag, fill it. The front door is bordered by a blood pressure machine. I have to climb onto the plastic seat to turn off the store alarm in the morning, set it at night. I like to wrap the cuff around my arm like a rough hand, tightening.Uncross my feet. My count so low, I faint if I stand too long in one place. As a child standing in line for the bus, I’d once fallen in the small space between curb and stairs, the feet of other children overhead as if I’d gone underground. This job is a lot of standing—I’ve learned to lean, sit on the counter.
The store is recessed in a side pocket of the mall. The elderly come here for exercise, walking in twos and threes from Ivey’s through Jordan Marsh, a cool chamber. A kind of preparatory tomb. The stores are dying off slowly. Ten years later, I’ll be sitting in a Barnes & Noble café built on the demolished mall, and one of my old customers will appear. “This is where the juice bar used to be,” he’ll say, standing over me in my chair. The juice bar beneath our feet. He comes to my store after playing basketball—I make him a Pep Power in the blender—strawberries, half a banana, wheat germ, protein powder, brewer’s yeast, ice. I don’t know his name, but in 1986, when I was being transferred permanently from the mall store back to the busier store in Winter Park, I told him I was nervous about going. The day I start at the new store, dizzied by the larger space and crowd, he shows up. Stands in the aisle and smiles at me. I’d seen him one other time outside the store. After I’d finished the Navy’s alcohol treatment program, after I’d cheated on Jason. I’d been on the highway, in the passenger seat of my car, Jason driving. I’d been frantic, begging Jason not to call off our wedding. The juice bar guy had been the man who appeared, driving in the car beside me. He was the one who almost embarrassed me into sanity.
Behind the front counter, Pat said, “You could go out with my nephew.” We wear matching smocks—thin cotton coats the color of yolk. Next door is a magazine stand, the piano store. How many pianos could they even sell in a day? It looked like zero a year. A luncheonette across the way. Further down is expensive jewelry, wedding rings. The jewel sellers, like the piano salesman,appear to be conserving energy, moving little. Leaning against glass. Sometimes I take a walk, make the mistake of eye contact, and the jewelry sellers latch on. I only make $4.25 an hour. What kind of jewel could I buy?
“He’s nice,” Pat said. I’d never seen her nephew. I say I’d like to go out with someone nice. A sign missed. Pat arranges it. Dinner. Pat’s very short. I decide her nephew must be short too. She also works part-time at a costume store on the highway. I can’t imagine it gets much business outside of Halloween. The store is like a warehouse for clowns. Wheels of opaque makeup, little pots of white and black and red. The clothes scratchy and flammable.
A few nights later, at 6:30, when the nephew is on his way to pick me up at my parents’ house, Sophie calls. She said, “Bill’s moving away.” All I can think is Get out, get out, get out. I don’t want to count anything; I don’t want to be counted. This is a moment I know well, the one they talk about in meetings, when I have no defense against the first drink. By now, I’ve just been going through the motions of sobriety. I’m not calling anyone in recovery. My attendance at meetings is scattershot. I’m a regular again at the bar.
There isn’t much time. I’m afraid the nephew will arrive before I can run to my car, drive out of sight. Afraid someone will stop me. It’s still light out—too early to go anywhere. Methodically, I drive to the Big C liquor store. Buy two pints, familiar clink; careful of cops I
At work, I draw letters on small white bags, fill them with grain. A mountain of lopsided paper cakes. Sometimes, by mistake, I write Bill’s name on the bag, fill it. The front door is bordered by a blood pressure machine. I have to climb onto the plastic seat to turn off the store alarm in the morning, set it at night. I like to wrap the cuff around my arm like a rough hand, tightening.Uncross my feet. My count so low, I faint if I stand too long in one place. As a child standing in line for the bus, I’d once fallen in the small space between curb and stairs, the feet of other children overhead as if I’d gone underground. This job is a lot of standing—I’ve learned to lean, sit on the counter.
The store is recessed in a side pocket of the mall. The elderly come here for exercise, walking in twos and threes from Ivey’s through Jordan Marsh, a cool chamber. A kind of preparatory tomb. The stores are dying off slowly. Ten years later, I’ll be sitting in a Barnes & Noble café built on the demolished mall, and one of my old customers will appear. “This is where the juice bar used to be,” he’ll say, standing over me in my chair. The juice bar beneath our feet. He comes to my store after playing basketball—I make him a Pep Power in the blender—strawberries, half a banana, wheat germ, protein powder, brewer’s yeast, ice. I don’t know his name, but in 1986, when I was being transferred permanently from the mall store back to the busier store in Winter Park, I told him I was nervous about going. The day I start at the new store, dizzied by the larger space and crowd, he shows up. Stands in the aisle and smiles at me. I’d seen him one other time outside the store. After I’d finished the Navy’s alcohol treatment program, after I’d cheated on Jason. I’d been on the highway, in the passenger seat of my car, Jason driving. I’d been frantic, begging Jason not to call off our wedding. The juice bar guy had been the man who appeared, driving in the car beside me. He was the one who almost embarrassed me into sanity.
Behind the front counter, Pat said, “You could go out with my nephew.” We wear matching smocks—thin cotton coats the color of yolk. Next door is a magazine stand, the piano store. How many pianos could they even sell in a day? It looked like zero a year. A luncheonette across the way. Further down is expensive jewelry, wedding rings. The jewel sellers, like the piano salesman,appear to be conserving energy, moving little. Leaning against glass. Sometimes I take a walk, make the mistake of eye contact, and the jewelry sellers latch on. I only make $4.25 an hour. What kind of jewel could I buy?
“He’s nice,” Pat said. I’d never seen her nephew. I say I’d like to go out with someone nice. A sign missed. Pat arranges it. Dinner. Pat’s very short. I decide her nephew must be short too. She also works part-time at a costume store on the highway. I can’t imagine it gets much business outside of Halloween. The store is like a warehouse for clowns. Wheels of opaque makeup, little pots of white and black and red. The clothes scratchy and flammable.
A few nights later, at 6:30, when the nephew is on his way to pick me up at my parents’ house, Sophie calls. She said, “Bill’s moving away.” All I can think is Get out, get out, get out. I don’t want to count anything; I don’t want to be counted. This is a moment I know well, the one they talk about in meetings, when I have no defense against the first drink. By now, I’ve just been going through the motions of sobriety. I’m not calling anyone in recovery. My attendance at meetings is scattershot. I’m a regular again at the bar.
There isn’t much time. I’m afraid the nephew will arrive before I can run to my car, drive out of sight. Afraid someone will stop me. It’s still light out—too early to go anywhere. Methodically, I drive to the Big C liquor store. Buy two pints, familiar clink; careful of cops I
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