THE NEXT MORNING, WHEN SHE WOKE UP, SHE DID NOT REMEMBER how the crowd had buffeted her like an ocean, how she had finally found a man in a maroon uniform who helped her find her room, but her legs were weak, as though she’d walked a great distance, and her mouth was dry from calling out Darlene’s name.
She knew what she wanted to do. She wanted to buy a present for Darlene. She wanted to do this simple action: go into a store, select a gift for her, buy it, and give it to her. That was all. She imagined the expression on Darlene’s face, her surprise at being given a present; she imagined Darlene’s happiness blooming, slowly, in herself. Ginger stood up, wearing the same dress she had the night before, faint with the scent of smoke and alcohol, and walked slowly to the gift shop.
There she stood, surrounded by the store’s offerings: the butterfly-sequined blouses, the porcelain statues of grizzly bears and leaping salmon and deer, the authentic replica Eskimo fur hats, the jars of glacier-blue rock candy.
“May I help you?” the girl at the counter asked.
What would Darlene like? She scanned the glass case of jewelry; there were snowflakes and bears and seals, turquoise and silver and garnet and gold; Ginger selected a large opal set in a gold snow-flake. Its price was $300.
“Beautiful taste,” the salesgirl said.
“Hey,” said a voice. It was Darlene. “I’ve been looking all over for you.”
The girl stood before her. Ginger put down the brooch.
“Are you all right?” asked Darlene. “Who’s that for?”
Ginger looked at her. “You,” she said.
“That will be $315.73,” said the salesgirl.
Ginger put her hand into the red velvet purse. There was nothing in it but the silk lining. She shook out her purse. Now she had $1.37.
“I have no money,” she said, softly.
“Is it in your room?” the salesgirl asked.
“This is all I have,” Ginger said.
She pushed her hand deep into the purse, feeling its emptiness. Her coins fell onto the floor. “You don’t have to buy me anything,” said Darlene.
The lights were extremely bright, as though someone had turned them on all at once.
“I want to buy it,” said Ginger. “Don’t you understand? I want to.”
She stood, swaying a little, aggravated that Darlene did not recognize what she was trying to do. Darlene squinted at her, and Ginger wondered if she had begun to disappear.
“What are you looking at?” she asked Darlene. She lurched toward her. “What?”
“Hold on,” said Darlene, looking at the salesgirl. “I’ll be right back.” She backed up and began to hurry down the hallway.
“Where is she going?” asked Ginger. She stepped toward the door. She went into the hallway and began to follow her.
AN ELDERLY COUPLE FLOATED TOWARD HER. THE WOMAN WORE A white brimmed sunhat, and the man had a camera hanging from a strap around his neck. “Thief,” Ginger whispered. She passed the maid clutching armfuls of crumpled sheets. “Thief,” she said. The maid turned around. Ginger began to walk onto the deck, the sunlight brilliant and cold on her arms. She staggered through the crowd in their pale sweat suits. “Thief!” she yelled. She believed one side of her was becoming heavy. She heard her voice, flat and loud; she heard the jingle of ice cubes in people’s drinks. “My money!” she yelled. Her voice was guttural, unrecognizable to her. “Give me my money!”
The girl was running up to her.
“Thief,” Ginger yelled.
The girl blinked. “What?” she asked.
“Thief,” said Ginger. She wanted to say the word over and over. Ginger’s face was warm; she was exhilarated by the act of accusation. She had forgotten the girl’s name. It had simply disappeared. Her knees buckled. The girl grabbed her arm.
“Call a doctor!” the girl yelled. “Quick!”
The ocean was moving by very quickly, and Ginger stared, unblinking, at the bright water until she was unsure whether she was on the deck looking at the water or in the water looking up at the light.
The girl’s firm grip made her feel calmer. Ginger placed her own hand on hers. Ginger did not know who this friend was, did not know who had loved her and whom she had loved. She leaned toward the glaring blue world, the water and ice and sky, and she felt a part of it.
“You’re not who you say you are,” murmured the girl. “I don’t believe you. You’re not a swindler. You’re a nice old lady. It was all a joke, wasn’t it. .”
Ginger breathed more slowly and clutched the girl’s arm. She saw everything in that moment: the trees on the shore giving up their leaves to the aqua sky, the ocean shimmering into white cloud, and the passengers’ breath becoming rain. She felt the vibrations of the ship’s motor in her throat. Through the clear, chill water, the ship moved north.
Anything for Money
Each Monday at eleven o’clock, Lenny Weiss performed his favorite duty as executive producer of his hit game show, Anything for Money: he selected the contestants for that week’s show. He walked briskly across the stage set, the studio lights so white and glaring as to make the stage resemble the surface of the moon. In his silk navy suit, the man appeared to be a lone figure on the set, for his staff knew not to speak to him or even look at him. He had become the king of syndicated game shows for his skill in finding the people who would do anything for money, people that viewers would both envy and despise.
The assistants were in the holding room with the prospective contestants, telling them the rules: No one was allowed to touch Mr. Weiss. Mr. Weiss required a five-foot perimeter around his person. No one was allowed to call him by his first name. No one was to be drinking Pepsi, as the taste offended Mr. Weiss. Gold jewelry reminded him of his former wife, so anyone wearing such jewelry was advised to take it off.
He stood by the door for a moment before he walked in, imagining how the losers would walk, dazed, to their cars, looking up at the arid sky. They would try to figure out what they had done wrong. They would look at their hands and wonder.
Then he walked in, and they screamed.
He loved to hear them scream. They had tried to dress up, garishly; polyester suits in pale colors, iridescent high heels. The air reeked of greed and strong perfume. Some of the women had their hair done especially for the occasion, and it shimmered oddly, hardened with spray.
“Pick me!”
“We love you, man!”
“We’ve been watching forever!”
A woman in a rhinestone-studded T-shirt that said Dallas Cowboys Forever lunged forward, grabbed his arm, and yelled, “Lenny!”
“Hands OFF Mr. Weiss!” shouted the security guard.
There was always one who was a lesson for the others. The door slammed, and the woman was marched back to her life. They all listened to her heels clicking against the floor, first sharp and declarative, then fading. The others stood, solemnly, in the silence, as though listening to the future sound of their own deaths.
They were all on this earth briefly; for Lenny, that meant he had the burning desire to be the king of syndicated game shows, one of the ten most powerful men in Hollywood. He did not know what the others’ lives meant to them, just that they wanted what he had. Money.
Now he needed to choose his contestants. They would be the ones with particularly acute expressions of desire and sadness; they would also have to photograph well under the brilliant lights.
“All right!” He clapped his hands. “You want to be rich? You want other people to kiss your ass? Well, listen. You’re going to have to work for it. Everyone!” He knew to change his requests for each new group; he did not want any of them to come prepared from rumors off the street.