Before we start, let’s agree on what we’re after, I say. On what you want and what it is you need.
Is this a shopping spree? she says.
Just like TV, I say.
But this isn’t TV, she says. Son, I love to see you do well, trust me I do, but you’ve been spending and spending and I don’t know how you can, she says. Where it all comes from. I don’t know and I know you won’t tell me. I don’t even know if I want you to tell me. No, I know I don’t want you to tell me. I won’t be able to stand it whatever it is.
Mom, don’t trip, it’s no big deal, I say. Let’s not make a big deal out of nothing.
At the first spot a woman wearing a kiloton of costume jewels rushes out a back room to guard the register as if it’s the Fountain of Youth or Fort Knox or both. She snaps open the till and busies with some insignificance only she and God can see without saying shit (not hello, not be right with you, nor how may I help you) to Mom nor I. We’re on the fool side of patience and still she don’t budge a quarter-step away from her post. Just when I’ve had enough, I tow Mom outside.
No such civil rights moment at the next store. This saleslady is on us so quick she stumbles. Welcome, welcome, she says, with a glee that’s damn near satiric. Mom makes her way to a rack, sifts through the hangers, and spotlights a long-sleeved blouse. This is cute, she says. Then get it, I say. I find a seat beside a silver plate of cheese and crackers and half-pints of water while Mom and the saleslady browse the racks, the tables of folded sweaters, the trunks. Mom floats back every so often to showcase her picks (skirts, more blouses, slacks, a single-button suit) and fuss over a price.
If you want it, get it, is the script.
Are you sure? she says.
Mom, get what you want. Let’s not worry over nickels and dimes.
To be true, today’s tab is liable to put a dent in my re-up funds, but somebody tell me, among all my so-called concerns, what should be above my mother’s joy?
Mom builds a nice-sized pile on the counter while the saleslady grins like a first-rate sycophant. We leave with armloads of new threads folded in bags and a discount card good for an eon.
This is too much, she says. Just too, too much.
Says who? I say.
I’m serious, she says.
So am I, I say.
There’s a clot of cars on I-5. I take the Fremont Bridge and get off near the hospital. Just past the bakery I ask Mom if she’s ready to call it a day. She isn’t. Then it’s movie time, I say, bend the next corner, and cruise to the theater by the mall. Mom insists we haul her new threads inside. If we’re keeping them, we may as well keep them, she says. No sense in letting someone steal them.
The box office line is no line at all, a minute wait if that, but since it’s no such luck on showtimes, we settle for a flick (the only one we can agree on) that by my kick-around watch (no jewels around Moms) is an antagonistic wait-time from previews. We buy the tickets and a bundle of snacks and head inside a theater with the lights still up. Mom drops her bags in the seat beside her and dives last-supper-style into the tub of popcorn I was loath to oversalt.
This is how you know we’re hella-early. The screen is dead and gray and the only human in the theater besides us is a slender (true, I got nerve calling dude slim) attendant sweeping a row a few rows up. Minus dude, this scene would’ve been prime for us (the us being me and my boys), who weekends would run CIA-like subterfuge on movie workers. We’d hop a back fence, dash through a low-trafficked exit, and trade the rest of our day for the gem of free flicks.
Ah, those sweet, sweet salad days.
The sound comes up. Then a marathon of ads and trailers. Then the movie starts with a boy making a bedtime wish to bring his dead father back to life. Mom coos and I give her the look. What? she says, and gives me the look back. The flick is straight hammy, but at least keeps me awake (minus an odd nod here and there) till the end, which for a nigger who can fall comatose at any time, in all places, is a feat. When we leave it’s gloaming and the lot’s lit by high halogens. There’s a trickle of couples strolling towards the entrance. The light rail clatters past. A pack of fatmouthing youngsters stomp towards the mall. Farther, my ride gleams. Mom climbs in and I load her bags into the backseat. Now, I say. How do you feel? Mom blows a lift in her new bangs and smiles a smile that’s less her heart. Honest, how I feel is the old me didn’t measure, she says. That I’m someone new I don’t know, she says. But someone, though, I might like to meet.
Chapter 7
Sooner or later we all face two options.
It’s come to this. Me in my new interview clothes in another part of town, a two-bus-transfer part of town. But early too. I head straight for the bathroom and work the routine: I press my lips together and slick my hair and fasten my coat buttons and brush lint from my sleeves and send my smile through warm-up.
When I come out, I drag in line behind a man wearing construction boots splattered with paint and snug jeans. The man orders off a sheet for his whole crew and stands aside picking paint flecks off his tattooed forearms. He’s the show until it’s my turn. The girl working the counter is as slight as I was at that age. She fixes the fishnet halo under her visor and asks to take my order. Not placing an order, I say. But may I see the manager, please. I’m here for an interview.
She disappears.
She comes back, asks me to step aside, and simpers at the next customer. Not too long after, a woman built to survive rambles out with a clipboard in her hand. She says her name is Pam. And you must be …
Grace, I say, and give her a once-over. What my first mind says about Pam: She’s been through the fire and got a soft spot for folks that seen the flame.
We sit in a booth near a window muddied with specials. She has a hairy mole on her cheek that’s tough to ignore. She slaps my app on a clipboard and checks it with a red pen. I can’t watch. I can’t not watch. I left the felony question blank, and when she gets down by where it’s at on the page and crisscrosses a red X. I turn to the window that looks onto the playground, see two boys tumble out of the mouth of a winding purple slide while a small girl stands by applauding.
There’s a huge difference between lowering your standards and adjusting your expectations. One day you’re driving your boys to a restaurant and ordering whatever they want off the menu and stuffing dollars in the donation box, and the next you’re interviewing for a job with, if you hadn’t of called your eldest, with bus fare home and not much else. Sooner or later we all face two choices: either we can adjust our expectations or have them adjusted for us.
Pam wrinkles her brows. Hmm, no food service experience, she says. Do you at least have your food handler’s permit?
No, no food service on the résumé, I say. But I got three boys with big appetites, and I’ve kept them fed.
To tell the truth, the experience isn’t crucial, Pam says, but you couldn’t work without your permit.
Permit? Oh, I can get one, I say. I’ll go and get one as fast as you can.
Great, great. But first let’s talk about these work history gaps, she says. She points to one of her red X’s. I look away, see through the window behind her happy kids riding a carousel.
Work history, I say. Well, I was getting state checks for a few years. Then had some personal problems after that.
Problems? she says.
Yes, I say. But I’d rather not discuss, unless it’s necessary.