Change at Jamaica Station

Chapter 15

Chapter Fifteen 

 Caroline has Friends                                                                                   November, 2019, Long Island, NY

It's been a long time since I've felt this much control over my own situation, and I smile to myself as I pull the car out into the street to run some errands before I go to work at the hair salon, Cappella. The owners are middle aged Italians, two gay partners who happen to be experts at wigs, which works out well in a religious area where women are required to cover their heads. They are lovely to me, charming and overly vivacious in general, and have an ostentatious lifestyle. Liberace would be proud. Since I will have to let them know I am leaving in a month, I decide to buy them a gift to thank them for their kindness and fun attitude. Besides Gerri and Tabby, these two men have been the only people I can rely on since Mark went missing.

After a run to the grocers, where I buy hair dye and cranberry juice, I head to the post office to mail another 'Keep Going' card to Jared, then I decide to pop into 'Trends,' the messy closet type of boutique that happens to be where all the "fashionable" go to get knockoffs on designer bags, jewelry, and other garbage. After working in this town for fifteen years, I am aware of what people expect you to look like.

I quickly choose for my bosses an elaborate Rococo vase, as overdone and gauche as there is. The store is filled to the brim with glittery and sparkly items, but the two middle aged women with better fake tans than Kylie Jenner seem to take up most of the space, and I can't decide if it is because they are both slightly overweight, or because their gigantic boob jobs just seem to suck in gravity, curving light around them like planets. I have often considered that Michael Jackson might have had more natural looking plastic surgery than most of the women in this town. Even if I didn't want to avoid them, they won't wait on me anyway. It's just the way it is here. I'm not one of them, therefore I am invisible, so in this candy store of eye-catching nonsense for trendy women, I pick up a fake Birkin bag and decide that at seventy-five dollars, I too can walk around town like a lady. Besides, it matches my new skirt and shoes. Jane Birkin would probably not approve, as its just more plastic from China, but it is in the budget, now that I have one.

As I approach the register, reaching for my cash, I realize the Birkin is a good size bag to transfer my hidden money bag from the storage locker in the garage, to a new hiding place in Babylon, once I find one. Maybe not even in my apartment. Maybe I should get a bank box, or a safe box. What are they called? I'll ask Tabby. That's when I hear the tic tic tapping of nails on the side of the register. I don't realize how completely absorbed I am in all this mental money moving until my eyes fall on the bitter face of one teed off princess salesperson giving me the eye, her diamond and red nailed hand outstretched.

"Hello? Where are you? That will be one fifty." Then I remember where I am; the town that only wants 'people like us.' For me, that means little courtesies like 'please' or 'thank you' are completely missing in the customer non-service here. Instead, you get a facial expression of one who is so entitled, that she can't imagine why she would have to ever wait on someone as invisible as me. Her expression is one you might see when someone is avoiding looking at a car wreck. I am the car wreck, apparently.

I recognize the woman from PTA meetings. Her name is Sally something; I always thought of her a Sally the sourpuss, and I wonder again how people with so much, seem so unhappy. I hand over a fresh hundred dollar bill, and a fifty, all courtesy of the gym bag bank, soon to be the fake Birkin Bag Bank. I quietly put tissue paper around the vase, as I am quite sure no one else here is going to help me wrap anything up. Sally ignores me while she takes out a nail file and starts on the corners of extremely long nails.

The minute I turn my back to leave the store, I hear slightly slurred speech, as her lips have obviously been recently injected with balloons, "Rebecca, check out the ditz. She forgot she was even paying! And in cash, no less." She chuckles. I know I shouldn't, but I glance back quickly at Rebecca, who drops her chin to her chest and raises her eyebrows at me, as if to say, 'Don't even think about it.'

"No credit." Rebecca answers in a jokey, 'what did you expect' type of voice. She has a deep, gravelly voice that reminds me of Harvey Fierstein's, except that I like Harvey and I'm sure he would be a doll in person.

Rebecca is a PPW, or popular powerful wife in texting terms. Mother of four, ten years running president of the PTA, her husband is a big shot corporate something, I was told through the gossip vine, as Rebecca has never spoken to me directly. No matter how many PTA fundraisers, Career days, Book Fairs, Parents night, Back to School nights, plant sales, bake sales, holiday fairs, school Olympics or PTA meetings I participated in, Rebecca and most all the other mothers couldn't even manage a nod of recognition. Not an ounce of kindness on the street, the bagel store, or when we all went back to school shopping at the same stores every fall for years and years. It's taken all these years, and for my family to be in real need, for me to see what a waste of time all my effort here has been. I stand there for a moment, just letting the anger wash over me, not wanting to stoop to their level by responding. I'm just so sick of everyone talking about my situation, then ignoring me.

"I'm sorry your mother never loved you." I say out loud before I leave. In the past, I would have felt sorry for myself, but now I'm just angry.

Maybe I didn't study enough but I thought religion was to help people connect to God, not disconnect people from each other. My mother always taught me to stick to the golden rule, do unto others and hope they treat you the same way. This past year, when I really needed any type of support, I found out just how much the community I worked so hard for had nothing to give me in return. Shallow, prejudice, and selfish, clique didn't exactly explain their type of community exclusivity. They were mean, petty, condescending to the point of pointless, and unbelievable demanding. They bitched and moaned about prejudices they suffered without a care for how they treated others, and their version of the golden rule included actual gold. I just never had enough money for anyone here to care about us.

"I am so done." I say emphatically once outside, and notice a flashy car across the street, further evidence that I just don't have what it takes to get proper attention here. I really just want to get my son and get out of this place. How far can we go on that cash?