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Deborah Fixes All

“Hey Deborah, look at this ring!” Jerry called out. Jerry is my main jeweler. He has very little hair on his head, lots on his arms, a prominent Adam’s apple, and a heart of gold. He also came blessed with his own weird sense of humor. He was grinning and holding out a small piece of gold.
“That’s not a ring.” I said.
“Well it was, until they had a fight. Then she smooshed it up into this little ball. Now we have to fix it before he sees it. She came here because of our reputation for good work.”
“Not because of our reputation for magic? ‘Cause that’s what it's gonna take to fix that thing! Why can’t she just show him what she did to it? It’ll teach him not to get in a fight with her again!”
“It could be a good warning to him,” rejoined Carol, our resident man hater, “she could show him what’s going to happen to him if he screws up!”
“Know what the great thing is about her story?” asked Jerry. He didn’t wait for anyone to answer him, “The thing they fought about turned out to have never happened!” This made him laugh uproariously.
“So we have to straighten it all out, probably same day service, and we have to give her a good price, too, right?”
“You got it!”

Business that had piled up while I was gone- the kind that only a boss can take care of. There were some custom job quotes to look at, some complex repairs, one customer complaint I had to call personally, and the question of a Halloween display in the store. This I took up with Jesse, the more creative sales associate. Halloween isn’t any kind of a jewelry sales holiday, but we try to stay festive. After a bit of deliberation, we wound up doing a purple, black and orange window (what else?) with some blackened gold pieces lying on orange velvet, some cat jewelry, and a pumpkin shaped trick-or-treat container filled with rings spilling out. Jesse hung some sheer sparkly black material under the lights for the right eerie effect, and I made spider webs out of black string and laid them on the bottoms of the cases with bracelets wound in between.
We change our seasonal displays every month or more, it usually takes about one day of solid work, but it is worth the effort. Our store becomes part fairy tale, part theater, and it delights customers. When Jesse and I were done, we stepped back. She tucked a slightly damp blond curl back into her ponytail and squinted.
“It’s missing something, isn’t it?”
“Yeah, do you remember what we did last year?” I asked her.
“Something more along the line of candy. Treats.”
“Well this year I want tricks. How about a big spider somewhere?”
“Yeah….” She smiled. “Ok, so where do we get a big spider? A costume shop?” This part I didn’t know, so I left it up to her. That’s what I pay them for. I went back to the glassed-in office where I carve my waxes. I had a wax to start on for the garnet I had bought for Mae Griffiths.

Ok, so here is where I have to explain what I do: I make jewelry. There are really only a few ways to make it. What I do primarily is carve wax. Ever hear of displacement casting? For those of you who haven’t, I will explain:
A microcrystalline plastic wax is carved and shaped into the desired shape- ring, pendant, etc. (This in and of itself is a labor intensive process requiring years to master.) This wax is then put in a steel mold called a flask. A silica-based powder called investment is mixed with water, and then poured over the wax models in the flask. When this hardens to plaster hardness, the mold is put in a kiln that vaporizes the wax, leaving a cavity of the original. Then the mold goes to a burnout kiln that hardens the investment at approximately F ˚1350. The molten metal, (gold, silver, platinum,) is then poured into the cavity using either a centrifugal force caster or a vacuum pad. The investment is then chipped away, leaving an exact metal model of the wax. This is the primary way jewelry has been made for thousands of years and we have found very few ways to improve on it. There are other ways of making jewelry such as fabrication, which we also do here. My store is Peregin Fine Goldsmithing & Design; I own it, and I love my job.

On this particular blustery October day I loved my job a lot. I love starting a project for Mae Griffiths. She is my best customer. Not the one who spends the most money, just the best in terms of my favorite. She is in her early sixties but has more energy than people half her age. She is thin, fashionable, and vivacious. I make her about 4 big custom pieces a year, not to mention several smaller ones. When working with her, I have complete artistic license. She is collecting sets of every gemstone she likes (which, lucky for me, happen to be most of them) and we have worked our way up to garnet. I had made her the ring, earrings, bracelet and even a pin back in the spring. Then she went away for an extended vacation in Cancun, leaving me with the instruction to have a necklace waiting when she got back in October. I had to wait for my trip to NYC to find a stone before I could even start on it. A garnet that special has to be handpicked, not ordered out of some catalog.
Mae would be back in about 3 weeks, which gave me exactly enough time to have it done and looking like I had never scrambled at the last minute. She loves large when it came to pendants; many of her better center stones had come from Mr. Abramoff’s. Thirty very small, very black seed pearls had been selected to surround it. Black sets off garnet so well.
I pulled a large block of hard green wax from my drawer and began shaping it with a rotary file. I worked long into the night, my crew left quietly, careful not to disturb the creative process.

Thirteen hours later, I had a wax ready to cast. The pendant was in 2 parts, the body of it would hold the garnet and swing free of the bail, which surrounded the center and held all the pearls in tapering points. I think the Halloween decorating had inspired me; the finished piece would be rather witchy. I locked up; left alone (big no-no in this business) went home and slept until noon.

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Labels: fiction, jewelry, murder, mystery

It’s all your fault, you know. You did this to me. Yes, you, with your altruism and do-goodmanship. Don’t tell me that’s not a word, what with all the idiot technical jargon people make up these days, one can say pretty much whatever one wants.

But it was really you who started it all. Don’t you remember, that day in the grocery store two years ago?
Of course you don’t, because you didn’t see me.
I saw you, though.
You were standing there in the wine aisle, carefully studying a gold and purple label. Your hair was a mess- wispy curls stuck out from one side of your head while the other side lay flat down over your ear. Your very perfect ear.
Do you remember what you were wearing that day? You can’t possibly, because it was so obvious that you dressed with no care whatsoever. A thin artsy tee shirt under a ratty track jacket, long skirt clinging to your ample thighs, and mismatched socks. Not so mismatched that it was stylish or mod or anything, not you. One dark blue sock with tiny pink flowers, and one deep purple sock with tiny brown curly designs. At first glance I’m sure they looked similar to you, and if you noticed the irregularity after you were out, I doubt as you would have cared.
I watched you, transfixed, while you read and frowned, lips forming words almost imperceptibly. Watching that movement made me tingle just a little bit in the back of my neck, I’ll bet you didn’t know that your soft pale mouth is incredibly sensuous.
You stooped and set the bottle back in its little slot, and I watched a fingernail (complete with chipped orange nail polish, marvelous!) tap along the tags on the shelf until you located a clearance tag.
Silly girl, didn’t you ever learn that clearance sale wine is marked down for a damn good reason?

A sharp poke in the ribs brought me back to reality. Diane, my girlfriend at the time, wanted me to make a judgment on the vodka that she would undoubtedly use to get smashed with that night.
“Grey goose, or Absolut?”
“I don’t care, Diane, its for you. You pick.”
She frowned and huffed a bit.
“I want you to express opinions more, we’ve talked about this, Von.”
“I already expressed my opinion- I think we shouldn’t drink anything hard tonight. Just a few beers.”
“I want a vodka tonic.”
“Diane…”
My attention was wandering back to you, though. You’d dropped a bottle of Shiraz into your cart and were now standing two feet closer to me, perusing the Riesling. I could have recommended a good vint and year, but I wasn’t sure if you’d want to be approached by some random jerk in the booze aisle. It would have to be more perfect than that…
Diane poked me again.
“Grey Goose.” I stammered, wanting desperately to flee.
“Mm…” she put her head on one side and fingered the frosted bottles, “I think I like Stoli. Why don’t you like Stoli?”
I sighed and rubbed my forehead, glancing once more at the vision that was you. You stopped your browse, yanked a hairpin out of your jacket pocket, and twisted the unruly part of hair up into an odd little lump, pinning it on top of your head. I wanted to kiss it. When your hand dug further in the pocket, the material of your shirt stretched across your torso and revealed a sumptuously round belly. I had never seen anything quite so alluring in my life. After years of dating hard, toned women, seeing that softness reminded me just why women are women.
Diane picked her way down to the end of the aisle, demurring over tonic and grenadine, while I stole a moment to peek inside your shopping cart. You looked like one of those girls, at first glance, who might be a freaky vegetarian or something, but I was reassured by an incredibly thick (and expensive) steak lying on the green plastic cart webbing. There’s something powerful about a woman who can eat a steak the size of her head.
Diane called to me, and I barely caught a glimpse of the rest of your groceries: soy milk, jasmine rice, chocolate chips, raw spinach, red pears. The diet of a sensuous person. Your voice came to me then as I turned the corner, you were singing something old sounding, off-key, of course.

I didn’t think I’d ever see you again, but fortune smiled upon me in the checkout. I turned to one side to avoid staring at the Cosmo magazine covers (Diane had a hawk eye for that weakness), and spotted you next to us, in checkout lane 8. Your little stash of food had been supplemented by a teetering stack of vivid Jello boxes. Of course. What kind of free-spirited soul could exist without that existential kid’s food?
You shrugged off your jacket, revealing round, white arms and a tiny vine tattoo that trailed around your elbow and down your forearm. I watched as you set each item from your cart onto the conveyor belt, arranging them in some sort of geometric pattern that must have made sense inside your head. You chatted amiably with the cashier while Diane snipped at ours. You paid in cash, pulled haphazardly from a woven green bag, dropping nickels on the floor. Diane swiped her debit card and cursed when it didn’t work the first time through.
We parted ways after paying, you headed right and we to the left, but we met again in the parking lot. I suppose I can’t say we ‘met’, since you had no idea of my presence, but I saw you. The same curiosity that got me to look in your cart compelled me to scoot around the backside of your car, reading bumper stickers. There weren’t as many as I would have thought, just the Tolkien quote about not all who wander are lost, a little art piece of a fairy or something, and a bright yellow sticker that screamed: KILL YOUR TELEVISION.
I slammed our cart into the roundup and trudged back to my car, feeling a void in my soul as you peeled out of the lot, music blaring raucously. Where would I ever see you again? I had to meet you, talk to you, tell you everything I have ever felt and seen and known…

Would you care? Would you listen? Or would you smile and nod and wander off, call the cops, ignore me, possibly even ridicule me? I’ve never taken well to rejection, have even set up a falsely jaunty air about me to ward off anything that could be construed as a brush-off.
But for you, that was going to change.
Right away.
I drove home from the supermarket that night with a new resolve. I was going to be a different man, a better man, a man that could be worthy of someone like yourself. I would use less electricity, eat less meat, recycle, exercise more, be more conscious of my environment and my fellow man… you know the kind of stuff. I didn’t know how that could bring me closer to you, but somehow it felt right. Seeing you made me instantly want to be a better person, and I didn’t care if you never noticed or appreciated. It was for you, no matter what.

The first thing that I did could have been he beginning of my descent, or maybe the first act of emancipation. That garish bumper sticker kept running through my head, like one of those banners that a plane drags around at a baseball game.
I poured Diane her vodka tonic (Grey Goose after all) and left her in the living room to drink herself into the stupor I had come to resent. The tv was heavy, but it was on a wheeled stand, and I lived on the fifth floor. It just fit through the sliding glass door, gave it a little push to get those casters over the aluminum track and all was well.
Diane’s voice came from the couch, tinny and distant,
“Are we watching it outside tonight, Von?”
“You could say that.” I grunted, trying to get the bloody thing up and off its stand. It took some doing, but I managed somehow, your image still bright in my mind. It wobbled there on the edge for a tiny moment in space, and Diane’s voice called again from the couch,
“Von?”
Von wasn’t going to answer her anymore. The one-eyed monster teetered backwards, forwards, then tumbled gracefully down to earth.
It took seven minutes to fall.
Or so it seemed.

When the earth reached up to embrace the thing, they met in a sparkling kiss devoid of sound or clumsiness. It was like an ice storm, a ballet, a war. I didn’t hear it explode, nor did I hear Diane’s outraged shrieks. I felt them, distantly, but they did not penetrate my mind. That was you, you know. You had opened this space in my mind where I could retreat from the ugliness of the world. The only thing that I could hear was your slightly tuneless singing.

That might have been the night that Diane left me. I’m a bit fuzzy on details now, but I have a vague memory of vodka, lime, and vomit. Maybe some bar should make a drink inspired by that. It didn’t bother me all that much, our relationship had become characterized by nothing more than ennui and discord. Mine was a new world, and she did not belong in it.

I thought about you every day, wondering when and if and how I would meet you again. I became a quieter person, decidedly a better person. My job began to grate on me, corporate finance never had seemed like a thrilling career, now I saw it for the true drudge it is. Possibly sensing my disillusionment, my boss put me on increasingly challenging projects. Nothing helped. I quit drinking altogether, hoping it would sharpen my brain. It only served to sharpen my desire to see you once more.
I told no one of my growing obsession, but friends began to look at me askance. I grew weary with scanning every crowd, every subway train, every packed diner for your face. I reminded myself that, in a city as big as ours, it would be virtually impossible to find you again.

And then Tom Simmons died. He was the head of one of the larger steelworks corporations that our company was trying to acquire, and my boss thought it would be good form to represent our company with a personal interest. I was dispatched to attend the funeral.
I don’t remember much about the liturgy, other than the fact that it was cold and fairly wet that day. I gave proper condolences to the family and friends, eliciting not a little disgust at my company’s wanton display of kowtow. When it was over, I stepped out onto Washington St. and headed for the carpark. The rain had stopped by then, leaving only sodden, reeking masses of fall leaves in the streets.
Through this mess shuffled a bum, muttering under his breath and staggering in that way that they have when they’re a bit over the rainbow. I watched him count off building numbers, then yank at a door handle of the church kitty corner from me. Warm yellow light spilled out into the gathering dusk, and from the opposite direction came another figure, bent against the wind.
My heart knew it was you before my eyes did. Although you were bundled almost beyond recognition, I somehow recognized the bend of your back, the line of your shoulders, the tangled hair. You slipped into a side doorway of the same building the bum had gone into.

My chest could scarce contain my heart. After all this time, here you were, not three miles from my office! There was nothing else to do but walk into that yellow pool of light and seek my destiny.

Inside, I blinked a bit while my eyes adjusted to the brightness. There was a tremendous clatter coming from one room, while I found myself standing at the far end of a soup line. Of course. Someone like you would have to spend the odd Thursday evening feeding the homeless.
And there you were, snapping on rubber gloves, cutting a huge sheet cake into tiny squares, making sure each piece got one of the tiny red splurts of frosting. Dishing the cake slices out onto plates as the ragged men and women made their way through the line, adding to the sugar with your own bit of pleasantry,
“And how are you today, Mr. Carter? Same as always, huh? Nice to see you here… Jennifer, have you found that other glove? No, I haven’t seen it either. I will certainly tell you if I find it… John May, John May, you make my day!”
Your face was flushed from the harsh autumn wind, your hair drooped over one eye, obscuring it from my view. You greeted every person in that line with maternal warmth. I knew that I had to make a move. As the last straggling bag lady stumped off with her plate of food (two pieces of cake, with a wink from you!) I took my place in front of your station.
“Can I help you?” your voice was sharp, your eye flicked over my neat three piece. I tried to answer, but found that I had suddenly lost my voice. It was the first time ever that you had spoken to me.
“I- uh,”
“Do you need a meal?”
“No!” I almost shouted, desperate not to be grouped with the wretched masses surrounding me, some of whom were beginning to stare, “No, I just- just…”
“Church office is down the hall and to the right.” You tipped your head in the direction indicated, then went back to cutting apart perfect little squares of cake.

And that’s when it hit me. In order to get your attention, in order to win your heart, I would have to be one of the people you smiled so kindly at. If your affection belonged to the underdog, I would have to become the lowest of underdogs.
I stumbled out of the church blindly, my mind whirling with my newfound discovery. Everything that I knew would have to be turned backwards. Everything, that is, except for my love for you.
That night is hazy in my memory, but the next day is burned bright. I arrived at work late, disheveled, and determined. My boss questioned me about the funeral of the previous day, how had it gone.
So I told him. I told him exactly how people had looked askance at me, how they had been insulted by the presence of a vulture’s emissary. I told him about the yellow pool of light on the sidewalk across the street from the Catholic church, about the homeless men inside. And then I told him just where his capitalism belonged, and where he could put it. I screamed my disdain to him, to the world in general, a world that can allow these broken people to wander the streets hungrily in the cold November gloom. I was still shouting when they escorted me out of the building.

That took care of one of the steps to becoming free, free for you. Now on to the high-rise apartment, the car, the suits. A lot of it I gave away, some I destroyed. It was in one of these destructive episodes that I violated the terms of my lease (Section 12: No burning allowed in the building) and was summarily booted out. My life’s savings- tainted money, obviously- I gave to people that were guaranteed to squander it, thereby ensuring it would not enter a useful capitalistic money stream. Within a few months I was out on the streets, scrounging dumpsters for my dinner (have you ever seen how much perfectly good food gets tossed in this city?) drinking away the cold March days, keeping warm with little trash fires under a bridge.
It’s a great life, really, one I would never trade now that I’m here. There is so much freedom to be had- no clock, no mortgage, no rules. It’s a filthy life, sometimes, degrading at others. I wanted to make sure I was good and ready before I visited the Presbyterian church on a Thursday night again. My beard had to be full, matted, and slightly burned on the edges. My clothes had to have that not-often-washed shine, that smell. It took a while, and it all would have worked out for the best if it hadn’t been for the little twerps who put a Phillips screwdriver through my eardrum one night on 35th St.
You have to understand- I have always been a fighter. I cannot, will not, take abuse lying down. Any punk who shoves a Phillips screwdriver through my eardrum is going to wind up with the same tool in their jugular vein. It’s as simple as that. So of course they had to go and make a big deal about it, call the press, build a sham of a trial, scream the murder conviction at the top of their lungs. Damn kid had it coming.

So now I can never visit you on a Thursday night. I’ll never get one of those little slices of cake with the red frosting on top, the little swirly piles of frosting. I would have kissed that cake, since it touched your hand. They do give me cake here in the pen, but it doesn’t have the red. Sometimes it has crushed walnuts on top, usually just a tiny smear of some greasy white stuff. You would never serve me that, would you? I don’t belong here, its too sterile and harsh, I need to be out there, on the streets, where I can step into that pool of yellow light, pull open that door, and enter the warmth of your presence. I’ll never do that, not in this life.
And it’s all your fault.

Labels: first person, homeless, murder, obsession, short story