Christmas Dolls

My first retail experience began when I was 15 at a funky little boutique in Northern Westchester called Nonesuch. The store was owned by two very sweet, totally disorganized former party girls. Well, one of them was a former party girl; the other one had continued partying long after everyone had gone home, slept off the cocktails, showered, dressed and gone to work. She was now a full blown alcoholic, and the store was in shambles. I was hired, at first, to just clean the piles of clothes that lay about in people high heaps. Empty tequila bottles were nestled in these stacks staining the lace collars yellow and matting velvet sleeves into sticky-hard bundles. The bottles lay dormant everywhere and I found them like a trail of depressing Easter eggs throughout the tiny shop: in the piles of empty boxes in the storage room, behind the desk in unsold handbags, under hats decorated with flowers and feathers, in the middle of circular racks and in deli plastic bags hanging at the back of the wall racks. The dust was inches thick, and the jewlry was a tangled mass in the glass case which was itself sticky with spilled drinks and grime. The store was the physical embodiment of ten pounds of shit violently shoved into a one pound bag. My first job was to, in my boss, Lynn's words: "just get everything off the floor."

Much happened in the first few months: Lynn finally bought Kristin's share of the store and they fought bitterly; Lynn dated several men, but always stuck with her explosive and violent boyfriend, who I had to call the cops on twice; I met Lynn's two suprisingly good kids and occasionally babysat for them; I got my driver's license; Lynn took me on a buying trip to the Javitz Center where I saw more pink carpet than I ever thought possible; and I got everything, everything off the floor. By the time Christmas rolled around, I was running the store. Lynn, a competative bodybuilder, aerobics teacher and single mom, trusted me with writing checks, placing orders, handling cash deposits and organizing all the paperwork for her accountant. It was kind of crazy, but I took it for granted that this was a typical highschool job. For $8 an hour. Lynn came in less and less and usually it was to cry about some new terrible thing Antonio, her dickhead boyfriend, had done. She told me I was so mature, that I was the most mature person she knew, and either out of cockiness or a simple recognition of the truth, I believed her. I was really happy there. I felt so grown up driving to work after my half day of school, opening the store at noon and staying there, selling, cleaning, organizing, doing paperwork and doing my homework until it was time to close at 8.

Lynn was a big fan of holiday decorations: at Halloween half a dozen glitterey jack-o-lanterns, a shrieking witch, a couple of motion sensing, yowling black cats, streamers of black and orange, and the piece de resistance: a gargoyle encrusted fountain with dry ice smoke making tacky whisps over the most godawful Halloween sweaters. I was forever trying to reign her in, fantasizing about the clean, nearly empty stores I saw in Soho on the weekends. But when Christmas rolled around, there was no stopping her. It was Christmas music for eight hours a day for every day between Thanksgiving and Christmas. I liked the lights in the window, but I would have liked to burn some of the Victorian cut outs plastered on the walls and windows. Lynn had reluctantly asked me to work Christmas Eve, and was elated when I told her I didn't care: I'm Jewish.

The town of Katonah is always picturesque. A tiny little main street with a mix of stores catering to the extremely wealthy and the handful of blue collar folks who's families had been in the area since the railroad had been built to create a suburb for wealthy Manhattanites. During Christmastime, the town takes on the aura of a Currier and Ives print and makes everyone feel like wearing thick sweaters and fuzzy mittens. The snow lays in drifts a few feet high, sticking to pine trees, reflecting softer versions of the brightly colored lights. Everyone is happy and shopping and so.. Christian! They sing carols, say prayers in school, and then, in an insultig nod to the three or four Jewish kids, teach everyone how to play driedle(which is essentially gambling)and then add a sneering "happy Hannukka" so our famously legal race won't get up in arms and sue. Amid all this cheeriness and good will, it seemed perfectly natural for me to wear torn fishnet stockings a pair of worn black granny boots, a red velvet sleevless dress that was little more than a t-shirt, and a thin black velvet jacket with more black eye makeup than a football player. Nothing says holiday spirit like a giant ankh, black hair and a Twinkie fueled eating disorder.

So there it was, 4pm on Christmas Eve day, and the town was mostly shut down. It was the town's ability to completely empty itself of all signs of life that always made my stomach lurch. I hated knowing that 99% of the people in that town were sitting down to huge family dinners and being all happy and Christian. I was pouting and drawing when the bells on the door tinkled and there stood a youngish man, one of the bazillion commuters in the town, brushing snow off his long wool coat. At first I just rolled my eyes, not wanting my sulking to be interrupted by some asshole republican business man (my powers of perception and classification were not so well honed back then: you were either a liberal or a republican and one could tell one from the other by whether the subject was wearing a suit or not.)He smiled and apologized for getting snow on some of the novelty sweaters next to the door.
"No biggie," I said


He started to nervously wander around the store looking for all the world like a rat lost in a display of plastic cheese. Finally, I deigned to speak to the suited drone.

"Can I help you?" I asked.

"Ah. No. Actually. Maybe you could." He pulled out a shapeless, unattractive dress and held it out. "You seem to have a pretty cool sense of style. What do you think of this dress?"

"Who's it for?"

"My wife." I balked. If I were a fellow's wife, and he brought something like that home for my Christmas present, I wouldn't say anything, I would just punch him. Or I would have when I was 16, anyway.

"Um..." I said, and he got the message. "What size is she?"

He blushed deeply. "I don't know." He gave me an appraising look that made me uncomfortable. I sat down. "Oh! I'm sorry, I'm just trying to figure out if you're about the same size."

"I doubt it," I said. "I'm probably taller than her." At 16 I was already 5'10".

"Well, yes, much taller, but, you look.. your wrist looks about the same size." That was possible. I was skinny then.

"She's probably a six or four," I said. "I wear an 8 because I'm tall."

He smiled and snapped his fingers. "That sounds right."

"What color hair? Eyes?" I asked.

"Actually," he shifted uncomfortably. "She's very similar to your coloring." I looked at him suspiciously. Was he trying to hit on me? I was at least half his age and I was pretty sure that he was an evil corporate exec and his wife was some sort of bulemic trophy wife. "Here," he said correctly interpreting my very obvious glare. He pulled out a picture of his wife and daughter. She was lovely. She could have been my older, prettier, shorter, less gothy sister. We did look very similar. I relaxed then and thus began a three hour shopping extravaganza.

I pulled out dresses and seperates, earrings, neclaces, scarves, belts and hats. I made outfits on a mannequin, pulling out all of the clothes I would have bought for myself if I could afford it. He gave a thumbs up to almost everything, but that meant nothing to me, since he clearly had no idea what would look good on his wife. I would put a frilly skirt with an oversize sweater and a thick belt, a scarf, and a beret and he'd look excited and say "wow! that looks terrif-" but I would cut him off to say it would be too much fabric on his wife's small frame and he would nod and marvel at my sagacious knowledge.

He got four full outfits, earrings, scarves, bracelets, everything. And when we were done with his wife's closet, we began on his daughter's. She was seven and a little easier to pick out clothes for. I was on a crazy high. It was like dressing paper dolls, but better. We had some toys in the store that I had picked out at market, and he bought his daughter one of each.

When all was said and done, when I thought the jovial laughter couldn't be any more enjoyable, I felt him looking at me. "You really are talented, you know." He said. I blushed.

"I just really like clothes. Not that I'm materialistic or anything." As if.

"Let me pay for this and I'll leave you to do the wrapping while I get a cup of coffee, if that's okay," he said.

He'd spent over a thousand dollars. I was shocked. I felt bad, like I had wronged him. He smiled. "I don't really do presents most of the time, so every year I go crazy at Christmas." For some reason I didn't believe him. I thought he had probably done something shitty and was trying to buy his wife and daughter's love back. Or, I thought, maybe they're dead. Maybe they died at Christmas years ago in a car accident, and every year he goes berzerk and buys a trousseau's worth of clothes, and then he sits alone, miserably surrounded by these terrible reminders of all of the gifts they will never be able to accept. I wondered if maybe the accident had been his fault. Was his house empty except for dozens of boxes, neatly wrapped, containing fabric and jewels, rich in texture and hue, locked away until he finally dies and the executors of the estate begin to sob when they open the boxes, ribbons and paper flying willy nilly, and realize the terrible burden this poor man has lived with his whole adult life? Or did he give the clothes to charities after the new year, and resume his daily duties of making money and feeding himself, maybe dating every so often? Either way, I was beginning to fall in love with his tragedy a little bit and I wrapped each box with special flourishes, touches I hoped would look more cheerful than the usual staid bow.

He returned an hour later. It was nearly eight o clock, awfully late for Christmas Eve. He apologized for keeping me late (I had been hoping to close at six.) I looked at him with pity, until he handed me a cup of hot chocolate. That was awesome. I hadn't even realized how hungry I was (I had been trying to forget eating as much as possible at the time, but it never really worked) and I sucked the sweet drink down before I finished wrapping his presents. He smiled and he asked what I was doing that night.

"Nothing. I'm Jewish. There isn't even anything on TV."

"You could come to my house if you want." That's it, I thought, either he's a total creep or they're dead and he can't face another lonely night.

"Uh, no." I said.

He saw he'd overstepped. "I just meant, you really saved my life tonight. I thought I was going to be in big trouble, and, I dunno. I thought you might like to see your handiwork. I mean, really, Jen (his wife) and Alicia (his daughter) are going to LOVE all this. I've never given such good gifts in my life. I'm sure they're going to want to meet you."

I still thought he was being a total creep, but I was flattered. I declined his offer again, but thanked him. Finally, the gifts were all wrapped and safely in bags. We shook hands and he wished me a happy hannukka. I told him it had ended weeks ago... I was tactful like that.

"Merry Christmas?" I said

"Thanks," he smiled.

He crammed on a handsom fedora that I hadn't noticed before and the bells jingled on the way out.

I closed the store and drove home feeling pleasant in spite of myself.

* * * *

A few days after the New Year, I was taking down the Kris Kringle decorations and sighing over the box of doilies and hearts that Lynn had just dropped off. I hadn't stopped thinking about "Moneybags", as I'd named him. I was wondering what charity he'd given all the gifts to. Or, if his pretty wife was still alive and he really didn't do gifts on the other holidays, did that mean he did't give her anything on Valentine's Day? Personally, I hated Valentine's Day. But then I wasn't married. I wondered if I'd get into Valentines's Day if I was married and if I did, would I expect chocolates and flowers? I thought I might, but only black roses and 3 Musketeers bars. The door bell tinkled and in front of me stood a family silouhetted by the glaring snow outside.

"Hi Jess, I wanted to introduce you to Jen and Alicia!" It was Moneybags here to prove me morbid.

"Jess! Andy couldn't stop singing your praises, and I can't thank you enough!" Jen stepped toward me smiling beautifully. I felt big and bulky next to her petite frame. She was wearing one of the outfits I'd put together for her. It fit perfectly. She looked wonderful. She even had on the earrings I had picked out. "How in the world did you know?" She asked beaming.

"Um, he, uh, he showed me your picture. I figured you'd wear what you thought looked good for a family portrait and, um..." she smiled at my cleverness. "And, um, I picked out stuff I like." She laughed.

"Daddy! Look, there's my bear!" Alicia spotted the twin of one of the bears Moneybags had bought for her a week earlier. She too was dressed, head to toe, in the clothes I had picked for her. I was pleased with how mother and daughter looked, but for some reason I was terribly embarrassed and I wished they would leave. They were so sweet, so good looking, so happy, so warm and so pleased. I wanted to curl up and hide in a corner of the store, but I stood there and blushed as they happily chatted and looked around at other merchandise. They spent the better part of the afternoon talking and laughing, praising outfits I picked for the other infrequet customers who came and went. By four o clock, it was nearly dark and I'd learned that Jen and Andy were from Colorado and had come east to work work for two different non-profits, I don't remember which ones. The overcoat Andy wore was over twenty years old, a highschool graduation present given to him by his grandfather. Jen had started a feminist club in highschool. Alicia liked spiders. They were clearly not the conservative Wall Street people I'd assumed they were. They were vegetarians! They didn't believe in hyper consumerism, but they made an exception for Christmas so Alicia wouldn't feel like a freak in school(a consideration I deeply appreciated)and, because, well, sometimes, stuff is fun. I had a crush on the family unit by the time they left.

Andy and Jen stopped in with Alicia now and then but, true to their anti-consumerist stance, they never bought anything else.

A Real Artist

"I love this," she murmured. A second later: "Oh, I just love this!" Another moment passed. "Uh! This is just so great! Isn't that clever! That's so clever. Mm! mm! mm!" She continued around the store picking up objects and putting them back. "You have wonderful taste... if you're the buyer," she called to me.
"No, I'm not the buyer, but I'm glad you're enjoying yourself!" I said.
"Oh," she sniffed, and I realized I was no longer worthy of attention. "The buyer is a designer herself, so she has a terrific eye," I continued. I pointed out the locally designed products and artworks.
"Do you do anything in here?" she sneered. Her tan made her pale blue eyes look almost white.
"Yes," I said and she looked disappointed. "Those drawings on the wall there."
"Huh." She said, barely glancing at the three drawings that collectively represented almost six solid months of my life: black and white narratives painstakingly drawn with ultra fine pens, a magnifying glass and the sacrificial blood and tears most people reserve for their children. "Well, I guess I'll take these things." She said happily dropping a few kitschy knick knacks on the counter.
"Would you like to wear the ring?" I asked pointing to the giant novelty ring she had gushed over.
"Oh, god, no! I'm meeting a client!" she exclaimed and even I was unsure how I could have been so stupid.
"And what do you do, if I can be nosy?" I asked.
"I'm a financial planner," she said. "But I'm actually an artist... on the side." Ah. Now I understood.
"Really?" I said. "How cool."
"Yes," she ran her chicken feet fingers through her short dark hair. "I work with fine crystals... real Swarovsky crystals." She sniffed again. I wondered if she might need a tissue "I also work in shells as a medium. I make picture frames and, you know, little mirrors." She paused again as I nodded and let the gravity of this information process in my pea brain. "I made this bracelet for example." She held out her thin wrist adorned with a greenish brass bangle with rhinestone medallions hot-glued all around it.
"Oh! Yes, I see!" I said. "And did you make your necklace as well?"
"Oh, yes! This is one of my pieces. I loved it so much I just had to keep it for myself, even though so many people wanted it." She fingered the blue, genuine Swarovsky crystals at her throat. "You can see the color is really unique."
I nodded.
"Well," she said. "These are certainly impulse buys!" She beamed at her purchases, the novelty ring and an ice tray that made ice cubes shaped like jewels. I smiled.
"Well enjoy your impulses," I said. She didn't respond. "Thanks for stopping in." She didn't even look at me. "Have a great day!" She walked out the door without saying thank you or goodbye.

Reflections on the word "True(ish)"

Let me start by saying this: I stammer when I'm flustered.

So for those handful of you who read these entries, understand that when I say "I said" what I really mean is: "after stammering and sweating, and maybe saying a few things that I've ommited here for the sake of brevity (and there's not much of that on this blog) and a story that doesn't drown in "ums","ands", and "uhs", I finally squeezed these words out, in more or less this order." I don't have a history of levelheadedness, and if I sound cool, calm, and collected in these stories, which do come from my semi-distant past, it is totally because I want you to think I was, even if I wasn't.

I also compress multiple interactions into one or two key encounters. Again, this is so I don't have to bog everyone down with "and then the next day... and then the day after that... and after the 16th time.." This makes it seem like I can just intuit motives and attitudes in other people after just one or two casual meetings. I usually can't. Though I will say this: you can tell a LOT about people by how they dress. Don't tell me that isn't true, because it is. Maybe that's especially true in New York, but trust me. People want to be known and if they don't you can tell that by how they dress.

So when I say "true(ish)" what I mean is this: these people exist, I worked in these places for the reasons I give, the observations of the settings are true to my memory and what I don't remember, I do a little research to make sure it's true. The encounters are real, but they probably didn't go as smoothly as I make it out and the endings were not the neat little packages I turn them into. And also, I sweat a lot when I'm nervous, so if it feels more honest to you to imagine me sweating when I tell someone off, go right ahead.

Just thought I'd give folks a heads up, in case you were thinking "that can't possibly be true, I know Jess and she is NOT that articulate." I am if you cut out the fat.

It's Not Asking Too Much

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The Barista. An often maligned creature: too hipster, too snotty, too cool, a fashion victim at a fashion show, inattentive, rude, slow, money grubbing, plays the music too loud, gets the order wrong, forgets the order altogether, gossips loudly about other customers, looks pained when you ask for extra foam, tells you "this is what a cappuccino looks like" as if you don't know what a cappuccino looks like which you do and what s/he has just handed you is not it, sneers at Starbucks and lectures you about going vegan, handles food without gloves, sneezes in your coffee and does not say thank you when you leave a perfectly reasonable tip.

Hating baristas, for some people, is a sport. Luckily for me and the legions of college-educated, broke twenty and now thirty-somethings who meant to follow their passions and somehow ended up working in a coffee shop, there are more people who love their local baristas. I would like to put in a kind word for the barista, and a few nasty ones for the cafe customers who suck at being customers as much as any barista has ever sucked at being a servant. Pardon me, I mean "a member of the service industry."

If you work the morning shift in a small cafe, that means you get up between 4 and 5 am so you can travel to work, and you work hard. Don't let anyone tell you different. It's not highly skilled labor- except the actual espresso making part, but even that, once you get the hang of it, becomes routine- but it is definitely labor. Usually your customers are what make the day fun, and a good number of my friends are former cafe customers.

The deluge begins with a dribble around dawn: one or two perky, early risers in their gym gear, pulling out an ear bud to talk to you about the prospective weather; other members of the service industry- city workers, construction workers, home healthcare aides- come in the first hour as well. I called the hour between 6:30 and 7:30 the blue collar hour. Mostly pleasant folks, tired and god fearing. They don't tip more than a nickle, but I never blamed them: they're a hard working lot with families to support on meager incomes. Coffee is one of those rare items that gets classified as a luxury (because of such things as frappuccinos and caramel ventis) and financial planners always tell people to cut expensive coffee drinks out of their routines, but I think that's unfair. The combination of coffee, sugar and froth really is a necessity for most of the people who keep things running smoothly for the rest of us.

At about 7:45 the flood begins with the teachers. They arrive bitching about every goddamn thing under the sun. The principal is a cunt, the math department thinks the english department doesn't need books more than the math department needs calculators, the board of ed is out of touch and totally corrupt, and the kids... well, those teachers are no racists, but it's hard not to be when x, y or z just happened... and have you heard how they talk? They're like animals! Just kidding! And, oh my god, did you hear that student accused that teacher of misconduct?! Unbelievable! I mean, it's probably true, but, well, the kid probably deserved to be punched in the face. Ha ha. They don't acknowledge the existence of the people around them and even worse, they never know what they want, even though they all get the same thing every day. This one is paying for both, no, all three of those guys... oh. Wait. She forgot her wallet, can I ring them all separately? Did I get the order for the bagel with cream cheese? No? Sheesh. What kind of bagel? What kind do you have? Well, do you have blueberry bagels? No? Wait, what kind of bagels do you have again? I'll have an everything. Not cream cheese! Butter! I said butter! Yes I did. You should get blueberry bagels. Toasted. Is the coffee ready yet? No? What are you guys doing back there? Sleeping? Ha ha. And so on.

On the heels of the teachers come the business people. Folks who stick out like a sore thumb in a neighborhood full of hipsters and Teach for America do-gooders-turned-bitter. But I like these people as customers: on the weekends they will happily lounge around talking about Blade Runner and paintball before going to the office for some overtime. They tip well, are pleasant and brusque and never think to use a reusable cup. They just don't have time for such things.

Behind the yuppies, in the line that is now snaking out the door, are the art yuppies: designers, architects, commercial artists, game developers, animators, tv and film producers. These are the worst of what hipsterism has to offer: they make lots of money and come from lots of money, but claim to be broke all the time which explains jeans that cost $160, artfully worn sweaters worth $200, shoes in the neighborhood of $500, a $4 iced latte and a tip of 25 cents. They are obsessed with "professionalism" having recently discovered it, and constantly say things like "that client was sounprofessional!" They drop the names of their alma maters- RISD, Parsons, SVA, the New School- as often as they do celebrity designers and arty-farty design magazines that have a circulation of exactly three people and cost $25 per issue. And these people are so passive agressive it's hard to believe Jane Austen didn't model her characters on a bunch of Williamsburg art yuppies. They want to be gritty and they think the people behind the counter are just like them, but even though we're usually white (if more than one of us wasn't they probably wouldn't come in) and mostly artists of one kind or another, we are nothing alike...at least not as a labor force. A barista makes between $2-9 an hour, they make between $20-90 an hour. Baristas do not get overtime, sick days, vacation days or benefits of any kind. They do. Most baristas are paid off the books and are lead to believe this is for our own benefit so we won't have taxes taken out of our paychecks, but we are left without recourse if we get laid off, hurt on the job, or treated unfairly. They have private accountants to handle their paperwork and taxes. Baristas regularly work 12 hour shifts on our feet. Art yuppies work long hours too, but in ergonomic chairs in carefully calibrated temperatures. And they have onsite yoga classes. Baristas haul trash, boxes, and slop-filled buckets, we wash dishes, clean bathrooms, cook food, clean spills, get scalded, do laundry, sweep and mop floors, hose the encrusted dirt and food off heavy rubber mats even in the middle of winter, empty the humane (if I'm working there) and inhumane (if I'm not) mouse traps of bodies, lug back stock up and down basement steps, scrub refrigerators, scrape grills, wash windows, unclog drains, scrub coffee stained urns, handle unruly customers, and, oh yeah, make fancy coffee drinks. Of course a barista does way more than that but that's just the stuff that requires a bit of muscle and a strong stomach. Art yuppies... don't do any of that. And a barista must be friendly and cheerful all the time. Irritability in an art yuppie is considered an asset.

I hate art yuppies as much as I sometimes aspire to be one.

So these are my sweeping generalizations of a typical Brooklyn coffee shop. Of course there are exceptions to every case listed above- and I haven't mentioned the young parents, the burlesque dancers, the bank tellers, the art tourists, the students, the homeless junkies, the parents of students grateful for a normal looking coffee shop in the midst of the 99 cent stores and botanicas, the owners of those stores, and the old timers who look absolutely shell shocked by the yuppie diaspora that has settled in their once poverty stricken neighborhood- but I'm setting a scene. Imagine- against the backdrop of little sleep, many customers- each with their own sigh and caffeine headache, complaints about clients, students, boyfriends, weather, the hour- and a seething class war that no one acknowledges, the following scene unfolds.

Two black women who seem friendly enough, walk in and try, at first to cut the line by asking, "this the line for coffee?" No, it's the line for my book signing. One looks like a bank teller, chubby and wearing the cheap black slacks and chunky jewelry of TJ Maxx. The other is short and built. She has long salt and pepper dreads and she is dressed in a linen suit, tailored like a Don Johnson special. She has sunglasses perched on her head and she's a pretty good looking woman. When they're turn finally comes, Miami Vice comes up to the counter, pushes her sport coat back and puts her hands in her pockets. Very suave.
"Hiya! What can I get you?" I ask, all smiles.
Bank Teller asks for a caramel latte. I nod and look at Miami Vice, ready to take her order. She smiles all cool like and says "It's okay. Go ahead and make her drink, I'm gonna decide." So I make the latte. I do latte art, and I make a little rosetta leaf in the foam. This makes Bank Teller giggle and Miami Vice looks impressed. All is going swimmingly.
"Let me ask you something," she says. "You got a bacon and egg sandwhich?"
She had been studying the menu the whole time I'd been making the latte and somehow had not noticed that there is no bacon and egg sandwich listed. No, I apologize, we do not have any bacon and egg sandwiches.
"Can't you just make me one? With the ingredients you have?"
The line is long, people are restless and my coworker is frantically making cappuccinos.
"We don't have bacon or eggs," I say getting annoyed in double time.
"You don't have bacon and eggs?! What kind of place serves breakfast but doesn't have eggs?" She speaks in an even tone, more like she is reciting a set up for a joke.
"This place," I snap with a smile. "Can I get you something else. Something that's on the menu, perhaps?"
"Hmmm..." she says. "How about you make me a ham and cheese on the health bread."
"The prosciutto sandwich comes on the ciabatta-"
"I know, but I just want the ham and some cheddar cheese on the health bread. How about you just make that for me. With mayo on one side. Butter on the other. And lettuce. And tomato." She's leaning against the counter and has assumed the air of a person casually waiting.
"No. I can't make that for you. I have a line out the door, and no time to make you a sandwich we don't have pre-made. But I do have a ham and cheese croissant. Would you like me to heat one of those up for you?"
"Naw, just go ahead and make the sandwhich. Thanks."
Is my mouth not saying what I think it is saying?
"I can't make you a sandwhich right now. The place next door makes breakfast sandwhiches. You can get what you want there. Is there anything else I can get you?"
"I don't want anything else-"
"Okay, then," I cut her off. "Next!"
The people behind her are about to revolt and my coworker is in a state of abject fury.
"Now hold on!" She says, and her suave calm cracking.
"What?" I glare at her as I began an iced americano for the next person.
"Why did you take his order over mine?"
"Because you weren't ordering and he had been waiting a long time while you didn't order."
"But I did order."
"You didn't order anything we have or are able to make at this moment. I offered you an alternative and you- $4.25 please, thanks Mike- said no. Next!"
"It'll take you two seconds! It's just a couple slices of ham, a couple slices of cheese, mayo, butter, lettuce, tomato. Done!"
"Medium coffee, black" huffs the next person in line, an unfriendly fellow who comes in every day.
"Medium coffee, black" I hand him his cup, take his dollar and quarter and note that he doesn't leave a tip like he usually does.
"It won't take two seconds, I don't have meat, cheese or tomatos sliced. And we don't have lettuce at all. Go next door to get what you want or come back in two hours when this line has disappeared. Next, please!"
"I have been waiting forever!" sneers Designer Bitch, as though this were my fault and an act of insubordination on my part. "Oh, I know it's not your fault, hon, it's just that this is so unprofessional. I'll have cappuccino, extra foam. And please make sure it's hot. Last time it was, like, only luke warm. Tha-anks!" she singsongs. I want to leap across the counter and smack her head into Miami Vice's face, but I make a cappucino instead. I burn the milk, but that's what Designer Bitch wants, what can I do? The customer is always right, no matter how wrong they are.
She too, does not leave a tip. And Miami Vice is still standing there.
"Next, please!"
"I'll have a ham and cheese on health bread, mayo on one side, butter on the other. And lettuce. And tomato. Toasted." That's new.
"Sir, what can I get for you sir?" The tall kid in the Ramones shirt looks baffled.
"Uh, she was here before me," he says, apparently oblivious to everything that isn't on his iPhone.
"Don't worry about, what would you like?" I say.
"Um," he looks terribly uncomfortable and hesitates, as if I'm pressuring him to swipe a pack of cigarettes from sweet old lady Stinson's pharmacy. What is going on? I briefly fantasize that maybe this is some kind of performance art designed to make a barista's head explode? I imagine this exact same scenario playing out at coffee shops all across the city at this exact same moment. I indulge in a small hope that, in the next moment, everyone might suddenly burst into song and we can all have a good laugh. Alas.
"I'll have an iced mocha?" says Ramones, hesitantly. Iced mochas are my specialty. I make them super sweet (which some people don't like as much as they should) but they always look beautiful and I take care to make them just right. His order comes as a minor relief.
"And when you're done with that, I'll just have a ham and cheese sandwhich on health bread. Mayo on one side-"
"Get out," my co-worker says and I smile. Why hadn't I thought of that?
"Excuse me?" Miami Vice says with a dangerous note in her voice.
"Get out," he says it so casually he actually shrugs as he says it. "We can't help you. Leave."
All this time, Bank Teller has been happily dissociating, sipping her caramel latte, snorting and chortling in a sugary, milky joy trance. But when she hears my co-worker tell Miami Vice to get out, a switch is flipped.
"Excuse me? Are you telling us to get out?"
My co-worker rolls his eyes and sighs loudly. "Yes, we don't have time for this. We have people waiting and your friend is causing trouble after my co-worker has been polite and honest."
"What do you mean by 'you people'? You mean black people?" says Miami Vice.
Oh no she did not.
"What the hell are you talking about?" I say, astounded at this intentional mis-hearing.
"And now you're cussin at me?" she sputters. Hell is a curse word? On what planet?
"Just get out" I say.
"You heard what this white boy said to me?" Miami Vice appeals to Ramones.
"Uh, I don't think he-"
"He said 'you people' and then she cussed me out."
That's it. I've had it. I lean across the counter and look Miami Vice in the eye.
"I don't know what the hell you think you're doing, but let me just tell you, you're talking to a gay white boy and a Jewish white girl and you're surrounded by our regular customers who know us and know we don't even think that way. I don't think you want to play this game because once you get that ball rolling, you do not know where it will stop. So shut your mouth, and get the fuck out of this cafe, since you clearly hate it so much." I'm shaking and my co-worker's jaw is on the floor. But Miami Vice just smiles.
"You know what I do?" She asks.
"Get. Out."
"I'm a detective."
"Fantastic. Get out."
"You can't talk to me like that."
"You don't get special privleges because you're a detective, Detective." That last word is an expletive as far as I am concerned.
"Just make me the sandwich."
"You're batshit."
"Make me the sandwich."
"I heard what you said," Bank Teller chimes in.
Our regulars, the fucking cowards that they are, remain silent. No one stands up for us. No one says, "he didn't say any such thing." No one says anything. No one wants to touch this with a ten foot pole.
"It's not asking too much. Just make me a sandwich. No one here minds waiting, do you?" She looks around at the cowed and guilty gentrifyers. No one says a word.
What can I do? I cave. I have to. It's a test of wills with potentially nasty repercussions. My co-worker makes all the drinks while I make the fucking sandwich. And goddamn if she doesn't watch me the whole time and when I put on the butter say "could you put a little more on please? Thanks, sweetie." I leave off the lettuce, because we don't have any, but she doesn't complain. All the customers are curiously calm, no impatiently craning necks. I hate every one of them as I hand the greasy wrapper to Miami Vice.
"How much do I owe you," she asks.
"Ten, no, make it twelve dollars" I say. The most expensive item on our menu is $7.25.
"Okay then." She hands me a $20. I gave her back four singles and 16 quarters. She stuffs $2 in the tip jar. I pull it back out and throw it on the counter.
"I want you to know that neither I or my co-worker is a racist. But I'll tell you something: I fucking hate cops, and you are exactly the reason why. Keep your fucking tip and don't come back here."

.....

But of course she comes back. She comes back to complain to our bosses. And you know what happens? They throw her out too.

Mental Health

Among the many pervy and kinky people who came into Object (the sex shop I worked at in Baltimore in the late 90's) none were so stealthily maladjusted as Tina.
Tina was a white woman in her late forties, with a messy, dark bob, dark eyes and thin lips. She looked like an academic which is exactly what she was: just a few months shy of her doctorate in psychology she happily prattled on about her burgeoning sex therapy practice and all the latest studies debunking ideas of what is normal and abnormal in the full spectrum of human sexuality.

As a customer, Tina was fun. She was bawdy and joyful, extremely complimentary to the point of flattery. She loved Object as an aesthetic and as a place where both the employees and the customers were friendly and open. She adored gay men and often declared that she wished she had been born a gay man, because, she said, then she could just be open about her sex life and instead of people being incensed they would just laugh and say "you go girl!". She made the usual outraged claim that a double standard exists in sexual expression: men are applauded for their sexual lives, but women are supposed to be innocent of their own desires. Nothing new and nothing to find fault with there. So why write about Tina? What's so special about a sex positive therapist frequenting a classy shop with folks who generally share her views? Well, Tina was an exhibitionist who was doing a bang up job of screwing up her kid.

Tina idolized Annie Sprinkle, a sex worker turned performance artist, turned angry-sex-worker-performance-artist, who specialized in water sports. Annie Sprinkle's shows are heartbreaking and revolting and if you've never seen her perform, prepare yourself to see youth and joy and romance nearly obliterated. Tina was working up an extremely kinky burlesque show around corsets, golden showers and live sex, wishing to put back some of the mystery and charm that Annie Sprinkle metaphorically clobbers to death with a rancid fish carcass. Whatever, as Dan Savage would say, lifts your luggage. But not long after Tina first discovered Object, she did something strange: she brought her twelve year old daughter, Zoe, into the store. Tina had no qualms with either exposing Zoe to the weird items and odd people found in such a place and encouraged Zoe to talk to people about their kinks and lifestyle choices. Amazingly, some obliged, but most just stared at Tina as if she were insane, which she was. Some just fled at the mere sight of the young girl. But Tina clucked her tongue at these people and hoped that Zoe would never be so ashamed.

As if this were not enough, Tina enthusiastically talked about her show and her kinks in front of Zoe. She also discussed her limp-dick ex husband, her own sexual abuse at the hands of her brothers and father, her inability to have an orgasm until she was 39, and finally she tried to give Zoe a lesson in Sex Toys 101.

Now, it is, of course, illegal for a minor, even accompanied by a guardian, to be in a sex shop, and we made that clear to Tina. When we first told her that Zoe was not allowed in the store, she was incredulous.
"But I'm with her! " Tina said.
"Doesn't matter," I said. "No one under 18 is allowed in a sex shop. You know that." As I said this, a stripper, herself barely 18 strolled in with an infant in a snuggly. Tina raised an eyebrow and I sighed.
"This is absurd! This is the kind of puritanical bullshit that a repressed society comes up with! Ridiculous to tell a human being that she is too young to know about her own body! There's nothing on display here that is unnatural or that she won't someday encounter!" I shot a glance at the wall of porn videos and my eyes rested on a video called "Anal Alice: White Trash Slut" that had a picture of a bleached blond looking pretty worn and spreading her ass cheeks in the general direction of a Natty Bo tall boy. I thought it was a pretty unlikely that Zoe would ever have a chance encounter with that, but it's true that, really, you never know.
"Tina, there's a difference. This place is for people who are already fucked in the head" Tina couldn't help smiling at this. "Zoe will go bonkers in her own good time and she won't need your help to do it."
"Jess, you're forgetting I'm a shrink," Tina said as if this would settle the issue.
"No, Tina, I am not. You people are notorious for screwing up your kids."
I thought then that we'd reached an amicable understanding, but instead, Tina dug in her heels. I don't know what battle exactly she thought she was fighting, but Tina started arriving at the store with Zoe and then making a big show of having her stand outside while she shopped and kibbitzed. Baltimore, at that time was not a safe place anywhere, at any time of day, for a 12 year old white girl to just be hanging out on a stoop, particularly one in front of a sex shop. So, of course, we let Zoe. We made her hang out with one of the employees at the cash register, which, in spite of the display of lubes, thongs for men and poppers, we thought was somewhat less bizarre to a preteen than other areas in the store. We would try to make small talk with her, but her mother would butt in and give us a rundown of Zoe's social life and when the girl looked like she would melt into tears, we all made sure to point out that her mother was crazy and to ignore her. Stupid advice, but we weren't in the business of counseling 12 year olds. Her mother was.

Eventually, my boss put his foot down. He told Tina she was a nutcase who was putting her shit on her daughter and putting his business at risk. One snowy afternoon, they started shouting at each other. Tina was banned and she stormed out hollering "I've never been treated so disrespectfully in my life!" which was so patently false I imagine she must have grimaced after saying it, but I couldn't know for sure because she was already out the door.

For what it's worth, Tina wasn't doing what she was doing to Zoe because she was sadistic or compulsive. Just the opposite. She was trying to spare her daughter the horrors of her own life. And I can't say I blamed Tina for wanting Zoe to be knowledgeable. Most kids who are sexually abused are the victims of someone they know and trust, and don't even know that what's happening is wrong- if you're a kid and a grownup tells you to do something, you do it and just assume that this is how people behave. By giving Zoe an early and semi levelheaded introduction to sex she was showing her what consenting adults do and that there are many ways to behave...as a consenting adult. The other thing that she was showing Zoe, and what might be more to the point, is that sex is meant to be pleasurable! I mean, what a rip off sex has been to so many women for so long, and particularly for Tina. After 35 years of joyless sex Tina eventually found that she could enjoy it and moreover, she enjoyed kinks! I imagine her first orgasm must have been so full of... anger! To suddenly know that it was supposed to be enjoyable must have made all the other experiences that much worse. Tina, understandably and not unlike most parents, wanted her daughter's life to be better than her own.

I write all this as if I could just look at her and have these wonderful insights, but I'm not that intuitive. My guesses come from the long conversations Tina and I had before she was banned from the store. In her early 40s she had got (sexy) Jesus and now she was a proselytizer, a missionary of anything but missionary. I'm pretty sure a lot of what she told me was part of her show, and though she invited me to see it multiple times, I had no interest in watching Tina do... anything. Ultimately, I didn't like Tina, because for all her good will and intentions, she was damaging Zoe, at least judging by the girl's pained looks and general air of silence and misery. It wasn't fair to Zoe to have a mother who was an exhibitionist. Tina was working out her childhood through her child, which is the sign of a narcissist and an unhealthy psyche. And since, at the time, I identified with Zoe way more than I identified with Tina, I hated Tina.

At one point, I briefly considered calling child services. I thought what Tina was doing might amount to emotional abuse, but then I thought of Zoe in foster care in Baltimore and decided that was far worse than whatever poor judgement Tina might have. But I relished visions of the police storming in on one of Tina's shows. I imagined a basement cabaret, a dusty red curtain fringed with gold, smokey tables obscuring furtive onlookers, Tina in the spotlight wearing one of the leather corsets she liked so much, and pissing into the mouth of a willing member of the audience when the agents burst in. They would stand there, in their cheap suits, forms and documents in hand. I imagined their surprise, their jaws dropping, and then quickly closing again.

Crush

The boy was clearly on a mission. Unlike most six year olds who come into the store and must be told repeatedly "don't touch that! Put it down I said!" this kid scanned the room until he located the greeting cards and made a beeline. He looked back at his father, a tall, Asian man man in his mid to late thirties with a neat haircut, long arms and the look of someone who seems surprised that instead of going out to the Meat Packing District for beautiful drinks in Armani he is going to t-ball games and parent-teacher conferences in J. Crew.

"Go ahead, pick one out," the dad said with feigned impatience. Feigned because the father is a repeat customer who, I know, really enjoys looking at all the stuff in the store. He's a gadget guy and we carry... gadgets.

The little boy stared up at the cards and began to contemplate with his left index finger on his chin and the right hand supporting the left arm at the elbow. He wore a red baseball cap that was cocked ever so-slightly to the right. He was a small Asian kid with a large head and fragile neck, even features, a little bow of a mouth and large, perfect black eyes. He looked kind of delicate but I guessed he was pretty competitive... kids with that kind of focus are looking for perfection and that means winning, but with manners. He was unbelievably charming. The father began to wander around. We made small talk about a hard-boiled egg shell cracker he had been looking for and could not find. Time passed. The boy made calculations. Finally the dad sighed.

"Okay, kid. Pick something," he said. The boy pointed to a card out of his reach. His father retrieved it. "That one says 'happy birthday'," he reported. The boy's face fell and then, undeterred, resumed staring. "Can I help you pick something out?" I asked. The boy looked at me with shy muteness and slowly shook his head. He motioned for his father to stoop down and whispered something in his ear. Then his dad straightened and the boy pointed at a card with a picture of a bicycle built for two on it and a caption that said "I love you."

"Are you looking for something for your mom?" I asked.
"He's looking for a thank you card for his teacher," the father informed me. "And he's in love with his teacher." I shot a glance at the little boy, sure he would blush or exclaim, but he wasn't phased at all. I, on the other hand, was overcome with a warm, gushy feeling- earnestness in children makes me melt and I started grinning like and idiot.

"Well that one is pretty perfect then," I said. The boy looked. Then he pointed to a card with a red flower on it. "That says 'Happy Birthday' too," his dad said. The boy stared at him as though his father were doing this to him on purpose.

"What?" His father protested. "It does! See?" He took the card down and showed the boy the words. He sucked on his lower lip. He looked from the bicycle card to flower and back.
"Look," said his dad. "Here's a flower card that says 'thank you.' Let's get this one." But I could see right away this card would be unacceptable. The flower was blue, not red and as we all know, love is not blue... it's red. Duh.

The boy stared at the blue flower ruefully and I kept grinning like a dope and thinking "if I had a kid like this, I could be okay with being a mom. I could." The boy held the blue flower card and the bicycle card and conferred with his dad for a while. "Well why don't we ask her? She's a lady. See which one she likes better," said his father.

The boy approached me, and held up the cards and just looked at me. "Well, don't just stand there, ask her!" His father rolled his eyes good naturedly. "Which one do you like better?" the boy whispered.
"Hmmm.." I said. "Hmmm. Well, I like that the bicycle says 'I love you,' but you know what I like about the flower?" He shook his head. "The flower is sort of like a coloring book picture, and you could color it red." His eyes lit up. "And I really like it when someone draws something just for me. I bet your teacher will too." The boy looked back at his father. I knew he couldn't quite picture a blue flower colored red and he still had his doubts, but I also knew that he did not think a bicycle was romantic enough. They discussed buying a card that said "happy birthday" and had a red flower versus buying a card that said "thank you" and had a blue flower that could be colored red. I was so absorbed in their decision making that I did not realize I was staring... and ignoring other customers until I heard a woman clear her throat (when had she come in? had she been there the whole time?) I apologized and rang her up. When I turned back the boy stood there with his choice. A dog.

"Um," I said. The card did say 'thank you' on it, but...
"He's going to color it red," the dad sighed. A red dog? I liked this child more and more. "Excellent choice!" I said. "I'm sure she will love it!" And if she doen't she's dead inside.

The boy didn't smile but he looked pleased.
"Okay, tike, give the lady the money." The boy handed me a bill and was ready to run out the door.
"Don't you want your change?" I asked. He ran back and held out his hand. I handed him his change. "Thank you," he whispered. "You're very welcome," I whispered back and winked at him in a way that I hoped was friendly and not creepy. I think kids can tell when you want to kidnap them. But maybe that's giving them too much credit.

.......

About an hour later, father and son were at the door again. The boy was clearly fighting back tears and the father was genuinely annoyed.
"He thinks he messed up the drawing," the father apologized.

The boy handed the card to me and I nearly absconded with him. He had created an amazing drawing around the picture of the dog (which was now two shades of red and totally awesome). I couldn't believe he was so disappointed. Most kids twice his age couldn't draw so well and I said so.
"This is a wonderful drawing, kid," I said. "I'm sorry you don't like it, but I can promise you that your teacher will not only like it, she will love it." The boy looked a little less upset, but there was no way he was giving that drawing to his true love. He retrieved a new card. And a set of heart shaped magnets. I looked at his father who still seemed a little annoyed, but amused. Clearly he liked seeing a stranger admire his son's drawing skills and I was so happy to oblige. I charged them half for the new card. I would have given them away for free if it hadn't seemed wierd or if the father would have let me, which, of course, he would not. "Thank you," the boy whispered. "You're welcome, kiddo," I said and silently wished him really wonderful things in life.

The Dildo as Big as the Ritz

Please note: this is an explicit, moderately disturbing story. Please don't get mad at me if you get grossed out. Also, it' s after 3 am, and I'm pretty out of it. Forgive the typos and stiltedness..Now go ahead and read it because I know you're just dying to.


I lived in Baltimore in the late 90's.

I'll let that sink in.

Baltimore, in the late 90's was still the smack capital of the United States and the city slogan was "Baltimore, the city that reads." The pride and joy of Baltimore at that time was John Waters, Martin O'Malley, Homicide: Life on the Streets and crab cakes.

I'll let that sink in too.

In the midst of all that high brow culture, I worked in a sex shop called Object. I can say, with as little irony as the city's slogan, that Object was a truly classy sex shop. You think Babeland is nice? It's okay, but it's about as sexy as a small town library compared to Object. Object was barroque in it's sexiness. The spiked paddles and flavored lubes were ensconced in 19th century glass- fronted, dark wood cases. There was an original Tiffany stained glass skylight in the middle of the ceiling of the anteroom and a huge crystal chandelier in the back room. The curtain to the dressing room was heavy red velvet, and of the six people who worked there, not one of us had a coke habit. The owners were two very cute, very young gay men, who we called the Boys, and their tiny chihuahua, named Igor, slept in a very large, gilded bird cage.

Most of the customers at Object were strippers, pleasant gay men, and goth kids trying to get a handle on the whole S&M aspect of gothiness before they were even able to find a partner with whom to use the rhinestone encrusted nipple clamps. There were also a number of very wealthy, married men, corporate executive types who were closet cases who narcissistically believed they were totally alone in the world as closeted, kinky, corporate executives. They often came after hours for private spanking sessions with one or both of the Boys and they all shared a weird passion for lederhosen. You would be amazed what a common fetish lederhosen are for corporate executives. Don't ever let anyone tell you those men are not Nazis at heart: there is just something about the Teutonic youth culture that those guys just find.... hot.

But among these mostly milquetoast clients, there were a few real perverts. Some were not at all what you would expect from a perv. For example, more than a few were women, and of those a handful were lesbians, which if you had asked me then, I would have thought was physically impossible. But I'll talk about them another time. This week's perv is a giant man-child named Gregory.

Gregory's face was so smooth I think he might have waxed it. He had straight, thick, blonde hair, cut in a sort of prep school boy's style. He wore steel rimmed glasses and a large guage silver earring in his left ear. His lips were red as cherries and wet. He had a fine nose, ruddy cheeks, and squinty eyes. He might have been something approaching good looking except that Gregory was about 6'7" and big and blowsy as a Golden Girl caftan, shoulder pads and all. He couldn't have weighed less than 300 pounds and he just emitted an air of creepy. And sweat. I'm not sure if being a perv causes people to sweat a lot or if people who sweat a lot happen to be pervy. It's a correlation worth looking into.

He spoke with that wierd accent that people in movies from the 40's speak with and he liked to think of himself as a connossieur. I don't know of what, but if he spoke, at some point he would say, more or less apropos of nothing, "I like to think of myself as a connossieur." His speech was abrupt and non-sequitous. It was clear that he was having lengthy conversations in his head and we were just granted useful snippets here and there. His fat lips were constantly smiling and grimacing and he was often closing his eyes and either supressing some emotion about the people around him, or smelling something.

My co-worker, Johnathan - a tall drink of Shirley Temple- and I would suppress squeals and jab each other with our elbows whenever we saw Gregory's bulk floating towards us. Gregory preferred to be waited on by males, even girly males like Johnathan, but he was more likely to buy something quickly and leave if I helped him, and since his presence in the store made other customers uncomfortable, we tried to get him out of there as fast as we could. Gregory never did anything outwardly crazy and he had lovely manners. He was not a bad guy, at least not in a way that we or the customers could directly observe. And frankly, the only really weird thing he did to employees was make passes at the good looking gay men who worked there, which would be perfectly understandable (if not welcome) except that Gregory was not gay. If you'd looked at him, you'd think he was, with his pastel polo shirts and cable knit sweaters tied, just so, at his shoulders. He was so preppy and he had that guaged earring, he just had to be gay, right? Nope. Gregory didn't crave another human, male or female. What Gregory was into was toys. Very, very large toys. He had "outgrown" almost every toy by almost every novelty company in existence by the time I met him. There was just one company that could still help him and it catered to leather daddies and made terrifyingly giant dildos. Over the year or so that I worked at that store, we special ordered every giant dildo this company produced until finally, to our shock and awe, there were no more dildos to order. The fellow who informed the Boys of this did so in a tone of voice that had a hint of chastisement to it. If a man who peddles ball gags and castration kits as sex toys for a living is chastising you for asking for something too big, you have left the world of kinks and fetishes and entered the world of perversions.

The Boys informed Gregory that we couldn't help him, he would just have to make do with the dildo collection he already had. Johnathan and I were relieved. As the year had progressed, we had both become extremely uncomfortable around Gregory. It wasn't anything he did, he hadn't changed his manners or habits or anything. I think we were just becoming aware that we were dealing not with a slightly weird, sex positive man, comfortable with his predilections, but with a man who was broken. There was a good natured raunchiness, a frank humor that floated around the store and made the weirdness of Baltimore and the depressing lives of many of our customers bearable, but Gregory's case was not funny anymore. And for my part, I had come to this job as a bit of an outsider. I was not into the world of sex the way my coworkers were. I came from a more academic approach: my father taught human sexuality and so I was privy to such racy information as textbooks provide; like the fact that many men experience "nocturnal emissions". I was sex positive, in theory but in practice, I didn't see what all the hubub was about. (And in case you were wondering, why, then, did I get a job in a sex shop? I was one of those goth kids who regretted that corsets had gone out of style, and this store, with it's genteel setting and terrific assortment of hand sewn corsets had seemed totally innocuous at the time.) Gregory was so out of my frame of reference that even the idle chit chat that accompanies any retail exchange - even that kind- was impossible. When you cannot discuss the weather with a customer it becomes difficult to not confront them as a real human being.

Alas... Gregory was not to be thwarted. He was smarter than us all. Where we had seen a wall, he saw a window. Where we had said "We're sorry, but the world simply does not make what you are looking for" Gregory said, "I have a vision." He then offered the Boys an absurd amount of money to create his perfect dildo. I believe I gasped. One of the Boys, I'll call him Brains, said "Honey, don't think I don't want to take your money, because I do, but do you really want to be known as the guy who sat on a dildo and died?" Gregory laughed. "I'm not kidding," said Brains. "There's a reason they don't make them bigger and it's because no one was meant to fit a baby into their asshole." This was a very long way from diagrams of fallopean tubes.


Gregory turned red then, which is funny because a guy like this, one would think, would be pretty much done with shame. I mean, he never tried to hide what he wanted, he never whispered or shrank from his requests. He would just walk in and say "this is what I want, here is my money. Thank you very much." But after this statement, Gregory and the Boys talked in private for a long time about size, waivers, materials, notaries, diapers, lawyers and money. In the end, Johnathan and I, as artists, were given the task of making a dildo roughly the size of my thigh, . A "head" was requested but we flat out refused to do it. We made it out of wood, chicken wire, plaster and many, many coats of wax. This seemed like a bad idea to me, since it had no give, but that was what Gregory had requested: rigid. When we were done, it was shaped like a bullet and dark brown. It was 12" around and 18" long. We put the giant dildo on display for a while as another Baltimore oddity, like the ratty, fur-covered triangle that was the sign for a dyke bar in Hampden called the Pelt Room, or the shrine to the dog-faced girl that someone in North Baltimore had built into the side of their house and was regularly visited by people leaving votives and flowers. We savored the similarities to Pompeiian art and A Clockwork Orange. People looked at it, and though it was displayed with other dildos, pointed and said "what is that?"

"That," I said, "Is an enormous fucking dildo."

A week or so after it was completed, Gregory came for his giant dingus. His eyes registered delight, but he didn't stop and wonder. He didn't look at the monstrous, somewhat lumpy phallus and exclaim "what was I thinking?! I can't possibly use that! It's huge!" He said "It looks great. Thanks guys," and plunked down the balance. He asked us to wrap it up for him and we found a large box in the back to pack it in. He made idle chit chat with the Boys and then smiled and waved and wished us a nice day. He never came back.

I didn't like to think about Gregory, about why he wanted to do this to himself or how he had come to be on this particular path. I didn't think about his outwardly respectable appearance and the diapers he wore under his Brooks Brothers shorts, about where his money came from, about whether or not he really did want to die this way as Brains had said. I was young and crazy when I worked at Object. I was learning that people do all kinds of things to themselves and to others for the sake of pleasure and love and I now I guess it was a delusion to think that Gregory's fetish was just another facet on that rock.

White Linen and a Wheeled Suitcase

"You've been here, right? You're an original?" "Excuse me?" A tiny woman stands in front of me, wearing an outfit of white linen. The kind that's sort of see through, and when there's no discernible panty line, I become uncomfortable. She has salt and pepper hair in a fashionable, severe style. She is pretty, well made-up, pointy in features, caucasian and with a hint of the artsyness that says "I'm not a native New Yorker, but I pretend to be." "The store, I mean. This store used to be up the block, right? You're not new to the neighborhood." "Right." "Oh good. I just came from that little... mini-mall. And, well," her voice dropped. "It's kind of tacky. You know? All those shops are so, just..." her pointy face scrunched up like she was being asked to taste dog shit. I like the tiny stores and stands that occupy the ground floor of the building next door. They house an array of local artisans and junky antique places. It's not exactly classy, but I think it's better than, oh, say, a Gap or another overpriced boutique with a name like Bella Sparrow or Pearl Tweets. "It's like a, like a... souk," she said and by the way she said it, I assumed that was another word for cesspool. "A what?" "Souk."

"Soot?"

"Souk."

"Sook?"

"Yes." "I don't know what that is." I don't. "A souk?" She seems surprised that I, who had been admitted into her little world, do not know what a "souk" is. Doesn't everyone know what a souk is? "It's um, like a market. In Turkish... Arabic. In all different kinds of Arabic... I think, they have souk in the, um, different Arabic languages. It's, you know, one of those... markets." I get an image in my head of a combination of something mysterious like I imagine the Casbah to be and one of those really awful flea markets in the deep south where they sell Confederate flag beach towels and mud flap girl jewelry. This is not what the stores next door are like and I assume that mud flap girls do not exist in the Muslim world, so I decide this woman doesn't know what she was talking about. "Yeah the whole neighborhood is so... different now. Gentrified. Not like when I worked around here, three years ago. I like Barts. When Barts was here. You remember Barts?" "No. I've only been working here six months. But yes, the neighborhood has changed." "Oh yeah. I used to work here. It's veeeerrrry different now," she sniffed. She wandered around with her wheeled suitcase, her earrings clinking. "It's good the old timers are still here though,"she says. "Lovely store." "Thanks," I say and smile. "Everything changes, I guess," she sighs. "Yes, it does." I reply. She sighs again. "Barts was a better use of the space." "Ok." I say.

She pokes around some more, picking up a $200 serving platter, examining a $210 corkscrew. She is muttering her appreciation under her breath as she moves from object to object. Abruptly, she walks to the door and pushes it open. "Keep up the good fight!" she says as she leaves and pumps her fist in the air. I have no idea what that means.

Imelda

In the summer of 2000, I worked at a now defunct health food store on the Upper West Side. Both places- health food stores and the Upper West Side- are typically full of lunatics. But this store occupied a unique corner in the space-time continuum in that the staff, customers and upper management all seemed afflicted with a particular kind of insanity that was probably responsible for the place shutting down... in spite of no competition and a growing consumer awareness about and willingness to buy organic foods, even among the intractable and irascible population of pot-head Jewish intelligencia that formerly occupied the prewar buildings and put Zabar's on the map.

I was staying with my mother and stepfather a few blocks from the store while I looked for apartments in Brooklyn, and I paid my way by bringing home deli leftovers and stories of the people I encountered on a daily basis. My favorite was Imelda.

Imelda is one of those tiny old people who, no matter what the weather is, she is wearing a black shearling coat with a round collar and faceted, shiny black buttons. Her lipstick merely serves to highlight that she, at one point, did have lips on her face, and she has gamely tried to trace a path to them, but, alas, they have once again eluded her. Her eyes are a bleary mish mash of ancient mascara and eyeliner. She moves between looking terrifying, comical, sad and more than a little dashing. Imelda had clearly once been a lovely young woman, fashionable, desirable and hilarious. She reminded me of a Yiddische speaking Phyllis Diller. Without breasts.

Imelda shuffles in, her overcoat stinking and worn, with a shopping cart filled with the empty bags of other markets in the neighborhood. She walks with a cane that does not match her style- such as it is. It is heavy wood, the kind that typically accompanies old men wearing those abbreviated fedoras they've had since they came from the old country. Imelda, small, frail and hunched, can barely seem to lift such a cane, and really, she doesn't use it for support, she just sort of drags it along behind her.

When she comes into the store she sorts through her bags as though looking for something, but what she is doing is unpacking them, arranging them into neat rows. This done, she looks around furtively, as if no one has seen her, though everyone has seen her. Then Imelda starts to stroll through the aisles, picking up various packages and boxes, bottles and jars. Some she returns to the shelf, but most go surprisingly swiftly into one of the many open bags in the cart. She looks out of the corners of her eyes, sometimes slyly, sometimes with a look of glee, feeling she has got away with a wonderful crime. It completely escapes her that not just the employees, but many of the customers are staring at her slack-jawed. Suddenly, as if she has just realized where she is and what she is doing, she snaps to.

"Vare ees he? Vare is my boyfrent? RRRRaphael!!! Vare is RRRaphael!!" She is waving her cane high above her head and shouting with glee. "You kennot hide frem me!!! Vare are you my disgusting Latin lover?" Raphael is the fat, sweaty, mustachioed store manager. He is Mexican, swarthy Mexican, but somehow, shockingly, he speaks Yiddische. (I love this town.) Raphael made the mistake, years ago, of talking to Imelda in Yiddische, and now she is in violent, angry, evil love with him. This is Imelda at her brassiest broadiest. This woman does not take no for an answer. She comes at Raphael with all the subtlety of Mae West drunk on tequila and wielding a rocket launcher.

"MY LOINS IS BURNING! I HEV NOT BEEN LAID SINCE 1943!! Come to momma!!!"

Raphael, for his part, is hiding behind a stack of Garden of Eatin' boxes. He is sweating even more than usual, and though he's smiling, there are tears at the corners of his eyes. He is muttering, and I'm pretty sure he's praying.

"YOU FUCKING SPIC!!! I'm going to find you and give such a beatink! Hiding from an old lady! Who would do such a think? Bastart!!" Imelda is tearing around the store searching behind counters, cursing in customers faces, laughing and shrieking like a harpy. She stops in front of me. "I know you are hidink him. You are all against me. Afraid I will steal you boyfrient. Look out! I vill find heem and rip that disgustink mustache from that rrrrotten punim." She looks in the deli case. "I'll take a haf pount of salmon." I shudder and measure it out for her. "Gif me extra onions. And the lemon. Ach! Add it after you weigh, dummy!" I glare at her. "Fish is good for you, yes? You are a skinny, pretty girl. You eat lots of this fish, yes?"

"No." I say. "I'm vegan."

"So nu? You can't eat fish? This is not meat. It's good for you, yes?" I tell her it is not: she'll get mercury poisoning and go crazy. She looks aghast. I tell her it will give her bad breath. She stares at me steadily. I tell her it's disgusting, it's dead. She says nothing until I print out the price tag and then she says "Give me a little more."

"Okay, but it'll cost more." I say.

She says "NO! Just give me a little more!"

"No."

"What is this? I'm an old lady. I'm starving. I need to preserve my strength."

"Okay. But you have to pay for it."

"NO!NO! No. Iss fine. Just gif me that. Stingy!" She puts it into one of the open bags and ties the top shut. "I bought it somewhere else," she says, and looks at me with a broad wink. "It comes from the Key Food." She pauses. "Our secret, yes?"

I shrug. I don't really care if the old lady steals the fish. Or anything else for that matter.

But this is too much for Raphael. He leaps out from behind his boxes of corn chips and screams "BITCH!"

"AHA!" Imelda is nearly apoplectic with joy. He took the bait.

"THIEF!!!" He hollers.

"You love Imelda!" She shouts and throws her arms around his neck, which is as thick as my thigh, and smears her lips across his jowly cheeks.

"GET off me you old bag!" He pries her claws from his shoulders and literally runs away. And Imelda, god bless her, waves her cane, lets out a whoop and gives chase. They pass through aisles, hollering, cursing, alternately kidding with and hating each other in Spanish, Yiddische and English.

Finally, Raphael stops, clutching his chest and wheezing. He turns to face Imelda who suddenly looks like a chastened child.

"GET OUT!!" He shouts at her.

She juts out her chin, and retrieves her shopping cart, full of hundreds of dollars of unpaid for groceries in the bags from other stores. She tries to walk past Raphael, but as she heads for the door, he siezes the cart, and she nearly loses her balance from the force.

"Vat is this?"

"Get the fuck out of here, what kind of idiot do you take me for?"

"The fat kind!"

"Hag!"

"I bought these foods at Fairway! I would not buy any of your drek!"

"No, you would steal it!" She smiles. "Why do you come here? For the view? To torment me?" Amazingly, Raphael seems genuinely unsure. He might actually be convincing himself that she did buy all those groceries at other stores, even though he watched, saw with his own eyes, as everyone else did, that she had plainly stolen this food here, at this store. And she had far more food than one person could hope to finish in a month. And god knows, she came in twice, sometimes three times, a WEEK!

In the end, it always ends the same way. She pays for two apples. That's it. Two apples, and these she complains are overpriced, but for Raphael, her poor tubby boyfriend, she will pay these unspeakable prices.