Kindred Spirit

Since I started my period last month, mama’s project of turning me from a tomboy into a young lady has intensified. She’s always scanning me like radar, alert for unladylike behaviors—like biting my nails, screeching at the top of my lungs, slumping when I walk, laughing too loud, and sitting on the couch with my legs spread-eagled (somehow that one really gets her going).

Mama never raises her voice or loses her temper, but you can always tell when she’s mad or serious because her soft Southern accent that sounds like honey puddling over hot biscuits takes on a flat, harsh edge like dried up brown sugar. I’ve been hearing that dried up tone too often, most recently this morning when she was annoyed because I wasn’t wearing the starter bra she just bought. Mama says my bosoms are blooming and I need to wear a bra. Mama always refers to breasts as bosoms. She says it’s more polite. But my daily inspections in the mirror reveal a chest flat as a board. I see no signs of bloom. I don’t even see a bud. I cannot be bothered by all the extra equipment and aggravating body processes involved with this lady business.  Considering menstrual periods, sanitary belts and napkins, shaving legs and underarms, cleaning fingernails—well, it just seems an unfair burden.

Hoping to avoid putting on that bra, I slipped out the back door into the alley and out of mama’s sight. That’s how I met Indy Jo Della Rippa.

The Della Rippas are new to our neighborhood and a hot topic of conversation. Mama never gossips, but I’ve heard other neighbors refer to Indy Jo as “cheap,” “flashy,” “fast.” Most women on our block don’t work, except for Mrs. Clarke, a music teacher, and Mrs. Harmon, the school nurse. Indy Jo works and it’s what she does that has everyone in a tizzy because she’s a cocktail waitress at the Airport Lounge. I don’t understand the uproar about this, although I guess it could catch you off guard to see Indy Jo prancing out her front door on the way to work in our sedate little neighborhood wearing high heels and black fishnet stockings with white ruffled panties peeking out from under the short satin skirt of a French maid’s costume . Still, I think she’s kind of interesting. She’s definitely different.

So I was surprised when I passed the Della Rippas backyard to hear another Southern accent calling out, “Hey, sugar, what y’all up to today?”

A flash of bright color caught the corner of my eye and I turned to see Indy Jo strutting toward me wearing hot pink short shorts and a halter bra. She had a pink silk scarf tied around her platinum blond, shoulder-length hair that was all puffed up on the top and sides and turned up on the ends like a country western singer. She had on sparkly silver sandals and wore hot pink lipstick with rose-colored eye shadow.

    

I couldn’t help but notice she had the biggest bosoms I’d ever seen in my life. Watching her jiggle around, I finally saw how a bra, which seemed so extraneous to me, could be of major significance to someone like Indy Jo. When she invited me in to have a soda pop with her, I knew right away that Indy Jo, different like me, just might be a kindred spirit. 

Trust by Nancy Grossman-Samuel

              Angie woke, and out of habit, turned toward what had been her husband’s side of the bed. It had been almost a month and she still slept only on her side as if she’d be encroaching if she slept in the middle or on his side.

 I need a new bed, she thought to herself. Maybe I need a new house. This place is haunted.

“And I need a new sister,” she said out loud to no one. She got out of bed and stretched her neck to the left, right, and back. It was tight and it hurt. The phone rang, and she stared at it. She wouldn’t answer it. She couldn’t answer it, and then she decided that she was tired of brooding about her sister’s stupid, thoughtless actions at dinner five days before. She could not hide from the world forever, but by the time she picked up the phone, whoever it had been was gone. She gasped. “I can take the phone out of MY bedroom,” she said, realizing for the first time that this was really her house now and she could do what she wanted. She never liked having a phone in the bedroom, but Richard insisted because he would sometimes get work calls late or early and he didn’t want to have to run to the other side of the house.

“Ha!” she said almost laughing. “Work calls.” Her husband of 35 years had just left her for his assistant – a girl 20 years her junior. How could she have ever liked and trusted Beth? She wasn’t even as old as the number of years they’d been married. Angie had thought of her in a daughterly way, which now seemed smarmy and incestuous.

When Angie learned of the betrayal, she decided not to fight for him. There was no way a 50 year old woman could compete with a smart, sexy, 30 year old who was willing to do whatever she could to get what she wanted, and this girl had wanted Richard. She had fallen in love with him the moment she started at the firm. She saw it now. What had she been looking at before?

It was nearly a month before her sister was able to talk her into getting out of the house. She had told her friends that she was going away for a few weeks to visit cousins out of town, but that lie had cost her her freedom. She couldn’t go to the gym, or run, or even go to the grocery store. So JoAnne had said that she would call her friends, tell them she was coming back, and put together a little dinner at their favorite restaurant with a number of her closest friends. But, while Angie was in the bathroom with her friend Stephanie, JoAnne decided to tell everyone “the news.”

Angie, who was finally feeling better, came back from the bathroom laughing and feeling a bit like her old self, however, as arrived back at the table, everyone went suspiciously silent. Angie knew instantly what had happened and looked daggers at Stephanie believing that she had had something to do with this.

Next she stared at JoAnne who smiled and gave her a –this is for your own good– look. She was such a fucking blabbermouth. She should have known that this dinner was a rouse; an intervention to begin a healing process that JoAnne had decided to spearhead.

Looking again at Stephanie who had shock written all over her face – Marla was whispering in her ear – she knew that she’d had nothing to do with it.

          “I didn’t…”

          “I know, I know. It was all my baby sister’s doing. Right?”

          “He was never right for you anyway,” said Meggie, “and I have someone I’d like to introduce you to.”

          “You’ve gotta be kidding. He left three weeks ago. This was supposed to be a fun, distracting evening, not the beginning of therapy, or the love connection.”

          “A date would do you good,” said Alceen.

          “I don’t want a date, and I have no appetite for desert. You guys can eat the pastries and drink the wine. I’m going home. Oh, and someone’s going to have to drive that home!” she said pointedly toward JoAnne.

          Angie shook her head. Fists and teeth clenched, left the room.

          The table began buzzing. “Shouldn’t we go after her?”

          “No, that’ll make it worse,” said JoAnne. “She’ll get over it. You guys needed to know, but she wouldn’t have told you, so I thought it was important to come clean.”

          “Doesn’t look like Angie agrees,” said Stephanie watching Angie walk to the front of the restaurant.

          “Uh oh,” said Margie. “She’ll be back.”

          “Oh no she won’t!” said Stephanie.

          “Well she’s not going very far without these,” said Margie holding up her purse and jacket.

          “Hide them under the table!” demanded JoAnne.

          “No,” said Margie.

          “Please. This’ll be okay. But you have to hide them, now.”

          Grunting, Margie lifted them up and dropped the items dramatically on the ground..

          Walking out into the cold November air, Angie realized that she didn’t have her jacket or her purse. She couldn’t go back. She was not ready to talk about this or to any of them, so she took a deep breath, put on her nicest everything is fine smile, and walked over to the host’s stand where Joseph had just gotten off the phone. “Joseph, hi. I was wondering if you could do me a favor.”

          “Sure Mrs. Wexton, what do you need?”

          “Actually," she said with a sigh, "I’m not really feeling that well, and silly me, I seem to have left my purse and jacket at my sister’s table. Would you please be a dear and go get them for me?”

          “I could call you a cab.”

          “No, no I can drive. I just don’t want to go back in and listen to all that noise and laughing. You know how we can get.”

          Joseph smiled, nodded, and walked to the back of the restaurant.

          The group watched as Joseph approach. “Uh, excuse me. Mrs. Wexton asked me to get her purse and jacket.”

          “Tell her to come and get it herself!” said JoAnne.

          “Mrs. Ames she doesn't feel well, and she asked me to do it. Please can I have them?”

          The girls all looked to JoAnne. “Just let him have them, said Stephanie. When she’s ready to talk, she’ll talk.” Joseph looked curiously around as Margie ducked under the table to retrieve the items.

          “Here,” said Margie. “Tell her we all hope she feels better.”

          Joseph nodded and walked back to the front.

          “Thank you,” said Angie. “Thank you very much.” She smiled, patted his arm, and walked out.

Kammi

by Susan Cameron, copyright 2014


Kammi was cute. No, Kammi was quite possibly the most beautiful thirteen-year-old girl I had ever seen. She had silky ebony hair, startling eyes -- can't remember, were they blue or green? -- the lashes were as black as her hair and almost an inch long, and I'd never seen a kid that age with such flawless ivory skin before. She had the slim but budding figure of a future Victoria's Secret model, and my heart almost burst with pity when I first saw her. A girl who looked like that was going to get caught in the cross-hairs for sure.

She walked into the video arcade with a few of the regular girls, the sixteen- and seventeen-year-olds who came after school every day. The youngster and Sharlene headed for the pinball games, the kid as stuck to Sharlene as if they were bungee-corded together. The other girls wandered over to my counter to get change and say hi. "Have you met Sharlene's new puppy yet?" asked Jackie, and they all giggled.

"What's the story?"

"Her name's Kammi. She ran away from Orangewood, and she's latched onto Sharlene for some reason."

"How did she end up at Orangewood?"

"Her dad was raping her, and she got taken away from him."

So, yeah. She'd already been caught in the cross-hairs and blasted. "Where is she staying?" I asked.

"Sharlene's mom's couch? I don't know."

Sharlene and the kid came over and joined us. "This is Kammi," said Sharlene. "Kammi, this is Sue."

"Hi," said Kammi, glancing at me, then staring at my half-eaten lunch.

"Want some fries?"  She did. She eyeballed what was left of my burger.

You know how it is, right? You know you shouldn't feed the stray cat, because the next thing you know, you have a cat, whether you intended to or not. But I do feed the stray cat, I do feed the stray dog, and I do not always call animal control, and I did not call Orangewood or the police.

I said, "I don't have much iced tea left. Here's how things work here. I send people to McDonald's to get my refills or to buy me food. I give people money to play the games with when they come back. But I'll buy you one of the dollar burgers instead if you go get my iced tea." So off went Kammi, and now I had a part-time puppy.

The girls looked after Kammi. Her father had told her the sex was all her own fault, that she was too beautiful for him to resist. Now she had safe places to sleep, and nobody's parents asked too many questions, but it wasn't a sustainable situation, and there was no plan, so I came up with one when the whole crew was in one night.

"Look," I said, "you need a better way to go. Don't you have any other relatives besides your father you can stay with?"

"I have a grandma I stayed with when my dad got arrested."

"Let me give her a call, Kammi. Let's see if she'll take you in again."

Kammi gave me her grandma's number, and I talked with her grandma. It seemed that her son, Kammi's daddy and rapist, had made bail. Kammi had been locked up in Orangewood; daddy was a free man for the time being and living with -- his mom. Kammi's grandma assured me, "My son wasn't the first one. She was no virgin or anything." I hung up the phone and wiped my hand on my jeans. Time for Plan B, and this one would require everybody backing me up.

"Kammi, there's a home for runaways called Casa de Bienvenidos."

"I'm not going to any home."

"Let me finish. I will drive you there. I'll stay with you while you listen to what the counselors have to say."

"But I don't want to stay in a home."

"Let me finish. If, after you listen, if you decide you don't want to stay, I'll bring you back here. I promise. I swear it."

So that's how it was. I got my friend Ruth to take over at the arcade, and Kammi and I went off to the shelter. The counselors and I worked on her for two hours, worked through the denials and anger and crying, and called her on her bullshit, too, because anybody living on the streets comes up with bullshit to feed people in order to get by, to get over, to play people, to get pity, to ultimately get their own way. We broke her down, but in the end, we failed. She wanted to go back.

As Kammi and I walked into the arcade, the girls greeted her with frowns and scolding. "You should have stayed, Kammi. This is just stupid. You don't belong out here. What are you going to do? You need to be in school, you need a good place to stay..." and they all wandered off together except Jackie, who said, "We weren't sure if you were going to dump her there and take off."

"I thought about it. But I also thought, adults have been lying to her all her life. I won't do it."

Jackie nodded and looked at me. "Don't think we don't notice what you've tried to do for her. We appreciate it, even if she doesn't," and off she went. I was too choked up to respond.

In the end, Kammi was picked up by the cops and taken back to Orangewood, but the word went out that she was adopted by some rich people in Anaheim Hills. I hope it was true, and I hope her new daddy was a real father to her, or that her new mommy killed him if he wasn't.

People come into our lives, then leave. We know, at most, a page or two in the book of their lives; they may take up only a paragraph or a page in ours; but those pages, brief as they are, do exist, and in the re-reading make us say, "I wonder what ever happened to...?" Kammi would be about forty years old now, if she's still alive, if she came out the other side -- and all I can say is, I hope she did.

Cassie - The Ones Who are the Boss of Me

by Liz Zuercher

The Ones Who Are The Boss Of Me -  AKA Management

Roger Winston

Roger is our project manager for Bella Vista.  Technically he is a member of our team, and technically he is not the boss of me, but I’ve put him in this category because he has a certain amount of say about how I do my job.  Roger is a stand-up guy and I’ve worked with him on several other projects.  I can always count on Roger to be the voice of reason and to get his job done.  That makes my job easier, because I depend on Roger for all our legal sales documents and exhibits.  I’ve had project managers who just couldn’t get anything done on time or correctly, and that throws the whole sales effort off.  I never have to worry about that with Roger.

Roger is a handsome, towering hulk of a man, a former professional football player, but he’s also the proverbial gentle giant.  He has an ease about him that puts everyone else at ease.  I never hesitate to refer an angry buyer to Roger if I’ve been unable to solve their problem.  He will always talk them down and find a way to make them happy without sacrificing the company principles. 

He can see through bullshit, too, which makes it especially puzzling to me that he has bought into Satan’s lies.  Granted, Satan is on his best behavior during our team meetings, and whenever Roger asks him to do something, Satan jumps.  Still, I don’t know why Roger hasn’t noticed the slipped schedules and the subcontractor complaints.  I don’t understand why Roger believes Satan when he says I don’t cooperate with Construction.  And I can’t believe Roger gave us all a lecture at the team meeting about getting along and not acting like children, all the while looking straight at me.  Satan sat back in his chair with one ankle resting on the other knee, smirking like he’d won the war.  I thought Roger knew me better than that by now.  I’ve never been a problem on any other project we’ve worked on together.  Why does he think I’m the source of the trouble now?

So, I’ve always thought of Roger as one of the good guys, but now I’m not so sure.

Tina Masterson (AKA Skinny Bitch)

Tina is Vice President of Sales and Marketing.  She has never worked as a new home sales representative, and from what I’ve heard she doesn’t have much experience in marketing either.  She came to Monterey Homes from another builder last year to replace Richard Sorenson, who finally retired at the age of 75.  Richard was a first class salesman who worked his way up to the VP position.  He knew first hand everything we were dealing with in the field and what it took to get houses sold and closed.  He was a lovely, compassionate man who cared about each and every one of the salespeople he oversaw.  Tina can’t hold a candle to him.

Tina is 45 and single, just like me.  She’s a tiny person – short and stick thin.  If you didn’t know her, you’d think a wisp of wind would topple her, but she’s one tough cookie who doesn’t bend easily.  Her hair is a severe jet-black and falls from a center part to her shoulders, but her face reminds me of the American Girl doll that Sarah’s daughter used to have.  When she’s acting nice, her voice sounds like it could come from that sweet innocent doll.  But the combination of the hair, the face and the voice produces a strangely unbalanced effect that can put you on edge.  I believe that’s just what she’s going for. 

Tina dresses in short pencil skirts and suit jackets – usually black – with the only color coming from her never-ending supply of silk blouses.  The shoes are expensive sling-back heels with peep toes.  Her makeup is calculated to promote the doll-like image, with lightly applied eyeliner and mascara, a hint of blush on her cheeks and pale coral lipstick.  Her nails – fingers and toes - are always painted coral to match the lipstick and she wears a different flashy ring on her right hand every day, as if she’s playing dress-up.

Rumor has it that Tina slept her way into this job, but I can’t imagine her being that common or that straightforward.  I think it’s more likely she has some dirt on somebody, and she used that to worm her way into her position.  She sure couldn’t have impressed anyone with her sales and marketing prowess.  But she does know how to turn on the charm.  She also knows how to act like she’s in charge and she moves so fast she’s difficult to stop.  Those traits can get a person into high places.

Above all with Tina there’s the smile.  She smiles and pretends she wants to know how she can help you, but the minute you tell her what you need, the smile fades and her eye wanders.  She’ll nod and say, “Yes, yes, we’ll see about that,” and you know right then nothing will ever come of it.  She smiles like she’s offering you candy when she orders you to get more sales.  She smiles when she asks why your market report isn’t on time, and she smiles even bigger when she tells you your printed price sheets won’t be arriving until after the Saturday morning phase release.  Always, the smile is followed by the question, “That won’t be a problem, will it?”  Before you can answer, she’s hurried off to smile at someone else. 

Sarah started calling Tina Skinny Bitch when Tina sashayed into our sales office one day and announced with a smile she was there to inspect the models.  She does this quite often, liking the element of surprise.  I think she’s hoping to catch you in a mess, so she can smile and tell you how you really must try harder. 

Anyway, Sarah was working alone that day and didn’t volunteer to accompany Tina on her inspection.  She could see that a prospect was pulling into the parking lot and would need her attention.

“Aren’t you coming with me?” Tina said.

“No, there’s a customer coming,” Sarah said.

“You’ll be catching up with me when they leave, won’t you?” Tina said.

“I’ll try,” Sarah said, knowing how fast Tina moves and how many questions a prospect can have.

“I’ll expect you,” Tina huffed and hurried off to the first model.

The customer had a few questions then left to tour the models.  Before Sarah could leave to join Tina, the escrow officer called about a problem she was having with the documents on Lot 75, which was scheduled to close in three days.  No sooner had Sarah solved that problem than the Lot 63 buyer called in a panic to say he couldn’t get the loan approval we needed.  Sarah called the loan rep to see what they could work out for Lot 63.  After she dealt with that, an appraiser called for comps that Sarah faxed to him.  She was just starting out the door to the models when the phone rang again and it was a relocation realtor we’d been working with to sell Lot 54 to a cute couple from Arizona.  They wanted to make an offer, but they had a list of questions they needed answered first.  The whole time she was on the phone with the realtor, Sarah desperately had to go to the bathroom.  The minute she hung up the phone she sprinted to The Spa to relieve herself.  When she opened the bathroom door, there was Tina standing at the topo table, tapping her coral fingertips on the glass top.  This time she was not smiling.

“I expected you to join me,” she said.

“I had to deal with some things first,” Sarah said.

“Like lolling around in the bathroom?” Tina said.

Sarah saw the customer walking up from the models, just about to come into the office and she decided not to respond.  It wouldn’t be professional to be having an argument in front of the customer.  But Tina either didn’t notice or didn’t care, because she kept on scolding Sarah for not meeting her in the models.

“The customer’s coming,” Sarah said, hoping that would shut Tina up.

“There’s always some excuse why you can’t do what I need you to do,” Tina said as the customer opened the door and looked nervously from Sarah to Tina.

Tina flashed her smile at the customer then turned to Sarah and said,  “You really should make sure this nice gentleman is taken care of, Sarah.”

Sarah’s jaw dropped before she recovered enough to smile at the customer and ask how he liked the models.

The customer mumbled something about how they were okay and made a beeline for the door to escape to the parking lot.  That’s when Tina told Sarah she shouldn’t scare away the customers like that.  After Tina left, Sarah called me to tell me about what had happened.  The usually cool Sarah was spitting nails.

“She acts all cutesy and smiley sweet, but she’s such a bitch,” Sarah said.

I was shocked to hear Sarah speak that way about anyone.

“And she’s so damned skinny,” Sarah continued.  “She’s a damned skinny bitch.”

“Yes she is,” I said.  I couldn’t disagree.  Tina was skinny and she most certainly was a bitch.

So Tina became Skinny Bitch to us.  The story made its way around to all the sales offices – the sales grapevine is pretty active – and soon everyone had embraced Tina’s new name.  We all like to affect a smile when we say Skinny Bitch.  It only seems right.

Bethany Perry (AKA Baby Bitch)

Bethany is definitely not the boss of me, but she acts like she is.  She is Skinny Bitch’s assistant.  She is only twenty years old and has no experience in the home building arena.  Her last job was scooping up ice cream cones at Baskin Robbins while she went to community college to perfect her Microsoft Office skills.  To be fair, she is very good on the computer.  She could be a cute girl, if she weren’t under Tina’s spell. 

Bethany idolizes Tina to the extent that in the three months since she started working at the main office, she has had her hair styled just like Tina’s, acquired a wardrobe of pencil skirts, jackets and colorful silk blouses, and painted her nails the same coral shade.  It’s a little creepy.  That’s why we’ve dubbed her Baby Bitch. 

That aside, I mention her in this category only because she is an extension of Skinny Bitch and one that’s even more galling, given her young age, lack of experience and her bossy attitude.  She’s in charge of implementing Skinny Bitch’s edicts and that includes harping on us to get our reports in and chastising us when we haven’t completed them exactly the way she wants.

I have decided that the way to deal with Bethany is to kill her with kindness, so I throw the Skinny Bitch smile back at Bethany.  She doesn’t recognize it as fake and thinks I like her.  That way she cuts me more slack than anyone else.  I can play the smile game, too.

Mark Tolliver – CEO

Mark Tolliver started with the company thirty years ago as a construction assistant, then a superintendent.  Then he was a project manager.  Then he was in charge of our division.  Then he moved up to Corporate as an executive vice president.  Now he is in charge of the whole show, our CEO and Chairman of the Board.  He is the boss of all of us.  He is a tall, distinguished looking man of fifty-five, who has always been approachable and open to ideas from anyone.  That’s probably how he got to where he is now.  He’s a family man, devoted to his church and to the company – an all round nice guy.

If you think he sounds too good to be true, you might be right.  Don’t get me wrong.  I really like Mark – he doesn’t want anyone calling him Mr. Tolliver – but I liked him better before he made the move to Corporate.  Mark’s an emotional guy, which seemed appropriate at the division level, but every time he addresses our division meetings as CEO, he always ends up crying and telling us how much he misses us all.  It was charming at first, but now it’s uncomfortable.  I find myself wondering if he has the mental toughness to run a multi-million dollar national company, especially as the housing market runs into stormy weather.  I don’t have a lot of confidence that Mark can make the hard decisions necessary to keep this ship afloat.