Out of Order



  Out of Order

  By Jonathan Jackson

  ©Copyright Jonathan Jackson 2013

  Chapter 1

  The cold water relentlessly soaks through the seams of her old canvas tennis shoes, seeping slowly onto her skin; her the socks wicking up the water. Still somewhat asleep, she pulls her feet up a little higher onto the step, trying to get them under the cardboard shelter she’d made for the night. The invading cold woke her from her fitful sleep in the doorway of the abandoned dentist office.

  “Argh, it’ll be morning before I can dry my shoes!”

  She reaches down and pulls off her shoes, putting them under the cardboard with her and then folding her feet underneath her body. There is no need to keep wearing wet shoes when all they are going to do is keep making you colder. Luckily the socks are the athletic type and will dry if she can keep them out of the direct water. The lady at the charity shop said they were the quick-dry type that all of the homeless and other type of street people would wear in the winter so their feet could stay relatively dry. She made a big deal about diabetics and taking care of their feet but she was far from that stage of life.

  “That you out there making all that noise girlie?” A voice came from the dark around the corner in the alley.

  “That you Charlie?”

  “Yeah, it’s me.”

  “You got a dry spot?”

  “Probably no more than you do.”

  “I should have gone to the gym tonight and took a cot.”

  “I should do that every night, but you know how it is. I’m not ready for the fight to keep it once they turn the lights out.” She thought about his mention of fighting for a bunk. From time to time punks would try to rob older people in the dark in their sleep. It often resulted in some pretty bad fights. Just because some street residents seemed to be old and their appearances were somewhat haggard, most weren’t. Living outdoors under those conditions can make someone look older than their actual years.

  “Me either.”

  “Goodnight girlie.”

  “Good night Charlie.”

  “Hey Girlie?”

  She expected him to make some smart comment but was surprised when he didn’t. “Say your prayers tonight ok? It’s important.”

  “Important to stay in the street?”

  “Important to stay alive. The street ain’t got nothing to do with it.”

  “If you say so old man.”

  She heard a chuckle from the alley. “Old man! Bah, I bet I’m not ten years older than you are.”

  “Goodnight old man.” She liked Charlie. He was an older Pilipino man who came to the US to open a jewelry store and show off his custom made necklaces. Unfortunately for him, the economy didn’t see it that way and the taste for his expensive style of coral and jade jewelry wasn’t en vogue this season. His wife kicked him out telling him not to come home until he found a suitable job. He was still looking for that suitable job, six years later.

  “Hey Charlotte?”

  “What do you want old man?”

  “Did you say your prayers?”

  “No!”

  “Then do it or I’ll keep you awake all night.”

  “Alright! Good grief.” Not wanting to lie to her only trustworthy friend, she closed her eyes and clasped her hands, saying a short prayer. She didn’t pray for her own welfare or safety. Instead she prayed for Charlie and his family. She was on the streets by choice. He wasn’t.

  • • •

  Charlotte, who also went by Charlie from time to time, not to be confused with her friend she called “man-Charlie,” ran away from home when she was seventeen. She was very bright and was on track to graduate high school an entire year early. She’d taken so many classes for her graduation requirements that all she needed was one half of a credit in English and she would get her diploma. While her friends were all taking useless electives and study halls, she was prepping to graduate. She was nothing less than driven. Motivated wouldn’t even describe her.

  After her so-called escape from her home, she’d convinced an adult education teacher here in the city to let her take a free night class. She only needed one half of a credit in the state required English class to be eligible to receive her diploma. She was still only seventeen but the teacher swore not to violate her trust. He was more concerned with her welfare and knew she would run, never to be seen again should she be found out.

  She got a copy of her diploma laminated and she carries it around in her small backpack. Contrary to everything she’d been told, it hasn’t served her to any good. No one cared if she was a high school grad or not. She knew of at least three people living on the streets that she’d met who had advanced college degrees, one of them a Ph.D.

  It was more for her own state of mind and the ability to say she had accomplished something. She was such a smart teenager that she became too smart for her own good. Midway through her junior year of school and much to the anguish of her parents, she started dating an older guy. He was out of high school already which also caused her parents grief. While they thought he was too mature for her she couldn’t handle being around the immaturity of her peers. No one outside of her family thought anything of it since she was such an over-achiever and so much smarter than most.

  She was so smart that she thought she could overcome anything and be ok in virtually any activities. She failed to remember that she was just a young teenager, emotionally and was easily led astray by her older boy friend. He did love her, and he treated her very well. Everyone liked him, even her mother and father. Even her overly protective older brother liked him, despite his usual brotherly antagonism toward her. She made it her mission throughout his teenage years to make him miserable and it was coming back to her in spades.

  Her intellect and her false sense of bravado ended in tragedy. The April before she was scheduled to complete her junior year of school and wrap up high school, she found out she was pregnant. She was devastated. She’d gotten carried away only one time with her boyfriend, but like her mother said through sobs and tears, “It only takes one time and now a child is going to have a child.”

  She apologized profusely to her whole family and wasn’t really surprised when her boyfriend conveniently decided to take that semester in college and study abroad in Spain. He pushed an envelope of money into her hand outside of her house one night and used the word that starts with “a” and ends with “-bortion.” She wasn’t very strong in her faith, but one thing she did believe in was the sanctity of life and that was never an option. She decided she’d take that cash, go to the city, and start a new life for her and her child. She couldn’t take the scrutiny of all of the people she knew, her family and those in her school.

  She was only in her first week in the city after having run away before the pains tore at her gut and she began to bleed profusely. A nice Egyptian fellow driving a cab found her crying in pain sitting on the curb and took her to the local community hospital. She reluctantly went, refusing to give them her real name or social security number. She didn’t want anyone finding her. She spent the night there and learned that she’d had a miscarriage. She was no longer pregnant.

  She fully expected to be jubilant that she didn’t have that burden, but she’d already gotten used to the idea that she was going to be a mother. She knew she could have done a good job of it. That was when she decided that she would carry on, at least for the summer, and stay where she was. She was still tender from the emotional torture she was put through at home and wanted her people to be glad s
he had returned, not use it as an excuse to give her a hard time for months and months.

  She also decided that she’d never let a boy get that close to her again. She had certainly learned her lesson and had no intention of repeating it. “Oh little baby, I already miss you and I only had you for a few weeks.” She cried that night because she’d never given her child a name. Her inner “little girl” was surfacing well ahead of that superior intellect and it was painful.

  She used some of the money her ex-boyfriend gave to her, to get a very small one room apartment, below street level near the subway station. That was where she met Charlie. He’d set up a small table on the sidewalk outside of her door one Sunday morning trying to sell necklaces. She couldn’t afford one but did help him peddle them that day and made him a peanut butter sandwich for his lunch. He was grateful and they became instant friends. She needed someone like that, someone to trust, never mind she had a family and a home just two hours away by bus. She was just so smart.

  Soon summer turned to fall and her money ran out. She’d expected to have a job and a blossoming career by then. She liked the idea of working in the fashion industry, but career pickings were slim at her age and obvious lack of talent and experience. Charlie would plead with her to go back home and even tried to get information out of her about where she was from. She was sure he’d contact her family to come and get her. She knew she could make a go of it and refused to give in just because she was alone.

  She eventually confided in Charlie and told him about being pregnant and losing the baby early on. He understood and said that he and his wife had lost a couple when they lived in Manila. He was convinced that it was because of toxins in the harbor from the typhoons that would blow through, and then be consumed in the fish they ate. When she was kicked out of her little basement flat, Charlie took her under his wing and showed her how to live and survive on the street, as best he was able.

  “There are services out there if you’ll use them,” he said and taught her about charities and public services programs.

  She did take every opportunity to employ her intellect with Charlie and he’d finally had enough one night.

  “Do you think I am stupid?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You keep talking down to me as if I’m stupid. Is it because of my Asian accent?”

  “No! I never said you were stupid.” She hugged his shoulder. “It’s just how I am. I am super competitive and am always looking for ways to one-up people. I promise I don’t mean anything by it.”

  “It’s obnoxious.”

  She stung from that but nodded, knowing that it probably was, although no one had ever told her that. They used words like “know it all” and “brainiac” but never just came out and said how hateful and irritating it could be.

  One evening, while she and Charlie were sitting in a local charity kitchen eating dinner together, an older gentleman with white hair and a white, well-trimmed beard sat down across from them. She stared. She couldn’t help it. From beneath both of his emerald green jacket sleeves protruded two gleaming stainless steel prosthetic hooks.

  He didn’t speak to them but when a server from the kitchen brought him a tray, he was very gracious and thankful.

  “I know this is going to sound rude, but is there anything I can do to help you out?” She asked of the man.

  “How is that rude?” He asked in return. “I think it’s quite nice.”

  “I figured that people stare a lot and ask stupid questions.”

  “They do but I don’t mind.”

  “Were you in the war? Is that what happened to your hands?”

  “Hands? Darling, these boogers go all the way to my elbows.” He lifted the hooks for emphasis and clicked the pincers together. “I worked for the federal government…uncle sugar.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Have you seen those high voltage power lines that cross the country?”

  “Yes, the big ones with the towers?”

  “That’s them. I used to do maintenance on those things, hanging outside of a helicopter. I’d sit on a small platform on the skid while the pilot hovered. Then I’d hook onto the line to prevent electrocution while I worked. Well one day I managed to put my hook over a long dead bird that had frozen to the line and didn’t get ground connection. The next thing you know it was snap, sizzle and pop and I was dangling from my line with my hands and sleeves virtually burned off.”

  “Goodness!” The male Charlie exclaimed. “How did you get down?”

  “The pilot flew with me just like that, dangling from the line, to the nearest hospital. He radioed ahead and they unhooked me from my line while he hovered a few feet off the ground.” He looked at the ceiling and blinked back a tear. “He saved my life flying like he did.”

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you.”

  “You didn’t. He saved me and I couldn’t save him. Cancer killed him about a year ago.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Anyway, I’m pretty good at taking care of myself since my government health benefit ran out and I made the mistake of signing papers for the insurance company that said I couldn’t sue them.” He waved his arms wide, hooks shining in the fluorescent lights. “So here I am.”

  He made a great show of his dexterity with the pincers over the next half hour, and earned a hug from girl-Charlie and a promise to say hello next time she saw him.

  • • •

  The water hammered the edge of the building she was sheltering under and then dropped noisily onto the cardboard shelter she’d fashioned for herself on the step. The building kept the rain away and the cardboard prevented splash and spray from reaching her. She did manage to fall back asleep after her scolding from Charlie to say her prayers. Before she was kicked out of her apartment, she did sell everything she had, anticipating the inability to take any of it anywhere. She went to an upscale outdoor adventure store and bought a few specialty supplies; a space age blanket, guaranteed to keep you warm in the worst of weather and a whole rain suit made of the same stuff that the army uses. She didn’t think far enough ahead and get footwear to go along with it.

  She looked up from underneath the cardboard shelter and saw the hint of sunshine above the rain clouds, telling her that above all of that mess, the sun was actually shining this morning. She didn’t mind the rain so much as she hated the nasty mud that seemed to accumulate in the city streets. Considering there was very little soil on the street sides, the mud was the mixing of a variety of toxic and disgusting materials that resulted from city sprawl and heavy traffic. Looking at her watch she saw that it was already past 6:30 and she was running late.

  “I wonder why Charlie didn’t wake me up, this morning.” She crawled out from under the box fortress, folded up her blanket into its tiny little pouch, stuffing it in her backpack. She put her feet back into the canvas shoes that were still damp from the previous night’s soaking. She hated to wear wet shoes, no matter the time of the year, and the cold weather encroaching on the city only made it so much worse.

  She folded up the now-useless cardboard and stuffed it into a trash bin around the corner, while she looked for her friend. Even though her world consisted of alley ways and other homeless people, she still tried to be neat. She looked in the box he was sheltering in, and then checked with a few other alley dwellers and none of them said they had heard anything. All of his stuff was gone.

  You could tell Charlie from everyone else by his bright orange hunting hat and his blue and yellow plaid over coat. He didn’t match at all, but he said that where he came from, the fashion was in the color, not whether or not it actually went together. Garish was a good thing in Manila. He should have been a super-star. “Garish” was all over him.


  “Hey what are you doing in my house?” A voice said loudly behind her. She jumped up, feeling like she’d been caught trespassing in someone’s house instead of shopping in a cardboard box in a public alley.

  “Where have you been?” She walked over to him. “Why didn’t you wake me up? We missed breakfast at the 8th Street.”

  “You didn’t miss anything. I checked on you and you looked so peaceful sleeping that I decided to go without you.”

  “Well wasn’t that kind of you, leaving me to go hungry for the day.” Her sarcasm clung to the air.

  “Well not so much kind as it was being a great and noble friend.” He produced a large bundle from a coat pocket, wrapped in greasy floral print paper towels and handed it to her.

  She unfolded the care package from her friend. The paper towel cornucopia held a scrambled egg sandwich, donut, and piece of sausage. “The only thing I need now is some hot chocolate!”

  “Oh yes,” Charlie said reaching into his other overcoat pocket and withdrawing a Styrofoam cup with a lid. “You hot chocolate, my lady.” He offered it to her. She happily took it in exchange for giving him a kiss on his sand-papery-rough cheek.

  “You’re such a prince! If you weren’t already married and about thirty years younger, you’d be in real trouble.”

  “I’m pretty sure I’m not married any more, considering my wife hasn’t come looking for me and where I come from, young women pursue the older men.” He grinned at her, knowing she would take it as jest. Her banter helped to make him feel more human and less a fixture of the streets. Someone else overhearing that exchange would think he was a dirty old man trying to hit on a young girl.

  Girl-Charlie enjoyed her breakfast and thanked Man-Charlie profusely. “I did need some sleep. Last night was hard.”

  “I know what you mean. It’s supposed to rain again tonight. You going to stay here again or go to the shelter?” He knew she preferred the office step for her place to sleep. She said it felt safer being enclosed on three sides instead of “out in the open” as you would be in an alleyway. She also had a fear of a truck or some other vehicle driving down the alley, running over the people sleeping under the refuse.

  Their particular alley ran northeast to southwest so there never was a wind in it unless it was storming. There was a science to seeking shelter, she was learning daily from Man-Charlie. She often thought that someone should write a book about street survival like the Boy Scouts does for wilderness survival. They could give it out for free at the missions and soup kitchens and help the homeless better survive their austere situations.

  “I can’t go to the shelter. It’s too sad and there are too many other people who need it worse than I do.”

  This kind of statement made him mad. It was demeaning and she wasn’t even aware that she was doing it. “What do you mean by that need it worse than you do junk? You’re just as homeless as the rest of us. You’re just as wet and just as cold.”

  “You know what I mean. I’m young and healthy. A lot of them aren’t.”

  “That’s bull and you know it.”

  She stood up and slung her pack over her shoulder, ignoring his righteousness. She was used to the idea that he wanted her to adopt his homeless state of mind. He told her it was an issue of survival, not of ego or pride.

  “I’m going to go explore down at the fashion district today. I’ll see if I can’t find something better suiting for our particular skills.”

  “I know what my skill are but what are yours, hmm?” He looked at her mockingly, albeit friendly, “Do they market obnoxious teenagers down there now?”

  “Ha! You should say so.” She stuck out her tongue at him and hiked off down the sidewalk.

  She really had no skills but she was modestly attractive and could wear most anything successfully. She earned money from time-to-time helping in what she called the sweat-shops. They weren’t really sweat-shops but it was all she could come up with to call them. They made clothing.

  She was what one designer called an “industrial grade” model. She would wear outfits so a seamstress could correct flaws in how a garment laid on the body –nothing fashionable about it. She modeled for an audience of one or maybe two very OCD and neurotic designers.

  He yelled after her, “We’re playing poker tonight in the big box. You should come watch! It’s going to rain!”

  “I’ll be back before dark,” She yelled back. “I need to stop by the store first.”

  “Bring some crackers if you think about it!”

  She waved a hand in the air as if to say, “I heard you.”

  He didn’t offer to pay for crackers. She knew every cent he scrounged or earned was given to someone else. Man-Charlie was a unique person. There wasn’t a more charitable man in the world, considering he had nothing anyway. She expected to see him walk down the sidewalk in his boxers one day having given the clothes off of his back to someone in need.

  • • •

  Charlie strolled along the sidewalk of the storefronts in the garment district, dragging her fingertips along the rough mortar that separated the glass of the windows from their brick structures. Something about the rough texture kept her grounded in the here and now. On her side of the glass it was a free feeling, real and rough textured world; while on the other side, the display side, it was a gathering of dreams, inspiration , talent and a desperation for acceptance of someone’s skillfully finished product, all smashed into one tangible product.

  Occasionally she’d look at a particular mannequin in a window or a poster touting some new type of design or fragrance. She looked forward to window shopping these stores although she never went inside. The people who worked there had a biological radar that could detect someone who was penniless or couldn’t afford to pay for their wares. They would turn up their noses and often invite her to browse elsewhere, all the while offering flutes of champagne to their paying customers in the next breath.

  Occasionally she would be able to see her own reflection at the same time she could see the models on the posters. She was thin from lack of regular fast food, but she was still very healthy. The streets hadn’t quite taken their toll on her yet. She would turn sideways and look at her reflection. When no one was looking, she’d lift her shirt and admire her slim stomach in the reflection. “Yeah I could be a model if I tried hard.” She didn’t realize that her flattening stomach was from the loss of ten pounds due to an exceptionally poor diet.

  She often thought that she could be a model and had heard many stories about girls who arose from nothing to become the supermodels that commanded tens of thousands of dollars per gig on the runway. She knew of one pop-music icon that lived in her car, even as they were recording her first hit record. She wondered if any of those ultra-famous cat-walkers were intelligent or if they truly were the popularly thought of airheads that will do anything as long as a camera was pointed at them. She admitted that there had to be skill involved and stamina, but it just didn’t strike her as being mentally stimulating, which she needed regularly.

  She had a favorite store to visit. They were well known for being bizarre and “out there” with their campaigns. It was unusual for her not to laugh at some of their ideas. There was one poster in that showcase window where a woman had a large green Mohawk hair-do. The funniest part of the poster was that she was dressed mainly in a single strip of yellow, smiley-faced duct tape across her breasts and a large clam shell covering her womanly parts tied by a yarn around her waist.

  On her wrist was an obscenely brilliant diamond tennis bracelet. She marveled that there were no words anywhere on the poster. Apparently the observer was supposed to guess what they were trying to sell; the large Mohawk, duct tape and sea shell modesty, or possibly and most likely the diamond bracelet. That mo
del probably made a fortune to surrender her dignity like that, although Charlie would never recognize her even if she met her in person.

  She stepped between two of the buildings and strolled down the clean alleyway. It was one of the clean ones because it was barely wide enough for her to stretch her arms out to the sides. Worst case scenario, it smelled like urine from those 3am visits by the clubbers too lazy to find an actual restroom. No vehicles could travel here so no garbage seemed to pile up. Bicycles didn’t count and they often used this alley as a shortcut from street front to delivery area.

  She emerged from the alleyway, leaving the posh and snobbish shopping area behind and entering the world of the blue-collar workers and the artisans. Here she felt a kinship although she had no real skills, just like Man-Charlie said. She had that high school diploma though!

  The manufacturers, clothing assemblers, design studios, and wholesalers were located in this back side of wealth. These were the people who made the whole fashion industry perform. They created, tested, manufactured, promoted and delivered all of the high-dollar products from pretty much this very area, no larger than a football stadium. There were “over-seas” manufacturers who made bulk goods but if you were looking for one-of-a-kind items or limited runs, this was where they came from.

  Her creative attitudes seemed to explode as she walked past truck after truck unloading at the shops and wholesalers. She heard no less than a dozen different languages being yelled in the din, amid the whistles, laughter, horns blowing, and diesel engines running. Occasionally a small scooter would come purring by, a stark contrast to the industrial machinations meeting old world skill and artistry.

  There were a few designers on this street who would use her to model some of their clothes to do design work. She was a very slender, having an almost-boyish figure and apparently the most non-descript size – purely average. She stepped inside one of the loading bays, looking for a familiar face. The owner of this design house, Mrs. Kumi, who she called Mrs. K, was an arthritic, wizened Korean lady. She had the most amazing flair for fashion in trendy America. She wasn’t one of the cable television millionaires but you could find her products in all of the elite stores, even if at the back of the rack.

  Charlie sees her and walks over to the steel table where she is busy arguing with a Hispanic man in a business suit. She is holding a bolt of purple fabric, pointing out a visible defect on the leading edge. She argues first in Spanish with the man, then switches to Korean as she yells at someone else down the hallway. She sees Charlie walking toward her and beckons her forward.

  “Charlotte, you girl! Come here! Look at this.” She holds the fabric up in front of her.

  Charlie looks at the business man and smiles, earning a scowl in return. Obviously he wasn’t feeling very good about the transaction that Mrs. Kumi was trying to work out with him.

  Mrs. K held the fabric in front of her face. “Do you see that? Do you think I can make a good jacket out of that with uneven colors?”

  Charlie thought for a moment that she may even be getting the blame for the flaws which was completely unreasonable as she just walked up.

  “Can I look at it please?” The old woman relented and handed the bolt to her. No expert in textiles, she knew Mrs. K needed some support, which was rare. She was a rock, an unbreachable island with rocky shore lines.

  She unrolled the fabric on the table. The table was laser etched with a variety of lines and measurements, along with some strategic grooves for running shears through. She looked at the aberration in the fabric and then put her hand behind it, feeling for an unusual texture where the difference was.

  “I can feel an oddity in the texture at that spot. It’s almost like a different thread was used in the weaving process for a few runs.”

  The business man looked guiltily at her and nodded his head but admitted nothing. She ran her hand along the fabric and then began to unroll the oblong bolt, letting it make the characteristic flopping sound as it rolled over on the table. Once she had made two or three turns, the spots began to show up with more frequency. Mrs. K made a “P-sha” sound and started carrying on in Korean again.

  The man then apologized to her. “We must have had a problem with the looms.” He reached forward and looked at the defects. “Look, it’s on the edges of the bolts. You could trim them and only lose an inch along that side.”

  “Only lose an inch? I pay you by the foot! That inch is fifty foot long.”

  “I can discount this bolt.”

  “No, I don’t want this one. Close your truck doors.”

  “Wait! Let’s not over react. I’ll call and get this replaced right away.” He flipped open his telephone and jabbed quickly at the keys.

  She smiled and looked very much like a Cobra about to eat a squirrel. “I want you to discount me ten percent on this order, just because you were trying to sneak something in on me.”

  “That’s a lot!” He then lapsed into Spanish and started squabbling with her, all while talking on the telephone.

  Mrs. Kumi finally put a hand on top of his wrist, calming him. “Calm down Gustavo. Go have some coffee and we’ll work this out. Discount me five percent, replace the defective bolts, and we’ll call it even.”

  He smiled at her and took a deep breath. “Thank you Lanye. I’ve been through a lot just to get this one container shipment here.” He snapped the telephone close. “I can do five percent without calling in.”

  “We’ve had a good business. We won’t let this change it.”

  Charlie was completely lost in the process, first thinking that they were going to fist fight, and now she’s acting like a loving mother to him. He walked down the hall toward the employee break room, his shoulders slumped.

  “I don’t understand what just happened.”

  “Charlotte, it’s so good to see you.” Mrs. K hugged her warmly. “Where have you been for so long? Adrianne needs a model right away. Her table is deep with projects.” Charlie had not been by for about two weeks and Adrianne was very needy as far as a designer was concerned. She didn’t like to use any other proto-type models for her work.

  “I’ll go help her. What happened with your salesman though?”

  “That fabric is ruined. I can trim it but it is such a waste of materials.” She clasped her hands in front of her chest and shook her head.

  “Why did you change your mind with him?”

  “Oh, I didn’t change my mind. Sweet girl, that container by itself is worth almost three quarters of a million dollars. A five percent savings is great big!” She held her arms out wide. “That last call Gustavo made, I overheard his boss tell him to make the deal or come home without a job. He’s been a good salesman and my number one connection to Costa Rica. I got five percent and he made the sale. We all win!”

  “Is Adrianne here today? Does she need me right away?”

  “She’s been sick without you. I have to teach her to find other people when you’re not around.”

  “I don’t mind. I just wish it paid more.”

  “Since you helped me today, I’ll give you an extra fifty dollars.”

  “Wait, I helped save you $37,500 and all you give me is fifty?”

  “Okay, okay, I give you one hundred but more than that you can grab a broom and start sweeping too.” Mrs. K looked at her appraisingly, “Hey you figured that amount quickly. Are you a genius girl?”

  Charlie held up her hands, showing how clean and clear the skin was. “No broom callouses on these hands Mrs. K. I’m not anxious to start down that road just yet.” She tapped her head, “I’ll keep using this for a while.”

  The old woman laughed and pushed her down the hall toward the designers’ stables. Charlie pulled her backpack off of her shoulder an
d dropped it in a broom closet that she knew no one would be going to. These people had an aversion to sweeping the floors, much less mopping. They hired it out so they wouldn’t have to, and that was done at night. She knocked on the end door, which rang with an echo that gave away the size of the room behind.

  Adrianne threw the door open and dragged Charlie inside, hugging her fiercely. “I thought I heard your voice! I need you!”

  “Hey wow, it’s nice to be needed.” She pushed away from the hug, realizing that it was more of a gesture to comfort the neurotic designer than to show affection for Charlie. “I hear you have a bit for me to try on?”

  “Boy, do I!” Adrianne ran to the table and came back with an arm full of different types of fabric. “How long do I have you for? Do you have to go somewhere today?

  “I’m all yours for the day. I haven’t made any other plans.” Charlie was pretty sure that none of the people she interacted with here knew about her homeless situation. In fact, only Mrs. K knew that her real name was Charlotte, not Charlie. “Mrs. K is paying me so I’m your pin cushion.”

  “Woo hoo!” Adrianne whooped. She grabbed her MP3 player off of the shelf and started spastically thumbing through the menus. “I hope you like Jazz today. I have to swing for these outfits.”

  Charlie laughed inwardly to herself thinking, “You swing every waking moment!” Alluding to her suspected neuroses. Adrianne made her very uncomfortable with her constant physical contact. She was so used to being a “no touch” person with everyone else and Adrianne takes it in a completely opposite direction. Charlie thinks that it’s more of a comfort for Adrianne to have that contact instead of a show of affection. She’s rather clingy as well as needy, in Charlie’s astute assessment.

  • • •

  “Ouch!”

  “Sorry. Didn’t mean to stick you.” Adrianne shoved a straight pin back in to the old fashioned pin cushion on the table. “I think this is gorgeous on you.”

  Charlie looked in the mirror on the far wall to see herself. Outside of standing up on a wooden box, the pale purple dress was very pretty on her. “I wish I could ever afford something like this.” She bit her lip realizing her wish was folly. “I’d never have anywhere to wear it anyway.”

  “I’m sure you have plenty of dates and places to go in this. It’s not that pricey.”

  Charlie, for one of the few times, really felt sad for herself. If she was still with her parents, she’d be in college by now, able to wear dresses like this, and have a more realistic guarantee of much brighter future. Her ego was slowly standing aside and letting her entertain the idea that she could return home. She’d sent her mother and father a few emails from an anonymous email account she opened at a local public library computer, reassuring them she was well. They did try to email her on their own but once she had read the first and experienced their pleadings which turned into guilt trips, she didn’t open any subsequent email.

  She’d called home once at the beginning of the summer, to tell her mother about the miscarriage and to assure her that she was ok and that she needed time to become whoever she was meant to be from this point forward. She promised to call again soon, but never did make the call. She couldn’t take listening to her mother cry over the telephone. She knew that she was being selfish but so much in her life changed when she found out she was pregnant. She had to do some things first, only she didn’t know what they are.

  “Adrianne, I really have fun doing this, but why don’t you just get a dummy to model your stuff? You shouldn’t have to wait for me to show up to complete your work.”

  “I don’t know. I think it means more to me to have blood stains on the fabric when I sew.”

  Charlie laughed, the pain of the most recent pin stick still fresh with her. “Seriously, why me?”

  Adrianne started to undress, taking off her frumpy over-sized sweater and large scarf. “See, I wish that I could wear these clothes, but they would never look good on me.”

  “Are you kidding?” Charlie was surprised by her unsuspected disrobing. While she was wearing a t-shirt under the sweater, Charlie realized that Adrianne wasn’t an overweight insecure woman wearing oversized clothes like a suit of armor. In fact, from the chin down, she looked exactly like Charlie.

  “I don’t get it! You are the same size I am. We could be twins.”

  “That’s what Mrs. K. says but I can’t see myself like that. If you wear them while I piece them together, then I can at least get an idea of what I’m supposed to look like in them.”

  “Adrianne, that’s so sad!” Charlie jumped down and uncharacteristically hugged her around the neck, immediately recoiling as the pins in the dressed being assembled poked them both. “Yikes!”

  “Go take that off and we’ll do another.”

  Charlie went to the changing area behind the racks and handed the newly assembled dress to Adrianne. “I still don’t understand, why me.”

  “I lost some weight.”

  “Some?”

  “Okay, I lost almost 200 pounds over the last three years.”

  “That’s amazing! You should be so proud.”

  “Yeah,” Adrianne had a sad smile. “I just can’t look in the mirror. No matter what I do, I still see the same old overweight me.” Miles Davis played in the background as Adrianne glanced toward the mirror on the wall.

  Charlie saw this from behind the rack. “Maybe we should play some reggae instead of jazz? It may make for a better mood.”

  Instead of changing the music, Adrianne changed the subject of the conversation. “You can come out. It’ll take a little while to get the next one ready.”

  Charlie slipped on a robe hanging behind the tri-fold partition and went and sat in a chair near the designers table. She squeezed the collar up around her chin. “This is sooooo soft.” She purred.

  Adrianne smiled at her but couldn’t mask a deeper sadness. “Have you checked out the new “fashion mall” down near the financial?”

  “No, what is it?”

  “They spent millions to renovate an old building downtown near financial. It has a plaza inside with stores around the edge, all inside. They have a diamond store, a couple of boutiques and a spectacular coffee shop.”

  Knowing she could never shop there she was still curious. “Is that all?”

  “I think for now it is. Mrs. K said that they were going to have stores going up almost five stories and then the top five floors would be very upscale apartments, not that I could ever afford one.”

  Charlie swatted her table. “Are you crazy? Don’t answer that!” She laughed. “You’ll have your own boutique there one day. Your designs are so pretty! I’d love to have all of them.”

  “Thanks but pretty isn’t what sells. Have you seen this stuff that everyone is gaga over lately on television? It’s so edgy that I could never dream it up!”

  Charlie thought of the poster with the duct tape and the clam shell. “I don’t think edgy is your style. You’re modern and classy. I think you’d be surprised. There are plenty of people out there who prefer beautiful over edgy any day.”

  To her surprise, Adrianne seemed to anger. “What are you, twenty? How would you know?”

  “I’m eighteen and I know a lot.”

  “You’re just a baby! I’m twenty four and I still feel wet behind the ears.”

  Trying not to have her feelings hurt, Charlie backed down. “I would still love to wear them. I may be your only fan but I love what you make.”

  “Thank you.” She paused. “I’m sorry for getting mad. Lanye tells me all the time I need to be more edgy and I’m struggling with it.”

  “I know Mrs. K knows what she’s talking about, but this is your style, not hers.”<
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