“Alternatives Women and Children’s Shelter Network? Can you please hold?” Anna Marie set down the half a tuna salad sandwich on whole wheat and hastily wiped her fingers on a Kleenex. She pressed the beeping red button on her primary line and barked out a harried “Sorry, shoog, I gotta motor; I’m cuttin’ my lunch a little shorter today so I can leave early, an’ I got someone else on the other line.”
“Coulda fooled me, chere. How’m I s’posedta know ya ain’t just talkin’ t’yer udder boyfriend, non?” Anna snorted and rolled her eyes, hearing the smile in Remy’s voice over the line.
“Dunno, shoog; prob’ly the same way ya might be holdin’ the pillow over some floozy’s face ta drown out her heavy breathin’! I gotta bail, call ya after work!”
“Love you, chere.”
“Love you, honey bunch.” Anna clicked back over to the other line. “I apologize for the wait. How may I transfer your call?”
“Er…hi. Um, can I, like, speak to ‘Ro?” Muted cussing and flustered mutterings assailed Anna’s ears from the other end of the line, and Anna pictured someone young and unsure of themselves. “I mean, can I speak to Ororo Munroe?”
“Certainly, miss, I’ll check her office line and transfer you in a moment. If you get her voice mail, you can still leave a message and call the front desk again, and leave your name with me, if you like. That way she won’t miss you,” Anna offered helpfully.
“Ohmigod, thank you so much! Well, this is her cousin, Kenyatta,” she plundered on, cutting Anna off when she attempted to click over to Ororo’s direct line, and she smothered a sigh. This one was a rambler. “I hate calling her at work, I’m so sure she’s so totally busy and everything, but I needed to talk to her pretty badly, and it couldn’t wait til she got home, I always try to just call her cell phone, but I figured she turned it off for a meeting or something, it just rang and rang and rang, and she doesn’t always go all the way home for lunch, at least that’s what my mom’s always saying, she’s always telling me I should be more like cousin ‘Ro cuz she’s got her shit together…”
“Let me go and transfer you, honey,” Anna Marie apologized, puffing out her cheeks. Dang, home girl could talk the ears off a brass monkey… Anna pressed the button on the intercom switchboard and spoke into it. “Ororo? Have ya got a minute?”
“I sure do, Anna Marie,” a deep, yet very feminine voice chirped back from the speaker. “What’s going on?”
“Got a call for ya on line two.”
“I can take that. Thank you, Anna.”
“Any time, hon.” Anna clicked over the call and paused for another quick bite of her sandwich before her phone began ringing again. She barely choked it down along with a hearty gulp of diet Pepsi before the calls came one on top of another for the next hour. Ah so loooooove mah job, she chanted to herself, her usual mantra.
In her office, set behind the large and open maze of cubicles, Ororo picked up her phone, not expecting anything out of the ordinary. Her own lunch lay half eaten in a white Styrofoam takeout container, filling the space with the scent of leftover beef teriyaki stir-fry and garlic. She grabbed a yello steno pad from her desk drawer, considering that it might be one of her clients calling to set a meeting. She plucked her favorite purple Pentel comfort grip pen from the cup and twiddled a lock of her hair with it. “This is Ororo speaking, how may I help you today?”
“Damn, girl, is that you? It’s me, Kenyatta!”
Ack…
Ororo sighed. “Hey, girl. What’s going on?”
“You gotta help me out.”
Ororo dropped her accent a couple of notches. “Whatchu need, baby girl? I just got back from lunch, so I’ll have to nudge a few things around on my plate if you need a ride anywhere…”
“I don’t need a ride. It’s not that.” Silence. Then, “I need some money.”
Ororo’s nape felt itchy and tight. “How much money is ‘some money?’ Let’s just say things are tight right now.”
“Please, please, don’t say no, I can pay you back, I promise ““
“How MUCH, Kenyatta?”
“A thousand.” Ororo dropped her pen back onto her desk blotter with a clatter.
“Shit!” Ororo’s lunch rolled in her stomach and a faint sheen of clammy sweat collected on the crowns of her cheeks. “That much?” Ororo gathered herself together and stared at the framed photo of herself and a few of her cousins, Kenyatta included, sitting by her pen cup for easy viewing. It was her daily reminder of why she worked so hard. Every day, without fail. If she didn’t do it all, who would? “Fess up, girl, where are you really calling from, jail? A grand? You need a full grand? Like, TODAY?”
“Uh-huh.” Kenyatta’s voice held a meek and apologetic note that did nothing to keep Ororo’s nervous sweat at bay.
“Wait, ‘Uh-huh, you’re calling from jail, Uh-huh, you need the money today, or Uh-huh, both answers apply?’”
“Uh-huh, I need the money today. All of it,” she said with mind-boggling finality. Ororo fanned herself with a loose manila envelope. “And I’m not the one in jail,” she explained, as if to put Ororo’s mind to rest. Ororo rubbed her temples.
“Please don’t tell me this is one of your irresponsible little friends that you’re always hanging out with.”
“Not quite.” She could almost picture Kenyatta picking at her fingernails, something she always did at times like these. “It’s Leon. He was heading to work and got caught going through a four-way stop. He was running late,” she added, as though that was supposed to explain everything.
“And…?”
“…and he got pulled over, which wouldn’t have been that big of a deal. He pulled over,” she reasoned, her voice plaintive. Ororo nodded and shrugged on her end of the line, rolling her eyes to the ceiling, knowing, just knowing there was a “but” coming along. “But he already had a few points against his license for those speeding tickets he didn’t go to class for.”
“How many tickets, for cryin’ out loud???” Ororo’s voice rose in disbelief. Then she reminded herself, This was Leon.
“Three. The third one was kinda pricey,” she hedged. “Like, eight hundred dollars.”
“Gah!”
“Uh-huh! Like people don’t need that kind of money to live!” Ororo slapped her forehead and let her palm rub down the whole length of her face.
“The whole point of a hefty ticket is to keep people from speeding,” she reminded her.
“Folks still gotta eat!” Kenyatta carped. “And it’s not the bail itself I need the money for, ‘Ro. I paid that myself,” she reassured her.
“But?”
“I used this month’s rent.”
“Aaaarrrggghhhh…girrrrrlllll, I don’t know what to do about you.”
“Please say I can borrow the money?” she suggested.
“You know this goes against everything I’ve been telling you, right, girl? That this isn’t something I can just do all happy-go-lucky like I’m made of money? That I’m working full-time and then some just to manage an apartment, a car, and giving my own mama some money to fill the gap of her Social Security check, right?”
“I know, I know,” she agreed, but Ororo could hear the relief sneaking into her voice. She knew she couldn’t turn her away.
“I want you to pay my money back when you can.”
“I will!”
“Better yet, have Leon pay me back!”
“Definitely!”
“For that matter, I could use some help putting a new alternator in my car, the one I have now is acting up, and I don’t feel like getting jacked for the cost of a new one at the Pep Boys down the street.” Honest mechanics, my ass, she cursed.
“When do you want me to send him over?” Kenyatta was ready to spit-shine every pair of leather pumps in Ororo’s closet at this point if it would secure her the cash.
“Come over for dinner tonight. I’ll give you the money.”
“Can I meet you at the bank?” Ororo pictured her picking her nails again. “I need to put the money in before the rent check clears.”
“Dang. That gives me all of twenty minutes to fiddle around through rush hour traffic once I cut out of here.” Ororo looked at her company-issued wall clock. “I’ll see what I can do.”
“Luv you, cuz!”
“Stinker! Don’t try to butter me up!” Ororo warned. “Luv you, too.” She hung up and shook her head, her wavy white ponytail dusting her back.
The rest of the day went by in a blur. Ororo took calls from clients for the better part of the afternoon, looking up grants already approved for that quarter’s funds, emailing budget projection sheets to the Director, and fielding inquiries from Betsy at the main shelter in the Bronx, wondering if it was okay to place that order for new bedding.
“If they need it, they need it.”
“We’re running low on funds.”
“I’ll tell Scott. You guys already paid the utility bill and got the food shipment from Sysco?”
“Sure did, chief.”
“Order what you can for now, even if it’s just new towels. I’ll lean on a few people in this office to get a check placed into the account by Friday.”
“You’re an angel.”
“I wish. Maybe then I could get more done!” Ororo clucked a few more well wishes for Betsy and her plight into the receiver before she hung up.
An hour later:
“Damn, girl, what took you so long to park?”
“It’s called rush hour, Kenyatta, give a woman a moment to catch her breath, ‘kay?” Ororo’s hair whipped behind her on the light evening breeze, and she was grateful for the breath of fresh, or at least mostly fresh air. Okay, fresh enough if you ignored the UPS truck exhaust and subway fumes. At least it wasn’t the stifling, recycled air of her snug office suite. Ororo didn’t want to contemplate how often the building facilities staff changed, or didn’t change, the air filters in the vents above her desk each season.
The two young women hurried into the back through the double doors just ahead of the security guard locking it behind them. “Just in time, we can handle your transaction, but we’re about to close.”
“Thank you,” Ororo tossed over her shoulder, managing a harried smile. She turned and practically ran into the line between the velvet ropes leading to the cashier’s counter, whipping out her check book on the way. She missed the appreciative leer he shot her backside with its undulating sway, outlined so nicely in the well-cut gabardine slacks.
“Please tell me you already have some deposit slips for this,” Ororo muttered.
“Got my ID. That’s all you need, these days.”
“Do you know your account number?” Ororo lifted her arched, tapered brow and cocked her head toward her cousin with a belabored look.
“Yes, yes, got it, let’s go, LET’S GO!”
“Heifer, I know you ain’t up here fanning me along and tellin’ me to hurry up,” Ororo sniffed, shooting Kenyatta a head-trip. “Hmmmph.”
“May I help you ladies over here?”
“YES!” Kenyatta dragged Ororo by the elbow, no mean feat in light of the height difference between the two women. Kenyatta’s mom, Ororo’s aunt Ruth, was fond of telling her “All of the boys always knew not to mess with you, baby girl, they turned tail and ran when you grew just as tall as all of ‘em and then some, right about when most girl’s would’ve stopped.” At five-eleven, Ororo towered over her cousin by a good five inches and was solidly built; she wasn’t about to get knocked over by a strong breeze. Her bust line was always in the neighborhood of a D and kept her in a size nine dress, even though she was a seven on the bottom. Oh, well. Half of New York City wore a size seven, so that left more nines for her.
Ororo began writing out a check with more zeroes than she wanted to part with and signed it with her usual flourish, making the “O” in her name slightly curly.
“You’ve got checks with Wonder Woman on them?”
“Yup. Batman, the Flash, and Superman, too.”
“You’re weird.”
“Hey, don’t talk smack about Wonder Woman, she’s paying your rent.”
“Mmmmph.” They completed the transactions with a few more clicks of the teller’s mouse, and Ororo contented herself with snagging a cellophane-wrapped lollipop from the candy dish on the counter. The hard candy was almost as blue as her eyes.
“Have a nice evening, ladies.”
Half an hour later:
Ororo juggled her shopping bags on her hop as she sorted through the keys on her ring, the fluorescent pink key chain winking up at her with its cheeky “All Hail the Goddess” spelled out in tiny rhinestones. She stuck her mail kep unto the narrow slot, yanking open the sticky aluminum door. Bill, bill, junk mail, credit card offer, JC Penney catalog, Spiegel’s catalog, Victoria’s catalog “ dang, it was the “This is the last issue we’re sending you if you don’t buy anything” copy.
It couldn’t be helped. The last time she’d had anyone to even show her pretty underwear off to was two years ago. All of her photos has phantom white spaces where Jon’s head had been cut out. Anna Marie had come by one day with sticks of sandalwood incense and they had lit them up, waving them around Ororo’s bedroom and over her couch to ”chase away the evil spirits” that lingered in the wake of their break-up.
Ororo wasn’t going to have any spare change to drop on the teddy that Tyra was wearing on the cover, not after today’s little mercy donation. Ororo had pushed her cart slowly down the aisles of Stop ‘n Shop, planning a sparse menu that would have to stretch the whole week. She’d come back with pitifully little, and she hoped her neighbors didn’t mind the smell of boiling red beans, since those were going to be lunch and dinner for the next two days.
Ororo’s sandals thumped up the stairs beneath the weight of the shopping bags as she made her way to the second floor. She heard the familiar creak of unit 2C’s door hinge across the hall from hers.
“Oh! Ororo!”
“Hi, Irene.” Ororo smiled, hoping the older blind woman could hear her expression in her voice. Irene Adler and her roommate, Raven Wagner, had been living in the old brownstone for a year longer than Ororo, so they were already privy to some of the best gossip in the building.
“Old Man Lensherr’s grown twins came to visit him this week,” Irene had mentioned one Saturday over tea and bakery cookies. She poked Ororo’s elbow knowingly, adding “He still hasn’t told them about their half sister.”
“Apparently he had a girl in every port during the war. His wife never knew,” Raven explained, her walnut brown eyes dancing merrily over her cup. “His youngest daughter has GREEN hair. If not for that, she’d be his spitting image!”
“Are you just getting back from work, dear?” Irene leaned on the door frame now, peering with unerring precision at Ororo; beneath her rose-tinted sunglasses, her eyes met Ororo’s as though she saw her perfectly.
“I stopped at the store.”
“I’m glad. I hate to think of you working so late,” Irene tsked.
“Can’t be helped, sometimes. This is the beginning of a new fiscal year. I’m up to my neck in budget meetings.”
“Sounds positively dire.”
“You don’t know the half of it.”
“Care to join Raven and I for dinner? We’re having pasta,” she offered. Ororo knew from experience that “pasta” meant some pre-packaged fettuccini with sauce from a packet.
“How about if I bring over some chicken to accompany it?” she suggested. Raven and Irene admitted to neither of them liking to cook much. Ororo actually enjoyed it.
“As long as there’s no garlic. Gives poor Raven gas,” she said, leaning in close to whisper this last confession quite loudly. Ororo stifled a giggle.
“No garlic. I promise.” Ororo crossed the corridor and set down her bags. “See you in a bit,” she promised.
“Looking forward to it!” Irene’s door clicked shut.
“Ororo kicked off her shoes and set the bags on the pine dinette table of her little one bedroom unit. She leaned over and pressed the message button on her phone machine.
“Ororo, it’s Betsy. We got the shipment of bedding, but that small TC that was bolted onto the rec room wall was stolen today. Hate to be the beared of bad news.” Ororo snorted.
BEEP…
“Hi, ‘Ro, it’s Leon. Let me know when you need me to come by and look at that alternator.” Ororo smiled as she pulled a pack of chicken legs from the freezer, popped them into the microwave and hit thaw. At least her cousin’s boyfriend meant well, she mused.
BEEP…
“Ro? This is your auntie Ruth, baby.” Her aunt’s syrupy southern accent trilled at her from the machine, and Ororo found herself listening to it with her hand on her hip, out of old habit. She never called unless she wanted her to do something. No small wonder where Kenyatta had gotten it from…
“Shoog, I was wondering when you could stop by this weekend to tend your mama’s roses, their overgrown and covered with aphids. This is that time of year when we usually go out to your father’s plot, God rest his soul.” Ororo could picture her aunt crossing herself as she uttered the blessing into the phone. “It sure would be nice to have some fresh cut flowers to take out there for the headstone.”
“The roses should be just about dead by now,” Ororo muttered in reply, knowing her reasoning was falling on deaf ears. “We can take him some of the begonias.”
“You know how your mother is about her begonias, child,” Ruth chuckled. “She wants you to clip a few of those, too. And Ororo, if your cousin Kenyatta calls you up asking for money, don’t give that child any, she’s got to learn to fly on her own. I already told her no this morning when she called me in a lather about it.”
“NOW you tell me,” Ororo glared. “Grrrrrrrrr…” She banged around in the cupboards, looking for her favorite Teflon frying pan. She pumped out some Crisco corn oil into it and turned the burner on medium high.
BEEP…
“Ororo, it’s Emma Frost from Inner Circle Management, calling to get a time that we can meet with you about the shelter network’s fundraiser. We had some ideas for a costume ball that we wanted to run by you.”
“Gads,” she grimaced. “Costumes. Great. Just what I need.” She was only slightly relieved that it wasn’t a luau-themed Hawaiian barbecue like last year’s; she’d just about been ready to scream if she had to untangle one more cheap string of silk flower leis from the huge box of them that she ordered from the Oriental Trading Company catalog from the petty cash fund.
END OF MESSAGES…BEEEEEEEEEEEEEPPPPPP…CLICK! Ororo deleted all of them and made herself a note to call Emma tomorrow morning when she got into the office.
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