Roxy’s Story (5 page)

Poor Emmie, I thought. How confused and upset she must be. What sort of answers had
Mama given her to use or to understand? Did Papa just grunt or say something like
“Don’t ask about her. Be happy she’s not here”?

Somehow, I had thought it would be a no-brainer, easy to give it all up, even to give
up my family, since we were at each other so much and so often. I had craved this
independence. I had wanted this freedom.

Stop whining about it,
I told myself.
You wanted to be out in the real world and on your own, with no one bossing you around.
So now you are. You have what you wanted. So shut up. Soldier up!

I stood there a while longer and then walked away quickly, hoping no one who knew
me had seen me. How embarrassing that would be, I thought. Again, without consciously
planning it, I walked in the direction of my house. When I arrived on our street,
I stopped, like someone who had been picked up and
dropped there, someone totally surprised at where she was and how she had gotten there.
I stood looking at the front door and thinking, about Mama mostly. Would she be coming
out soon, perhaps to go grocery shopping or do some other errand? I wanted to see
her. I waited and waited.

Finally, she did emerge, with Emmie. For some reason, she was either taking her to
school late or taking her somewhere else. Emmie looked sad, as if she had been crying.
Maybe she had asked about me so much that Papa had exploded at her. Secretly, I hoped
that was it. I was tempted to step out and call to them. I might even let Mama talk
me into coming back, I thought. But I couldn’t do it, even though I knew Papa was
at work and wouldn’t know.

I defied the tears that were forming over my eyes and turned away quickly, now practically
jogging down the street, through Central Park, and then into the subway station to
go back downtown into the hell I had chosen for some sanctuary. Again and again, I
asked myself what I was doing and what I had hoped to accomplish. I had to get hold
of myself, get back securely on my feet. The way to do it, I thought, was to get a
job and make enough money so I could either leave the city for some other place or
at least get into a decent hotel.

So I decided to actively look for work, first in stores advertising for salespeople.
I returned to the hotel and changed into my best pantsuit. It was a little wrinkled,
but I had to make do. I had a bright red beret that I thought would be a nice added
touch.
Then I went into the bathroom and did the best I could to make myself look put-together.
After only several days in the rat hole, I had already begun to let myself go, not
caring about my hair or what I wore and certainly not bothering with any makeup. I
was starting to look like the others there. When you started to neglect how you looked,
you began to diminish and slowly turn into a ghost, I thought. It put some panic in
my chest.

With more determination, I worked on my face, brushed out my hair, put on a pair of
earrings, and practiced my “older” look. Feeling confident again, I hurried out to
go job hunting. The young man at the desk whistled at me and shook his limp hand.

“You’re a looker,” he said.

I didn’t even pause.

“I can make you a lot of money,” he called after me.

Despite my appearance, it took me three tries before I was able to meet with someone
doing the hiring in a store. I was brought to a small office at the rear of a clothing
store and met with the store manager, a man who looked about my father’s age. He was
surprised at my knowledge of some of the styles and designers, especially those doing
clothes for younger women. I thought I was doing well and was on my way to getting
the job, until I was asked for my identification.

What was I thinking? Why didn’t I anticipate that would be a problem? The moment anyone
learned my true age, eyes narrowed, and more detailed questioning started. Why wasn’t
I in school? Was this address
on my ID my current address? They knew how upscale the East Side neighborhood was.
Why would someone from that world be looking for a full-time job? Using the dumpy
hotel as an address wasn’t going to work. How would I begin to explain why I was there?

One female manager, who was pretty dumpy and plain for someone running a boutique,
in my opinion, actually stopped talking to me for a moment, narrowed her eyes suspiciously,
and then simply said, “You’re a runaway, aren’t you? Well?”

I didn’t respond. I just got up and left the office. Ironically, I did run away from
her. I was afraid she would get on the phone and call the police or something. She
looked like one of those do-gooders who poke their faces into other people’s affairs
because their own lives are so mundane and boring.

Maybe retail outlets weren’t the best possibilities, I thought, and started to inquire
at restaurants looking for waitresses and waiters. They might be less demanding. Surely
my background wouldn’t be as important. Didn’t waiters and waitresses come and go
all the time? I always thought I was an expert liar, but when it came to describing
past experience at restaurants, I would readily admit myself that I sounded pathetic
and dishonest. This wasn’t going to work, either, I realized. My ID was too difficult
a problem to solve, and by the end of the day, I was in a deep funk, discouraged and
defeated. Whether I liked it or not, I was going to have to go back home and plead
for mercy. What other choice did I have?

I stopped at a restaurant not far from where I was staying. It was the cleanest and
nicest one I had eaten at since I had left home. I wasn’t hungry, but I ordered a
pasta salad and a mineral water just to have something to do while I sat there considering
my desperate and now hopeless situation.

My stash of funds was looking pretty pathetic. I had rushed so much to leave the house
after Papa ordered me out that I didn’t take my best clothes or enough of anything,
really. If I started buying myself new things, I’d soon be broke. I didn’t even have
enough makeup. I certainly didn’t have the right shoes, and I was beginning to get
blisters.

Face it, Lady Big Shot,
I told myself,
your father knew what you would be up against. He probably told your mother they were
giving you enough rope to hang yourself, something like that. He was confident you
would return, plead for mercy, and get in line.
It was the way he was brought up, the way he was forced to compromise and obey until
he was old enough to break free. Now that I was out there, I could appreciate what
it took for him to be so independent, to defy his father and all that family tradition.
He was too tough, too strong. I was a fool to think I could break him before he would
break me.

No, I told myself, there was no sense in prolonging the pain. It was time to wave
the white flag, surrender, and go crawling back.

I thought about calling Mama first so she could set up a smoke-the-peace-pipe meeting
with my father. I rehearsed what I would say, the promises I would
make, and the punishments I would accept. Every thought was like swallowing sour milk
or being jolted by a surge of hot electricity on my spine. I was so down and depressed
that I hated the image of myself I saw reflected in a nearby mirror, which was another
reason I was so surprised by what happened next.

How anyone could look at me at this point and not be completely turned off by what
he saw in my face amazed me. I was depressed, defeated, and soured by all that had
happened, but when I raised my head and looked across the restaurant, I saw a man
with a dark complexion, handsome and rather distinguished-looking in his dark gray
suit and black tie, looking at me with interest and smiling. He had wavy light brown
hair and looked to be in his late forties, early fifties. There was a confident, successful-movie-actor
glow on his face, the look of someone who was untouched by the things that annoyed,
irritated, and aged most people.

His smile wasn’t licentious. I could sense that he wasn’t flirting with me. Rather,
he looked a little amused, but still expressed admiration, too. He was more like someone’s
nice uncle preparing to toss compliments at me. Of course, I thought, this could all
be a façade, too. He might very well be a womanizer, someone who took advantage of
young women, especially young women who wore a look of desperation.
Despite how much I wanted to think otherwise, I kept myself cautious. I didn’t smile
back at him or acknowledge him in any way, but that didn’t appear to discourage him.
In fact, I think my indifference only encouraged him.

He rose and crossed the restaurant to my table. I thought he had the most amazingly
blue eyes, Caribbean Sea blue, with a softness that radiated kindness.

“
Pardonnez-moi
,” he said.

Every guy thinks he’s cute imitating a Frenchman, I thought. And then I thought I’d
fix him. “
Oui. Comment puis-je vous aider?
” I asked. I didn’t know if he knew that meant “How can I help you?” but after I spoke,
his smile widened.

“I had a suspicion you spoke French,” he said. “That’s why I said
pardonnez-moi
.”

“
Pourquoi?
”

“I don’t know. Just your look. Anyway, I was sitting there watching you and thought
to myself, what’s a beautiful young woman like her doing here this time of the day
by herself?”

“And what did you tell yourself?” I replied. “Or aren’t you in the habit of answering
your own questions?”

I thought I saw a slight nod of his head, confirming something he had suspected. Perhaps
it was because I wasn’t intimidated by someone his age approaching me. “I didn’t have
an answer for myself, but I thought I’d like to know the answer. Do you mind?” He
nodded at the chair across from me.

I shrugged, and he sat.

“Are you a tourist?” he asked.

“Do I look like a tourist?”

“Not exactly,” he said. The waitress approached. “Would you like something else? A
coffee?”

“A cappuccino with low-fat milk,” I ordered.

“Make that two, Paula,” the gentleman said. The waitress nodded and walked off. “You
work around here?”

“Why all this interest in me?” I asked. “Do I remind you of someone?”

“Not exactly that, but I’d have to be a pretty dull boy not to be interested in someone
who looked like you.”

“Oh, I see,” I said with a tight smirk.

“No, no. You misunderstand. I guess you can say I’m kind of an agent always on the
lookout for new talent.”

I pushed my pasta salad aside and clasped my hands with my elbows on the table, leaning
toward him a little. It was what my father would do when he wanted to indicate he’d
had it with silly talk and wanted clear, truthful answers. It didn’t surprise me that
I had taken on some of his gestures. He never successfully intimidated me, but when
I wanted to intimidate any of the guys or girls at my school, I would take on my father’s
persona.

“Kind of?” I said. “What’s that supposed to mean. You can make me a movie star or
get me on television, Mr. . . . ?”

“Everyone who knows me calls me Mr. Bob.”

“I don’t know you,” I said.

“I’m hoping you will get to know me.”

“Why?”

“Are you in college in the city?”

“No.”

“Do you live in the city?”

“Yes.”

“In this neighborhood?” he followed, showing skepticism.

“Maybe, why?”

“You don’t look like you belong in this neighborhood.”

“Where do I look like I belong?”

“Somewhere better.”

“Really,” I said dryly. “Well, if this area is so bad, what are you doing here?”

“Scouting,” he said. “You know, like those guys who go around the country looking
for great baseball or basketball prospects.”

“I’m not into sports.”

“What are you into, then?”

“Before I answer any more questions, I want to see a lawyer,” I said, sitting back,
and he laughed.

“Something told me you weren’t going to be dull.”

“You’re right there. I’ve been accused of lots of things but never of being dull.”

The waitress brought our cappuccinos.

“Thank you, Paula. So who are you?” he asked.

I sipped my cappuccino and looked at him. “Why is it so important for you to know?”

“I told you. I’m in the business of making discoveries.”

“Discoveries? Of what? Not baseball or basketball players. I have a terrible swing,
don’t like all the spitting, and hate running up and down any court.”

He laughed and turned to look at the closest other customer to see if he was listening
to our conversation. The other man turned away quickly.

“No, I’m not after sports possibilities. I look for beautiful young women who have
a certain
je ne sais quoi
, a mysterious quality about them that makes them extra special. There are many beautiful
young women in New York, but not all have that
je ne sais quoi
. Know what I mean?”