Authors: Tanya Taimanglo
“Fleas? God, Phoenix. You’re so dramatic!” He yelled, then I heard the flea bag’s voice in the background. “If you need to call Rachel, do so. If you want to go to Guam just charge the credit card and I’ll take care of it.” I saw red.
“Don’t worry about me. I won’t be able to keep a straight face anyway if I went home. Put Jem on the line now.” Bradley hesitated, but I heard a shuffling.
“Phoenix.” Jem started.
“Listen here. Don’t even speak to me. You will just listen. Please, keep Bradley. I won’t argue with you. You took a married man and he was weak enough to go for you, so great! You are one
powerful
lady. Best wishes, now put
your
man on the line.”
“No, you listen here, bi…” Jem started and I heard scuffling as Bradley grabbed the phone away from her. I felt like I was on that stupid cheaters show except the truth came to me. I just had to sit back and the guilty parties came knocking.
“What did you say to her?” By the hero voice Bradley took on, there was no denying he was into this girl. Bradley defended Jem like I wished or hoped he would support and defend me since the tenth grade.
“She can explain, but she might get it twisted. I basically told her in a professional manner—no name calling mind you, that I wished her luck with her budding romance with you. I even said she was a powerful lady. Nothing but compliments.” I stated sarcastically. Kill them with kindness I thought, but I was dying on the inside. I didn’t want Bradley to hear me cry, so I clutched the steering wheel with my left hand, digging my nails into it so hard that it left marks in the leather. I glanced at his grandmother’s ring, my wedding ring and it felt heavy. I wanted to cut my finger off. I had grown fond of my wedding ring, happy to accept a family heirloom. Now, I would have to return it.
“Phoenix, I, I,” Bradley kept talking and I felt like he was slashing me over and over like some psycho killer in a horror movie, with no expression on his dead face.
“I don’t want to hear it.” I cleared the sadness out of my throat. “Should I tell our parents or should you?”
“Just give me until I return to decide, please.”
“Whatever, Bradley. Enjoy the rest of boot camp. Oh, and you screwed up a lot in our checking account ledger, but I’ve got it all correct now. Your end balance was off by almost three hundred bucks. I used the extra money for workout gear.” I hung up on the new couple and finally came unhinged.
After realizing that I wasn’t in a nightmare, I called Rachel. Blow by blow, quote by quote I told her my sob story.
“Nix, that, uh, that’s so unfair. I’m sorry, babe.” Rachel lost her voice for a few minutes and listened as a fresh round of tears burst forth. She waited, as my crying fogged up the windows of my car. She made me promise that I wouldn’t do anything crazy like plow into a tree or get drunk and sleep with a homeless guy. I promised. And, I made her promise not to tell anyone, especially my family, about this impending status change.
Angelica and Gerard appeared at my window. I opened the car door and swung my heavy legs out, but I couldn’t find the strength to stand. My puffy eyes told a story. Gerard’s kind face and Angelica’s warm hand on my shoulder provoked a fresh round of tears. They were probably wondering if someone died in my family. It felt like someone did. I felt like I was in mourning mode. I looked up at Gerard and asked, “Can I go to Vegas to look for greener pastures with you?”
Chapter 3
Bag It and Blonde It
I ran my hands over the leaner and smoother lines of my body. It was a relief to have wiggle room in my clothes. And five pounds ago my thighs stopped rubbing in an effort to make fire. I would have called Rachel to celebrate this achievement, but the internal rearranging of my being and soul killed any good news. Bradley smashed me and Jem took the shattered pieces and flung it up in the air. I watched and waited to see where all these parts would land. Would certain pieces disintegrate on impact, others be warped, still others go missing? And more importantly, what would remain unchanged?
That summer fluctuated hot and cold, much like my marriage. Within three months, I transformed from a happy plump wife of a semi-successful real estate agent to the unjiggly possible divorcée of an Army man. The volatility of it all made my head spin. I craved constants and neat boxes. How was the divorce going to change me? What was going to happen to all that I’ve known? I wavered on the edge of a very high cliff, uncertain of how to proceed. Bradley wasn’t there to hold my hand anymore. Where would I be this time next summer? Who would I be? Throughout this chaos, I suppressed my anxiety with the mundane of the day. A day, like the previous seventy eight days, I got through alone.
Bradley was at Fort Benning, Georgia for officer training. My only consolation—he was in a different state than Jem. She was training at Fort Polk, Louisiana—she didn’t have a college degree, which caused a rift in their training paths. Thanks to Facebook, I was able to track their happy existence in the military world. Torturing myself with the details, I know.
Bradley wanted a trial separation. I felt like training wheels, but I wasn’t a piece of machinery that he could detach. The month leading up to his leaving for boot camp had been glorious. We did everything right and prepared meticulously. In retrospect, whether he was aware of it or not, it was like Bradley groomed me for my involuntary independence. He made sure I had a job, he paid our mortgage forward three months, he had me lose weight and eat healthier. He dangled gifts we couldn’t afford in front of me like I was a jackass after a carrot, when all I wanted was him. Did he want me to be a better me for life without him? Did he want to minimize his guilt and say, look I helped Nix elevate herself? Within the first three weeks of his boot camp training, he grew distant—fewer calls, e-mails and texts. A shift in my husband’s heart and mind occurred and I had no power to redirect the tide. The depression I went through made it tougher to keep food down. My favorite position lately was the fetal position.
With the change of my probationary status to full fledged Field Agent with The Lure Company, I had just enough going on in my miserable life to keep me motivated. The energy it took to sound normal on the phone with my parents was exhausting as well. Rachel was the only one I called on doomsday, a hot night in July. All I heard was,
I’m with Jem now. I’ll always love you, but . . . Give Rachel a call. If you want to go home to Guam, charge it to my card and I’ll take care of it.
It was a thirty minute call, but that’s all I recalled. I was so pissed off and I knew I spewed a lot of venom that night. I should have been embarrassed that Angelica knew all my marriage drama, but I was not. She had been a great comfort since then.
What made things worse was my family’s loss on Guam. Dad was under a lot of stress, with his older brother dying. I couldn’t make it back to Guam in time for the funeral for Uncle Joaquin. Traditionally, there would be nine days of rosaries, then the viewing, then a burial. Uncle Joaquin died of a heart attack. He was 60 years old. That number frightened dad, since he was only a year younger than Uncle. My grandpa died at 60 too when I was in the 5
th
grade.
Uncle Joaquin specifically had in his will to bury him within three days. I couldn’t negotiate the ticket to get home. I would be lucky if I landed in time to make it to the cemetery. That compacted by the fact that it takes a minimum of eighteen hours of travel time to get to Guam from
California. Times like that, I wished I could teleport home. But then again, it wasn’t a good time to be under the lens of my family and friends. I could hear it
, Hey girl, why are you so skinny? Is your husband cheating on you?
Why, yes. Yes, he is.
The Lure Company placed a special assignment in my workbox. I had some experience with hits, as we called them, but it was still a new facet of my job.
“Phoenix Rose, agent 1021, you are called into duty. Target, Thomas P. Roberts. Destroy this message immediately. It will self-destruct in 5-4-3-2-1.”
Kablooey
, so the scene goes. My boss, Bruce Lure wasn’t as dramatic in reality.
With a bowl of baby carrots and vitamin water, I sat at my computer to review my week’s hit list from Angelica. Happily, I didn’t have any more strip clubs. Coffee, sandwiches and banks.
My usual.
Thomas P. Roberts worked at Bag It
,
a sandwich shop, which despite its vulgar name was popular. It was situated at a strip mall near the naval base. I had seen it a few times, since I passed it often on my way to the base commissary.
I planned my secret shopping missions with my own military precision. My target, Thomas, was described as Caucasian male, medium length wavy brown hair, gray or blue eyes, early 20s, 6’, slim build, gold necklace with pendant. A very general picture, but with gray eyes, he could either be captivating or scary.
I slated my pre-visit for a Sunday. I had Thomas’s schedule and knew he would work during the lunch shift.
I had decided to start going to church on the base, since the hours offered were more suited to my sleeping in on Sundays. With no one to wake up to, I had been doing a lot of sleeping in. And, it wasn’t odd to see a single woman alone at mass, since many spouses had to deal with deployments.
I wore my dark blue pant suit with a pinstriped silk blouse. A small part of me still languished in the fact that I was a size 8 again, and I enjoyed the professional look of the outfit. It made me feel older than my 25 years. My patent black chunky heels were broken in nicely. I wore my hair in a tight ponytail and was mindful of keeping my large knockoff Coach sunglasses on. My pearl choker and matching stud earrings polished off my look. It was the dawn of October, and the late summer heat still lingered in San Diego, but being from a tropical humid island, the San Diego mornings were still chilly for me.
My battle plan was to attend mass, then visit Bag It. I would be dressed up for church, so I made a mental note to be casual on the Tuesday visit for the actual evaluation to avoid recognition.
Bag It was the last shop on the left side of a strip mall. The
mall
, which was probably erected in the 1960s, housed only five businesses. Three were closed on Sundays, and Bag It and the smoothie shop only had lunch hours on the weekends. It made sense since most of their traffic was on the weekdays with the Navy contingent providing the bulk of their business. According to my notes, the target was not very personable. His boss was his older sister, Tamara Roberts-Barrett, and according to Angelica, she wanted something in writing to motivate Thomas to adhere to her customer service standards.
Bag It was surprisingly busy for a Sunday. There was a mix of church folk and the Navy enlisted who had weekend duty. The shop smelled of baked bread and bacon. If I wasn’t so damned depressed I would have salivated. The five hundred square foot shop had ten circular dining tables with vinyl red chairs. There was nothing unique or distinct. No pictures on the plain beige walls, aside from a large sign for the fire extinguisher. The gray vinyl tiles looked like the same ones at the George Washington high school cafeteria back home. Bag It had been in business for as long as I was with The Lure Company, three months. Its popularity was growing in the area, and Tamara’s staff went from just her and her husband to including her brother and two others. Perhaps, more personality would be added to the overall look of the place once she got a handle on things. If I was Thomas, I would be pissed that my sister would hire our company to evaluate him.
I stood behind seven customers and reviewed the menu. There was a large dry erase board with neat handwritten descriptions. Each of the eight sandwich options seemed very unique. My taste buds warmed up as I read the contents of each sandwich type. Words always got me aroused. There were some cute names like the
Navy Launcher Sub
or the
Loose Lady Sub
. I could just imagine the sailors going back to the office saying, “I had a
Loose Lady
for lunch.”
Ba-dum-pah
.
As I scanned the items to the last sub, I was shocked to see
Guam on there. There was a
Guam Sub
! I smiled, a wave of pride washed over me. There were others who knew of my home island.
I had to remind myself that I couldn’t give away who I was. It would be too obvious for me to even order the Guam Sub. I imagined the flavor as I read the contents of this homage in sandwich form to my home: BBQ chicken
kelaguen
, red onions, lemon mayonnaise, lettuce and jalapenos on a corn roll/corn tortilla, optional. Darn, that sounded extra yummy. They even spelled
kelaguen
correctly. The original dish included a heavenly concoction of smoky chicken with onions, lemon and peppers. I immediately peered behind the counter to catch a glimpse of Tamara. She must have been there to have this knowledge of Guam.