Chapter Thirty-Two #2

Joan replayed the message, noting the proprietary lilt in the girl’s voice, and wondered if Blake would have to quit this customer.

Crushes did occur; occasionally customers went so far as to outright declare their love.

Blake had a way of listening with earnest attentiveness, no matter what silly thing you might be saying; there was also an intensity in his gaze, as if he were realizing something very flattering about you at precisely that moment.

“It’s like he’s a beautiful vampire,” Gina once said, sighing. “And I’ve got very delicious blood.”

But. Wasn’t it nice to feel that way at times (wanted, singular, interesting)?

Joan recalled how, sometimes at home, she liked to replay scenes from romantic comedies (the desperate gaze, the long-realized kiss)—and in Blake’s blue eyes, customers had a chance to experience a bit of that sensation, at least for a short while.

The problem, as it had always been, for thousands of years, was that people wanted more.

Good enough, after a time, became not enough at all.

There were tactics commonly deployed by hosts to deal with such attractions: the fake engagement ring, the sexual orientation.

In some cases, hosts simply said they couldn’t meet certain customers anymore.

The customers were usually upset and sometimes angry.

One had accused Joan of running a “whorehouse full of teases,” which had flummoxed her until Lee explained the meaning.

Well, I suppose we are teasing in a way, Joan thought. But wasn’t anything that eventually ended a tease? A job could be a tease. So could marriage. Life was the greatest tease of all. After writing herself a note to speak with Blake, Joan proceeded to the break room, where she encountered Ellison.

“You’re here too early,” Joan scolded. She knew Ellison kept late hours.

“I couldn’t sleep,” he said. Joan suspected Ellison came early to eat pastries in the break room, though she never voiced this.

After sharing an almond croissant with Ellison, Joan went to the supply closet. She had recently placed some orders for the boutique area up front, and shipments had begun to arrive.

As she stood and assessed the stack of boxes, Joan thought glumly that she should have exercised more control at “market.” Market was a quarterly trade show held at a warehouse in San Francisco, where Joan had spent hours browsing with Lee.

The wholesale prices, three or four times below retail, had been intoxicating; it had seemed like nothing to order a box of candles, a stack of architectural pot holders, some Lucite bookstands.

Now that everything had arrived, however, Joan faced the problem of space. Where on earth was she to put it all?

Joan opened a box which was promisingly light, hoping it was the cashmere scarves she’d liked so much.

When she opened the flap and spotted a flash of silver, her spirits sank.

Why had she purchased sequined pants? She’d known they were awful, but the designer had looked so desperate that out of sympathy Joan had ordered a full size run.

“I told you those were a bad idea,” Lee said from behind.

So! Lee had received her message and come; Joan experienced the surge of pleasure that arrived whenever one of her children obeyed a request without fuss.

She watched as Lee tried to fold the pants so they’d be decipherable as clothing and not a silvery blob; Joan had already concluded they were impossible to hang, as the clamp bit into the sequins.

“You can’t keep buying on impulse,” Lee said.

“No good businessperson makes decisions in this way.”

Joan was silent. Had Lee always been this righteous, this inconsiderate of her feelings? Joan opened another box and unfurled from it a long dress made out of a slinky black jersey. “I think this would look nice on you.”

“No. Never.”

“I think you might consider it.” Joan made an open appraisal; Lee was wearing one of those awful sacks that had recently become popular, which Joan imagined were manufactured in only one size.

At least one size would pose fewer inventory problems, Joan thought.

She had a new appreciation for inventory management.

“You have such a nice figure,” Joan said.

“Don’t say ‘figure.’?”

“I just think it wouldn’t hurt for you to try some different styles.”

Lee pressed her lips and sighed loudly. “Why don’t you try the pants, then?”

“If I were your age, I would.” Joan would try nearly anything if she could return to her twenties and thirties, whether it be a bikini or short shorts or purple hair. She would visit topless beaches; perhaps she’d even consider an orgy (given appealing parties). Why not?

“Ellison,” Lee called, “what do you think of these pants?”

He came over. “They’re extremely shiny.”

“Would you buy them?” Lee asked.

Ellison was quiet (he also hated the pants).

Stronger than his aesthetic sensibilities, however, was his loyalty to Joan.

Unlike what he’d told Jamie, he’d first come upon the café not seeking employment but as a customer; he’d been a little high and looking to complain, and as it was a busy day and he had no reservation, he’d been paired with Joan.

He told her his mother and father in Singapore were religious financiers (in fact, they were atheists, his mother a surgeon and his father a painter); that they had taken his ex-wife’s side in the divorce and no longer spoke to him.

Once Ellison started at the café, he’d waited until his third week to wear an oxford shirt and a slip skirt along with a red bobbed wig to work.

Joan had taken him aside during his break. “I didn’t know you dressed like this,” she said. “Is this why your parents are unhappy?”

“It doesn’t impact my job performance or customers.” He could feel himself shaking, as this was the confrontation he’d dreaded.

“Of course it impacts the customers, not that it’s necessarily a negative thing,” Joan said mildly.

“It’s just something you could have told me, is all.

Your customers should know too that sometimes you dress like this.

Some of them might not like it, and do you really want to be seated with a bigot?

You can let me know what sort of picture you want in the host binder. You can have two, if you like.”

Ellison picked up the pants now and ran his hands along the seam. “I’m not sure about the fabric,” he finally said. “The stitching isn’t even.”

“Maybe they really aren’t the best quality,” Joan conceded mournfully.

The ground was already covered in sequins, and she reached for the broom at the back of the closet.

Turning to sweep, she spotted something near the entrance of the break room.

She tilted her head. It was the demon rock, she realized with a start—the rock from the courtyard in Taiwan.

Nothing else in the world had its shape and color; it stood waist-high, its dark jagged edges stark against the cream floor, proud and glittering in the light.

So! The rock had found her. Even though an ocean separated them, still it had made its way. A peculiar tremor went through her.

“Mom?” a voice said—from far off, it seemed.

Joan continued to study the rock. The last time she had seen it was the day she’d left Taiwan.

The boulder before her appeared the same as it had that morning, substantial and dazzling.

She stared at its red streaks with pleasure, as if gazing upon the face of an old friend.

“Mom?” This time Joan looked up. It was Jamie, a gym bag on his shoulder. “Did you hear me?”

“What?”

“I said, where are these new dishes you wanted me to try?”

“Oh.” There were no new dishes—Joan had made that up. She normally would have dodged, changed the topic, but now felt at peace with the deception. “There aren’t any.”

Jamie stared at her for a long moment, and then his gaze shifted to her hands, which still clutched the pants and broom. “What’s going on? What is that silver thing?”

“Nothing, nothing,” Joan said. “It doesn’t matter. I’m just pleased you and your sister are both here.”

Joan looked again toward the rock. It was gone, as she knew it would be.

But she could still detect a shimmer in the area, as if it had left some of its essence behind.

Ah, how exciting life was. How compelling, so that at nearly every turn, it was impossible to resist. Joan blinked, and the shimmer disappeared.

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