Chapter 39
The corner still needs guarding, so somehow I manage to get up the next few mornings.
On the job, rumors are flying.
The FBI told us all to keep our traps shut until Leslie’s trial is over, so the official explanation for what happened is
just “public disturbance.” Still, I’ve heard the whispers as I walk kids and their parents across the street. Some of them
think I’m a secret agent. Some of them think I’m a mob boss. Some of them think I’m being paid by the mayor to take out people
who haven’t paid their parking tickets.
The effect, though, is that everyone crosses the street when I tell them to.
It’s making work a lot easier.
And when Block Club posts their write-up of the whole affair a few days later, I can’t help but read it. It’s as close as I get to Tasha these
days.
Leslie Carey, wife of north side alderman Merle Carey, was arrested Sunday on charges of murder, racketeering, bribery, and extortion, abusing her position as the spouse of an elected official to solicit and extort private legal work and other benefits from companies and individuals with business before the city, one of which went south and led to the horrific murders.
“I am shocked and horrified,” said Ald. Carey, via a statement released by his new chief of staff, Tasha Moore. “I had no
idea Leslie was running around committing these heinous crimes in my name. I will do whatever it takes to regain the trust
of Chicagoans and restore the good name of Carey. My office has always, always operated with integrity and lawfulness, ask
anyone! And we will continue to run our ward with honesty to be an example for the city.”
Tasha and I haven’t communicated at all since the breakup, and I don’t know how we would start.
I really miss her. I miss having something to look forward to. Somebody to get to know better. But a lot would have to change
for our relationship to work. And I can’t hang on and wait for her to fit me in her schedule.
Even good things can be not good for you, I guess. Like having ice cream with every meal, including breakfast. Which I should
probably stop doing, I think, as I house a pint of ice cream while waiting for my frozen mac and cheese to cook in the microwave.
Eh, it’s dinnertime, so it’s okay. I’m just having dessert first.
My pocket buzzes. It’s a text from Marlowe.
Marlowe: Come to school now and bring the dogs
I think about ignoring her, but recently, Marlowe has adopted Claudia’s tone of texting, and it’s hard to say no. I stop the microwave, put the pint back in the freezer, and go. And like she asks, I bring the dogs, who are super pumped to get an extra walk in.
Marlowe, meanwhile, brings her moms. Mom #1 looks very lawyery in a sleek gray suit—she’s definitely Shoshanna, the one who
yelled at me over the phone. Mom #2 has a curly undercut with blue streaks in it. I can see how this combo might result in
a Marlowe.
“Mo!” Marlowe runs over and hugs me, talking under her breath so her moms don’t hear. “Don’t mention my involvement in the
case, okay? We’ll debrief later. Your place?”
I don’t get to answer because Marlowe shoves me toward her moms. “Mo, this is Shoshanna and Alexis.”
“Hi, Mo,” says Shoshanna. “Thanks for looking out for our little troublemaker.”
“That’s the job,” I say. “The crossing guard job, I mean. If you’ve heard any rumors, they aren’t true. About murder. Or whatever.”
“We saw the adoption videos you made,” Shoshanna says, thankfully changing the subject. “For the dogs.”
Wait. I swivel to look at Marlowe, and she’s grinning at me. The little sneak. She made me make the videos for her.
“I’m a pediatric surgeon,” Alexis says, “and we were thinking, with training, the poodles could be great therapy dogs for
kids at the hospital. So—”
“Yes,” I say, a little too eagerly, and Alexis looks startled. “I mean, yes, please take the dogs. They would make great therapy dogs.”
“Thank you,” says Alexis, beaming.
“Thank youuuuuu,” says Marlowe, who’s already hugging all three of the dogs at the same time.
We go back to my place, I put everything I’ve gotten for the dogs in a trash bag for them to carry home, and then they leave.
My apartment is quieter than I think it’s ever been. No dogs, no bribery from Sheila, no panicked hiding of piles of cash
in the bathtub.
This sounds bad, but I feel a little . . . lost without the chaos? So I pull out my phone to text Hannah or Benny or even watch some haircut videos to distract myself, but
then after a moment I put it back in my pocket.
Because honestly? It’s kinda nice to be quiet for a hot second.
Cran’s calendar is still rolled up stinkily on my one table, and I unroll it, carefully rip out the best photo of the dogs
(April), and Scotch tape it to the wall. I take a step back to admire it, my first wall hanging.
It’s a start. And now I’m feeling motivated to actually live this new life I keep talking about.
So I grab a pile of résumés and do this the old-fashioned way. I stop at every store on the main drag. I chat with the bearded
guys at the record store and get talked into buying a used grunge album (I resolve to someday get a record player). I stop
in Urgent Care, and sure, Jessie’s not glad to see me, but I eventually make her laugh, and when I hand her my résumé, she
doesn’t immediately crumple it up. I pop into the YMMV Car Repair in case they need a receptionist or, I don’t know, someone
to wash tires? I even drop into Dickie’s and meet the actual Dickie (!) who is a middle-aged lady (!!).
Honestly, I’m having a great time. Even though I’m alone, I don’t feel lonely at all.
I’m all out of résumés and am about to head home when a storefront I’ve never seen before stops me in my tracks.
Jack n’ Dils, it’s called.
There’s a banner that says Grand Opening, Come make you openings grand! and in the window, festively arranged and gorgeously
lit, are the most spectacular sex toys I’ve ever seen.
Every color of the rainbow. Shapes I never imagined in my wildest dreams.
It’s like looking in the window of a candy store.
Back in my Chris era, I never would’ve been brave enough to actually go inside a store like this. Chris wanted to keep our sex life “natural,” so the only
dildo I ever bought came from the internet and was, let’s just say, not the right size. I briefly used it as a doorstop, but Chris didn’t like that either.
I walk in, kind of proud of myself but also super nervous? It’s embarrassing, I’m a grown-up, I should be totally unfazed
by shelves packed with sparkly dongs.
Because everything is on display in here. You know exactly the size of the toy you’re getting, that’s for sure. And there are no shadowy, creepy
corners, no lurking dudes. It’s all well-lit and weirdly . . . cozy?
I have no idea how to behave. Act cool, Mo.
So I make a selfie duckface as I sashay across the store, and then immediately realize that was the wrong call.
I look up to see if anyone saw me and the person at the counter is smiling at me, so I think the answer is yes, they saw me.
Oh god, I’m going to have to buy something now.
I pass the shelves of lube and a table of fishnet things and realize that the vibrator display is calling to me. They’re all
out of their packaging so you can see what they feel like and turn them on and everything.
I’ve stumbled into a sex toy petting zoo.
Bullets and dick-shaped things, sleek aerodynamic shapes, lots of things with bunny ears and rotating shafts and and and . . .
Yes, okay, I am overthinking this, but at heart, I’m just a girl standing in front of a wall of vibrators asking one of them to love me.
The question is, which one?
The counter person sidles up next to me and straightens out the vibrators that I’ve just flung around willy-nilly, but they’re not being judgy or anything. Actually, their presence is sort of calming.
“Let me know if I can help,” they say with a sweet smile.
I think about saying no thanks, I got this, but after several weeks of pretending to be an expert in a thing I know nothing
about, I’m ready for some expert advice.
“Actually,” I say, “I never knew there were so many options. I’d love some help.”
They talk me through all the differences using words like rumble and zing, and honestly this feels like some Willy Wonka shit. I love it.
In the end, I decide to go with a basic model for my first outing. It doesn’t look like an actual penis, it’s just a hot pink
hard plastic wand. A hot pink wand that will, with a couple AAA batteries, rock my world, at least according to the packaging.
As I pay for the wand and some lube, pretending not to think about my rapidly draining bank account, I spot a sign on the
corkboard behind the counter.
Now hiring.
“You should apply,” the vibrator expert says when I ask about the sign. They hand me a business card. “Just shoot over your
résumé and a short cover letter.”
I don’t even wait to get home—I type up a cover letter quickly while standing on the sidewalk. It’s possibly too honest? About
how up till now, I’ve relied on the people I’m dating way too much for my happiness, and how coming to the store made me realize
I have to take my happiness into my own hands.
Literally.
In the sex department.
The horny arena.
The boning bureau.
The randy division.
I delete those last bits and add in that I’m currently helping kids during the day as a crossing guard and would love to help adults at night as a sex toy guard.
So stupid, but I leave it in, attach my résumé, and hit send.
And now it’s me time.
After, um, seducing myself several times, I pass out, sleeping better than I have in weeks. No poodles to beg me for food or walks, no demands for Venmo bribes, and because it’s the weekend, no need to throw on any
neon vests.
I wake up to my phone buzzing, and my first thought is Who could possibly be calling me at this hour? Then I blink my eyes open and look at the time. Holy cow, it’s almost eleven a.m.
“Hello?” I answer blearily.
“Is this Mo Ellery?” a voice asks. “This is Alex from Jack n’ Dils—not to gush but we loved your cover letter, which is maybe the first time that sentence has ever been uttered out loud.”
I laugh, and so does Alex.
“Anyway, we’d like to set up an interview if you’re still interested?”
Oh shit.
I finally got one.
“Absolutely,” I say, and then catch myself. “It’s not . . . a video chat, is it?”
Not that I’d make the same mistake twice. Probably. But better safe than sorry. We set a time for the very IRL interview,
and then hang up.
I text Hannah: I think I might get a job at a sex toy store!
She responds with the “!!” emoji and then replies Tell me everything.
Me: Dickie’s? Later tonight?
I get a thumbs-up.
But first—I reach over to my bedside table.
Just need to do a little more research.
You know.
For the job.