8. Cactus Attack
CACTUS ATTACK
Josie
Three days into my new job at a small branch of the San Francisco Public Library, and my stomach didn’t growl embarrassingly during my meeting today, my teeth didn’t become a net for lettuce when my new boss took me to lunch at a nearby salad bar yesterday, and I didn’t trip and fall on my face, ass, or knee at all this week.
Not that I am prone to those things. But I am human after all. And I’ve read enough books where the heroine has a Very Bad Day during the first week on a new job and thus needs to drown her sorrows in chardonnay and cookie dough that weekend.
I’m counting the fact that I don’t need a double dose of food and wine sympathy as a big win.
Bonus points I’m giving myself? I didn’t once try to massage the kink out of my ass, neck, or back while at work.
This might be the biggest victory of all since that loose spring in Maeve’s couch is no joke.
I’m so convinced it’s out to get me I’ve named it The Kid.
As in, The Kid from Shel Silverstein’s The Giving Tree—also known as the greatest villain in all of literature.
The Kid is sharp, pointy, and merciless, and my body is paying the price.
But I’m moving into my short-term rental tomorrow after work, and I refuse to complain about another night on the floor (since The Kid was so vicious last night, I moved to the hard wood at Maeve’s, hence the migration of said kink to my back and neck.)
Besides, I’m all about looking on the bright side after my week kicked off with the world’s greatest one-night stand.
My string of good luck then continued. My new boss, Thalia Rosenstein, is super cool.
She told me there’s a guy named the Great Grimaldi and when he comes in to use the library’s recently opened digitization center I should jump at the chance to help him, since he’s digitizing his old magic shows and you can learn the coolest things.
She also spilled that Eddie, who handles the city’s research collections, likes to nuke tuna fish in the microwave every day at 12:01 so the break room is best avoided then, and the rattling noise in the stairwells isn’t a ghost but a raccoon, who may or may not be living in the walls, but who occasionally has been spotted in the ladies’ restroom on the third floor.
Thalia also set me up with real projects on my first day—not just busy work.
Thanks to a newly established grant the library won from The Violet Delia Foundation for Library Digital Empowerment, I’m here at this branch in the Upper Haight on a three-month position to work on its digitization initiatives.
That includes teaching some classes to patrons on how to best use online resources and helping the public digitize their own materials, like cassette tapes, Super 8, and floppy disks.
I’ll also work on managing the library’s existing digital collections and promoting them to the public.
Since digital archives was a key focus for my master’s degree, I jumped at the chance.
As I’m packing up behind the second floor desk, I turn to Thalia, who’s taking a pile of books from the returns tray.
“Thanks again for the raccoon tip. I’m not sure if I want to only use the third floor restroom or never use it now,” I say. “I mean, raccoons can be cute.”
“It’s a real dilemma,” she says dryly, then swivels away from her desktop, and lifts a finger, covered in silver skull rings that match the silver bracelets jangling up and down the light brown skin of her arms. How she wears bracelets and types all day is a mystery to me, but the bracelets sound like pretty bells so I don’t mind the intrigue.
“Oh! One more thing, Josie. On Fridays, Dolores from the children’s wing brings her special brownies. ”
I pause, digesting that nugget. When I hear special and brownies I think of the ones some of my friends made in grad school—special as in laced with a little something extra to make the day, or night, feel real chill. I arch a curious brow but keep my tone even as I ask, “Special in what way?”
“As in they’re made with melted dark chocolate.”
Oh, that’s a relief. “What time do I need to be here to make sure they aren’t all gone?”
She nods approvingly. “I knew you’d understand.
” She looks around furtively, then whispers, “Eight fifty-five. The vultures from circulation descend at nine. Also, tomorrow afternoon we have a training session on how to help people experiencing homelessness. Might last into the early evening since there are often lots of questions.”
“I’ll be there,” I say, glad the library is tackling this important topic since any library staff member these days needs to work compassionately with the unsheltered, as well as patrons with substance use disorders or mental illnesses who come through our wide open doors.
For now though, I’m happy to leave work behind. Because this little information specialist has a project and a plan for her Thursday night.
After I sling my bag over my shoulder, I grab the tiny cactus I picked up last night at Welcome to the Jungle, a plant shop over on Fillmore Street run by a retired hockey star from the Sea Dogs.
I smooth my free hand over my white button-down blouse, then along my black pencil skirt and head to the circular stairway.
My flats click clack with a loud but satisfying echo through the weird little library that’s quickly become my home away from home.
I reach the exit, then walk past the fire station next door.
Some of the guys who work here are out washing their cherry-red truck.
I smile a hello, and the three of them smile back.
I continue on in the San Francisco evening.
It’s warm since it’s October, but I still instinctively reach for my scarf to wrap it around my neck.
But of course, it’s not here. A pang of sadness hits me every time I do this phantom move.
I realized when I left the hospital on Monday afternoon, after cuddling my little nephews as much as I could, that I’d probably left the accessory behind in the hotel room.
But when I popped into The Resort that evening to see if it was in their lost and found, the clerk checked and then frowned an apology.
“Sorry, Greta,” I say to the sky, since that scarf was her favorite.
It was the scarf I’d played dress-up with as a little girl when I’d stayed with her.
I’d wrap it around my head, put on her glasses, and pretend I was a granny.
Or we’d dress up her rescue Labrador, turning Lulu Blossom into a cowgirl with it, or Rosie the Riveter.
“Scarves are the unsung heroes of the fashion world. They add personality to an outfit, they add flair, and they add a certain je ne sais quoi,” Greta had said, then tucked a finger under my chin. “And you, my love, are a je ne sais quoi type of person, so wear it that way.”
I’d like to think wearing it as a belt on Sunday night was so very je ne sais quoi.
And if I had to lose the scarf, leaving it at the scene of my night in sex heaven seems the perfect place to let that part of me go.
I straighten my shoulders and walk like I’m still wearing it.
I’ll find another one. I’ll hit the thrift shops this weekend once I move into my new place.
Once I’m settled, I can tackle the rest of Greta’s list in earnest. I’ve already started researching the second item she left for me to do.
Now that I’ve tackled the first one, it’ll be easier—I think—to work my way through the list.
But even though I’m researching item two, I can’t stop thinking about item number one.
The way Wesley touched me. The way he teased me. The way he talked to me. A hot shiver slides down my spine.
And the way I see it—I was faithful to the list when I checked that first item off. It was a one-night stand with a sexy stranger through and through. Since I completed the task so perfectly, I figure I’m free and clear to see him again. Not as a one-night stand.
I mean, the logic holds up. That is, if I can find him again. My stomach dips with nerves and hope.
I’m almost tempted to tell my mom I started doing the list her sister gave me before she died.
Mom hasn’t seen the list, but she knows it exists.
She’s asked me a few times about it. Right now though, she’s way too focused on her athlete son’s babies.
Understandable. Truly it is. Though, she’s always been focused on him.
She’s a former athlete, so I get it. My dad is too.
Mom played college volleyball and won an NCAA championship, and Dad ran track, so they’ve always just had their bond with their firstborn who skated before he walked.
It’s fine. I’m used to it. Mom’s flying in this weekend to help out for the next week.
As I walk, I text Maeve since she knows about my plan to try to find Wesley tonight.
Josie: I’m doing it! I’m on my way.
Maeve: I know, my little tiger!
My brow knits. She knows? I voice dictate my reply as I weave past early evening crowds in the Upper Haight.
Josie: How do you know?
Maeve: You’re on the corner of Webster and Hayes. You’re almost there!
Dammit. I never turned off my location tracker.
Maeve: Also, looking at your location history, I see you went to Elodie’s Chocolates today at lunch.
I’m hoping you got me some. But I’m most interested in this visit you paid last night to my favorite “toy store” after work.
I thought you were just going to the plant shop.
Did you go into Risqué Business and pick up a battery-operated gift for your girl? You holding out on me?
Red splashes across my cheeks. Of course Maeve would notice that. She was the devil to my angel one Halloween in college after all.
Josie: Yes, but your toy is so big it’s requiring a forklift. Hope you can carry it up the stairs!
Maeve: Now that just makes me want it even more!