4 - Samantha
The keys in my handrattle, trying to force open the lock.
“I need another hand,” I laugh, nearly dropping my lunch and handbag on the ground. My phone’s ringing, but it has to wait because I’m trying to get through the door. Cyn has her hands full too, so she is of no extra help. We’re both a hot mess. “Oh, finally!” My key turns the rest of the way and with my only free finger, I pull the glass door open, propping it with my foot.
Sunday mornings, Cyn and I usually sleep in, grab lunch and head over to Roxy’s salon to give it a good cleaning. It helps Roxy out so she can run errands or just have time off to do things she likes to do. She always gives Cyn a little spending cash or free services for helping her out. Sometimes she chooses tanning or pedicures, but usually not nails. She’s a major nail biter, so if she does anything to her hands, it’s adding little dollops of color to the tips of her fingers where nails are supposed to be. Despite her stubs, she often becomes quite the artist where her nails are concerned. Color experimentation is among a few of her favorite interests.
“Here ya go, babe,” Cyn says, sorting our lunch while I get her a soda from the machine. “One taco salad for you, burrito and Mexican pizza for me.” She hands me a plastic fork and a few napkins then tears open her hot sauce. I’m pretty sure if given the chance, she could drink hot sauce with a straw.
My stomach snarls. My appetite is ravenous today, but I’m still leery to eat. The last few days my stomach’s been temperamental. I suspect I’m having medicine problems, but can’t talk to my doctor till Monday. However, the inviting aroma of my Mexican lunch lures me back to the present moment, and conquers my will power. Against all odds, I decide to eat.
Before I sit down to enjoy my taco salad, I reach into my handbag for my jewel crested pill case. My plan today is to try to get our cleaning done and get back home before I begin feeling bad, which is why I waited until now to take my medicine.
“So how do you think your stomach will do today?” Cyn asks, hovering over her burrito.
I grimace at the thought and shudder. “Lord only knows. Everything’s been setting it off this week.” I take a bite, relishing the flavor. It won’t be this good if it revisits me later. I used to try to pick foods that wouldn’t be so bad if or when they made their reappearance, but that leaves the choices very limited. Now, I’ve succumbed to eating whatever is within the guidelines of my diet and dealing with the consequences later.
“Well, hopefully you’ll be able to get this under control soon. You don’t wanna lose any more weight.”
This is true. I’m thin enough and it isn’t for trying. I’ve been blessed with good genes I suppose. I’m around five and a half feet tall, weighing no more than 120 pounds. My small frame appears to have come from Roxy. She’s built the same way, but is slightly taller. My mother, even taller.
“I gotta call the doctor’s office tomorrow to find out if they need me to come in or whatever. I can’t be getting that much nutrition if I’m losing everything I eat.”
Cynthia crumples up her wrapper and places it aside, sliding her Mexican pizza box closer. I’m not even half way through my salad yet. “Thanks for being considerate with your word choice.”
“No problem,” I answer, giving a wink. Cynthia’s stomach is not the strongest and with her trying to eat her lunch, I know words like puke, yak, and throw up would send her over the edge. I do her a favor and change the subject. “So do you want dispensary or floor duty?”
“You take dispensary. I’ll take floor,” she gestures to herself with her free hand.
“You just wanna dance with the mop stick again,” I point out, snickering.
“So what!” She’s so proud of herself for having fun. “Will you dance with me instead?” Cyn’s so animated making her request. She drops the last of her lunch and stands on her feet, extending her hand acting out the ‘may I have this dance’ scenario.
“Maybe, if you’re lucky,” I tease. We’re good at goofing off. It makes the work and time go by faster.
“Deal!” Her enthusiasm gives me motivation to get started. I begin to gather up our lunch wrappers and add it to the bag I need to take to the dumpster. She skips out of the break room to turn the radio on and begin sweeping.
Soon, I hear Three Days Grace on the radio singing “The Good Life.” It’s perfect music to clean to. Upbeat. Our checklist for cleaning the salon is pretty basic. Dust product shelves and stations. Wipe down dryers and chairs to remove hairspray buildup. Wash towels and capes. The dispensary, the room where the combs and bushes are cleaned daily in Barbicide solution, has to be organized and sanitized as well. All items need to be put away and product shelves straightened. Roxy’s extra supplies such as hair color, developers and perms are kept in there along with caps used for highlighting, color brushes, gloves, cotton or anything else she and her staff uses for services. We also have to restock and clean the back bar and sinks. The back bar is the area where the shampoos and conditioners and towels are kept. The clients have their hair washed here. Finally, we have to sweep and mop the floor, take the trash out and clean the bathroom. The stations where the stylists actually work are the stylists’ responsibility. Roxy has them take care of their individual areas so Cyn and I don’t have to.
As I start the towels in the washer and begin to organize the dispensary, I feel a twinge. Oh no. I look out of the corner of my eye, not really focusing on anything so I can concentrate on breathing. I take a slow breath and let it out. So far so good. I continue my task, straightening up the dispensary and updating the supply sheet.
Cynthia comes back to the utility room to get the mop and bucket. She mixes the floor cleaner as she prepares to mop.
“Hey Sam, you want trash today or the bathroom?” Her back is turned and not that she has to, but she’s not paying attention to me. When I don’t answer right away, she turns to get my attention. Just then my eyes widen in horror. I cup my mouth with my hand and run past her to the bathroom. I hope I didn’t knock into her, but I’m not sure that I didn’t. A few minutes later, I slowly emerge. Cynthia is waiting in one of the dryer chairs located across from the bathroom door.
“You ok?”
I nod yes, but really, I’m not sure. I’m almost certain this was only round one. Unfortunately. Slowly, I place my hand on my stomach and walk over to sit in the chair next to her. Resting my elbows on my knees, I lean my forehead on the palms of my hands.
“I’ll take the bathroom. You do trash.”
“Ok.”
I can see from the expression on her face that she doesn’t believe I’m alright.
“I’ll be ok, Cyn,” I lie. Hesitantly, she gets up and proceeds to gather the rest of the trash to take out to the dumpster around back. Eventually, I switch over the wet laundry to the dryer, and then take off running for the bathroom again. She must have come back inside because I hear the radio shut off.
“Babe, you alright? Should I call Roxy?” I can see her shadow under the slit at the bottom. She’s standing on the other side.
“I’m ok,” I barely choke out in a strained voice. “I’ll be out in a minute.” It’s several minutes actually, but when I come out this time, I feel a little better. “Let’s finish up so we can go home.”
“Do you want me to call Roxy? You’re looking pretty pale.”
This is one of those times when I wish Cyn drove.
“No.” I begin to tear up. “I’ll be ok.”
The last thing I want to do is inconvenience someone. I sit down in one of the chairs again, crossing my arms over my stomach. This is so frustrating. I don’t understand why this has to be happening, I think to myself. Cynthia sits down next to me and begins rubbing my back. I don’t want this. The back rub is fine, but I don’t want the throwing up. I don’t want the medicine or the doctor appointments or the swelling. I don’t want to watch my diet and lie to people, saying things like my food didn’t agree with me. I want to scream. But instead, I just begin to cry.
“It’s alright babe,” Cynthia says softly. “Let it out.”
Outside, cars are driving by. People are going about life as usual. Families are leaving church while others are running errands. Neighbors are raking leaves or going to the grocery store. Children are playing on swing sets or building with blocks. People are blowing out birthday candles or sleeping because they work third shift. And here, inside the salon, I am breaking down.
I mumble something unintelligible into my hands.
“I can’t hear you,” Cyn says.
“Why is this happening?” I lift my head to look at her. My eyes are tear soaked and crimson. “Why is this happening?” I ask again. I don’t like to cry but it happens. I try not to sob, but it’s difficult to avoid. “Cyn, tell me why. Why do I have to be sick?”
She sits still for a moment pursing her lips thoughtfully. Then, Cyn begins to hum a familiar melody. Her voice is angelic. She begins singing one of my favorite Lady Gaga songs, changing a few of the words to make the song about me. What is even better, though, is that she sounds just like her.
That’s her way of consoling me. I love listening to her sing. Sometimes she sings in the car along with the radio, while other times she sings acapella like she is now. She’s truly gifted with an extraordinary voice which comes in handy in Drama club too. My best friend has sung in several school plays, but lately she’s been singing a lot to me. She knows it helps make me feel better.
“Thank you.” I wipe my eyes. Today, there’s no mascara to run down my cheeks. Cyn leans over and nudges me and we smile.
“You take a break. I’ll bring out the basket of towels and you can sit here and fold them. I’ll finish the other stuff,” she winks.
“Ok, thanks.” I take a deep breath and sip on the bottle of water she hands me. She’s such a good friend.
Cyn keeps singing my song, letting her voice get stronger and stronger until she comes back with the basket of towels. Setting them down at my feet, she whips a brush out of her back pocket and holds it like a microphone. She performs a powerful chorus, emphasizing words like born this way, slowing it down to highlight certain words while showcasing the strength and range of her voice. My stomach feels terrible, but my mood has improved, and I owe that to my best friend.
“Thank you, thank you very much.” She takes her bow, extending her arm out to her side then curling it below her ribcage while simultaneously bending at the knee. I clap, feeling a little better.