Screw The Looking-glass
(And What She Found There)
Mavis Reddy
Authorname
Smashwords Edition
Copyright 2012 Mavis Reddy
CHAPTER ONE: The Looking Glass Blouse
Dream Journal–-11/4
One thing is certain, that white pizza had nothing to do with it! I think.
Same old dream, once again…I’m curled up in the comfy armchair in the quaint little room. Snow drifted down past the window and a cheery fire popped in the fireplace. Then a weird ball of yarn rolled past me and I followed it over to a full-length mirror. My reflection smiles at me, but I don’t feel like I’m smiling back. I’ve got on a gorgeous blouse that I know is one of my designs – and I’m really proud of it…but my reflection! It said the most horrible things – I’ll never amount to anything, I’m getting fatter, my hair is a nest, my lover is cheating on me…
I cover my face but still hear the reflection tearing into me. It wasn’t my voice, I couldn’t recognize the it – and then, just as I was about to figure it out, I wake up all hot and crying and the sheet’s twisted around my neck. The worst of it was that voice really concentrated on my cellulite this time!
This is day four. I have discipline. Four days now I’ve gotten out of the apartment and brainstormed my designs for ninety minutes before work. Ninety minutes! That’s 547 and a half hours a year. Except I’ll probably take the weekends off. And holidays. But discipline! I did spend some time eating breakfast. And Melissa is a pretty slow server--we talked for a while about her operation. She’s crazy! A while ago I did switch to playing checkers on my laptop instead of doing the oh so necessary research. Maybe I’ll use a checkerboard fabric? Plus those two guys at the counter were having such a hilarious conversation that I couldn’t help from eavesdropping a bit.
Okay. I’ll admit…I’ve only worked on my designs for about five minutes, nothing that will get me my dream job at H&M. But I left for work two hours early! You’ve got to take it slow with discipline, otherwise you’re liable to get a rash. And also--a Coldplay song came on the jukebox and I started thinking about next Tuesday. And then I started thinking about Paul. And then I couldn’t work on anything.
“And it is undeniable that everything gets blamed on the accursed blacks!” one of the men at the counter shouts. He’s wearing a knit cap, a nice ivory one, and his skin is smooth mocha. But the look on his face isn’t very pleasant. The person he’s lecturing at is Cyrus, a guy I’ve met here at Villiken’s Diner a few times before. He’s a regular and I can usually count on hearing his charming laugh when I come in. He’s laughing at the knit cap guy now, but the knit cap ignores it.
“Listen brother and you’ll know I speak true. Check--a badass plague hits white Europe and they call it the Black Death. Your whole day goes bad, why not blame it on that black cat that walked by you earlier? Call the deadly poisonous spider the black widow. And you already know how I feel about the ‘Game of Kings’--where whoever is white gets to go first, to destroy the black.”
“Are you talking about chess again?” Cyrus asks. His white teeth flash within his dark face. “Or about kings? Did I tell you I’m a prince?”
“A prince of escaped slaves, fool! If I weren’t a pacifist I’d slap you upside the head!”
Cyrus laughs at this and so do I. The knit cap looks at me sourly and I smile back before looking to my computer.
“Something funny, little daisy?” he calls at me.
“Hey man, that’s Celia. She’s all right. She’s my number two girl.” Cyrus wiggles his fingers at me.
“You and your white chicks,” the knit cap shrugs. “You have a topic to discuss with us, sweet Celia?” The man’s voice is vaguely threatening, but I don’t buy it.
“Checkers,” I say. “That’s red and black.” Knit cap looks to Cyrus and I go on. “And I know I’ve seen chess boards with red and white pieces.” I think for a second. “If you’re really good at karate, you get a black belt – and of course – black is the most stylish color. Any woman knows that.”
Cyrus points at me and nods. “She knows too, man. She’s all in fashion with the magazines and the drawings of dresses and the works. Just look at what she’s got on!”
I’m wearing head-to-toe black, black editor slacks, black turtleneck, even a black scarf lays by my side.
Knit cap looks me over and says, “My name’s Donald.”
I smile and bat my eyes. “Like the duck?”
Cyrus laughs again and I see a smile fighting for attention on Donald’s lips. “That’s right! Like the duck!” Cyrus makes some quacking noises and Donald walks over to my booth.
Now, when it comes to threatening men, I’m usually pretty calm. Unless I’m in the dark. Or alone. Or with a bunch of strangers. But in a brightly-lit diner on a bustling Thursday morning, I’m okay. Not to mention the can of bear spray I keep hidden in my smallish purse.
“White,” Donald says as he approaches me. “The color of innocence and purity.”
“In China it is the color of death.” I smile sweetly and I’m not sure, but I think he’s flirting with me.
Donald saunters up and leans on the edge of my table. He looks down at me with a playful smile. “Do you think you can know what it’s like on the other side?”
“Do you?” I say as I pack up my things.
“Do I what? What’s on the other side for an oppressed man like me?”
“A woman.” I stand up and stick my hand at Donald’s chest and say, “It was nice meeting you, but-”
He smiles and shakes his head a bit. From up close now I see he’s very handsome in a way that makes me think one thing: very bad boy. Well--two things: very bad girl, too. I feel my cheeks heat up and I’m sure Donald can tell what I’m thinking.
“White is the color of surrender, isn’t it?” He looks into my eyes. “What’s the color of taboo?”
I swallow and mutter something about having to go to work, but I hardly hear it myself.
“Let’s pretend…” Donald says.
“Pretend?”
And then there were lips on mine.
What?!
I’m still not sure what Donald wanted to pretend with me, but suddenly my urge to go to work, rather than be worked, was of utmost importance.
Cyrus yells out “Donald!” and I break away with a yelp, head out the door and into the snow flurries outside with nary a look back.
I really needed to get to work.
I would be late if I didn’t leave right at that second.
There was also a strange tickling twinge halfway between my chest and my knees that was making me worried and so I figured I should leave right away to make an appointment with a doctor.
Or a gynecologist.
Who am I kidding?
I stride down the sidewalk past the fancy dining place that I hear is exactly the same as Villiken’s and I’m feeling flustered because I can’t remember where I parked my car.
I stop and stare up and down Martinelli – the whole street is empty. A movement in the window next to me catches my eye and I turn to see a tiny sign posted there. It reads:
Some of the letters are backwards and there doesn’t seem to be an answer to the question anywhere and I feel like I’m going to faint when a strange man taps me on the arm.
“Are you all left?” he says with a grin.
“All left from what?” I ask, still staring at my little love sign, even after I realize it is a reflection of the sandwich board this strange man is wearing.
“It’s a joke, you see…all ‘left’ instead of all-”
I turn and stare at the man’s sandwich board with such great intensity that the man stops speaking and takes a few steps back. Unfortunately I find no answers on his chest either:
“Why have you put a heart around there, those letters?” I blurt in near anger.
He looks down at the message he’s wearing and looks back up to me, his forehead all creased up. “Because that’s the heart of the matter. Get it?”
I shake my head and begin to walk off, attributing the whole thing to that fourth cup of coffee and maybe--that kiss. A little.
“See you! It is what, huh? A volcano!” the man yells after me.
I look at him again and see that his whole message is inside a hand-drawn volcano spitting fireballs and great grey clouds.
“Volcano, ahuh.” He’s got his head tilted to the side like a curious dog. “What is it you see?”
“Who are you?” I ask, walking back to him slowly. His face is pinched and gnomish under a cheap black stocking hat. A few spurts of greasy hair come from beneath his hat and the only other parts of his body I see are his long fingers holding the edges of the sign. He’s wearing black gloves with the fingertips cut off.
“Did someone put you up to this?” I ask again. “Do you work for Volcano’s pizza?”
“Name’s Mírmir,” he says and follows it with a belch. “And I can see the future. Want your fortune read?”
“I’m late for work, so maybe you should keep it a secret.”
“Black!” he shouts at me. “A man. In Black.” One of his hands goes behind his sandwich board and reappears holding a playing card with a picture of a nude black woman licking a Popsicle on it. “A man in black will be your white knight.” He smiles at me kindly as if he did some great act of charity. “Most folks give me three or four dollars for that service.”
“You’re a pervert!” I say and rush off down the street to where I finally see my car at the curb around the corner. I remember telling myself not to forget.
“Once the future’s been said, no power on earth can un-say it!” the man shouts after me and I sort of wish I’d given him the money in case I ever run into him again—in the dark or in a parking garage or all alone.
But I don’t want to be late for work.
CHAPTER TWO: The Gay Men Need No Followers
Dream Journal – 11/5
There was a little cottage, quaint and timeless. It may have been the same one from the reoccurring dream, but I couldn’t tell because I was outside of it and wanted to take a trip down to the stream that I knew was nearby. Or was it a garden. Or a mailbox? It’s unclear now, but I knew I was leaving the little house on a beautiful day to walk down a little path. But after a few minutes of walking the little house appeared again! I was so confused, I turned right around and headed off down the trail again. A few minutes passed and then – little house. Over and over, no matter what I tried, I kept coming back to that quaint little house and I really started to hate it. Finally I gave up and opened the door to go back inside and as soon as I crossed the threshold…I woke up.
It’s a slow day at work today and I don’t have enough distraction to keep me from obsessing over my dream. My bargain-price therapy.
Obviously the house is Paul. The perfect little house that I’ve always fantasized about living in. The kind of house I would see in pictures and hope of one day owning for myself.
But now that I do, I’m starting to hate it. Because I really see all the problems with the house. Paint’s wearing thin. Roof needs repair. Hardwood floor going soft and warped and I think there may be something rotten or moldy in the basement. It looks so nice on the outside though!
And I keep ending up with Paul. Every time I think I’m done with him I go scurrying back. Because Celia Loves Who? Question mark. What good is a Dream Journal if it only tells you what you already know? May as well be my mother.
My mother was the one who suggested I keep a Dream Journal in the first place. I’d told her about my recent spate of…nervousness. She called them panic attacks, but come on. Then she said, “What you should do, Celia honey, is every time you have one of those panic attacks take down a memo of everything you’ve been doing. What you’re drinking, what you’re eating, the time of day, who or what you’ve been thinking about--all of it!”
That’s right. A memo. My mother was a career secretary. She’s picked up the lingo.
While I didn’t take her advice per se, I have started a Dream Journal as a window into my super complex and enigmatic psyche, ha ha. And while a dream about my pathetic returns to Paul is a little depressing, at least I’m off that reoccurring dream with the horrible mirror.
To make myself feel better, I’ve decided to get lunch from a sub shop down town. Not because they’ve got my favorite comforting mac n’ cheese--but because of the even cheaper and better therapy of window-shopping. The restaurant is in the middle of most of my top boutiques and it doesn’t hurt that my boss, Ms. Prickett, won’t be in until after two-thirty.
Of course I see Tobias with another man waltzing up and down the sidewalks. Tobias is wearing a charcoal three-piece suit and a brilliant apricot Tiger lily hangs precariously from his buttonhole. The other man is wearing something I’d usually expect Tobias to wear--skin tight white pants and a skintight fuchsia top. This man has the body for it—evidently well made in a gym’s weight room.
“Fancy seeing you boys here!” I call out to them. The muscled guy turns to look at me, but Tobias is engrossed in a mannequin’s plastic buns.
“Those pillows look so hard—I’d never fall asleep!” I hear Tobias whisper to his friend as I walk up. The friend nudges him and motions at me and Tobias clams up.
“What’s the snazzy suit for? Got a big party to attend?” I ask with a sassy smile.
Tobias looks me up and down. “Do I know you?” he asks with a straight face.
“She doesn’t look like anyone you’d know,” the friend says snidely. “Maybe if she curled her hair or got out of those drab black things.”
“Tobias! Why are you acting this way?” I reply, hurt—but not really.
“But yes, of course. It’s that girl I keep seeing around town and now she’s somehow gotten it into her head that I’m her gay best-friend, an accessory no city girl can be without.” Tobias levels his gaze at me and seems to dare me to make a comeback.
“Wow—dressed up and sarcastic—you must be celebrating something.”
The muscular friend’s face blooms with a great smile, “Oh there’s something to celebrate ‘aboot’ all right.” He stops and looks to Tobias, who is again engrossed with the store window mannequins. “The Canadian government announced today that they will legally recognize gay marriage. It’s really only a matter of time for us now!”
Tobias turns to his friend, his eyes in slits. “For you and who? At least I keep to one man, but you, my mincing beefcake, live on a steady diet of one night stands.”
“A girl’s gotta have hope,” the friend says, batting his eyes.
Tobias glances at me again and says under his breath, “And don’t encourage her. The more you talk to her, the longer she’s liable to stay.”
“Tobias! I heard that,” I say, my feelings genuinely dented. “Are you mad at me for something? And I can’t stay long—I’ve got to get back to work by two.”
“Well thank goodness for small miracles—and, my precious little empty-head, I could hardly be mad at you since we hardly know each other.” Tobias puts a hand up to his mouth and leans over to his friend. “I’ve seen this one at a few parties and around a few boutiques and the deranged girl believes we’re best-of-friends sharing slumber parties!”
“Tobias!” I shout again, shocked. “You are really on one today, aren’t you? Why don’t you introduce me to your pal here?”
“That’s the sad thing—I think she does it for personal gain, like a parasite sucking me of my networking contacts. Celia, this is Violet, Victor if he’s feeling masculine.”
Victor does a little curtsey in my direction and I wave at him.
“I’m glad I ran into you—are you going to that big showing I’ve heard about on Wednesday? I’m dying to see the new designs.”
Tobias throws his hands up into the air and moans. “I am not going to let you finagle another invite out of me! I may as well bring the whole world.”
Victor is looking at me strangely, I think he’s falling for Tobias’s act. “Please Tobias,” I say, “You’re stuck on drama queen—emphasis on queen—do you know where the show is being held?”
“I’ve never seen anyone so dense,” Victor giggles.
“Now now,” Tobias says to Victor. “No reason to be rude. You’ve never been to LA.” Tobias turns to me with a simper. “I’m already taking an associate to that show, so you can’t come with me—but it’s going to be at the Garden Center. Ask your boss if she’ll take you.”
I laugh loudly at his suggestion while Tobias tells Victor, “She’s a pawn for Ms. Prickett, the head of that generic firm that designs all those wonderful mass market sweat-suits at CJ Nicholls.”
Victor’s face suddenly looks as if someone asked him to wear saggy jeans. “I’m sorry,” he tells me. “Prickett’s from the Hamptons though, isn’t she?”
“Oh yes,” Tobias grins, “Hampton, Iowa.”
We all three laugh at this and both men wish me luck as I head off for work again, feeling refreshed and ready to deal with my boss.
Rose Prickett is not the most fashionable name—but that doesn’t matter to her because it is not stitched to any labels. Her design house completes huge orders for simple clothing that fills box department stores, the main client being CJ Nicholls, a store I remember fondly from my own youth. My mother would drive me a half-hour each way from Fawn Grove to the closest CJ Nicholls at the start of every school year. Rose Prickett has been designing for them for so long now, I’m positive I spent most of high school and college wrapped up in her clothing designs. So I guess it would seem fitting that I should be working for her, rather than for some raging hot Parisian design firm—or my dream of H&M—but I’m sick of the plain and simple life endorsed by the likes of CJ Nicholls.
Of course, it may not be so bad if I actually were actually designing under Rose Prickett.
I’m her administrative assistant.
Like mother, like daughter!
When I first began working with Rose Prickett, I was excited to share my ideas with her. I had hopes of infusing her with my youthful exuberance and I felt sure I would see this reflected on the racks by the end of the summer. But that was over a year ago and Rose Prickett made it clear a long time ago that I was to call her Ms. Prickett and that she works by herself. She has no need for youthful exuberance, and the hordes of people clad in CJ Nicholls wear don’t either.
Today, however, I have new resolve. New Discipline. New ideas that I’m sure she’ll want to hear me out on.
I hope.
“Someone took advantage of the boss being out,” Andrea mutters when I walk up to my desk. Andrea is an administrative assistant like me. She got her start here as a temp and she was so happy and fun to have around that the company decided to keep her on. Of course, as soon as she became permanent she dropped the façade—and revealed her usually grumpy and sarcastic self. We get along well.
“I’m surprised you didn’t. You ate at your desk?” I say, shocked to see empty Tupperware by her computer.
“Jess is on IM and I don’t know when I’ll get another chance,” she replies with a forlorn look. Jess is Andrea’s fiancé—he proposed to the poor girl and then got stationed overseas two weeks later. They haven’t seen each other for eight months now. I think I’d stick with being single.
The elevator doors at the end of the room ding open and all the heads in the cubicles glance up and then immediately back down at their desks. It’s Ms. Prickett. She’s dressed fashionably in late fall—early winter wear; and her auburn hair is perfectly coifed atop her head. As she strides closer, she seems to grow larger and larger and I look down to see if she’s wearing huge platforms. She’s not—and I'm intimidated. The lady is probably only fifteen years older than me, already a designer by my age…so I suppose a few nerves are in order. I whisper to Andrea that I’m going to talk to her.
Andrea shakes her head, her straight black hair swinging. “Don’t do it. Just walk the other way until she goes into her office—and then hide for God’s sake.”
I notice Andrea has already typed ‘brb’ and closed the IM—she’s pretending to type up an official looking letter. I shake my head at her, “I’ve got a new plan—a way to take her by surprise.”
“You got an extra set of lips to kiss her ass with?”
I smile and then show her my serious face. “No. I’m not kissing her ass at all.”
Andrea laughs as I leave her and head towards the ever-growing Ms. Prickett. I hear Andrea calling ‘Walk the other way’ again, as if it’s my last chance, but before I can decide to do anything different I’m walking in sync with my boss and she’s said hello to me with great enthusiasm.
Well, she said hello to ‘Selina’. We all know what she means though, right? My name is hard to remember, even after eighteen months.
“Ah Selina, come with me, my favorite secretary. I’ve something I desperately want you to see.” I follow her to her office and watch as she puts down her shoulder bag to pick up another.
“Uh, Ms. Prickett, I uh, wanted to talk with you, em, because I-”
She brushes past me and leaves her office. “And it’s very good that you’re doing what you want my dear. Now come this way please.”
I follow her back to the elevators and we enter one that seems to have been waiting for us. Well, for her at least.
“And when you speak Selina, do so clearly and with diction. Open your mouth wide and speak with confidence.”
“I like your hair,” I mutter and mentally kick myself, already trying to kiss her ass and she doesn’t even acknowledge it. So instead I open my mouth wide and say, “I have some ideas.”
Ms. Prickett looks at me for a moment. “Ideas? That you wish to become mine?”
The elevator slows quickly and my stomach lurches.
“Because, frankly, my ideas compared to yours is like the Sydney Opera House compared to a brick and tin out-house. No offense, of course. Now come with me.”
Yeouch. None taken.
The elevator doors open and we enter a private gym surrounded by windows. I don’t know if we are at the top floor, but the view is amazing. I walk to a nearby window and look across the cityscape, all the boxes of buildings and tiny cars and, surprisingly, many trees.
“Wow…” I breath out, taking in the view. “Is this the executive gym?”
Ms. Prickett magically appears in workout clothes, clothes that are much more fashionable and well made than any in a CJ Nicholls. She walks to a treadmill nearby and presses a button. “It’s mine, but I do let the executives use it occasionally.”
Before I can stop myself, I babble over how amazing it is and how much I wish I could enjoy this gym, this view, this life and basically I tell her how much I want to be her. If that’s not kissing someone’s ass…
Ms. Prickett climbs onto her treadmill and smiles. “That’s very interesting because there is an opportunity I would like to tell you about. A…chance. Run with me.” She points at the treadmill next to her and begins walking on her own machine.
The clothes I’ve got on aren’t exactly exercise material, but I don’t want to miss hearing what she’s got to say, so I climb on the machine and jog along slowly.
We go on this way for a few minutes, our speed increasing. My curiosity breaks finally and I pant out, “So…this interesting chance you want to-”
“Don’t talk girl! Go faster.” Ms. Prickett reaches over and increases the speed on my machine. Soon my legs are flying beneath me. After five minutes I feel as though I’m going to crumple, my feet are killing me in my work flats. I’m sure I’m going to sprain my ankle any second. “Mizz Prickett--I’m not, rilly, dressed prop-”
“Not Now Nearly THERE!” She blasts out. “If you can talk, you aren’t going fast enough!” Again my machine goes faster. I hang on for the ride.
Then at ten minutes, Ms. Prickett jumps off her treadmill and tells me to take a break. I hit the emergency stop and walk in a small circle, panting and dripping sweat.
Ms. Prickett seems perfectly normal without even a drop coming off of her, though she daintily drinks from a glass bottle of water I’ve seen selling at vintage wine prices.
“Lesson number one.”
I’m leaning over with my hands on my knees and fight the urge to fall over or vomit. Or both at once. “Lesson?”
“In this business you’ve got to move as fast as you can just to stay in the same place.” She pats her forehead with a fluffy towel before tossing a grey rag at me.
“But if you’re moving as fast as you can…how do you ever move up, get ahead?” I cough out. My throat is making weird raspy noises that I try to conceal.
“Here, eat this.” Ms. Prickett grabs something from a shallow bowl and hands it to me. It’s an exercise bar called ‘Powercake’. I’m not hungry, I’m dying for some water—but I eat the thing anyway. Suddenly my mouth is so dry that I can’t talk, I’m chewing away like a horse with gums full of peanut butter.
“A short cut, of course,” Ms. Prickett goes on. “That’s the way. Duck through the bushes, hop a stream, go over a fence. Otherwise you’ll be old and grey before you’re jogging up here again.”
I nod and stare thirstily at her glass bottle of water.
“But! If you don’t know what you’re doing, you’ll go over a fence and right into the ditch. You need to know the map.” She looks me up and down, I know my face is a sweating mess and my mouth—you already know about my mouth. “For instance, you must spend big money to earn big money. Never wear less than five thousand dollars, if possible. Fifteen thousand is about right.” I gag slightly and she comes close to me, pats me on the cheek. “You’ll thank me for this later,” she says, wiping her hand on her towel. “Where are you from?”
Somehow my saliva has got the Powercake wet enough to swallow a part, but my mouth is still half full when I choke out, “Fawn Grove. Pennsylvania.”
My boss frowns and pats me on a shoulder, “So you don’t know anyone, a shame. See, I grew up in the Hamptons and had connections. But always remember who you are! It’s most important. Another Powercake?”
I smile politely and decline.
“Also a French name. Having a French name is key, if you can think of a clever one.”
At this point I follow her to a door marked ‘Supplies’. She enters and closes the door behind her.
I stand waiting for her, pondering all the information and hints she’s generously given me, but after five minutes I realize she’s not coming back out. I gently open the door and where I expect to see buckets and cleaning supplies and a grown woman hiding from me—instead there is a wall of thick steam.