| Charlaine awoke to the sound of men arguing
in the hollow stairwell of her low-rise. Outside her window,
propped open with How to Live like Oprah, doves cooed
incessantly, drivers blared their horns, and engines revved.
As she lay in bed, she thought about the sounds of busyness
that echoed in the alley—everyone busy with something
and in a terrible hurry. She thought she was one clever lady
to have figured out the meaning of the word "business."
She lived on the fourth floor of the Leaning Tower of Pizza,
as the tenants called the building. It was old and settling
on its side. Charlaine was reminded of its lopsidedness every
time she huffed and puffed her way up the four flights of
stairs to her apartment. She just hoped when it toppled, she
didn't go with it.
The building was located next to a pizza joint, and the pizza
smell wafted into the building from the time of the tulips
in the spring to the first frost. When Charlaine moved in
three years ago, she delighted in the rich, zesty aroma of
the pizza. Now she felt like a prisoner of pepperoni.
When it came, sleep was Charlaine's escape from her money
worries. This morning she woke up plagued by thoughts about
last week's conversation with her landlord. She had sweet-talked
him into letting her stay for two more months. She had just
scraped together enough money to pay her utility bill and
buy groceries by selling her grandmammy's broach and her mama's
tea set. Panic spread from her belly to her limbs when she
realized that she had nothing of value left to sell.
Not even herself.
More than a few times when she didn't have two pennies to
rub together, she sold the black woman experience to white
men. She cringed, wondering what the folks guardin' the pearly
gates would have to say about Charlaine peddling the black
experience.
Then she remembered what the pastor said in church the other
day—"Be the change you want to see in your life." He
was quoting Gandhi or Martin Luther King. She couldn't remember
which. She knew exactly what she wanted to be. Charlaine wanted
to be a lady of class.
She threw her covers off as she decided to be the change.
The spiraling financial worries spun out of her head like
a twister that never touched down.
She readied herself by pulling out the curlers she had slept
in, fussing with her hair—plenty of Dippity-do—to
make it mind. She pulled on her bra, stockings—and petticoat.
Charlaine then went to her closet to pull out her only dress—the
one she wore to church every Sunday. It was once a brilliant
green dress with white trim. It had faded to the color of
an Easter egg.
She looked at her dress through the eyes of a classy lady,
and she noticed that the hem needed mending and the elbows
were worn. In her petticoat and stockings, she sat on her
sagging bed and mended. She hummed her favorite hymn—The
Lord is My Shepherd and I Shall Not Want—as she stitched.
Charlaine wondered what God would think of her plan for the
day. She wondered if he would be cross with her for wearing
her Sunday best on Tuesday. There was no way to find out if
he approved or disapproved, so she asked for forgiveness up
front in case he didn't.
As she finished getting ready, she imagined what she would
find—a dress with black sequins, a red satin gown with
a shawl, a sleek silver dress with lace sleeves, an ivory
ball gown with a flattering neckline, a sky blue one with
layers of taffeta. She might even find one with a pink jacket
and a matching hat with plumes. As she dreamed of the dresses
and gowns, she pricked her finger with her sewing needle.
She sucked it until it stopped bleeding and continued stitching
again.
After mending her dress, she pulled it over her head. It
was like an old, best friend. It never let her down, like
so many folks had.
She then searched her pockets, drawers, and underneath the
couch cushions for bus fare. Under the cushions, she found
a few Cheetos, some M&Ms, and $1.42 in change.
***************************************************
When she arrived at Bloomingdale's, she looked at the mannequins
in the window featuring a peasant style—flowing shirts
and puffy blouses. She didn't like the new fashions. It made
young people look like gypsies.
Then she caught her reflection in the picture window. Charlaine,
you look mighty smart. She pushed through the turnstile
and strode through the perfumy cosmetic counters to the escalator.
As she ascended effortlessly, she thought about how nice it
would be to have an escalator or even an elevator, for God's
sake, in her building.
As she approached the fancy dresses and gowns, she took dainty
steps, straightened her back, lifted her chin, and kept her
eyes focused straight-ahead. Charlaine did her best to remain
inconspicuous as she browsed. Browsing—the poor
woman's shopping.
Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed a plump strawberry
blonde shop girl talking to an older white female customer.
The older woman looked snooty and full of herself. She had
a Mary Tyler Moore look—gaunt with frozen facial features.
They looked over at Charlaine, and she busied herself with
browsing. She could feel their gaze burning a hole in her
as she looked at the evening gowns. They should mind their
own business. I'm surely minding mine.
In the size 14 section, she picked out a beaded lace gown,
a green long tiered dress, a fringed silk gown with a shawl,
and a colorful chiffon evening gown.
Her least favorite part of this experience was asking for
the dressing-room key. Why they locked the dressing rooms,
she'd never know. She thought it was enough to have plastic
security devices clamped to the dresses. Then a thought crossed
her mind, perhaps they had to double the security because
of people like her.
"Excuse me. May I please have a dressing room key?"
"How many pieces, please?"
"Four." The girl came out from behind the counter and counted
the dresses out loud as she fingered each one. She glanced
at the snooty lady after she finished her counting.
"OK. Here you go." The shop girl handed Charlaine a key and
then continued talking to the lady.
Charlaine picked the spacious dressing room at the end with
the three-way mirror. To Charlaine, the dressing room looked
like a room in a palace. It had high carved ceilings, an arched
doorway, wall sconces with light reflecting downward, a cream-colored
satin fainting couch, and seats with fancy pink cushions.
Before trying on the dresses, she kicked off her shoes and
reclined on the chaise lounge. She changed postures, trying
to figure out which one was the classiest. She chose the position
in which she was propped up on her side with her legs crossed—the
front one under the back—and her toes pointed. She whispered,
"Hello, dahling. So nice of you to join me" as she had seen
ladies in old movies talk. She could see herself in the mirror,
reclining. She puckered her lips and pretended to take a long
drag on a cigarette with a slender holder. Charlaine blew
the smoke up into the air.
"Are you doing OK in there?" asked the shop girl as she rat-a-tat-tatted
on the dressing-room door. Charlaine and her fake cigarette
swiveled to a seated position with straight posture and said,
"Why yes, of course."
"Do you need any other sizes, colors, or styles?" asked the
shop girl through the door.
"No, I'm doing just fine."
"OK, let me know if you need anything." Charlaine thought
she had better get busy trying on dresses before they got
suspicious out there. Maybe they already were.
She pulled on the long-tiered green dress. How it fell in
graceful layers at her ankles. The spunky green made her feel
like doing the cha-cha, which she did. She imagined herself
on a lighted cruise deck with a full band, dancing with a
gentleman in a white suit and a flower in his lapel.
After the cruise dance ended, she looked at herself again.
She thought she looked like a Christmas tree waiting to be
decorated. As she returned the green dress to its hanger,
she noticed the tag—$600. Two month's rent.
Then she pulled on the beaded lace dress. She stepped back
as far as she could go from the mirror and walked wedding-march
style with a pretend usher on her arm. Left. Together. Right.
Together. Left. Together. Right. And when she got to the mirror,
she said, "I do." The price tag on this dress—$900.
Three month's rent.
When she slipped on the ball gown with a tight mid-section—she
had to hold her breath to get the zipper up. She held the
gown at both sides and curtsied deeply until her knees creaked.
Good day, your highness. No wonder all those royals
seemed so uptight; they had to do deep knee bends while gasping
for air. She laughed out loud. This one was $1,200. Four
month's rent.
The last dress she tried on was a multi-color-hued layered
chiffon gown—bursts of swirling orange, lemon, and lavender.
It reminded her of rainbow sherbet—her favorite ice
cream flavor. The fountain of color poured over her chest,
and flowed out from the criss-crossing pieces between her
breasts. She grabbed the sides of the dress and danced—this
time with no one but herself. Flowing colors of movement.
If she was to imagine her spirit, this is what it would look
like.
"Are you doing OK in there?" The shop girl broke the spell.
"I'm fine." Why do they always have to keep asking if
you're OK? What do they think? That you get in here and suddenly
you're not OK? Maybe she's not OK out there with me in here.
"Why don't you hand me the dresses you don't want?" Charlaine's
hand reached out of the crack in the door with all of the
dresses but her favorite.
She wanted a few more minutes with the chiffon. Price tag:
$1,500. Five month's rent.
***************************************************
Charlaine walked out of the dressing room carrying the rainbow
chiffon dress. On the way to the rack, the flowing chiffon
got caught underneath her foot and she tripped and fell forward.
As her purse tumbled, the contents scattered all over the
floor. Oh me, oh my. As she collected herself, she
looked up toward the shop girl, "Oh, I'm sorry. I didn't mean
to…" The shop girl rescued the dress and inspected it.
The snooty lady appeared from behind a rack of black evening
gowns. "Are you OK?"
"Fine, fine, I'm fine." Charlaine looked at the mess she
had made of things and put her hand to her forehead. She then
started gathering her things—blush, lipstick, comb,
nail file, Kleenex, pennies, sunglasses, and a thimble. The
snooty lady bent down to help her. She was handing Charlaine
her food stamps. They each read: Food Coupon. Lordy me.
Now they know.
Charlaine couldn't look the now not-so-snooty lady in the
eye. She said thank you into her purse. That's what you
get for bein' where you have no business bein', Charlaine.
"Now, listen, are you sure you're OK? Watch out for evening
gowns. They can be downright perilous." The not-so-snooty
lady let out a tight, controlled laugh, and helped Charlaine
to her feet. Charlaine didn't know what perilous meant, but
she laughed anyway.
"Why, thank you, ma'am. I'm so grateful to you. I think I
need to go wash up."
"The restroom is right by the dressing rooms," the shop girl
said. Charlaine left, holding her head down low and watching
her step. As she turned to go the restroom, she noticed the
not-so-snooty lady whispering to the shop girl. Sweet
Jesus. Charlaine, you're done in.
***************************************************
Charlaine planned to escape from the scene unnoticed, but
she had to walk by the shop girl to get out. She willed herself
to be invisible. Funny how when I want to be invisible,
I never am.
"Excuse me, ma'am," said the shop girl. Oh no, here it
comes. "I think you're forgetting something."
"Something from my purse, you mean?" She hoped it wasn't
more food stamps.
"The dress."
"Is there a problem?"
"No problem."
"I don't understand. I was just trying it on. That's all.
And then I tripped, but I don't think I did it any harm."
"You do like the dress. Don't you?"
"Surely, but I need to think on it awhile. I like to think
before I buy. You know, sleep on it and such." The girl then
took the dress off the hanger, and walked behind the counter.
Charlaine tucked her pocketbook underneath her arm and started
to leave.
"Wait a minute while I box it for you." Charlaine stopped,
still bewildered. The girl was trying to get her to admit
to not being able to afford it, because now she knew the truth.
The shop girl produced a large shiny pink and black box and
carefully folded the dress with light pink tissue paper into
the box. After the boxing and bagging was finished, the girl
handed the bag over the counter to Charlaine. Charlaine pretended
to look through her pocketbook for money.
"Silly me. I left my credit cards at home." Then the shop
girl held up her finger, inviting Charlaine to stand closer
to the counter.
"We run a special every month in which one of our customers
is selected to be queen for a day. This month, we picked you!"
Charlaine couldn't believe her ears. She was as unlucky as
they came—she lost in poker with the ladies, got bad
fortunes with her once-a-month Kung Pao shrimp, and never
won at Lotto. She held her hand to her chest to steady herself
and make sure her heart wasn't going to give out.
"Me? I'm the queen?"
"Yep, you sure are. Here, I have something else for you."
The girl reached under the counter and produced a tiara, not
the fake dime-store type, but a real honest to goodness tiara
with jewels. She walked around the counter and positioned
the tiara on Charlaine's head.
"There, oh how pretty. It suits you." She handed Charlaine
a mirror. "Take a look." Charlaine blushed when she saw herself
in the tiara. She had to admit she looked real fine.
"Well, Lordy me. I've never heard of such a thing."
"I know. That's because it's a well-kept secret."
"I've never won a thing in all my years."
"Don't you think it's about time, then?" Charlaine wondered
if it took 55 years of living for her luck to change.
"I s'pose it is. Thank you, miss." Charlaine held her head
high as she sported her tiara and carried her royal dress
through the evening gowns and formal dresses. She thought
she might have seen the not-so-snooty lady watching her from
across the way, but she couldn't be sure. Right then and there
she decided that you surely can't judge a book by its cover.
As Charlaine waited for the 2:13 pm bus in front of the department
store, she decided that her pastor was dead-on. There was
something to being the change you wanted to see.
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