Welcome to The Soap Opera Series where over the course of the next several weeks I will feature one of my books in its entirety, a segment at at time, right here on my blog...for free! So stop by every Wednesday and Saturday beginning August 14, 2013 for new episode postings. Kicking the series off is my novel: A Little Hurt Ain't Never Hurt Nobody. Enjoy it!
A Little Hurt Ain't Never Hurt Nobody
Continued
Continued
Taylor was late for work again. I shook my head as I reviewed her attendance record for the past three months reflecting a string of tardies, call-ins and even a couple of no-call no-shows that had been documented by Michetta. Overall, she was a good employee and a great sales associate but she just couldn’t get herself together to come to work on time. I’d tried to be lenient and give the girl a break since she was finishing up her last year in college, but still there was no way I could continue to ignore what was before me.
Closing Taylor’s file, I moved on to the financial books, carefully reviewing line after line of sales figures and recorded bank deposits. The sales numbers were still trending upward and with the Christmas season well on its way and Valentine’s Day following, things could only get better. Before I could finish tracking my projections and breaking out sales goals by month, week, day and sales associates, the back door bell chimed , signaling that the UPS driver had arrived with the day’s merchandise shipment. I was expecting twenty-three boxes filled with garments for a floor set up change that I’d planned for the next week.
“Good morning,” I spoke rhetorically, anxious to get back to my paperwork. I’d barely even looked out the door, expecting to see Yolanda, the usual driver, but instead, I was startled by a voice that sounded as if it belonged to Barack Obama.
“Good morning to you.” Quickly, my head whipped back around and looked into the eyes of a man who could be easily mistaken for Omar Epps’ twin brother. He chuckled a bit at my expression, which probably looked a lot like a deer in headlights. “The other driver resigned, so I’ve taken over this route,” he explained. “I’m Jaxon.”
“Oh. Nice to meet you,” I said with little feeling to cover my slight spark of interest. “I’m Jream Colton. I own the store.” Quickly we shook hands and my fingers instantly sensed warmth and power in his touch. “How many do you have?” I asked referring to the box count. He confirmed exactly what I was expecting, then began to stack the boxes against a back wall while I pretended to busy myself with my duties, but couldn't help but watch him. He worked quickly and steadily while I discreetly absorbed his physique; a well built solid frame, standing around 6’2”.
“Alright,” he heaved, setting the last box atop of three others. “That’s the last one.” He handed me the electronic clipboard and stylus for my signature, which I scribbled quickly. “What’s your last name again,” he asked with his eyes pointed downward as keyed in a few numbers. “Colton,” I stuttered imagining for a moment that he would program that bit of information in his memory bank. If he did, nothing about his nonverbal language gave indication of it.
“Thanks. You have a great day,” he said almost as nonchalantly as I’d initially greeted him.
“You too.” Secretly I hoped he would look up from his clip board one last time to give our eyes a chance to connect, but no such luck. Like a rabbit he hopped into his truck and with a loud rumble, pulled away, leaving me standing in the doorway like we were lovers who were being forced to separate because of a long journey that he couldn't avoid. Catching myself, although it was probably too late, I stepped back inside my store.
“Get a hold of yourself Jream,” I chided. Just then, Taylor burst through the swinging door shrugging out of her coat.
“Sorry I’m late,” she huffed. “I got caught up at school; our lab time ran over.” Avoiding eye contact with me she hung her coat up and stuffed her purse into a locker. “All this stuff came today?”
“Yeah. I don’t want it out on the floor until next Monday. You can go ahead and start prepping it though. How did things go last night?”
“Pretty good. We had a rush right before we closed; a group of women came in here shopping for a bridal shower and picked up practically everything thing in the store, took it off the hanger, turned it inside out, put them down just any old where, like they never heard of put stuff back where you found it. We were in here for almost an hour trying to get the store back straight. The good part was they spent close to a thousand dollars.”
“Great. Had they shopped here before?”
“A couple of them mentioned coming in before and eyeing a few things.”
“Well we could always stand to increase our customer base.” I flipped through a rack of garments that had
been placed on lay away, checking the names and dates to make sure they were all current. “Before you start on this shipment, make sure that Michetta doesn’t need any help on the sales floor. I’ll be out there in about thirty more minutes.”
“Alright. Let me run in the ladies room real quick and I’ll be right out there.”
Pushing through the garments, I took note of a red, long sleeved sheer robe trimmed in chandelle feathers and rhinestones, and a matching pair of open crotch panties. I owned one just like it and it had been one of Cade’s favorite things to see me in. Without warning a flood of emotions washed over me, but I successfully held back my tears. I just didn't feel like it today.
Once Taylor came out of the bathroom and headed for the sales floor, my tears fell anyway. I missed Cade terribly and I was sick of it. Here I was working like a maniac to keep Sweet Jream’s alive and thriving while he was taking his ease in Zion sipping virgin pina coladas out of some golden goblet chumming it up with the Lord in paradise. We were supposed to be running this store together. Not me alone stressing over inventory, work hours, under-performing employees, merchandise shrinkage and money shortages. It just wasn't fair. The more I stared at that robe wallowing in my feelings of desertion and extreme loss, the angrier I got all over again. I became so angry that suddenly, I felt empowered as I realized that while I’d been functioning, I’d been living in a gloomy depressive fog for over a year now.
“That’s it.” I declared. “You left me, and I’m going to live my life. I’m not going to cry another day over your dead body Cade Aramis Colton.” Grabbing my purse, I ran to the bathroom and looked myself square in the eye. I had bags and dark circles under my eyes, my skin was beginning to sag around my cheekbones from all the weight I’d lost, my collar bones protruded as if I was a starving citizen of a third world country and my clothes just hung on my body and was no better shaped than if they were still on the hanger and waiting to be purchased. My hair was brittle and scraggly looking and seemed to be thinning at my temples. The whole perimeter of my head was full of what Martin Payne would call beady-beads. I was ashamed of myself. I’d let myself go so much that I looked like I had one foot in the grave and the other on a banana peel. No wonder that woman at the church said she was gonna talk to somebody about the people that came up in their church. How was it that I’d not noticed how bad I looked before now? And to think that I actually wanted the UPS man to take a second look at me; it’s a good thing he didn't. I decided right then and there, I wasn’t going to live another day looking like death.
Rushing from the back room, I whizzed past Michetta and Taylor, rambling off instructions. “Taylor, go ahead and start on the stock, Michetta, have Tweet close up with out me tonight. I need to go take care of something. Call me on my cell if you need to.”
Both ladies’ faces expressed confusion surprised by my sudden and unexplained departure.
“Is everything okay?” Michetta called after me, but I didn’t stop my stride to say anything more than,
"Yeah, everything’s fine.” At that I was gone. Settling into my driver’s seat, I turned the key barely noticing the low purr of my S-Class Mercedes as it started up while I thought about what it was I wanted to do first. A massage, have my brows waxed, get a manicure and pedicure, get some new clothes - something that actually fit me now that I was twenty pounds lighter, and definitely do something to this head of mine which was far beyond out of control. It had been so long since I’d gotten my hair done, I had no clue as to where to go. I was strangely prompted to run my fingers through my hair, but my fingertips were met by a tangled mess of naps more than two inches thick. It was a wonder I hadn't cut myself.
Maybe I could find somewhere to have it braided. Before I could talk myself out of it, I pulled out my phone and did a search on African Braid shops. Fifteen minutes later, I’d spoken to a stylist named Isha, who after asking me a few questions about my hair, promised to have me looking like a queen in about six hours. Right away, I headed for East Little Creek Road, equipped with the three latest issues of O Magazine, which were stuffed in the bottom of an over-sized tote bag that never seemed to leave my car.
Isha took one look at my hair and instantly began to reprimand me.
“You should take better care of your hair,” she said with a rich and beautiful accent as she pushed her fingers through my mane. “Your hair is very dry. What do you use for conditioner?” I was embarrassed that I didn’t have an acceptable answer. “I will take care of you,” she said both assuring and relieving me. “You will be beautiful.”
Settling in her chair, I put my mind at ease and began reading my magazine, flipping randomly through a few pages. The very first words I read hit me like a ton of bricks forcing me to take a deep hard look at myself and what I’d become . . . or what I really was. Oprah’s words were that you get to know who you really are in a crisis. Still turned towards the mirror, I was compelled to stare at my reflection, assessing myself all over again, realizing what my own personal crisis had revealed about me. My crisis showed me that I was a hermit and a hag. I’d totally neglected myself in an attempt to ignore and run from my problems, spending countless and unnecessary hours at work doing what I could have easily delegated to my staff. My kids had been living off a combination of fast and frozen, processed foods, and the meager (and sometimes awful) renderings of a sixteen year old cook. Water filled my eyes and threatened to tumble from my lower lids, but I pressed my the back of my hands again them, coaxing the tears to change directions. Isha noticed my struggle.“Do I pull too hard?” she asked concerned for my comfort.
“No, no; I’m fine. Just my allergies,” I lied. Lied . . . that is was I’d done to myself for the past several months. I’d lied that I was okay, and things were fine. I’d lied that my kids were getting older and didn't need me as much. I’d lied and said that I looked just fine and outward appearances didn't count for a hill of beans. I’d lied to myself and said that the operation of the store was the most important thing in my life. It was the salve I thought I needed to sooth my hurts, but I’d done nothing but deceive myself. Now acutely aware of this, it was time for a new truth to be revealed.
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