The Beautiful Misfits, page 16
“I’ve got this,” she said. “She’s one of my best clients. Aren’t you Mrs.…Mrs.… Seems I’ve forgotten your last name, sugar.”
Josie couldn’t resist. “She’s just here to see you, aren’t you, Mrs. Roland?” She’d read the name on the Brigman’s charge card.
“I need to return all of this,” the woman said, clearly losing her patience. “I’m going back to Origins because this clearly doesn’t work with my skin.” Josie could see Pauline’s brain ticking. She’d try to find a loophole so this return wouldn’t take a chunk out of her sales-per-hour numbers. Her hands trembled as she scurried and lined up the products.
“Are you sure I can’t put this all on a nice Brigman’s gift card for you?” she asked, her voice taking on a desperate tone.
“Do you think I want a useless gift card? I want it all back on my Brigman’s card. Then I can afford that face-lift you told me I needed.”
“Now, Mrs. Rowan—”
“Roland,” the woman snapped. And with that, neither woman said another word. They stared at each other through narrowed eyes. As Pauline processed the return, she banged her register as if she were trying to kill it. She slid the return receipt onto the counter and didn’t give the woman another look.
When Mrs. Roland left and Pauline dropped her slightly used products in the damages drawer, Josie knew she’d have hell to pay. “I need the rest of the customers this week to make up for this disaster.”
If you’d quit overselling you wouldn’t have such astronomical returns, Josie thought. And I’ll be damned from here on out if I give you a single customer I work with. Another woman appeared and Pauline jumped on her like a tick on a shelter dog. “Hola, and welcome to La Belleza. How can I help you look and feel more beautiful today than you already are? Not that that’s possible, honey.”
The woman must have been pushing eighty and had gorgeous cream skin set off with a shimmering turquoise scarf. She wore the bright colors of happy women, aging ladies who reach a certain birthday and realize accessories and bold hues redirect the eyes from time’s handiwork.
“I don’t know,” she said. “I’m just browsing and killing time until I meet my daughter for lunch at that Asian place.”
Pauline wasn’t about to let this one go. She eyeballed the woman’s floral Coach tote and the sparkling half-dozen carats stacked three-rings high on her third finger. “Here, take a seat and let me pamper you, baby doll,” she said, all but pushing the woman into a chair. “What kind of skin care are you currently using, angel?”
Good Lord. Josie forced herself not to roll her eyes at Pauline’s baby talk: honey, angel, sweetie, darling. It was nauseating.
“Nothing but Ponds Cold Cream,” the lady said, smug with satisfaction.
Pauline’s face dropped and she stretched her lips over those massive teeth, trying to purse them into concern. She looked exactly like an egret: tall, every feature pointed and sharp except that weak chin. She’d caked on the makeup today, even more so than usual, trying to do the cat-eyed look and failing miserably. She also sported two circles of pink blush, not even smoothed out, and looked as if she’d just crawled from two sleepless nights at a Motel 6.
“Do you mind if I take off your makeup and treat you to a little demo?” she asked the woman who clutched her Coach as if Pauline might snatch it from her hands. “I can also give you a hand massage with our new Dulce Rosa perfume. It means ‘sweet rose’ in Spanish and is heavenly.”
The woman settled her purse and folded her arms. “I don’t need all that nonsense. I only came in for an eyebrow pencil. I’m more than happy with the five-dollar Ponds I get at Walgreens.”
Pauline wasn’t going to settle for a measly twenty-five-dollar sale. “Well, honey, your skin is looking drier than a Pentecostal wedding.” She laughed at her rather inappropriate joke, but the woman didn’t crack a smile. “I’ll just treat you to our luxurious serums and creams and let you feel how wonderful they are. It’ll be the same as getting a free facial, lovie.”
Pauline set her trap. While layering everything but cadaver skin on this poor woman, she barked orders at Josie when customers walked up. “Ring that up under my number, and I mean every word of it in large caps.” Every time she saw someone ease toward the counter, her eyes flashed. Josie had had enough of Pauline and rang the sales for herself.
The cold-cream woman grew restless and tried to stand. “Wait a minute, sugar doll, we’re just getting started.” Pauline all but strapped Mrs. “Ponds” in a straitjacket to keep her seated. The woman stole pleading glances at Josie, but half an hour later, she stood before the cash register as if facing execution. With every barcode zapped, a rush of pleasure flooded Pauline’s clown face.
“You putting this on your Brigman’s card, sweetness?”
“I don’t have it with me. I don’t even know if I have one.”
“Sugar, that’s not a problem. I can save you twenty percent on all this fabulous skin care if we just take two minutes to get you one of our rewards cards.” She leaned into the poor woman as if talking to a child. “Honey, they are wonderful. You’ll get so many more coupons than the other Brigman’s shoppers and you’ll get free bonus dollars to spend on anything. No exceptions or exclusions.”
Josie was tempted to add, Don’t dare bring bonus dollars to the makeup counter when Pauline’s presiding. No way is she allowing them to eat away her commission.
The elderly woman’s head bobbed in confusion as Pauline scanned items and crowed about the virtues of a Brigman’s card. She’d come in for her brow pencil, and Pauline rang up nearly seven hundred dollars’ worth of products she told the woman were must-haves because that Ponds would eat her alive.
“I have enough cards,” Mrs. “Ponds” said suddenly as if Pauline’s words had just sunk in.
“Lovie, you need a Brigman’s card. Now let’s get you signed up so you can save that twenty percent.”
When it was all over, the woman, whose mind earlier had been sharp as a five-blade razor, slipped into a stress-induced daze. Her head twitched and she tottered toward the doors opening into the mall. She peered into her Brigman’s bag as if she’d just bought a python.
“This…this is how you do it,” Pauline said with a snarky grin. “This is why I’m top dog around here. I’m going to smoke now. One celebratory cig. When I get back, I want you to have a living, breathing body in the freaking chair. That’s the only way to make it in this business, and we’re trying to take over the Big Three.”
Josie thought she heard incorrectly. “I’m not certified,” she said.
“You are now,” Pauline muttered. “Mr. Hoven pulled rank on Fabiana.”
Josie wondered if this was another of Pauline’s tricks. “And ring it in under your number?”
“Not now,” she said with a smirk. “I’m being generous while on my little break.”
After Pauline left, Josie found her mind rolling from Pog to Finley and wondered if what Pog proposed in that TED Talk was ludicrous or genius. She’d work up the nerve to call him later and delve more into his out-of-the-box ideas on treating addiction. Her thoughts broke when Philly’s booming voice rang out over the intercom.
“ATTENTION, BRIGMAN’S BEAUTIES! Are you listening? Let’s all pause and get quiet. Okay, good. Now that I have your attention, I want you to come directly to the Lancôme counter. Today only, as in right now, we’re having a Go Fishing booth. You remember that one from the carnivals of yesteryear? Well, march over to Lancôme and with every free foundation match and free ten-day supply of our makeup, we’ll let you go fishing. Everybody who fishes gets a fabulous prize. ALL FOR FREE! Come on over and get this free mud.” Philly giggled. “Mud, you say? Yes, that’s what my daddy always called foundation. He’d say, ‘Girl, whatcha doing with all that mud caked on your face?’ So come on down, ladies. You are the next contestant for FREE MUD and Go Fishing at Lancôme! And as always…we’ll be happy to service you with our free facials. Yes, ma’am, we’ll WIPE YOU DOWN and GREASE YOU UP. You’ll be slippery as a salamander and glowed up in no time. Remember our motto: BETTER LATE THAN UGLY!”
Josie couldn’t help but laugh and was still giggling when Pauline returned, smelling like breath mints and cigarettes. She plopped down her clear bag, pack of Misty’s in full view. “So how did it go while I was on my break? Did you sell anything?”
“One woman stopped by, but she just wanted a free sample.”
“Did you log her name and information in our sample book?”
“Well, I was going to but—”
“Cheap-asses only wanting samples. I’ve told you, sampling should always, I mean always, lead to selling with a capital S. Don’t let them get the free shit and leave.” Pauline opened the sample drawer and removed most of the items. “Use these only if someone sits down for the full La Belleza experience.”
“Pauline, we have plenty of samples, more than we can use,” Josie said, standing up for herself.
As Pauline rustled around the counter, a customer stood near the back with a list. Yes, a list! The most beautiful sight for a cosmetics worker. And on that list was a column of products.
“May I help you with La Belleza today?” Josie whispered, praying Pauline wouldn’t overhear with those bat ears of hers.
“Yes, I need to replenish.” Words of gold.
“Hey, sugar,” Pauline said, rising from the cubby where they stashed coats and personal belongings. “I thought you were coming to see me today.” She turned those soulless eyes on Josie. “I’ve got this.”
Josie groaned and headed to the Lancôme counter where Philly stood poised over pen and paper, probably working up more announcements. “I’m going to call him,” Josie said. “I mean he did a groundbreaking TED Talk and his website is fascinating. You should hear his ideas on addiction and rehabs.”
Philly set down her pen and pointed across the aisle. “I don’t know a thing about TED Talking but no need to call him. Look to your left. He was coming to see you, but that new woman at Estée snagged him.”
And there he was. Paul Oscar Gavins. Pog.
16
Josie drew a Ruby Necessary-style breath and rounded the corner to find Pog sitting in one of Estée Lauder’s makeup chairs. He was patiently listening to a striking middle-aged beauty adviser Josie’d never seen.
His Chanel Blue seduced her, and she reminded herself, No men. And certainly not now⸺with Finley’s condition and their estrangement. Even so, she’d be lying to herself if she didn’t imagine her son happy and thriving at Pog’s unconventional rehab.
Josie double-checked La Belleza to make sure Pauline was still occupied. As Pog conversed with and smiled at this deeply tanned woman, Josie overheard her saying something about her former job as a Miami Heat dancer and her past relationship with Tiger Woods.
Old Hoven’s at it again, hiring those with high-profile pasts, Josie thought and cleared her throat. “Pog?” He turned around and flashed his sweeping smile.
“I tried to give him a facial,” the Miami Heat woman said and held her shoulders back so her breasts inched farther out. She cocked her head and sucked in her stomach, posturing as if to assert dominance.
Josie nodded and smiled. She lifted Pog’s hand, surprised by her boldness. “Someone needs to give him a thick cream for these ranch paws.”
“Never trust a man whose hands haven’t seen a good day’s labor,” he said, azure eyes shining. “Cowboy hands equal a prince’s heart.” He swiveled in the chair, so he was fully facing Josie. “I trust you’ve seen the talks and website. You may have questions.”
He certainly got right to the point—even assuming she’d already ventured into Stalk Town. “Questions wouldn’t begin to cover it,” Josie said. “Why do you want me to see and hear about all this?”
The Estée Lauder lady had strutted to another client, leaving Josie with Pog. “Have a bit of faith,” he said. “Let’s talk and I’ll explain everything and where you come in. I take it this isn’t the place for such a conversation?”
“Where I come in?” Josie had so many questions for this man, some she wouldn’t have the nerve to ask. Questions about that night at the Westin. “I was wondering why you—” The cell in Josie’s pocket vibrated against her thigh. She froze and nerves thumped at her chest; she never knew from day to day what such messages would entail. She always feared each time it rang or buzzed that it was her due date for the call.
She picked it up.
A text from Finley read, “I need money!! What kind of mother won’t even give her son a dollar? I’m asking one more time nicely. Are you willing to help your son? This is a messed-up world that has mistreated me. Thanks for the last batch of groceries and clothes. BUT I NEED YOU TO TRUST ME WITH FUCKING MONEY!!!”
This wasn’t her boy, her Finley. This was the drugs talking. She willed a calm, trying not to let his words take root and choke off love. She remembered what Philly had said: love is a verb. Philly had forced herself to actively love Carmen while she was using.
“You okay?” Pog reached for Josie as she teetered. “Should I get you water? Do you need to go outside for air?”
She braced herself on the chair and her heart twisted. She thought of Finley’s escalating drug use and erratic behavior. His messages had disintegrated from horrible to heart-shattering. He was advancing toward death or imprisonment, and she knew, with the powerful instincts of a mother, that her time had run out.
“I get off at six,” she told Pog. “Here, I’ll write down my address. Don’t come before eight. Please. I have to get my daughter to bed.”
Another text pinged. “BUT YOU don’t care DO YOU!!!”
Josie shut off her phone and remembered her son as a little boy, smelling like sunshine and dog, wet mud and joy. Some nights Josie’s dreams were so real she could smell him in her sleep, as if he were on the pillow next to her: the Aveeno baby shampoo and Dreft detergent; the waxy crayons and tempera paints; the Axe deodorant heralding his early teens; and finally, Polo colognes and the odor of skunk from blunts and bongs, and the last time…that chemical ammonia smell she couldn’t identify.
After leaving work it took everything Josie had not to stop by the store for wine. Once she got home and fed Dottie supper, played Barbies, and amped up their reading and math lessons with Skittles as rewards, she watched the TED Talk. Again.
She revisited the Vintage Crazy website, shaking her head in disbelief and wonder at much of it but finding so many aha moments in what Pog proposed. She poured a lemon La Croix and jotted notes from the talk.
“Nothing we’ve been doing in the United States to treat addiction is working,” Pog told his audience. “Addiction and recovery are not one-size-fits-all.” He strode across the stage under dim lighting, wearing those faded jeans that caught his sculpted legs without being obscene. His white button-down shirt skimmed his broad chest. Whew. Josie needed to focus on the message. Not the messenger.
“You can’t cram the Twelve Steps down a person with aversions to the spiritual component of the program or who shuts down at the words, ‘You can never drink or use again in your entire life.’ We need treatment centers in this country that offer more than one method of recovery.
“Let’s end the utterly dismal failure called the ‘War on Drugs’ and quit punishing those with addictions.” The camera panned to a rapt audience. “It’s time, my friends, to give addicts a rich life that includes an environment to support meaningful connections and work—real jobs and careers. Got a felony drug charge? Too bad. No career for you in life, but hey…if you’d want to stand in front of a conveyor belt for eight hours putting pieces of Styrofoam on bottles of ibuprofen, we have a job for you.
“Don’t get me wrong. There is absolutely nothing wrong with honest work. But for many addicts, opportunity just isn’t there. Why not train them? Educate them? Give them opportunities?” He shook his head and paused. “Our country punishes and incarcerates people with addiction, pressing charges that forever ruin their lives. Even companies that say they hire felons, often don’t.”
It seemed each time Josie watched the segment, she learned something new. Of particular interest was Pog’s description of the Rat Park experiment conducted in the late seventies by the Canadian psychologist Bruce Alexander. A researcher had separated rats into two cages: some in a stimulating one with wheels and tunnels, cool things for rats to do; the others in a boring, isolated cage. He then gave the rats morphine to measure the effect of the environment on addiction rates. The ‘Rat Park’ experiment was intended to discredit the flawed understanding concerning addiction. Because during that time, every specialist thought the drug itself was the most important factor in whether someone became addicted. But it wasn’t.
“In this experiment,” Pog said, “the rats in both cages became physically dependent on the morphine, but the Rat Park rats with lots to do in their tricked-out cages consumed far less morphine than the group in the boring cage with nothing to do. So, what did Alexander conclude?” Pog raised his eyebrows and pressed his lips. “Alexander famously said, ‘Addiction isn’t you—it’s the cage you live in.’
“At our facility, Vintage Crazy: Resort and Rehab, we’re providing those with addictions a human version of ‘Rat Park,’ complete with education, careers, and a breathtaking place to live for up to a year. Thirty-day rehabs are too short and aren’t working.”
Josie’s hand cramped from scribbling notes. She checked the time. Pog was due in less than ten minutes. She thought about Finley’s cage, the dark basement where he played Mortal Kombat and Call of Duty, not coming out of the house for days (weeks?) at a time. He had a college degree in video game design, but no one would hire him because of his criminal record. Or so he said. Maybe he wasn’t even looking for jobs.
