Project Produce(3)
“Why?”
“Well, I sorta got off on the wrong foot with my professor when I told him I didn’t need to do the project, I just needed therapy. He accused me of not taking his course seriously, and then he assigned me a project he thought I wouldn’t be able to pull off. He’s setting me up to fail, so now I have to prove him wrong.”
“Ah, you’ll do fine. Just forget about Professor Butthead. He’s probably a teeny-weenie, anyway.” Propping her elbows on the desk, she looked up at me and asked, “So, whatcha gonna do?”
I wasn’t going to quit, even if it killed me. I sighed, knowing I’d probably gain ten more pounds, because it was going to take a whole lot of macaroni and cheese to get me through this one. “The only thing I can,” I answered. “Put Project Produce into motion and try not to make a fool of myself as I shop for a pickle, a cucumber, and a zucchini.”
“You need any help telling if one’s ripe, just ask.” She winked and then went to the coat closet. After glancing outside, she faced me with a frown. “I gotta go, but I hate to leave you here alone, honey. Simpson makes me so mad I could spit.” She stomped her red stiletto and conducted an imaginary orchestra while she ranted. “I mean, hasn’t he seen the news lately, or what? We don’t have any stinkin’ security. No video camera. No nothin’. He should at least have two of us working, but he’s too damn cheap for that.”
“Absolutely,” I agreed. Not that I’d had time to watch the news. And not that I’d cared to, after seeing my own face plastered on the local channel back home more times than I could count. Then there was the newspaper. There had been so many inaccuracies I’d lost faith in all journalists, so what was the point?
Gloria looked me over. “Honey, your country-fresh face and blond hair are gonna land you in trouble. I’m leavin’ my pepper spray under the counter in case any pervy types come in.”
“Thanks, now stop worrying.” I tipped my lips up in a half-smile.
Gloria in her black leather micro-mini was more in danger of landing in ‘trouble’ than I would ever be. I had always been the simple “Average Jane” type, taller than most of the men I’d met. It wasn’t like I thought I was the ugly duckling, but I sure as heck hadn’t blossomed into a swan. Men didn’t flock to me the way they flocked to women like Gloria. Or at least they hadn’t before the scandal.
“They’ll love your song tonight,” I said, needing to get my mind off that. I secretly wished I had a good voice, but everyone had always told me I couldn’t sing to save my life.
“You really think so?” Gloria squealed, slipping on her black leather jacket and red silk scarf. At my nod, she snapped her spine straight and dived into another symphony. “You are so right. I’m good, dammit. Gonna be a big star someday.” She sailed out the door, a string of Spanish trailing in her wake as she swung her hips in a way that could make a man go cross-eyed.
I leaned against the window and watched through the dirty glass with a smile of amusement that faded fast. The neon sign of the Triple X video store across the street blinked against the harsh glare of the graffiti-laden streetlights, and I could hear the sound of an ambulance siren wailing in the distance. I felt so out of my element, but I needed a place like this: a place where nobody knew me, a place where gossip didn’t follow me every step I took.
A place where nobody had ever heard of “Callie Conquers Cutesville.”
Working in this dump wasn’t exactly what I’d had in mind, but I’d spent my first night in town here, and that’s where I’d met Gloria. She’d gotten me a job and given me a place to stay. It was a start, so how could I complain?
My temples began to throb from the poor lighting. I wandered behind the front desk, propped my chin on the palm of my hand, and then glanced at the clock on the wall. Midnight, and not a soul in sight. Good. I could use a nice, quiet evening. And maybe I would even come up with a plan to find my subjects for this absurd project.
I pulled out a piece of water-stained hotel paper and started to jot down ideas when the broken bell over the front door clanged out a half-hearted welcome. A man in a Trench coat burst into the lobby, and my pulse kicked into overdrive. So much for a quiet evening.
A scruffy brown beard and weathered hat hid the man’s features, but judging from the look of him, he had to be here to see Simpson. Unsavory characters had been coming and going all week, and this guy had ‘unsavory’ written all over him.
I sat up straight and tried to quiet my pounding heart by taking a deep breath and asking, “How may I help you, sir?” I felt around beneath the desk for the pepper spray. If this guy didn’t qualify as a “pervy type,” then no one did.