Stains and Secrets

It smells like wet pretzels and old piss. That’s a new combination. 

“Okay, Mr. Dzhambazov, don’t you worry ‘bout a thing. We’ll get this jacket lookin’ like it did the day you snagged it off the rack at Gimbels,” I say. Thank gawd he’s hard of hearin’ – I don’t think anyone is buyin’ my faked enthusiasm these days.

“This is a verrrry special jacket, Irene. It abso-lutely must come back to me in mint condition. Mint. Con-di-shon. You unde’stand?” He taps his right index and middle fingers to the palm of his left with such vigor I worry he’ll knock himself off balance.

“Of course, Mr. Dzhambazov. You’re our best customer! You get the VIP treatment around here. You know that!” I tell him.

He waves my comments off. “Well, you goys always do nice wohk – except fo’ that one time with those pants.” (I surreptitiously roll my eyes.) “But I know you’ll take cayah o’ everything. It’s just that this is very special.”

I extend my hands to take it from him. “I know, sir. You don’t need to wor-ry. I’ll guad it with my entiyuh anatomy.” I flinch ever so slightly as he hands the scent bomb to me, then smack my gum and give him my best almost-sincere smile. It works. 

“Good girl. I’ll be back to pick it up on Friday, same as always.”

“Alright, then. We’ll see you on Friday, Mr. Dzhambazov. Take cayuh now!”

I watch the ancient-looking man amble out of our Queens dry cleaning shop, back arched so uncomfortably it was a miracle his fraying newsboy cap didn’t slide right off his head and land at his feet. When I’m sure he’s gone, I push the ratty brown tweed jacket he’d brought in as far away from my nostrils as humanly possible. 

“THEO!” I shout to my brother over the din of the dress shirts shimmying past on the automatic rack behind me. “Old Mr. Dzhambazov brought in that rag-of-a-jacket again. No clue what he’s done to it this time. Smells like a cat threw up on it or somethin’.”

Theo appears at my side like a kid playing hide-and-seek who pops out of a clothing rack at Macy’s, making me jump. “Christ, Irene. Why’d you even take it? That thing is so threadbay-uh it’s gonna disintegrate one of these times after I treat it,” he says. “Jesus, I can smell it from here. What the hell is that?”

“I didn’t ask,” I say, wrinkling my nose. “I just feel so bad for the old guy. He lives alone now. I don’t think he’s dealing well with his wife passing. He’s got no kids. It’s the least we can do,” I suggest half-heartedly. 

“Jesus,” Theo says again under his breath. “This is the last time on this jacket. Really. You hav’tuh tell him when he comes back in to get it. The elbow patches are literally gonna fall off if I keep treating it. And for Christ’s sake, ask him why he rolls around in cat piss so much.”

I roll my eyes at him as he picks up the smelly lump and carries it to the back of the shop at arm’s length. After he leaves, I grab my soft cover novel and pick back up where I left off. Robert Langdon and Sophie Neveu are about to crack a code. Mr. Dzhambazov’s untimely entrance interrupted them solving the puzzle. 

Lucky for me, Tuesdays are slow in the shop. It’s the one weekday when I feel like I’m just a temp and not a lifer. At forty-two with no degree and no other work experience, though, that was laughable. But whatever. I have my books to escape. 

It must be an hour later when I hear the bell on the door clank again. I raise my eyes and immediately summon up my best resting bitch face as Simon Listorelli walks into the waiting area, long-fingered hands in his pockets and bald head gleaming in the unforgiving fluorescents. 

“How can I help you, Simon?” I ask without taking my attention away from my book. 

“Well, hello to you, too, Irene,” he replies. As he chuckles to himself, he starts to hack like an emphysemic feline on life support. It’s disgusting; I can hear globs of shit rattling in his windpipe as he gasps to catch his breath.

“You really otta see somebody about that cough, Simon. You sound like you’re at death’s dow-uh.”

He gives one more grunting cough. “Don’t sound too excited. Plenty of people will be sad to see me go when I die.”

I finally deign to look up at him. “What do you want, Simon? I don’t have any money. We’re not short-handed. And you smell like you bathed in a vat of Budweis-uh. I’m surprised you can even stand upright.”

“Look, I’m not comin’ around lookin’ fo’ no handout,” he says. Incidentally, his hand is extended as he says it. “I just came by to see how the shop was doin’ and to see if you’d heard from Margie.” 

“She doesn’t want to talk to you, Simon. You know that.”

“Well sometimes she doesn’t know what’s best for huh.”

“Oh, really? Is what’s best for huh getting smacked around by your sorry drunk ass? On a Thursday night? After you lose all your money in a poker game hosted in the kitchen of a pizza parlor? Or maybe it’s bein’ cheated on with some whore you met ‘waiting for Father Monigan at confession.’ Jesus, you’re unbelievable. Get the fuck outta here.” 

“Hey, Irene. Calm down. I’m just tryin’ t’ make amends.” 

“Too little, too fucking late, Simon,” I spit at him, shooing him away with my free hand. “Sign the divorce papers. Leave her be. You’re starin’ down the barrel end of a restraining or-duh and a six-month stay at Rikers.”

Simon rotates his hands upward, palms facing me, as if to tell me to back off. “Whoa, whoa, whoa. Take it easy. I’m not here to make trouble.”

“You’re always here to make trouble. So you can go now. Bye!” 

“Don’t be like that, Irene. You know I’m tryin’ t’ turn things around,” he says in his unconvincing whine. “I’m doing the best I can here.”

“You are not doing the best you can. The best you can would be to agree to the divorce and walk outta all our lives, asshole. Now seriously, leave. You’re setting off my olfactory sense and I don’t think I’ll ever recover.” 

“Oh, as if you’re so blameless. What about that time you slept with—”

“We are not talkin’ about my sins, Simon. In fact, we’re done talkin’ about yours. Again, BYE!” I point my immaculately red-varnished pointer finger toward the entrance.

“Alright, alright! I’m goin’. Just tell huh I was here, will yuh?” 

He turns around toward the door and starts to push it open.

“Not a turkey’s chance on Thanksgiving!” I yell to his back. He raises his left hand and throws me the bird. Classy.

“Goddammit, I can’t focus on this now,” I grumble into the paperback. I glance at the clock and see it’s just past 2 PM. Perfect – there should be a slump for the next few hours. 

“Theo! I’m goin’ out for a bit. Can you handle the front?” I grab around wildly under the counter until I find my oversized suede bag. As I toss my book into the brown, gaping cavern inside, I hear Theo’s voice but don’t know what he’s saying. I take it to mean he’s got things under control. 

“K, great, thanks! I’ll be back in a couple o’ hours, tops!” 

I walk out of our shop and head toward the little bakery I like down the street. This whole trip feels sneaky, like I’m trying to keep something from my brother… And in a way, I guess I am. I walk into Gloria’s and order a cinnamon roll the size of my face and a black coffee, then settle down into a corner table facing the window. While I’m waiting, I google “parsons fashion school new york” on my phone and click on the first link. I’ve seen this website a thousand times, but I can’t stop scrolling through it. Everything looks so cool and modern. I snap out of my reverie when the woman at the counter calls my name to pick up my order. 

After I grab my tray and sit back down, I take a fist-sized bite of my cinnamon roll. My god, cream cheese and sugar never tasted so good. I keep scanning web pages I’ve seen before and start to lose my nerve. With an over-full mouth, I mumble to myself, “I’m too old for this shit.” 

But am I? I don’t have kids at home… I’m not in a relationship or “responsible” to or for anyone else. Sure, I’d probably be sacrificing my sleep and some sanity, but maybe it would be worth it? At least to know what it’s like? 

I click on the phone number listed in the admissions contact page and let my thumb hover over the “call” button. Do I want to do this?.. Again?

I do. I want to call. I take an overly dramatic deep breath before letting my phone connect me to the number.

“Parsons School of Design, Admissions office, this is Claire. How can I help you?” a bored voice answers.

My voice hitches, but I reply. “Hi, I’m calling to get a little more information. I’m actually a non-traditional student, but I’m interested in financial aid and admissions requirements.” I try to clean up my accent so I don’t sound the way I feel—like a single spinster from Queens, New York.

“Okay, great,” Claire says, not sounding at all like she means it. “Let me transfer you to someone who handles ‘non-traditional’ students. Hold please.” 

I can practically hear this girl rolling her eyes all the way into the back of her head. I wonder if she recognizes my voice or my request. Was I calling again too soon?

Screw it. As soon as I hear the hold music, I hang up, my heart galloping in my chest like Secretariat in the Kentucky Derby. I finish my coffee and pastry, and then pull my book back out of my bag. I’ve only been gone for twenty minutes, so I decide to stay and read for another hour.

Maybe next week I’ll make it past Claire.