Bold Choice of Lipstick

Patricia looked older than she felt. Wrinkles had replaced smooth flesh. White hair instead of brown tresses. She applied the fire engine red lipstick and blotted it with a single square of toilet paper. It was her power color. And you never knew who you might run into even on a mundane errand. Best to be prepared.

The cane was in its resting place by the door. A well-intentioned gift from her niece. But she really didn’t need it. It made her feel old. One slip on an icy patch of sidewalk did not mean that she was frail.

She turned away from the cane, pulled on her winter coat, wound her favorite orange scarf around her neck, and stepped into the grey winter day.

***

The UPS store was located at the far end of a once-prosperous strip mall, flanked by two empty storefronts sporting For Rent signs. Patricia pulled hard on the door handle, stepped inside, and took up position at the end of a long line of customers. Procrastinators trying to get their gifts under the trees of family and friends in time for Christmas morning. Unlike the post office, which prepared for the holiday rush with stanchions directing customers in orderly zigzag lines, this human queue snaked its way from the counter—tended by two harassed-looking employees—around displays of holiday cards, wrapping paper, giant rolls of bubble wrap, and packing tape.

Inexplicably, the largest display—occupying an entire wall of the store—housed an eclectic collection of football paraphernalia. Signed helmets and jerseys. Colorful cards of athletes tucked into protective plastic housings.

The door opened—the cold air setting the pages of New Year’s calendars fluttering. Cats dressed as tourists in exciting destinations. A Cheshire wearing sunglasses on the beach. A Siamese with a bright red collar at the foot of the Eiffel Tower.

A young woman entered with an infant bundled in a purple quilted snowsuit asleep in one arm, and a small mittened boy held fast in her other hand.

“Wow. That’s a really long line, Mommy,” the boy said.

“You’re right,” the young mother said with a sigh.

“Please, I’ve got time, go ahead of me,” Patricia said.

“Say, thank you,” the mother instructed her son.

“Thank you.”

“You’re very welcome.”

A rush of cold air signaled the arrival of a new customer, but Patricia’s attention was rivetted to a fascinating holiday card. The holographic image of an old man and woman sitting in front of a fireplace, surrounded by smiling people, the mantle crowded with stockings changed when she shifted her head to the same couple in their twenties, alone, on a beach, wearing old-fashioned swimming gear circa 1950. The young woman in the picture wore oversized sunglasses and bright pink lipstick that matched her polka-dotted two-piece.

The sound of the door locking piqued Patricia’s interest.

Three men in black face masks and sunglasses stormed the crowded store.

“Everyone, get down. On the ground!” one of the men shouted.

Another pushed the two startled employees around the counter to stand with the customers. The third man positioned himself by the windows overlooking the parking lot.

Patricia heard her knees grinding as she crouched down, but that was nothing new. She’d been doing the Royal Canadian Airforce calisthenics daily for the past three decades.

“Phones and wallets in the bag,” the robber spokesman instructed as he held open a black duffle bag.

“Lady, get down,” the spokesman said as he pushed on the young mother’s back. She had hunched over her small son as if to protect him with her own body. The strike sent her to her knees with an alarming crack. The babe was safe in her arms, but the boy was flung into rolls of packing tape. The big pompom on the top of his hat buffered his fall.

Both children started to cry but the mother collected them close to her face and spoke to them in voice that was calm and reassuring.

“Look, this card is really interesting,” Patricia said as she handed the boy the magical moving card.

Although this was Patricia’s first robbery in a UPS store, she was by no means a robbery rookie. She had a whole field agent’s career’s worth of experience with bank robberies. After she’d reached the FBI’s mandatory retirement age of fifty-seven years, she’d spent fifteen years consulting about theft prevention with convenience store chains, fast food franchises, and boutique shops from Newberry Street in Boston to Rodeo Drive in LA.

“On the ground. Phones and wallets in the bag,” the spokesman repeated in a harsher tone as he pulled the phone out of the hand of a young man whose ears were occluded with white buds and who had been so engrossed in his virtual world that he had missed the reality of the bizarre and terrifying situation. The young man looked around, sunk to his knees, pulled a wallet from his back pocket, tossed it neatly into the duffle bag, and reflexively raised his hands in the air.

The thief behind the counter emptied the cash register into another black duffle bag.

“Everyone, unpack your boxes. You two, help them open their boxes,” the spokesman said to the employees. “We don’t want the packaging.”

“You don’t want this,” Patricia said holding up her square mailer.

“Just open the box.”

“It’s private.”

“Lady, shut up and toss your crappy gift into the bag.” The face mask made a perfect circle around the bully’s mouth. Full lips framed in pale skin. Disembodied lips.

“Honestly, do you have to be a bully as well as a thief?” Patricia said as she tore open the sturdy carboard box she had so carefully sealed shut.

The robber behind the counter took a box cutter from his coat pocket and sliced open packages that had been piled into wheeled bins. The knife was the only weapon Patricia saw. The three men all wore big jackets that certainly could conceal a gun, but Patricia was grateful that they weren’t waving weapons around.

The bully carefully removed the football jerseys and helmets from the wall and added them to the duffle bag with the phones and wallets.

Patricia withdrew the small plastic container from the cardboard box.

“Everything in the bags, now!” the bully ordered.

Patricia hated being told what to do. She had hated it when she was a young girl, being bossed around by her mother and older siblings and cousins. And she hated it as an adult whether it was a direct order from her station chief like, ‘fetch me a cup of coffee,’ or a suggestion in the form of a question from her niece like, ‘would you like me to order grab bars for your bathroom?’

Not all robbers were bullies. But she hated the ones who were.

She unscrewed the lid from the small plastic container.

“Are you sure you want this?” she asked the bully.

He stepped toward her in a fury.

She aimed for the perfect circle surrounding his pink lips.

The stream of brown slurry hit him in the face, covering his mouth, splattering his sunglasses, saturating the mask, and sluicing down his clothes.

“That smells like poop,” the little boy said.

“It is poop,” Patricia said.

The bully grunted. Gagged. Wiped his arm over his mouth dislodging his glasses and smearing the brown liquid up his nose.

“We’re done. Get outta here!” the bully shouted as he unlocked the door.

The two other men scooped up the duffle bags and the three robbers fled.

“Poop is a funny Christmas present,” the boy said.

“Why were you mailing…stool?” the mother asked.

“It was for a medical test—to check for colon cancer.”

“Well, I didn't see that coming," he mother said. "It was foul lipstick. But a powerful weapon.”