Cheryl’s clock radio alarm shocked her awake at eight-thirty. She jabbed at the shut-off button, her eyes half-closed as she lay twisted in sheets. A voice on the radio was saying something about France conducting a successful nuclear test at a place called Mururoa Atoll. Cheryl had no idea who or what an atoll was, plus she thought Russia was the only country that had nukes except for the USA. She wondered if that was why she only earned a C- in Social Studies in her senior year of high school.
Now she was twenty-two and a working woman like the chick in the Enjoli perfume commercial, except Cheryl lived a half-step up from a trailer park and didn’t own a tailored suit. No one should have to work on Saturdays, but World of Records in Dandelion Crossing always had more albums to file and cute boys to ogle, so she figured she’d better get her butt in gear.
The house was freezing, which meant that her mother either didn’t make it home the night before or was so drunk that she forgot to adjust the thermostat as she stumbled into bed. Cheryl got up off her mattress – which lay haphazardly on the floor like it had been hastily abandoned by movers – and grabbed her favorite oversized flannel shirt from the back of her desk chair. It used to belong to Otis, an old boyfriend of her mother’s, who drove a trash truck for the city. Cheryl had liked him quite a bit because he’d seen it all and didn’t sugarcoat anything, including when he’d fallen for a Jazzercise instructor at the local YMCA and broke the news to her mother over a late dinner of take-out pizza and “Bring ‘Em Back Alive” on TV. Cheryl liked the unwashed flannel because it smelled like Aqua Velva and reminded her that there were honest men out there.
Cheryl pulled on the shirt with a shiver. She left the room and went to the kitchenette, stopping to plug in the lights of their artificial Christmas tree next to the couch in the main room. Her mother had kept the bread dough snowman ornament Cheryl had made in second grade. It held a place of prominence right below the star at the top of the tree.
There wasn’t much in the refrigerator except for an unopened package of hot dogs and half a can of Miller Lite, which she grabbed and guzzled. She stuck a strawberry Pop-Tart in the toaster and while she waited, put together a mental plan of action in case the cute boy with the feathered blond hair and tight Jordache jeans made an appearance at the record store that day. Cheryl wasn’t afraid of making the first move. Not just with men, but with anything.
She walked down the hall – covered with scratchy, stained carpet – and stopped outside her mother Gloria’s closed bedroom door. She took a bite of her Pop-Tart, then knocked.
“Mom?”
A truck with a rattling muffler labored past on the street outside. They lived in a neighborhood filled with vehicles that were in far from top-notch working order.
“Are you up?”
Cheryl listened carefully and heard a strange, regular tapping from inside.
“Mom?” She pushed open the wooden door and found that her mother’s bed was unusually fixed and tidy. A window, which looked out on their slim front yard, was slid open to the screen. A wind blew the blind cord against the wall with a continuous knocking. It was cold enough to snow inside the room.
“Well, shit,” Cheryl said. She crossed to the window and shut it tightly. It was indeed flurrying outside and there a thin coating of snow lay on their dirt driveway. Winter was her least favorite time of year because all there was to do was watch TV, get high and try to conserve heat to cut down on their electric bills. But she had to admit that the lights of Christmas put a smile on her face, even though the holiday was just her and her mother and whomever her mother was seeing at the time. Cheryl had never met her father or her two half-sisters in West Virginia. She wondered if the three of them ran moonshine, or if that was even fair for her to wonder about.
Her mother tended bar at a joint out by the airport called The Friendly Coyote. Maybe she’d gotten lucky the night before; Cheryl hoped that was the case. For as long as she could remember, Gloria had worked two, sometimes three jobs at once to provide for the two of them. She deserved a good man, or at the very least, consistently excellent sex.
Cheryl was about to head to the shower to get ready for work when she noticed two books on the nightstand. It was rare for her mother to read anything except for an occasional Jackie Collins or Danielle Steel paperback. Cheryl picked up the top book and found that it was Motor Auto Repair Manual: 1977-83 Models. It looked like a textbook that could be used for a class; it was thick enough to cause serious damage if wielded as a weapon against a burglar.
“Is that where you were last night – a class?” Cheryl asked the empty room. The second book was similar and both were from the library, which possibly disproved her theory, although Cheryl admittedly didn’t exactly know how night classes worked. She didn’t even realize her mother had a library card, plus Gloria had always had boyfriends who were able to fix their cars when they encountered trouble. Cheryl felt like she was trying to answer a question that no one had even asked.
* * *
Cheryl’s shoulder-length auburn hair was blow-dried, extra-fluffy and parted down the middle, like Cherie Curie from The Runaways. Their names were similar and Cheryl admired her style, so she figured she was an appropriate role model.
Before she left for work, she looked in on Mrs. Karris. The friendly senior citizen had gout and lived alone, across the street. Cheryl’s mother had taught her at a very early age to respect her elders, especially women, because of the paths they’d walked and the lessons they had to share. Cheryl did a food inventory of Mrs. Karris’s sparse cabinets and swept the snow off the woman’s front step with a broom before promising she’d visit her that night.
“Bless you, sweetheart,” Mrs. Karris told her with a smile. “I’ll be here.”
Cheryl had worked plenty of pointless jobs since high school. Looking after her neighbor felt special and rare, because she was helping someone without getting paid for it. She wondered how many people in the continental United States had paying jobs that made them feel like they were making a difference. How long did it take for them to find those gigs? Were they in the classifieds? Maybe the Sunday ones?
Her dented Oldsmobile Cutlass finally started after a night in the freezing weather. Cheryl cranked up the heat and tried to ignore the clanging coming from inside the hood as she popped Pat Benatar’s Get Nervous album into her 8-track player. She sang along, off-key but enthusiastically, as she made her way down pothole-ridden streets to the outerbelt, then finally, to the Dandelion Crossing mall parking lot.
It was past nine-thirty in the morning and the lot was filling up quickly with Christmas shoppers and curious folks eager to explore the brand-new mall. Cheryl parked a bit away from everyone else and spent ten minutes enjoying a glorious joint before finally making her way inside the employee entrance of World of Records, right on time.
The back room was storage where boxes full of deliveries were kept. Thomas, the slightly pervy manager who looked like a second-rate game show host, was patrolling the area with a clipboard and a concerned look.
“Ah,” he said. “Cheryl. Today I want you to unpack that box of Thrillers. Plus, more Culture Clubs and Cyndi Laupers came in yesterday.”
“Sure,” Cheryl said. “The schedule says I’m on the register for the first two hours, though.” She felt pretty blissful just then; nothing he could say could wreck her buzz.
Thomas consulted his clipboard. “Right. After lunch, then.”
Cheryl turned into the break room and found her coworker Vivian huffing on a joint of her own as she hung her winter coat on a rack. She wore a striped sweater dress with a wide black belt, and jangly earrings in the shape of triangles.
Thomas had assured them that he didn’t mind them being stoned while they worked, as long as they sold records and looked cute.
“Like, hey,” Vivian said, extending the joint. “Want some?”
“All toked out,” Cheryl said. “But, thanks. See you out there, okay?”
She went into the store and watched as Thomas slid open the metal gate that barred the place from the mall outside. Tinsel hung from the ceiling in festive swoops and Vivian put an album by The Waitresses on the sound system, which really made it feel like Christmas.
Cheryl preferred working the register because there was a comfortable stool to sit on and her feet usually didn’t hurt at the end of the day.
The store filled up quickly; Vivian and Thomas took their positions on the floor and pointed people toward the latest vinyl from Kenny Rogers or Men at Work. Because it was Saturday, there was a steady stream of questions and demands; customers imploring Cheryl to know the singer with the spiky hair from the MTV video they’d seen at 2 AM on Wednesday morning, or insisting that they paid their Diner’s Club bill last month, so there shouldn’t be a problem with their credit card. Cheryl smiled politely as older men with false teeth and pensions tried but failed to get her number. When they scrawled their seven digits on the back of credit card receipts, she waited until they were gone and them tossed the pink paper in the trash.
Just then, Joyce, the manager of the entire Dandelion Crossing mall, made an appearance. She was a middle-aged woman in a cream-colored suit with a frilly-blouse collar. After a disdainful visual survey of her surroundings, Joyce approached the counter and regarded Cheryl like she was a tear in her favorite pair of L’eggs. “Well,” she sighed. “Young Miss. Been hitting the Mary Jane this morning?”
“Can we help you find something?” Cheryl countered, avoiding her disapproving stare. She knew Joyce’s upper management type and how they operated. Cheryl was sure that the woman depended on cocaine to get her through each day, and she covered that up by acting superior to absolutely everyone else.
“It’s so heartening to know that such a cornerstone store at Dandelion Crossing is being overseen by such capable young souls,” Joyce said.
“Does that mean I can expect a Christmas bonus in my stocking?” Cheryl asked. She wondered if her friend Tricia, who worked at the cookie shop in the food court, would be interested in sharing a joint in her car at lunch time. Women like Joyce made her even more grateful for her own mother, who’d always cut Cheryl enormous slack to do whatever the hell she wanted.
The possibility that had resulted in her having little to no ambition – according to plenty of her high school teachers – didn’t seem to matter just then.
“Where’s your Show Tunes section?” Joyce sighed, but Cheryl chose to ignore her and instead wondered if there were any beer cans left in the cooler in the trunk of the Cutlass. She preferred to deal with real music customers, not Joyce, who pretended to be everybody’s boss.
The cute boy in Jordache jeans, whom Cheryl had learned was named Dex, did indeed pay a visit. Cheryl made her way from the counter and met him in the Rock section. He wore a fleece-lined corduroy jacket, like he was getting ready to wrangle some unruly cattle.
“Dex,” she said, as breathily as she could, like Marilyn Monroe might. “Looking for something in particular?”
He smiled at her with a grin untarnished by orthodontia or cigarette stains. The last time they’d seen each other, Cheryl hadn’t been able to get over his eyes, which were the gorgeous color of blueberry syrup on shaved ice. They reminded her of swimming at the public pool and savoring Sno-cones on the grass while Journey played from the loudspeaker.
But as she thought of the past, something gnawed at her. All she could hear was the tapping of the blind cord against the mother’s bedroom wall; she saw the auto repair books on the nightstand. She froze. Was her mother really taking auto repair classes? Was she studying to be a mechanic? Cheryl wouldn’t put it past her; The older woman wasn’t afraid of anything.
“Now that you mention it,” Dex said, his eyes flashing mischievously from the bright store lights above, “You got any Bad Company?”
“Um. Well. Check the B’s,” Cheryl finally answered, pointing him to the end of the row of bins.
Dex lingered for a moment, as if waiting for the punchline of a joke.
Now’s your chance, dummy, Cheryl thought. Ask him for his number. Do it.
“I—” she began, then stopped. Just then, something compelled her to look to the entrance of the store.
A woman stood there with a truly confused expression. Around sixty years old, she reminded Cheryl of a latter-day Audrey Hepburn, petite with unabashed gray hair in a Pixie cut. She looked like she’d just missed a bus that would’ve taken her someplace wonderful.
Cheryl mumbled apologies at Dex and approached the woman, as “Christmas Wrapping” by The Waitresses played aggressively on the sound system and teenagers mulled around everywhere.
“Hi,” Cheryl said. The older woman wore a stylish cashmere coat and faux-leather winter boots that nearly reached her knees. A jagged scar snaked across one rouged cheek, lending her an immediate significance, like she’d seen plenty and escaped with a secret knowledge that continued to propel her through life.
But that scar felt completely opposite from the dazed look in her eyes.
“Can I help you find something?” Cheryl asked, but the woman didn’t answer. “Are you looking for something in particular?” Cheryl added. Dex, realizing she wasn’t interested, pouted his way out of the store behind her.
The woman smiled, immediately embarrassed. “Gosh,” she said. “Was I that obvious?” Despite her small frame, her voice had a calm resonance, like she’d spent her life giving orders. Cheryl was reminded of Mrs. Morris, her kindergarten teacher, who managed a room full of rambunctious five-year-olds with admirable patience and persistence.
“Not at all. I just wanted to point you in the right direction.”
Grateful for the lifeline, the woman shifted her previous expression to one of intense scrutiny. She regarded Cheryl, clearly deciding whether or not to trust her. “I’m not sure,” she said. “This is my first time in a shop like this. It’s a little overwhelming.”
“My name’s Cheryl,” Cheryl said. “I mean, I guess you can see that from my nametag, but still. What’s yours?”
“I’m Midge,” she replied. They stepped aside as two more teenagers strode past, arguing the merits of “Beat It” versus “Billie Jean.”
“Hi, Midge,” Cheryl said. “You remind me of a woman across the street from me who I look in on. I can tell that both of you have led amazing lives. You’ve been through a lot, but you’ve survived. Because you’re strong.” She blushed then, wondering if she’d said too much. But it was the truth, and she hadn’t said it just because of the woman’s scar. Midge had a presence, a way of carrying herself, that made Cheryl feel it and want to acknowledge it.
“That’s sweet of you. Thanks.” Midge coughed, politely covering her mouth with her coat sleeve. Thomas, her manager, walked past Cheryl and gave her a stern look of warning. He never liked his employees to spend more time than necessary with customers. To him, it was all about rapid turnover. Cheryl thought that was what capitalism was, but she wasn’t entirely sure.
Midge took Cheryl’s arm and they stepped over to a spot in the store that wasn’t as crowded. “See, Cheryl,” she said quietly, like she was afraid to wake up someone sleeping nearby. “The thing is, I have a son. I mean, I have seven children altogether. But Nathan, I haven’t seen him in seventeen years. I don’t even know where he is.”
“I—” Cheryl began, then she wasn’t sure what to say next.
“I know,” Midge said. “It’s a real long time. The last time I saw him, I was angry. I was confused. But a few years later, I started buying a present for him, every Christmas. I don’t know where he is or if he’s still alive, but I’d buy him a gift, just the same.”
Cheryl couldn’t remember the last time she’d cried, but she began to feel something stir. Her vision grew blurry. Just a bit, but definitely blurry.
“Gosh,” she said, echoing an expression that Midge had used earlier, something that the older generation typically said. “I’m so sorry. How do you—”
“I usually buy him socks or a scarf. But this year, all the kids are talking about MTV. I want to be more ‘hip.’ So I thought I’d buy him a record.”
“Ah,” Cheryl said. She wiped her eyes, finally convinced that she might be able to help. “How old was he when you last saw him? Do you remember what kind of tunes he liked?”
“Well. His first concert ever, I mean the first show he ever went to, was Pearl Bailey. She came to the city and played at a cabaret club downtown and Nate was adamant about going to see her. He was only seventeen and none of his siblings wanted to go, so I let him go with his best friend from school, a boy named JoJo Watkins.”
Questions and theories whirled through Cheryl’s head, but she tried not to make judgements that would make the situation worse. She knew who Pearl Bailey was because a little boy she used to babysit for down the street became obsessed with The Fox and the Hound and made Cheryl take him to see it in the theater four times in six days.
She smiled as wide as she could at the woman in the cashmere coat. It wasn’t something she did often, because Cheryl was ashamed that the braces her mother had paid for in high school hadn’t done enough to fix her uneven smile. Some boys she’d been with assured her her grin was ‘cute,’ but Cheryl wasn’t convinced that it was. Not entirely.
“Follow me,” Cheryl said, and led Midge to the Disco section.
“Oh,” Midge said, her voice low, like she was treading across quicksand. “I’ve heard something about this type of music. My husband and I have two married friends who are always trying to convince us to go disco dancing. But my husband, he’s a podiatrist. He’s always told me that disco can do real damage to your feet.”
Cheryl held back a laugh. “Disco is all about dancing. But some singers, I mean Black lady singers especially, sing ballads with the power of Pearl Bailey. Those songs are mixed in with the fast disco songs on their albums.” This was the most critical thinking about music that Cheryl had expressed at her job so far. I could get used to this, she thought. But only if it’s really helping people who need it.
Midge examined the album that Cheryl handed her. “Donna Summer,” she said. “Her name sounds familiar. But I have to admit, all my other kids are grown. I have ten grandchildren. I’m not exactly in tune with what your generation is listening to.”
Cheryl remembered listening to her Pat Benatar cassette as she drove to work, still half-buzzed from her breakfast of Miller Lite. “Sometimes, I don’t think I am, either,” she admitted. “But this one, I’m sure about. It’s really popular right now.”
“Typically, I wrap the present for Nate and put it under the tree,” Midge said. “Then after Christmas, I take it up and store it in a box in the attic. But this year, maybe I’ll keep it for myself.”
Cheryl smiled again, Dex and his Jordache jeans completely gone from her mind.
* * *
Cheryl got home well after seven; she and her friend Tricia had treated themselves to burgers and fries at Prairie Sunset, the nicest restaurant in the mall. Tricia wore thick glasses and was an admitted nymphomaniac. She invited Cheryl to go out drinking that night at the bars down by campus, but Cheryl insisted that she had obligations at home, which was true. She had to look in on Mrs. Karris. And she was still on a high from helping Midge.
“What have you done with the real Cheryl?” Tricia asked, dunking her curly fries in ketchup.
The Cutlass was still making clanging noises from under the hood, but Cheryl had no problem ignoring it as she parked in the driveway of her mother’s house and went inside.
She found Gloria in the bathroom, putting on lipstick as she was getting ready to head to The Friendly Coyote. She wore a low-cut, candy cane-striped top that hugged her chest like a promise. Her hair was dyed bright red, like she’d just stepped out of the Sunday funnies, but Cheryl thought she looked stunning.
“How was work, sweetheart?” her mother asked.
“I helped out a real sweet old lady in the store,” Cheryl answered.
“I’ve told you before. Don’t say ‘old.’ Say ‘wise.’”
“Now that I think about it, she did seem extra wise,” Cheryl said, wondering how Midge had gotten that scar on her cheek.
Gloria blotted at her lipstick with a tissue. “I know you’ve only worked there for a week,” she said. “But do you like it?”
“I really think I make a difference,” Cheryl replied quietly, as if she was still unable to believe it.
Her mother moved past her to the hall closet, not hearing. “Did you eat yet? There’s a frozen pizza in the freezer if you’re hungry.”
Then Cheryl remembered the books on her mother’s nightstand. Maybe they were her first indication that things had changed, that today would be finally be different. “My car’s been making that noise again,” she said. “From under the hood. Any advice?”
Gloria smiled, like she knew a secret. “I might have some ideas,” she said.