Second First Impressions Read online

  I ask her loudly, “Any luck?”

  Aggie turns down the volume a touch and holds out some envelopes to me. They’re prestamped and ready for the afternoon’s mail run. They’ll be twenty-five-word-or-less entries. Collect-ten-coupons. Name This Yacht for a Chance to Win. “I did have a small windfall,” she says carefully, like she knows she’s about to be teased.

  “She won a Frisbee,” Renata cackles. “Let’s ask the neighbors to toss it around, shall we? Break a few hips.”

  The mental image almost pixelates my vision. “Is there anything else I can do for you?” The fact that their assistant isn’t in tow is a very bad sign.

  Renata smiles, and it’s pure evil. “We need a new one.”

  I know exactly what she means. “What happened to Phillip?”

  She ignores me and lowers her sunglasses, cooler than I’ll ever be, and looks through to Melanie’s vacant chair. “Where’s your pretty Asian minion? Or is that not PC? Inspired by her, I ordered a lovely black wig.”

  “You absolutely cannot call her that.” I hold eye contact until I see she understands. “But in regard to the wig, Melanie will be very flattered. She’s busy checking her social media in the bathroom.”

  Renata’s cackle always hits my bloodstream like a drug. It’s the Providence equivalent of making the popular girl at school laugh. “The youth of today. On the toilet, right where they belong. I wish I’d had ‘the Instagram.’”

  “Is it too late for you to try it?” Aggie’s a quiet instigator. Thanks a bunch. Before the day’s out, I’m going to be taking street-style shots of Renata leaning against a brick wall.

  Renata narrows her eyes like I’m a magazine cover and I’m Not Hot. “You’re looking very old today, young woman. Where’s the visor I bought you for Christmas? You are asking for LIVER SPOTS,” she booms, loud enough to scare birds. “Look at my spotty OLD HANDS. This song was playing this morning,” Renata says to Aggie abruptly when the radio changes tracks. “Quick, call them.”

  Aggie consults her notebook. “It was ‘Billie Jean’ at 9:09 A.M. This is ‘Thriller.’ Tell her what you did to Phillip.”

  Renata is triumphant. “I gave him the joke pair of panties and told him to iron them. Who knew such a simple request would be the last straw?”

  “He just picked up his keys and walked out,” Aggie says wearily. “Two and a half days. He lasted longer than most.”

  For entertainment, some people go on safari. Renata Parloni prefers hunting a very specific type of game. She’s reloading her weapon when she says, “We haven’t had a Goth boy in a while. I want one that’s constantly thinking about his mortality.”

  I steel myself. “We had an agreement. We’re putting up a sensible advertisement. I’ll go get it.” Imagine being able to tell Sylvia that I fixed the Parloni situation once and for all.

  Renata says when I’m back with my file: “Read the old ad. I want to hear what’s wrong with it.”

  “‘Position Vacant. Two ancient old women residing at Providence Retirement Villa seek male assistant for casual exploitation and good-natured humiliation.’”

  Renata interrupts. “What’s wrong with that bit?” Both sisters are jiggling slightly on their scooters now. No one could stay still to “Thriller.” I’m shifting foot to foot, trying to hold the dance in.

  I explain, “It’s illegal to discriminate based on gender. This says only males can apply.”

  “I have no desire to boss around a female. Read the rest,” Renata bosses me. Aggie gives me a deeply empathetic look.

  I continue, “‘Duties include boutique shopping, fast-food fetching, and sincerely rendered flattery. Good looks a bonus—but we aren’t picky.’” I appeal to Aggie. “I’m not sure that’s legal either. You can see that isn’t going to get anyone who will be any use to you. All you’ve gotten so far are—”

  Renata interrupts again. “Skinny boys with skateboards and dark circles under their eyes. Useless kids who don’t know how to peel an orange or drive a stick shift.”

  I pull out my draft advertisement. “‘Wanted: Experienced aged-care nurse to provide assistance to two active elderly women residing at Providence Retirement Villa. Domestic duties, outings, and errands. Driver’s license plus police check required.’” I try not to cringe under Renata’s poisonous stare. “We had a deal.”

  Aggie is on my side. “Ren, I think we need to go with this new ad. It would be nice to have someone who could actually complete tasks. Laundry. Making the bed. I am too old to live in this kind of mess because of your strange hobby.”

  Renata fires up. “We agreed that when we were rich and old—”

  “That was fifty-five years ago,” Aggie cuts in. “You’ve gotten your revenge on the male species. Yes, having young people around the place is enjoyable. But I have no clean clothes. I have no clean coffee mug. Let me live comfortably. My hands are no good anymore.” She has peripheral neuropathy, causing numbness in her fingers.

  Renata’s expression softens. “One last boy and I’ll retire. I’d better put in a good effort to really break him in. Find him for us, Ruthie.” She adjusts her visor. “I need a strong drink. But I have no boy to make it for me. Drat.”

  “Maybe we’ll win the lottery with this last boy,” Aggie says to me with not much optimism. “Got to be in it to win it, I suppose.”

  “I’ll go and sort out that ad for you and take your mail. Have a lovely afternoon.” I must have a shred of optimism left in me. I nearly make it back to the door before Renata stops me.

  “We need you to put gas in the car. We need snacks. And get us some dinner—Thai, but nothing spicy. No noodles or rice. No soups or coconut. Absolutely no cilantro or mint.”

  My pulse bumps at the thought of leaving the grounds this evening, but I can’t exactly leave them up the hill to starve. “I was busy tonight, but . . . okay.”

  Renata snorts. “You? Busy on a Monday night? Puh-lease. Look, keep this good service up and I’ll write you into my will.” (A common tactic. Her sister and I interject with admonishments and she moves on.) “Get us some fresh flowers—some sort of elegant mix. But no lilies. You know I don’t like feeling like I’m at my own funeral.”

  I know exactly what sort of flowers will get me yelled at. I turn my face to the sky and send up a request: I can’t take much more. Please send us the One.

  Renata revs her scooter and accelerates off. “Then come up and register me for the Instagram. Then fix our DVD player.” Her voice is fading into the distance. “Then stay and watch a DVD with us. And then you can wash all of Aggie’s . . .” (inaudible).

  My only plan for tonight was walking 127 steps from the office to my cottage, to have a hot bath and then watch Heaven Sent. But it sounds like I’m going out instead. Gas is one of the only things that can’t be delivered, unfortunately for me.

  “Thank you, Ruthie,” Aggie says to me. She has been struggling to liberate her purse from her smart handbag that I secretly covet. She peels out two hundred-dollar bills from an inch-thick stack. “Is this enough? I wish we could have you as our assistant, but Sylvia would never let us. Girls like you are gold dust.”

  If Sylvia gave me to the Parlonis, I’d age ten years in a week, and that would make me 135. “I’ll find someone reliable. You need someone who can run your house for you. Life will be much easier.” For you and me. “I hope when Sylvia comes back—”

  “Don’t worry. I’ll tell her you managed the place just fine.” Aggie peels out a third note from her purse. “I apologize for Ren. Here is a thank-you present.” She hands me the most perfect hundred-dollar bill I have ever seen, her eyes on her departing sister.

  “Oh thank you, but you don’t need to.” I try to hand the money back, but her purse is in her bag. In the distance, we can hear Renata still shouting. I say, “Aggie, this is too much.”

  “It’s not against the rules, you can take it. Go buy yourself something indulgent.” She looks at my plain outfit with kindness rather than critique.
All the pieces are clean and in good condition, but they’re all thrifted. “Be twenty-five years old. How nice it must be, to be so young. That’s the only prize I can never win again.” She scoots off.

  I put the windfall into my pocket and go back inside. Melanie is back at her desk. A white earbud dangles from her ear and she’s wearing no shoes. I put the job file into her in-tray and Aggie’s envelopes in the mail tub.

  “We’re going to put their job ad up for a few days, then we’ll change it to my new version. Could I leave that with you?” The local recruitment agency we got Melanie from won’t deal with the Parlonis any longer. We throw out the net and trawl the internet for fresh boys. I think of my dating aspirations and wince; will I be doing the same?

  “Sure thing,” Melanie says. “I’m stuck with this new resident setup. What do I enter here, for tenancy end date?”

  “All contracts end December thirty-first next year.”

  She looks up at me quizzically. “What happens after then? Their tenancy gets extended?” She thinks of something. “Is this because they’re all . . . you know? Old?”

  “No, it’s our new corporate policy. We actually don’t know what happens after that date.” I reach back behind me and find Sylvia’s file labeled “PDC DEVELOPMENT.” “If you run out of work, you can read through this for some background. I might go for a walk and check in on a few residents.”

  Melanie flips open the file, decides it’s boring, and says, “Think about the Sasaki Method. Think about giving a smile to the next cute guy you see.”

  I do think about these things for a long time as I walk up the hill, moving tortoises off the path with my hand in a latex glove. I give each one a flirty fake smile. I know that when I circuit back around, they’ll be on the path again.

  No one can say I don’t try my best.

  Chapter Three

  Time to saddle up and hit the trails on this gleaming borrowed steed. For the journey, I’ll be needing:

  My cool cardigan (it has foxes and mushrooms)

  A freshly retightened bun with no escaping wisps of hair

  Brushed teeth and some pink lip gloss

  Some courage, which I know is weird

  Hold on to your hat, partner, we’re about to ride out into the valley and . . . who am I kidding? I’ll sit here and simmer in my own nerves. I once googled how much the Parlonis’ car cost, and my brain instantly forgot the amount like I’d experienced a trauma. I hate leaving here. What if something happens? Someone falls, a hydrant explodes? A tortoise sprains its ankle? I make myself start the (very valuable) engine, because the sooner I leave, the quicker I can get back for tonight’s episode of my favorite show.

  I haven’t told a real-life soul this, but I’m one of the founding creators of the longest-running Heaven Sent online forum, Heaven Sent You Here. Heaven Sent is about Pastor Pierce Percival; his wife, Taffy; their studious teen daughter, Francine; plus twin eight-year-old girls (Jacinta and Bethany), who are always up to mischief.

  The forum hosts an annual global rewatch of the entire show. Tonight we’re up to Season Two, episode eight. That’s the one where the homesick twins think they’ve seen the face of Jesus singed onto a marshmallow at Bible camp. When I get back from my errands for the Parlonis, I need to rewatch this episode to refresh myself on it and start a discussion thread.

  With this goal in mind, I begin the trip. Holy moly. I’m in the outside world. I’m filling the car with liquid gold at the less-busy gas station when I realize I am staring at the back of a young man. He has very long black hair that puts Melanie’s hair extensions to shame. Resplendent, gleaming hair is wasted on men. I bet he doesn’t even condition or get the ends trimmed. He sits there sideways on his motorbike, ankles crossed, that unearned glory lifting on a breeze in an inky swirl.

  He’s oblivious to my presence. Fine by me.

  This particular specimen is in his twenties. His skin sits tight on his body, inked all over with tattoos. I see a scorpion, a knife and fork, a diamond ring. It’s like his body is the page he’s been doodling on while on hold to the electricity company. An upward trail of butterflies, a switchblade, a donut. The artistry is lovely. This is a guy who took a lot of care getting trivial, unrelated things printed all over himself.

  Nothing’s been colored in, and I want to unzip my pencil case and get to work. I’d start on that big unfurled rose on the back of his arm. Actually, I think I’d use a pink lipstick. The slanted tip would be just the right size for the petals, each the size of a woman’s kiss.

  He turns his head, feeling my eyes like an animal would, but he doesn’t look back at me. I stare at the concrete until he resettles. I put my hand on my neck; I can feel my heartbeat. This is an interesting development: My body knows it’s twenty-five.

  Melanie told me to take a chance and smile at a guy. I look down at myself. Mom told me once that I have nice calves and my reflection in the car’s window is perfectly fine, maybe even pretty when I soften my face.

  Imagine being a guy. How would it feel to sit on a neat butt that doesn’t spread out like a hen when you sit? If I was turned into a man for a day, I’d spend the first hour carrying around hay bales, making myself sweat. Then I’d muster the courage to unzip my pants to make a decision on whether seeing a penis is a worthwhile priority moving forward. As the minutes tick on, the Rolls-Royce guzzles and he continues to sit motionless. I can’t see a second helmet. He does have a very full backpack. I worry for that zipper.

  I lock the car. Then I check each individual door. I say under my breath: “I locked the car doors.” I mostly believe myself as I walk inside to pay.

  As I’m deliberating over what soft-looking chocolate bars I’ll get for Renata, my ears tune in to the gas station clerk’s hushed telephone conversation. “He’s going to steal it.”

  I rush to the window to check the car, but Tattoo Guy’s sitting where I left him. I lay my purchases on the counter.

  The clerk says into the phone, “It’s been more than ten minutes. He’s filled his bike, can’t pay for it, and he’s deciding what to do.” He begins scanning my items and mouths my total at me. “Yeah. As soon as he touches the ignition, I’m calling the cops.”

  I look through the dusty windows. It’s evident from the set of this guy’s shoulders and the stark deliberation on his face that he is sitting inside a terrible moment. I was oblivious as I admired his butt. Then I suspected him of theft. Is it true that he has no money? I was in a similar situation once. I was only a few weeks out of home and my card kept getting declined. My neck was hot from bottling up the tears. A motherly type paid for me and disappeared into the night. All she’d said was, Pay it forward.

  Time to settle my karmic debt. “I’ll pay for him. How much?” I dig out my special hundred-dollar bill.

  The clerk hangs up the phone. “Twenty dollars. Aren’t you nice?” The way he says it doesn’t make me feel that nice.

  I’m almost back to the car door when the clerk says over the loudspeaker: “Pump number two, please thank your Good Samaritan. Your gas has been paid for and you can leave.”

  We are the only customers. So much for me just melting away into the night. I give it a try anyway. Tattoo Guy says behind me, “Ma’am, thank you so much.”

  “No problem.” I fumble with the car keys and drop things. “Don’t mention it.”

  “You’ve just saved my ass—I mean, my butt. I’m having the worst day ever.” He’s closer behind me when he adds, “I left my wallet somewhere, but I always find it. The world’s full of Good Samaritans, just like you. If you give me your details, I’ll pay you back as soon as I can.”

  “Not necessary,” I say, but now he’s right behind me. I smell the cotton on his body when a breeze blows through it. When I look down at my loafers, there’s big inked hands picking up my dropped groceries.

  No way am I going to say Pay it forward. Men probably think that’s girlie nonsense. But I’ll try to have an exciting story to tell Melanie. I turn on the
balls of my feet.

  “Here you go,” he says when all the chocolate is gathered up. When he straightens to full height, he’s obviously surprised. After a beat, he lets out a big joyful howl. Up at the sky, he yells at full volume, “Oh my God, you look absolutely amazing!”

  Did Melanie pay a gorgeous local actor to perk me up?

  “Oh shit, too good. You got me.” When I don’t reply, he continues, “I can tell you, from the back, you’ve absolutely nailed it.” His smile is white and lovely as he drags his hair back. “I love costume parties. Can I come?” His slender-muscly body shakes from laughing. It’s a full-body workout. He’s standing so close, for a moment I don’t process the words. Then I feel the slice.

  “Excuse me?”

  He is staring at my chest with open appreciation. The glasses that I wear for computer work are still hanging from a chain around my neck. “Perfect,” he says reverently before dissolving into laughter again. “Are you going as one of the Golden Girls?”

  “No—”

  “You just need a string of pearls and a walking stick. Look at those granny shoes.” He says it like a fond scold and taps my toe with his. “You’ve even got the old-person car to match. You’ve thought of everything.” He wipes a tear from his eye. “You look like Tweety Bird’s granny.”

  “You don’t need to be rude.” The prim words are out of my mouth before it occurs to me that I should just say, Sure, I’m headed to a big party, I hope my costume wins.

  I don’t think I’ve helped someone who really needs it. Tattoos are expensive and he’s covered himself in a fortune. His unusual biker-guy jeans have a lot of seams and diagonal lines, the result of skilled craftsmanship. My thrift-store eyes spot a tiny logo on his pocket: BALMAIN. Very, very pricey.

  He’s noticed my attention and the corner of his mouth lifts in a mischievous way. “So how old are you? Are you an eighty-year-old with a facelift?”