three
Here’s something I appreciated about New York: no one really cared if you were a total loser. Sure, it stung to lose my job. Sure, I needed a shower and a break from my sweatpants and hoodie, particularly after the red sauce incident of three (four?) nights ago. Sure, I would have been horrified if anyone had popped by for a visit to my apartment and had seen the tornadic state of both the space and its single occupant. But that was the thing: people in New York didn’t pop by for visits. Popping by was a veritable art form in my hometown. I’d popped by with the best of them in Silver Creek, knowing how late was too late, how early was too early, how long to stay (as long as the conversation flowed), when to bring banana bread (new neighbor) or a casserole (death in the family) or cleaning supplies (new baby, family illness, prolonged grief).
Popping by in New York, however, just didn’t happen. I had never been so grateful to live in a city where civilized, happy self-absorption reigned supreme, where people had the decency to meet at restaurants or bars or museums or coffee shops but not on my couch. Because I loved my couch. I’d gotten to know it well in the two weeks since Nancy had crushed my dreams. I squeezed one of my throw pillows with renewed affection, watching the credits roll for Splash, a satisfying end to a Tom Hanks marathon on TBS. I reached for the remote, pushing aside mostly empty take-out containers, a single sock, and a cup of cold coffee to get to it. Slouching back against the cushions, I clicked through the channels slowly, pausing to watch the end of The Price Is Right, a classic scene with Rory and Logan jumping without parachutes on Gilmore Girls, and an infomercial on a sleeved polar fleece blanket that briefly had me considering another segment of the textile industry. I clicked up a channel and stopped.
The camera panned slowly across the faces of earnest singers in choir robes, and the strains of “Great Is Thy Faithfulness” filled my apartment. I stared, my hand stilled on the remote. A lump constricted my throat and without my permission, my eyes brimmed with hot tears, remembering the last time I’d limped through the words of that familiar hymn. I’d been standing next to my grandmother in the front pew of our church, gripping Gigi’s arm for dear life as we endured the joint funeral services for my mom and dad. The ice storm had happened three days before, and the marks from their mangled car still mocked me on the road just beyond our house.
I was a junior in high school. I was too young to know how to face suffering head-on and keep singing through the tears. Gigi took me in with open arms and I lived with her while I finished my last year of high school. I’d left for New York the morning after graduation.
The hymn ended, such hopeful words marred by the anguish of that moment. I remembered Gigi’s trembling voice next to me, how she’d sung with tears rolling down both of her cheeks.
Gigi.
I groaned, leaving the church channel on, though I found the monotone of the balding pastor less riveting than the choir number. I reached for my phone with a feeling I had seen an unanswered text from Gigi within the last day or so. I scrolled through and saw I was right. Gigi had sent a message two days prior, and I hadn’t even opened it, much less responded.
Hi, honey, it read. I hold you are hippy. Been thinking along you. When are you complicated home for a visit?
I smiled. Gigi, as a general rule, resisted all forms of technology. Her VCR was still doing a valiant job for her infrequent movie nights. She maintained an active landline with an accompanying answering machine (tape, not digital). And while she tolerated having a laptop in her home, she always looked like she wanted to spit to the side whenever she discussed it.
So a cell phone had been a tough sell. During my first Christmas visit home after moving to New York, I’d presented her with one that I had already tricked out entirely, from its enlarged print on the screen to a troubleshooting tutorial I’d laminated and put near her answering machine. Gigi had scowled, but her love of her only grandchild had won over her disdain for tech. When her best friend, Goldie, showed her how to use the text function, Gigi had grabbed on immediately, thrilled at the efficiency of typing or speaking a message while not having to stop her work in the house, in the garden, at the town library, in the serving line at the fellowship hall. Too busy to bother with details, most of Gigi’s messages were cryptic, some of them completely unreadable. I’d become a pro at interpretation, though, and I did my best to reply promptly, holding to the only remaining connection I still had with my childhood, my hometown, my family.
I held the phone in my hand, wondering how to respond to Gigi’s request for a visit. I didn’t need to look into my little dining area to know the late payment notices were piling up on my cluttered table. Getting fired made my fragile financial situation tremble like a house of cards, so close to a fall, it took my breath away. Billing statements were getting pushier in their language, printed now on colored paper with threatening exclamations on the envelopes. I looked around at the disaster of my apartment, feeling my stomach sour as I realized I had no way to pay the next month’s rent, due in only five days.
I clicked off my phone, unsure of how to respond. Gigi lived a thousand miles away, but she was still able to sniff out a lie from that distance. Better to say nothing at all, to not even tiptoe in the direction of “I lost my job, I’m broke, and I’m not coming to Iowa forever and ever, amen.”
I pulled myself to my feet, taking a moment to breathe deeply when the sudden change left me light-headed. Padding to my closet, I stood before it. I’d felt a little jolt of happiness the first time I’d seen this closet, moments before signing the rental agreement. Completely atypical of a sublet of this size, my apartment had a delightfully large closet. And I had filled every inch of it, top shelf, hanging rack, floor space, wall space—every bit was filled with beautiful clothes, shoes, bags, and belts. I paged through the hangers and felt my heart become heavy with a knowing dread. The vintage Chanel bag, the Dior skirt I’d found on deep discount, the Armani jumpsuit that had cost more than I cared to remember now but had made a stunning impression at Milano’s holiday soiree that year . . . I let the textures of all those perfectly designed and woefully expensive garments pass through my fingers, wishing I didn’t know what I had to do.
My entire net worth lay before me. If I was going to stay in New York—the New York I loved, the New York that was the center of the fashion world, the New York that would demand a very large rent check in five days—I needed quick access to cash. I clenched the muscles in my jaw and reached for an empty shopping bag. I would rebuild, I assured myself, starting on the left side of the closet and working right. My hands shook a little as I folded the chosen items and placed them carefully in the bag. This bag was my ticket to a new job, a new resolve, a fresh start in the only city I wanted to inhabit. I filled one bag and started another.
A girl had to do what a girl had to do.
After a cumbersome train ride down to the Upper West Side (no cab for me today), I paused on the sidewalk that ran in front of Second to None, the best consignment store in the city. The first time I’d visited, I’d been wide-eyed and in ferocious love, so thrilled to step between the topiaries by the front door and into the quiet of the store, just in from rubbing shoulders with women in that neighborhood who were wearing clothing I wanted desperately to inspect and take apart, to learn by dismantling how such beautiful clothes came to be. I had built the beginnings of a great wardrobe in this store, most of those pieces long gone but some of them lying hopeful in the bags at my feet.
Standing on the sidewalk, I remembered with sudden force how I’d longed to call my mom after my first visit here. She would have loved to hear every detail, I just knew. She’d loved clothes and fashion and would have shared my delight in finding such a gem in the middle of this strange, exhilarating, enormous city. She would have wanted a complete recap, listening to everything in a way only a mom can listen, all attention paid to moments unimportant to the outside observer but singularly important because the moments belonged to her daughter.
The memory hit me in the chest and I pushed it immediately away, a skill at which I’d become very adept over the last decade. Inhaling sharply, I gripped my heavy-laden bags and jostled them successfully through the front door. The store was nearly empty on a Tuesday morning. I navigated awkwardly through the racks and approached the front desk, catching a glimpse of myself in a mirror as I walked by. I stood straighter, forcing my spine into an assured position. If there was one thing I’d garnered from the last ten years, it was how to fake it until I made it. I’d taken extra care before leaving my apartment, applying my makeup precisely, choosing a stylish but classic look that would appeal to the Upper West crowd. My hair was smoothed neatly, precisely, and the auburn highlights brought out flecks of deep green in my eyes. I looked more put together than I’d been able to accomplish in weeks. I just hoped all the effort worked.
“Hello,” I said brightly to the woman behind the counter. “I’m here to consign a few items.”
She put up one manicured finger as a symbol for me to wait. Her eyes remained on a piece of paper before her, but she didn’t seem to be reading or calculating sums. I watched as her eyes didn’t move, just stayed focused on one part of the paper, hand still raised to quiet me. She waited so long, I started to wonder if her skinny arms would start to shake with the effort, but then she removed her wireless glasses and looked up.
“Welcome to Second to None,” she said, unsmiling. “I am Tatiana and will be helping you today.”
“Fantastic. Great to meet you, Tatiana. I’m Grace.” I threw her my warmest smile, my Midwestern manners rusty but still putting hers to shame.
“Have you consigned with us before?” she asked, her eyes sharp, as if willing me to try to fool her.
“Um, no,” I said, then more confidently, “definitely not. Not that I didn’t want to.” I added hastily, “I would have. Because there’s no shame in it. At all. And this is a great shop. Really. I love the topiaries.” I bit into my lower lip to help my mouth remain in a closed position.
She paused a moment, then continued. “We take only items that are on trend and in perfect condition. No stains, no rips, no tears, no fraying. We offer you a lump sum today, based on fifty percent of the profit we hope to achieve with your items. Is this clear?”
I nodded, taking it all in. I began adding up the value of the bulging bags I placed on the counter, watching as Tatiana began to remove the items and lay them before her, eyes sharp, hands moving quickly over buttons, seams, zippers. My internal calculator was buoying my spirits even as she worked. Three, maybe even four months’ rent was represented, I thought. Three months was surely enough time for me to steady my shaky feet, follow up on the emails and résumés I had sent out from my couch, and reroot myself in a new job, maybe even find a roommate.
I felt a catch in my breathing when Tatiana pulled out my Manolo pumps. She noticed and looked up, eyebrows arched in question.
I put my hand out to touch the shoes. “I love these shoes,” I said, my fingers on the perfect stitching along the arch. “They were my very first grown-up purchase after finishing school. I bought them for myself as a graduation present.” Those shoes were more of a statement to me than any diploma. My first Manolo pumps. The perfect, tangible symbol that I was running headlong into The Dream and making good time and real progress.
The woman sniffed and pushed the shoes toward me. “You aren’t ready to give them up. Better take them home or they will make you a bitter shell of a woman.”
I pushed them back. “No,” I said with more certainty than I felt. “I’m ready. It’s time.”
She shook her head but took the shoes. “I’ve seen many bitter shells in my line of work. You should keep the shoes.”
I didn’t say what I was thinking, which was that bitter shell or not, a girl had to eat. I decided to turn away and pretend shop for the rest of the viewing. Better to not actually witness the pillage. When I saw Tatiana wave discreetly to me from above a display of hats, I moved quickly to the counter. Three, maybe four months. That was all I needed.
“You have beautiful things,” the woman said, her monotone belying the compliment in her words. “We will take everything.”
Yessss. I felt flush, knowing that Second to None had a reputation for being very particular. I smiled warmly, waiting for the reveal.
She began folding the clothes into neat stacks. “I can offer you five twenty-five.” She continued folding until she looked up to see me waiting for the next sentence. “Do we have a deal?”
I shook my head to clear it of the noise that was beginning to descend. “You mean for the shoes? Five twenty-five for the Manolos, right?”
At this I glimpsed the first smile from the Ice Queen. “No, no, no. I would lose my shirt if I did business that way.” She chuckled at her not-funny fashion joke. “Five twenty-five for everything.”
My thoughts became loud, bossy. Five twenty-five? Less than half of one month’s rent, much less three.
The woman noticed my reticence. “We sell items at estate sale prices, so you’ll be hard-pressed to get a better offer. You could try selling the items individually on eBay, if you have the patience. And a willingness to ship.”
I shook my head, trying to gather my thoughts and a viable plan. “I don’t have a lot of time . . .” My words trailed off as I felt my phone vibrate in my purse. Distractedly, I rummaged until I found it tucked into the folds of another cursed credit card bill. I glanced at the screen and saw Gigi’s text.
Goldie says there are sales on flights to Des Moines. Three hundred dollars for a rind-trip trucker!
Tatiana waited, the silence growing between us. I stared at the words on my phone and swallowed hard. With one long, last look at my worldly possessions, I typed a quick response to Gigi:
On my way.