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I always thought, “How secret is it anyway when you flaunt it across the country in every mall”?
I use to work across the hall from the lingerie store and was greeted every morning by a large naked vynil angel. Summer’s almost over and I decided to quit. I was going to take the money I saved up from this job and maybe go on a road trip… I wanted to do something a little more exciting than catering to the whim of the customers (no matter how nice they were, it was quite boring). So I packed a few stuff and a ton of shampoo. I thought of bringing a camera, but I didn’t have one. I would burrow one from a friend.
Christy was a camera freak, she rarely took pictures with them though. If she saw an ad for a new camera, she had to get it. She thought they were “cuwt”. I understood. I always thought soft drinks in new bottles were “cuwt”.
When I drove up to Christy’s place, there were six or seven police cars in the parking lot. The neighbors were out on the street. There was an ambulance too, but no paramedics in sight. Some officers were starting to tape off the area with the yellow plastic tape you see on TV shows.
I parked my car across the street and walked up to the yellow tape. I looked around into the crowd, Christy wasn’t there. I noticed that the sliding door on Christy’s second floor apartment was open. Just then, an officer walked out onto the balcony, and shook his head at another officer waiting outside.
I pulled the yellow tape over my head and was running. I felt someone grab my arm, then a few more, until I was being dragged.
“Christy”! I noticed myself yelling.
I only met Christy at a New Year’s party this year. She had five cameras with her, snapping away at nothing while explaining the new features. She was from a wealthy family in Chicago, but she stayed out on the West Coast after graduating from one of the UCs (I didn’t know there was more than one until recently).
She had an office job, so we hung out on odd days, mostly at night. I got her some discounts on clothes, and she would usually pay for a pizza. I learned how to play Monopoly from her and in turn I introduced her to Mahjong.
Sometimes, I would invite her out to a movie with some of my other friends, but she always declined, saying she was doing “something”.
“Ma’m, what are you doing”?, the officer stared at me.
“My friend lives in that apartment. Christina Smithfield. What happend to her”!? I continued talking as the officer took notes. Probably my panicked words were being manipulated with cohesion on to the small piece of paper, so that later, the police could question me again.
“Do you know how to contact her parents in Chicago”?
I drew a blank for a second. Then I remembered. She didn’t have a phone in her apartment, and she called everybody on her cell phone.
“Their number’s probably in her cell. What happend to Christy”?
“Ma’m calm down. Does she have any family in town”?
As I thought back, Christy never talked about other friends or family. We never hung out with other people. And come to think of it, that New Year’s party was open to the public.
“I’m the only person she knows…”
“Have you met her parents”?
The paramedics came down the steps with an empty gurney.
A cold sinking feeling like falling down a long dark tube came over me. I was light headed. I slowly lowered myself onto the ground.
Large vans were rolling in as the ambulance left the lot. I couldn’t understand what they were saying, but the officer that was speaking to me before had gone to talk to the new arrivals.
I don’t remember how I got up, but found myself sitting in my car at the police station.
The next morning Mr. and Mrs. Smithfield arrived. Mr. Smithfield was a thin man. He looked old with thin silver hair and a wrinkly face. Mrs. Smithfield looked a little younger. She was tall and had beautiful blond hair like from a VO5 commercial. I could see a little bit of Christy in both of them.
I slept on the couch at the police station. Some detectives were asking me about Christy and they decided that I should talk to her parents. My hair was all a mess, my clothes was all wrinkled, and my mouth tasted like stale coffee.
Mr. and Mrs. Smithfield was standing by the reception desk(?) when a detective walked up and introduced himself. While Mr. Smithfield talked to the detective, Mrs. Smithfield looked my way. She hurried my way in her heels, sat down next to me, and gave me a big hug.
“Are you OK”? she said.
I was surprised.
“You must be Kassy. Christy always talked about you.”
I was still surprised. “How do you know who I am”?
“This is how I know”, Mrs. Smithfield reached into her purse and pulled out a digital camera. As she flipped through the pictures, I saw that almost all of them were of me. “You were her best friend”.
Last week I took that road trip. From LA to Boston with some of Christy’s cameras. I hope Mr. and Mrs. Smithfield likes the pictures.
Kasuga Shiguredani joins CeliaMania from today as an contributor. She currently resides in Los Angeles and promises to write between temp jobs. — Celia
Often, I find myself in a lose/lose situation where either choice would be equally as bad. Usually inaction is the worst, making it a (lose|lose:lose) situation. I am talking about talking with women.
And I hear women say, “it’s not always like that”. All men would agree that it IS always like that, but none of us would dare say it. Because it will put us in a lose|lose:lose situation. But I know women have to ask, “Do I put you into a lose/lose/lose situation”?
Men, there are NO correct answer to that question. You must counter with a question, “Honey, what’s bothering you?”… which opens up a pandora’s box of more unanswerable questions.
Women, you’re expecting too much from men. It’s not wrong. It’s just that you’re not going to get what you need.