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From Us and August
Walking through Downtown Chicago, especially alone, is definitely surreal. The city surrounds you and you feel like you are on top of the world. That’s why I like doing it so much.
I live in the Loop, on State Street, in a little apartment above my boutique’s rival, Zoë’s. Instead of working at Zoë’s for the convenience, I walk all the way down to Watertower Place by the Hancock Building to work at August’s Closet. I would work at Zoë’s, except working there requires a nose piercing and some earthy tattoo in an obscure place. Also, my coworker, Delilah—who works weekends—is convinced it’s a cult.
Walking to work requires me to wear a pair of Nikes with my Abercrombie dress and statement necklace. I have a pair of Ray Bans on and still squint at the sun peering out from behind the Wrigley Building.
I like to walk down Michigan Avenue to get to work. The atmosphere is clean and nice, and it beats the El by a lot. Everyone in Chicago is friendly too. It’s the people in the suburbs you need to look out for, or anybody on Route 59. I always thought that too much traffic can do bad things to your inner peace. Maybe I should work at Zoë’s.
20 minutes latter, I arrive at August’s Closet. Walking into it feels like you’re walking into a large closet, but a small room. It is full of racks and pictures of Marilyn Monroe and Audrey Hepburn in all the empty spaces between the racks. The walls, or what you can see of them, are hot pink with orange stripes. In the back of the room is a glass counter with a black computer on top of it. Inside the counter you can see some of August Houghton—the owner’s—mother’s prized jewelry. Behind the counter are a door and a pop art of Marilyn Monroe. The door leads to the stock room/locker room and the staircase up to August’s apartment/office/headquarters. He lives up there with his dog, Givenchy, and his second wife, Daisy. The bell of the door rings as I walk into the windowless store.
“Hi, Amélie,” Faye exclaimed form behind the counter. She was leaning over the counter looking at August’s hot pink clipboard with inventory count on it. Her pretty brown hair fell down over her left shoulder and V-neck long-sleeved black top. You cannot see her pregnancy bump from behind the counter, August gave her a high director’s chair to sit on due to her “precious cargo,” but she is not sitting on it right now. She is currently eight months along, and to be blunt, she’s huge. Faye insists upon not figuring out the sex of the baby. August goes to Holy Name Cathedral everyday and prays with all his other intentions that the baby is a fabulous girl.
“Hi, Faye,” I smile. I walk behind the counter, asking the first customer if she needs help finding anything. After she says no, I make my way to the back.
In the stockroom, there are boxes and racks with garment bags hanging from them. However, the room is violet and there is a quote on the wall, “The difference between style and fashion is quality.” Behind the boxes by the backdoor are a set of 6 lockers in 3 rows, one on top of the other. I unlock mine and take my Nikes off. I reach into my Long Champ tote and grab a pair of black flats. My dress is black with daisies all over it. My statement necklace has daisies on it too. My blonde hair is pulled back in a straight ponytail.
I gasp as the backdoor tears open. I see August smiling at me while the alley looks depressing behind his glow.
“Hello gorgeous,” August smiles. He is in his late sixties and he looks incredible. The only thing that changed since his high school senior portrait is that his hair is gray and he has smile wrinkles.
“I look like a Barbie doll,” I chuckle.
“Oh, but a very pretty Barbie doll,” August gently pinches my chin.
“Anything new?” I close my locker and pull a black cardigan over my dress, shoving my phone in the pocket.
“Yes, actually,” August grabs a box from the alley and opens the box with a box cutter. I help him unwrap the new dresses from the plastic and tissue paper they were delicately wrapped in.
“We got a deal with Versace?” I smile as I unwrap a blue dress.
“If only, Leigh,” August addresses me with the nickname he designed, “We actually have a new employee.”
“Really?” I wonder, “What’s her name.”
“Well to Delilah’s dismay, but possibly not yours, she’s a he,” August replies.
“What’s his name?” I fold the blue dresses in a pile and separate them from the tangerine ones.
“Lachlan,” August pronounces harshly.
“Lachlan?” I pondered.
“Lock-lun,” August corrected me after I pronounced lan, my Chicago showing through completely.
“What country is that?” I asked loudly, forgetting the stockroom door to the store is open.
“Very politically correct, Mélie,” Faye replied loudly, using her made up nickname for me.
“Shush, With Child,” I finished. “With Child” was Faye’s nickname after the several times her mother saying, “She is with child.”
“So when does Lock-lun start?” I ask pronouncing his name carefully.
“He has a noon shift tomorrow,” August says. Just after, his phone starts vibrating.
“Excuse me, sweetie,” he holds his finger up and heads upstairs.
Once he leaves, I hear Faye finish checking someone out, “Receipt’s in the bag. Have a fabulous day, from us and August.”
“You know, I trained that kid,” Faye says with her left hand rubbing her belly. She had a naked ring finger since her wedding band and engagement ring didn’t fit anymore.
“How is he?” I ask, walking to the back of the stockroom to grab the neon pink hangers we use to hang our clothes on the rack.
“Well he hit on me,” Faye commented, “I hope the little twerp has a run in with Jesse sometime soon.”
“Jesse could kill him, Faye. Why did you tell him?” Faye’s husband, Jesse owns a gym and trains body builders professionally. I’ve known him for years and he could crush me with his hugs.
“I am with child and he is just plain creepy,” Faye grabs a hanger and places a dress on it.
“Okay, Lorraine,” I said, addressing Faye by her mother’s name. She sticks her tongue out at me. “What’s with his name?”
We grab a bunch of dresses with hangers on them and head out to the store. Faye heads to the right side and I follow her to the same rack.
“So get this: he’s from Australia, but he’s lived in Bloomington-Normal for basically his whole life,” she starts hanging dresses up and grabbing old ones for clearance, “I think he keeps up the accent so he can get the ladies, which if he lived down there, the girls would go crazy. Could you mark these for clearance please, sweetie?”
I grab the old dresses and head to the glass counter to place them down. Once they’re down I continue the conversation from the stockroom while I grab the hot pink clearance tag maker, which looks like a label maker.
“Wait. How long has he lived in Bloomington?”
“Since he was 2 or 5 or something like that.”
I walk back out and begin scanning items and calculating and making tags.
“How would he know about impressing ladies when he was 5?” I question.
“His dad or something I don’t know. The kid hit on a pregnant woman, you don’t think he’d be a little unusual?” Faye joins me behind the counter and helps calculate with August’s clipboard. We would be doing this from August’s office upstairs, but he’s up there, Delilah’s not here, and there’s no one in the store anyway.
“I don’t know, I don’t think I’d have a problem with an accent,” I make a hot pink tag saying “$8.94.”
“Honey, rule of thumb,” Faye calculates $19.60 from $48.97, “Just because he says ‘mate’ after the phrase ‘I watch you change from my window’ does not make it any less creepy.”
I sigh, “Whatever. I guess I’m too Midwestern.”
“Well, you can see for yourself at noon tomorrow.”
“Wait, aren’t you working tomorrow?”
“I can’t, sweetie,” Faye puts her arm around me and kisses my cheek.
“What about Delilah, can’t she cover?” I ask.
“Delilah’s on vacation with her sorority sisters in Bora Bora or something exotic sounding like that,” Faye highlights items on the clipboard with a pink highlighter, “But I’ll tell you this, you’ll get your work cut out for you.”
The next day comes and it’s pouring rain. I’m wearing an oversized sweater and another statement necklace with my skinny jeans and combat boots. I help a girl pick out an outfit for a date she’s going on this night. I look at the clock next to the messy pile of Goodwill clothes that I should have prepared hours ago, however it is a surprisingly busy morning. August conveniently decided to visit his disgruntled stepdaughter in Waukegan with Daisy.
It’s 12:23. Where is he?
“See, I want sexy but not hoochy,” the girl grabs a halter top.
“Um hon,” I’m on my last nerve, “You’re 14 and it’s raining.” I pull out a pink pullover and hand it to her. She sighs and goes to the dressing room in the back, in a little nook further behind and to the left of the counter. I start on the pile of Goodwill clothes.
12:27. A blonde young guy walks in with a shirt that says HCO, and a flannel unbuttoned over it. He takes off the sunglasses he was wearing. The sky is deep blue behind him.
“Um…where’s the time punch in thingy?” he asks, his Australian accent dominating his speech.
I silently groan and begin to work my way through the pile, “You Lachlan?”
“The one and only, baby,” his accent is fake sounding and heavy.
“Okay, whatever, you’re half an hour late so you have to fill in a time sheet anyway. You have to stay late now to fill in the time you missed. Now, could you work on this pile for me?”
“Yeah,” he hesitates, “I don’t know how to do that.”
I look up from the pile, “Didn’t Faye train you?”
“Fair?”
“Faye.”
“Faye?”
“Faye,” I look at his dense expression, “Brown hair. Blue eyes.”
He stares blankly at me.
I sigh, “The pregnant one…”
“Oh yeah the…”
“Don’t,” I hold out my hand, “She didn’t tell you how to defect out the Goodwill clothes?”
“Uh, I don’t think—”
“I love it!” the girl walks up to the counter with the pullover. She also throws a pink rose ring on top of it, which compliments the top nicely.
Lachlan eyes her up and down. She blushes.
“$51.32,” I break the moment.
“I thought it was 40-something,” the girl smiles at Lachlan.
“Chicago sales tax,” I fold the sweater and whip open a hot pink-orange polka dot bag.
“I know, crazy, huh?” Lachlan flirts, stressing his accent.
“Ooo, I love your accent! Are you from England?” The girl swipes her debit card. I roll my eyes.
“Australia. Darwin,” he leans on the counter and brushes her arm lightly with his hand, a ring on the middle finger. He smiles, “Close enough.”
“Yeah, just the continent around the corner,” I mumble, “$51.32. Credit or debit?”
“Uh…credit,” she mutters, “So is Darwin like by Sydney?”
“Kind of…” Lachlan smiles.
“Sign please!”
She signs and shoves her debit card back into her wallet.
“So, what’s the sweater for?” Lachlan asks her.
“Oh, just a…date,” she replies.
“Lucky guy,” he puts his head on his hand like a little boy.
“Receipt with you or in the bag?!”
“In the bag, thanks,” she takes her bag.
“Have a fabulous day, from us and August,” I finish off the order with a fake smile. She doesn’t return it.
“Hey what’s your name?” Lachlan catches her with ease as she prepares to leave.
“Khloe with a K,” she responds.
“Better than the Kardashian, I see,” she giggles in response to his killer move, “I’ll see you around.” He winks and she giggles again. I open the cash register and slam it back in. I smile and wave her out as she leaves, admiring Lachlan one last time before the rain catches her by surprise.
“How old are you anyway?” I ask him once he comes back to earth.
“What does that matter to you,” he replies defensively.
“She’s 14,” I point towards the door.
“Age is but a number, especially with innocent flirting, baby.”
“And a Class B is just a type of felony. Plus my name is Amélie, nice to meet you,” I force him to shake hands with me, “So first thing’s first, no flirting with the customers or Faye or Delilah, though I doubt you’d get far with Delilah without her tazing you.”
Lachlan eyes me, “What about—”
“No. Also next time you get ready for work, veto any logos or designer names on your tops, distracts the customers.”
“Well that’s stupid. Why does he do that?”
“Well, this is a boutique and we don’t want customers distracted by the fact that they could spend less money at a big chain. That doesn’t mean you have to wear stuff from here—especially since we only sell women’s clothes—but we want to give the impression that we are. For instance—well I own a lot of clothes from here—but today I chose this top from Topshop and some Old Navy jeans—”
“Okay Cher Horowitz bring it home. Just tell me what I need to do.”
I huff and roll my eyes, “Well.”
“You’re like the fricking Progressive lady,” he mumbles.
“I’m amazed you know what that is, Bondi Boy.”
“I’ve lived here long enough to know she’s irritating. It’s not like I’m Amee-rican or anything, shoving bacon in my mouth while I shoot deer—but I’m not oblivious.”
“Very nice, is that what you think of all Amee-ricans?’
“Just the real ones,” he replies.
“Lovely, you know you remind me of my ex-boyfriend,” I say.
“Is that a good thing?” he grins.
“No. Now come behind the counter,” I show him the pile when he arrives.
“Okay,” I begin, “Step One: Scan and/or type.” I scan a pink hoodie with a hole in it.
“Step Two,” I continue, looking towards the computer to show him where to click, “Defect-Tops-Damaged-Rip/Hole.”
“Okay, either slow down or I won’t do it,” Lachlan holds out his hands.
“Fine,” I go to the stockroom with a pink legal pad and a pen with a sunflower on the top. I quickly write down the instructions, “Just follow the list, and if you do it right, you could almost beat Delilah for employee of the month.”
I head to open a box of bags when I see August rush in through the back door. He is soaking wet and looks panicked.
“Leigh!” he grabs my arms and kisses my cheek quickly, “Is Lachlan here?”
“Yeah, he just got—”
“Good! I need you!”
“Well he got here thirty—wait what?”
“Yeah. Kennedy just told Daisy and I that she wants to elope with her new boyfriend, Cameron. We need you to help us out.”
“Me? Why me?” I protest almost like a daughter to her father.
“Well, you and Kennedy are around the same age and didn’t you almost elope with that boyfriend of yours—” he snaps his fingers, eyes closed, trying to find the name.
“Hayden,” I finish, “Well…okay. But who will run the store? Delilah’s on vacation.”
“Lachlan. Faye trained him, didn’t she?”
“Well yeah, but only two—”
“All right, sweetie, I’ll let him know.”
“But, August, he just started and—”
“It’ll only be for an hour, Leigh.”
“Yeah, but August he—”
“Please, Amélie. I really need your help. If she elopes with this guy, she’ll throw her life away. His nickname’s Ripper, Leigh. I’m her father you need to understand.”
“Huh,” I stop the conversation in its tracks. That name sounds familiar.
“Okay,” August decides to take that as me agreeing to go with him, “I’ll let him know.”
“Wait, August—” I stop him as he heads out to the front of the store where I see Lachlan digging through the underwear bin.
“Leigh, don’t worry,” he attempts to reassure me, “It’s only an hour, it’s raining, and really…what’s the worst that could happen?”
So I head out to Waukegan, leaving Lachlan alone at the store. It’s okay though, it’s only an hour. And like August said, what’s the worst that could happen?
Faye and I are sitting on the counter with August’s mother’s jewelry still in it…in an empty pink and orange striped store. Empty racks thrown around, Marilyn and Audrey stripped from the walls, and no money in the register. We are eating ice cream sandwiches.
“So…I completely blanked that Hayden and Cameron had a baby brother from Australia,” I recap.
“Isn’t Hayden that guy you were engaged to like years ago?”
“Yes,” I groan.
“With the twin brother with the stupid Full House-band name?”
“Ripper. Yes.”
“And didn’t they do time for holding up a 7-11?”
“Yup,” I purse my lips, “And they have a stepmother who is from Australia.”
“Oh yeah, wasn’t it Georgia or—”
“Gloria.”
“Yeah,” Faye smiles and continues to eat her ice cream sandwich, “And they are from Bloomington-Normal, obviously.”
I give her a look while she laughs in the empty store. There is a pause and we hear August wail upstairs.
I take out my phone, “I wonder if Hayden changed his number.”
“Feeling desperate?” Faye takes another bite.
“Pretty much,” I dial and press the phone to my ear.
“Well this’ll be a new beginning for little Calvin,” she smiles, rubbing her belly. I am calling the number on my phone. I hand up.
“Wrong number?” Faye questions me.
“Disconnected,” I put my phone back in my pocket.
“Probably halfway back to Sydney…”
“Dahr-ween,” I smile back at her. We laugh together.
“He’s most likely in Dwight, hitting on the inmates at the female prison,” I say.
“You’d think they’d role the dice like that?’ Faye asks me.
“The kid just robbed us blind in broad daylight on Michigan friggin Avenue,” I emphasize the emptiness of the store.
“Eh, point,” Faye says. She finishes off her ice cream sandwich. She crumples the wrapper and looks for a trash can. She sighs after she realizes that’s gone too. She decides to hold on to it. We sit there in silence hearing August wail. She sighs and tosses the wrapper across the room.
“So when are you going to tell August the baby’s a boy?” I ask her, still finishing my ice cream sandwich.
We hear August wail again.
“Probably not until he starts school,” Faye sighs, knowing this might be true.
“So Calvin, eh?” I bring up the name she just told me.
“Yeah,” she smiles.
“Relative?” I continue the conversation.
“Calvin Klein, I thought August would appreciate it.”
“Yeah, I bet,” I mumble.
We both sigh and I finish my ice cream sandwich, tossing my wrapper next to her.
“Well, Faye, you definitely were right,” I say. She looks at me quizzically. “I definitely got my work cut out for me.”
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