backed up.
“Hold still. I want to make this lower in the front.”
I backed up even further. Mr. Dallas shuffled over to assist. I stood there, frozen to the spot, unable to defend myself. I was like a deer in the headlights, fixed in place as the car rushed towards me. I wanted these two to stop pawing me. What was the big deal, anyway? It was the auction items for sale, not me. People would buy that junk because they wanted to, not because I stood there looking like a dolled up dolt.
“Come here. Let me fix your dress.”
“My dress is f-f-f-f-fine, Jill, leave it alone,” I stammered. She moved in closer, extending her arm. As she did this, my skin seemed to ice over in alarm.
Just then someone called to Jill. “Mrs. Primcott, the phone is for you.”
She and Mr. Dallas both turned to see who was intruding on their merry play.
“You might want to come, too, Mr. Dallas, it’s the Mayor,” came the voice from around the corner. Hearing that the Mayor was on the line, they scurried away like two fat rats.
I continued to stand there, still frozen, unable to move. My rabbit-like fright had taken over. My mouth was dry. My palms were sweating. God, I felt exposed and humiliated. I looked down at the place where Jill had grabbed my dress and tugged the neckline up as far as I could. On the floor lay my bag. With furtive haste, I rooted around until I found my favorite sweater, a wooly black number that looked and felt like pure comfort. I pulled it around my shoulders and tracked into the back room.
In the room behind the stage, where speakers and performers typically prepared to go onstage, folding tables had been set up all around. The tables were lined with all of the items that would be held up and auctioned off. Each one had a huge number next to it. A woman with a clipboard marched in and looked at me. “Are you Chérie?” When I numbly nodded, she said, “Here, take this clipboard. It has all the names and numbers of the pieces you will need to hand to the MC – Mr. Dallas, is it?” Again, I nodded meekly. “Okay, then. Familiarize yourself with these items and the order they are in. Once the show starts, you will not have time to think. This is your time.”
I took the clipboard from her hands, eager to have a task to do. I sauntered around each of the tables, looking at all the odds and ends that people had donated for this event. There was an interesting painting of horses, faces in fury, as they made their way up a dry riverbed in a gallop. Their eyes were wild, lips curled back as they jostled about, and bodies gleaming with sweat. Some of them had their necks arched, thrust over the backs of the other horses. Others had their heads down low, as if in defeat. I knew what they felt like. Further down the table was a set of lamps – the kind my mother would die for. Not my taste. There was an envelope from a nearby travel agency. I pulled the contents half way out to find a certificate for a trip for two to Mexico. That could be cool. There was another for the Northgate Mall: a certificate for a shopping spree. That would be cool to purchase, too, if you got a great deal on it. I wandered about, looking at everything, picking up knife sets and Italian dinnerware sets, towels, paintings, and assorted bric-a-brac, wondering who would buy each piece. In the corner, was a brand new black Fisher Road bike with a fully carbon frame, built for the back roads. I could picture Cam and I flying through the trees on two of these. Good donation! I thought.
A half an hour before the show was to begin, I strode out to see the people milling about. Coming down the stairs at the side of the stage I saw Z, drink in hand. She saw me and waved. “Chér!” she yelled over the talkative guests.
I headed towards her until Mr. Dallas spotted me and came rushing over. His handkerchief was out, and he was dabbing at his dripping brow. Did that man ever have a sopping-free day? “This way, we need to go over the
“Hold still. I want to make this lower in the front.”
I backed up even further. Mr. Dallas shuffled over to assist. I stood there, frozen to the spot, unable to defend myself. I was like a deer in the headlights, fixed in place as the car rushed towards me. I wanted these two to stop pawing me. What was the big deal, anyway? It was the auction items for sale, not me. People would buy that junk because they wanted to, not because I stood there looking like a dolled up dolt.
“Come here. Let me fix your dress.”
“My dress is f-f-f-f-fine, Jill, leave it alone,” I stammered. She moved in closer, extending her arm. As she did this, my skin seemed to ice over in alarm.
Just then someone called to Jill. “Mrs. Primcott, the phone is for you.”
She and Mr. Dallas both turned to see who was intruding on their merry play.
“You might want to come, too, Mr. Dallas, it’s the Mayor,” came the voice from around the corner. Hearing that the Mayor was on the line, they scurried away like two fat rats.
I continued to stand there, still frozen, unable to move. My rabbit-like fright had taken over. My mouth was dry. My palms were sweating. God, I felt exposed and humiliated. I looked down at the place where Jill had grabbed my dress and tugged the neckline up as far as I could. On the floor lay my bag. With furtive haste, I rooted around until I found my favorite sweater, a wooly black number that looked and felt like pure comfort. I pulled it around my shoulders and tracked into the back room.
In the room behind the stage, where speakers and performers typically prepared to go onstage, folding tables had been set up all around. The tables were lined with all of the items that would be held up and auctioned off. Each one had a huge number next to it. A woman with a clipboard marched in and looked at me. “Are you Chérie?” When I numbly nodded, she said, “Here, take this clipboard. It has all the names and numbers of the pieces you will need to hand to the MC – Mr. Dallas, is it?” Again, I nodded meekly. “Okay, then. Familiarize yourself with these items and the order they are in. Once the show starts, you will not have time to think. This is your time.”
I took the clipboard from her hands, eager to have a task to do. I sauntered around each of the tables, looking at all the odds and ends that people had donated for this event. There was an interesting painting of horses, faces in fury, as they made their way up a dry riverbed in a gallop. Their eyes were wild, lips curled back as they jostled about, and bodies gleaming with sweat. Some of them had their necks arched, thrust over the backs of the other horses. Others had their heads down low, as if in defeat. I knew what they felt like. Further down the table was a set of lamps – the kind my mother would die for. Not my taste. There was an envelope from a nearby travel agency. I pulled the contents half way out to find a certificate for a trip for two to Mexico. That could be cool. There was another for the Northgate Mall: a certificate for a shopping spree. That would be cool to purchase, too, if you got a great deal on it. I wandered about, looking at everything, picking up knife sets and Italian dinnerware sets, towels, paintings, and assorted bric-a-brac, wondering who would buy each piece. In the corner, was a brand new black Fisher Road bike with a fully carbon frame, built for the back roads. I could picture Cam and I flying through the trees on two of these. Good donation! I thought.
A half an hour before the show was to begin, I strode out to see the people milling about. Coming down the stairs at the side of the stage I saw Z, drink in hand. She saw me and waved. “Chér!” she yelled over the talkative guests.
I headed towards her until Mr. Dallas spotted me and came rushing over. His handkerchief was out, and he was dabbing at his dripping brow. Did that man ever have a sopping-free day? “This way, we need to go over the
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