Shoe Addicts Anonymous (5 page)

She wasn’t really sure what that meant, but she knew it was cutting-edge technology stuff. “Then I’ll bet your skills are in
demand
. Especially in this town.” They’d already established that he lived in D.C. and she was in the area, too, but she didn’t tell him exactly where. “Get out there and get yourself in front of the people who are hiring.”

“I don’t go out much.”

“You should,” she said emphatically, knowing she was a hypocrite. “It’s important. Don’t get so stuck in your ways that you can’t get out of them. It’s all about getting out.”

For some. For others, like Sandra, it was all about being a home-body. If she didn’t have this job, she’d just have some other job that didn’t require much social interaction. That was just the way she was. It always astonished her when her parents told her she was a social butterfly of a child, because as soon as she’d reached grade school—some of her earliest memories—she’d wanted nothing more than to stay home and hide from the other children. She’d preferred reading to playing Red Rover on the playground.

Then again, she’d have preferred chewing on tinfoil to playing Red Rover, so maybe it wasn’t that she had a problem being social so much as she had a problem being made fun of.

Sandra couldn’t remember a time when she didn’t feel self-conscious in the company of other people. Whether it was because of the external taunts of “blubber butt”—and all the other equally unimaginative but alliterative names—when she was at school, or because of her own internal dialogue—not so unkind as her classmates, but nevertheless harsh—when she was with her family, she didn’t know.

Some people dealt with their childhood traumas by facing them head-on, bursting through them, and emerging on the other side so completely opposite of how they’d begun that people marveled at the transformation.

Others coped more quietly, functioning normally, if not remarkably, and trying not to think about the problems of the past.

Then there were the ones who got so stuck in the tar that they couldn’t quite get it off their shoes. They might
appear
normal, under some circumstances, but there was always a personality glitch. In
extreme
extreme cases—Ted Bundy came to mind—things like serial murder and cannibalism.

But the rest of the extreme cases just had their own private demons to wrestle with; usually no one else got hurt. It may be a fear of dogs (
cynophobia
); fear of public speaking (
glossophobia
); or even a crippling fear of otters (
utraphobia
).

Sandra had no problem with otters.

No, Sandra’s fear was of leaving the safety of home.

Agoraphobia.

As a matter of fact, thanks to the wonders of Internet shopping and grocery delivery, she hadn’t left home in three months.

Oh, Sandra had issues. Not one of them was too big, too dark, too serious, but add her weight issues, self-consciousness, shyness, and the feeling that her parents preferred her sister all together, and you had one neurotic person who was in real danger of becoming a game show–watching hermit.

She didn’t want that.

She knew she had to change.

She just didn’t know exactly how to do it.

L
orna walked through Montgomery Mall with a pair of shoes that—considering only two dollars of her monthly credit card payment went toward the actual principal versus the interest—represented twelve years’ worth of payments.

It was ugly.

The mall was cool and festive, carrying the sounds of people talking and Muzak, and the smell of chocolate chip cookies, hamburgers, Boardwalk fries, and Chinese food. Usually the environment gave Lorna a lift, but walking back to the shoe department at Ormond’s, she felt like she was carrying a boulder on her back.

She had to return the Delmans.

She had no choice.

“I need to return these,” she said when she got to the counter in the shoe department.

It was Luis, the same salesman she’d bought them from—a tall, slight slash of a man with sharp features, small eyes, and dark hair slicked back in the style of a 1940s mobster.

Somehow, he hadn’t struck her as quite so menacing when he presented her the Delmans at 30 percent off.

“You just bought them.”

“I know that.” She gave a
what can you do?
smile. “But I need to return them. They’re just not going to work out for me.”

“What’s wrong with them?”

It was clear that Luis wasn’t some teenage Wal-Mart employee who followed procedure without taking anything personally. No, Luis was going to
pursue
this; he was going to get to the bottom of things—probably in the most uncomfortable way possible, excavating all her financial insecurities—before letting Lorna leave with a credit receipt.

Even though his challenging attitude wasn’t a surprise—she’d been shopping long enough to recognize someone clinging to his commission when she saw it—it still irked her. What irked her even more, though, was her own feeling of having to make up an explanation for this little weasel that would keep him from judging her.

“They didn’t go with the outfit I had in mind for them.”

He raised a dark eyebrow, and Lorna got a mental image of him plucking the middle of his unibrow every morning in a magnifying makeup mirror. “They’re black leather.”

“Yes,” she forced herself to swallow further explanations, “they are.”
Blue dress,
she thought but didn’t say.
Wrong color black. The hardware is silver, and I’ll be wearing gold.
A million lame lies came to mind, but she kept her mouth shut. She wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction of an elaborate explanation.

With a look of undisguised disgust, Luis held out his hand, and she gave him her receipt and credit card.

Lorna stood and waited, wishing to God this transaction would just
end
so she could get out of the store and never come back. What was with Ormond’s anyway? Why did they seem to have only this one salesman in the shoe department? Every single time she came in, she’d hoped for a different salesperson, but 90 percent of the time, it was Luis.

He processed the return, handed Lorna her receipt, and took the shoe box off the counter, flashing her a look that she interpreted as punitive. Maybe it was just the fact that she was bummed about having to give the shoes back that made her extra sensitive, but whatever it was, when she left the store, she felt like she was going to cry.

And she hated herself for feeling that way when there were people in the world with so many more serious problems.

But Lorna wasn’t a fool, though her debt certainly appeared to be a testament to the contrary. Now that she knew where she stood, and what a colossal mistake she’d made, she was absolutely
determined
to make it right. She would cut up every credit card, work extra shifts—hell, she’d even eat beans and rice if that was what it took to save money and pay down her credit cards.

The only thing that concerned her, and she knew it was pitiful and shamefully self-indulgent to even
think
it, was how difficult it was going to be to stop buying shoes.

They made her happy.

She wasn’t going to apologize for that.

Some people drank, some people used drugs, some people were sex addicts, some people even did truly
heinous
things to
other
people in order to make themselves feel better. Compared with all that, a new pair of Ferragamos here, some Uggs there…it just didn’t seem that bad.

Now, before long, every pair she had would probably be worn out, and then where would she be?

Shoeless Lorna, too poor to resole her pumps.

When she got home and checked the answering machine, there was a call from a coworker, asking her to cover her shift at the restaurant, Jico, where they both worked that night. Grateful for the opportunity to put her debt-reduction plan into immediate action, she took the shift.

Nine hours later, she was on her last customer, Rick, a blowhard of a guy who’d been sitting at a table near the bar all night without getting anything more than one soda per hour and an order of onion rings. She’d waited on him before. Lots of times, in fact. He came at least once a week and somehow he always ended up in her section. Dumb luck. The guy was a lousy tipper.

Worse than that, he was a talker. Talk talk talk. He wanted to know all about the people at the bar and in the restaurant. She figured he was trying to find himself a date, but he didn’t seem to have much luck. No wonder. The guy probably never paid for a date in his life.

And at the moment, Rick was the one thing that stood between Lorna and relaxation, so she was doubly irritated with him. When he finally asked for the check, she was relieved.

“Can I get you anything else?” she asked him, hoping against hope he’d say no.

He did. “Only the check.”

She pulled it out of her pocket and set it down, saying, “I’ll take that whenever you’re ready.”

“Hang on, sweetcakes, I’m ready now.” He looked at the bill, then opened his wallet and peeled off a ten and a couple of ones. “Keep the change.”

She hated getting stiffed, but she’d been raised to be courteous at all costs. “Thanks very much.” She put the money in her pocket.

She’d chip away at her debt in tiny increments, if necessary.

Later that night, Lorna sat at the bar with her aching feet up, counting her tips.

“Lousy night?” Boomer, the bartender, asked, eyeing her. He was a big man, about six-five, with a craggy face, but the sort of watery blue eyes that always looked sympathetic. The rumor was that he’d been drafted by the Redskins a few decades back, but had been injured in training camp and so had been working in various bars ever since.

Lorna didn’t know if that was true, because Boomer never talked about himself or his past, but, given his size, she could believe it.

“Let’s see,” she said, tapping the short stack of bills on the bar top. “The table full of Heathers who ogled the musicians all night and sucked down three hundred bucks’ worth of Bellinis left five bucks, and that son of a bitch Earl Joffrey”—Earl Joffrey was a local newscaster with a reputation at Jico for being the worst tipper ever—“literally left the coins from his change. Seventy-six cents.”

“Did you give him his change in ones?” Boomer asked, hauling a rack of mugs to the sink. “If you change him big bills instead of small ones, he gets pissed.”

“I know that. I gave him
seventeen
ones.”

Boomer drained a half-empty beer bottle and tossed it into the recycling bin with a clang. “And seventy-six cents.”

She gave a dry laugh. “Yeah, and seventy-six cents. The cheap jerk. Don’t watch Channel Six news.”

“Never do.”

“Me neither.” Tod, one of Lorna’s coworkers, stopped and set a check down on the bar top. “Last one of the night. Thirty-four percent tip. I saw Earl Joffrey coming, and I just prayed he wouldn’t sit in my section.” He gave Lorna an affectionate nudge. “Sorry, baby.”

She rolled her eyes and put an arm around his rock star–thin waist. “You are not.”

“No, I’m not.” He gave her a squeeze. “Because
I
have got a date tonight.”

“Now? It’s so late!”

“Not for all of us, Mom.” Tod gave a laugh.

She remembered feeling that way about dates. It seemed like a hundred years ago.

“I met the most amazing guy,” Tod went on. “We’re meeting at Stetson’s at one-thirty. Then…who knows?”

“
I
know.”

“You got me.” Tod cracked up. Here was one guy who was totally comfortable with letting it all hang out. “Hey, live, love, laugh, and get laid, right?”

She mentally checked off which items she was
not
currently doing and got even more depressed, but she kissed Tod good-bye and told him to have extra fun for her. She had little doubt that he would do it.

“I don’t know about that guy,” Boomer said when Tod had left. “I hope he’s being careful.”

“Don’t worry, I’ve had the Talk with him. He’s a slut, but he’s a cautious slut. I, on the other hand, am a tired nun.”

“At least that’ll keep you healthy.” Boomer gave her an affectionate smile.

“There’s that.” She sighed and put her money into her purse. “I’m going home.” She stood up. “Pass the word along that I’m looking to take over extra shifts, would you? If anyone wants me to cover for them, give them my number.”

Boomer, who had been drying a wineglass, stopped and considered her. “Are you in some sort of trouble, kid? Something more than just being tired and single?”

Lorna smiled. “No, everything’s fine. Really.”

He looked unconvinced. “So what’s with the need for extra work? If you need a loan, I could—”

“Oh, God, no.” She laughed. “Boomer, you are so sweet, but no, thank you.” Why he was so financially stable, she’d never understand. It probably had more to do with his NFL past than his bartending gig, that was for sure. “I’m working more to try and pay things
off
.”

“Ah.” He nodded sagely. “Credit cards?”

“And how.”

He paused, then said, “I don’t want to butt in where it’s none of my business, honey, but there was a fella in here a couple of weeks ago who works as a credit counselor. Ever heard of that?”

A credit counselor. Sounded like something that would cost $150 an hour. And take credit cards. “What, exactly, does a credit counselor do?”

Boomer smiled. “Drinks a lot of Fuzzy Navels, for one thing. But what he said is his company helps people with debt to consolidate it and get lower interest rates.”

She thought of the two credit cards she had at twenty-nine percent and sat back down. “Really? How?”

“He told me all about it.” Boomer nodded wearily. “I mean
all
about it. They cut a deal with the companies. I guess the banks figure getting paid back at five percent is better than getting ignored at fifteen percent or something.”

Fifteen percent. That would be like a gift at this point. But
5
percent? Lorna didn’t have to get out a calculator to know that the lower the interest rate, the faster the problem went away.

“Any idea what the company is called?”

“He left his card. I’ve got it here somewhere.” Boomer went to the cash register, opened it up, and pulled a business card out of one of the compartments. He handed it across the bar to Lorna.

PHIL CARSON, SENIOR CONSULTANT, METRO CREDIT COUNSELING SERVICES
. Beneath that, it indicated it was
A NONPROFIT COMPANY
.

“Keep it,” Boomer said, looking at her so earnestly, she couldn’t refuse.

“Okay. Thanks.” She put the card in her purse, along with her meager tip earnings for the night, knowing she’d probably forget about it before she got home. “Why’d he give you his card anyway?”

Boomer chuckled. “He wanted me to pass it along to Marcy. I think he’s got the hots for her.”

Of course. Who didn’t? Marcy was a pillowcase-blond bombshell who routinely took home hundred-dollar tips and, occasionally, very wealthy older gentlemen whose needs apparently included size 38 DD silicone fun pillows and discretion. Marcy offered both, for a price.

And it wasn’t a price Phil Carson, nonprofit credit counselor, was likely to pay.

“You should probably try to give it to her,” Lorna said, reaching for the card again.

Boomer put up a hand to stop her. “I did. She took one look at the thing and said no way.” He gave a crooked smile. “I think it was the
nonprofit
part that turned her off.”

Lorna laughed. “Well, thanks. Maybe there’s some kismet to this. Marcy’s loss could be my gain.” She thought about that for a moment. “Or my loss, depending how you think of it.” She sighed. “I’m off. Remember to keep me in mind for extra shifts.”

“Will do,” Boomer said with a nod. Then he leveled his blue eyes on her, and she felt a wave of his concern come her way. “And you’ll remember to let me know if you need help, right? It’s a tough world out there, and I hate to see a nice kid like you struggling by yourself.”

Lorna smiled, though she felt tears well in her eyes. Impulsively, she leaned over the bar and pulled Boomer into a hug. “Thanks, Boomer. You’re the best.” When she pulled back, she saw his face had gone red straight down to his collar.

“Go on.” He gestured with the wineglass he was wiping. “Get out of here.”

Lorna got home at 2
A.M.
As soon as she turned on the lights—relieved that the electricity was on—she went to her computer and turned it on, despite her exhaustion.

She had to
un
-order shoes from a few Internet sites.

Swallowing a lump in her throat, she switched her browser to Shoezoo.com, a site she had spent many happy hours browsing in the past. One click on
MY ACCOUNT
, and the words
WELCOME BACK, LORNA
showed up on her screen.

That usually made her smile, but tonight it just made her sad. And feeling sad about something she knew was so shallow made her feel even worse.