Beth Ciotta: Out of Eden

“He’s thinking tonight’s his lucky night,” Faye said with a roll of her blue-shadowed eyes.

“I’d have to be blitzed out of my gourd to sleep with Ashe.”

“Drink that third cosmo and consider yourself boinked,” said Faye.

Kylie pushed her glasses up her nose and focused, sort of, on Wanda. “Do I appear inebriated to you?”

“I did see you talking to your shoe, dear.”

“That’s because this shoe represents the crux of my discontent.”

“Don’t ask,” Faye said, then sipped her beer.

“Giving you blisters?”

Faye slapped a palm to her forehead, metallic-blue nails glittering.

Ironically, or maybe not, someone punched A12 on the jukebox—Kylie knew that jukebox by heart—flooding the bar with the retro hit: “These Boots Are Made for Walking.” Probably someone was making fun of her current shoe fixation, but she was more inspired than insulted. The music provided the perfect background for her on-the-spot promo.

“These,” she said, displaying the slip-on for Wanda’s keener inspection, “are Aerosoles. Padded insoles. Lightweight and flexible. They do not cause blisters. A smart buy for someone who spends a lot of time on their feet. Someone like you.”

“You introduced me to that brand the last time I was in your shop,” Wanda said while snapping her gum. “Felt like I was walking on clouds, but Boone would have a cow if I paid that kind of money for one pair of shoes.”

“Yes, but they’d last longer than the bargain canvas sneakers you’re wearing, plus they’d offer proper arch support. Given your occupation, don’t your feet deserve better?”

“Stop trying to sell my wife fancy shoes!” Boone shouted over the music while sliding a beer down to Ashe.

“They’re not fancy!” Kylie shouted back. “They’re practical!”

“I’m thinking it’s a birthday crisis,” Faye said to Wanda. “Did you wig out when you turned thirty-two?”

“No.” Gaze fixed on the far wall, she shifted and tapped the empty tray against her thigh in time with the music. She blew a pink bubble and when the bubble burst, spoke her mind. “Although I did go through a funk when I turned thirty-nine. All I could think was, I’m one year from forty. Then of course, I panicked when I turned the big five-oh. Who doesn’t?”

“You’re a size seven, right?” Kylie asked, bulldozing over their talk of a birthday crisis. This wasn’t about age, although it was about another passing year.

“Yes, but—”

“Take them.” Desperate to take action, any action to shake up her life, she shoved her right shoe in Wanda’s free hand, toed off the left and handed that over, as well. “They’re yours.”

“They look brand-new.” The redheaded, gum-cracking woman flipped them over, inspected the soles and heels. “No scuffs, no wear.”

“I’ve worn them three times max.”

“Are you sure you want to give them up?”

“Trust me. I’ve got loads of sensible shoes.”

“Shoes, schmooze!” someone complained. “What’s a guy gotta do to get some chicken wings around here?”

They turned their attention to the grumpy complainant, Max Grogan, the town’s retired fire chief, seventy-two and prickly as a porcupine. Armed with two bottles of beer each, he and his cronies—Jay Jarvis (of J.J.’s Pharmacy and Sundry), Ray Keystone (Keystone Barbershop) and Dick Wilson (the town mayor)—were engrossed in their biweekly game of cards.

“Keep your pants on, Max!” Wanda shouted.

“An image I can do without.” Faye shuddered. “Max’s dingy.”

“You can tell you’ve got a five-year-old at home,” Wanda said with a grin. “Dingy. That’s cute, hon. Thanks for the shoes, Kylie, and Happy Birthday,” she added before leaving.

“I wish.” Kylie downed Ashe’s alcoholic gift in two swallows, then slid aside the empty glass with a snort. “Didn’t taste stronger than the first two.”

“Probably because your taste buds are numb.” Faye pursed her cherry-red lips. “Good thing I’m driving.”

“Wash those hands before you handle my wings!” Max yelled when Wanda disappeared into the kitchen.

“I wouldn’t mind seeing dingy’s Max,” Kylie said, tripping over her words. She pinched the end of her tongue. Also numb. Dang. “I mean Max’s dingy.”

Her friend groaned, then leaned forward. “You have got to be kidding. I know you’ve been sexually deprived since the asshole split town, but you cannot be that desperate for a thrill.”

“Actually, I am.” Although, it was spurred by lack of zest, not sex. She’d felt melancholy and hollow since Spenser’s phone call this morning. She wasn’t a stranger to disappointment, and usually she sucked it up and moved on, doing what she had to do, doing what was best for all involved even if it didn’t feel best for her. But today she hadn’t been able to wrangle the disappointment, and as the day crawled by, depression had given way to desperation and uncharacteristic behavior. She mentally kissed her nurturing, passive self goodbye. Time to take action. Time to shake up the life she was stuck with.

“At least it would cause a sensation,” Kylie said, shocked at the vehemence in her tone. “Can you imagine the headlines?” She mimicked a newspaper barker, shouting her concocted news just as the song ended and the noise level dipped. “Max Grogan drops his pants in protest of tardy service!”

“I ain’t flashing my willy just because you’re bored, Kylie McGraw.” Max grunted as he dealt a new hand. “Kids.”

“Kids who don’t know when they’ve had enough,” said the mayor. “Even worse.”

“Maybe you should switch to soda,” called Mr. Keystone.

“Maybe you should mind your own beeswax,” said Kylie.

J.J. tsked. “She’s usually so nice.”

“Yeah, but tonight she’s fun.” Ashe approached Kylie with another cosmo and a smarmy grin. “I’ll show you mine, if you show me yours.”

Kylie dropped her head in her hands with a groan.

“Go away,” Faye said. “And take that evil drink with you.”

“Hey, I’m just trying to please the birthday girl. She said she wants a sensation.”

Kylie banged her fists to the table and frowned up at the man. “I’m talking about something extraordinary, you thick-skulled bozo. People expect you to seduce me and they expect me to fall under your spell. Boone knows Max and gang will show up twice a week to play pinochle and they know they’ll get two-fer beers, kick-butt chicken wings and a comfortable room temperature of sixty-eight. Faye expects me to drink beer because I always drink beer. I expect Faye to whine about her summer guests because she always whines about her summer guests. The majority of Eden will watch Into the Wild Saturday night and gossip about Spenser’s adventures most of Sunday. The Bixley will never expand to a multiplex theater and storefronts on Main Street will always look as they did in 1955, because progress moves at a snail’s pace in Eden! Nothing out of the ordinary ever happens!” Kylie vented, voice slurred and shrill. “You can set your watch by this town. We are boring people!”

“Ooo-kay.” Ashe backed away with the drink, his free hand raised in surrender.

But Kylie wasn’t done. “I bet I know what you’ve been talking about,” she said to Max and friends. “Omertà. That’s all you ever talk about because you’re obsessed. Never mind the mob series is off the air and you’re just now catching up compliments of DVD. That’s typical. Out of step with fashion and the arts. Yup. That’s us! Behind the times. Boring and passé.”

“I came in here for cards and beer,” shouted Max. “Not to be insulted!”

“That does it,” Boone called from behind the bar. “You’re cut off, Kylie.”