The Burden in the Bunk Below

I was lucky enough to be bunk bed mates with Rachel Stillman at camp the summer before 7^th grade. To give you an idea of her personality: She had a case of eye shadow about twice the size of her head with more variations in color than the eye can see.  She once “lost” her book (a trashy book made from a trashy movie—I don’t remember which) and began screaming at everyone in the cabin. She stamped her feet, swore, moaned, and even threw a towel on two girls playing jacks. Eventually a girl said, “Rachel, isn’t that your book on the bed?” She yelled at the girl for even suggesting such an idea, but sure enough, there it was, on her bed. Once, while I was sleeping, my hand dangled over the side of the bed so she made some girls in the cabin push it back because she apparently couldn’t sleep otherwise.

So anyways, there was one time when she was particularly awful. I had been staying in the nurse’s office, miserable as ever with an upset stomach, wanting so much to go home. When I finally returned to the cabin, most girls had the common courtesy to ask how I was, but not Rachel. She greeted me by saying, “You’d better not puke on me in the night. If you do, you have no idea what I’ll do to you.”

Where I Went Wrong and What You can Learn from my Mistake

I should have puked on Rachel. I think a little would have looked quite nice in her hair. But no, I just let her say that with no retaliation on my part. If faced with a foe, you must fight back.

The Strange Man in the Car

For some inexplicable reason, my friend Shalli and I decided it would be fun to walk to CVS on a snowy night. Why we chose trudging to a drugstore in dismal, 20-degree weather instead of movies and hot chocolate is beyond me, but we can be weird like that. So as we were heading home, a rusty old car came to a screeching halt and a withered, skeletal face poked his head out the window. “You girls need a lift?” His voice was raspy as dead leaves in the wind. The “do not get in cars with strangers” warning flashed neon red before my eyes, so I clumsily began running through the heavy snow. Chances are he just felt bad seeing us out there in the cold. But I wasn’t taking any chances. I ran home on numb legs, heart pounding with each step. Shalli, the more polite of the two of us, said, “thank you, but we’re OK” before catching up with me. 

Where I Went Wrong and What You can Learn from my Mistake

Although the man definitely looked like quite a creep, he could have been perfectly well-intentioned. But there’s no way of knowing for sure. That’s why people, especially thirteen-year-old girls, should not walk along busy roads at night, no matter how alluring CVS, or whatever the destination, might be.

Evading Maniacs

Mrs. Zience was one of my more insane teachers. Well, I’ve had quite a few, from one who made me smell fox pee and pray to poison ivy to another who would give me free points on tests for no reason (I’m not complaining).  But Mrs. Zience was really up there. She’d make my class shovel goat poop for extensive periods of time or carry heavy objects around for no apparent reason. Meanwhile, she’d either be singing bird calls on the top of her lungs or telling us sensitive family issues. That’s why I’d sometimes hide in a bush (my “secret spot”) with my friend until class was over. On graduation day, Mrs. Zience shook my hand and said, “I never liked you much, but good luck in high school. Hopefully teachers will like you more there.” What a darling.

Where I Went Wrong and What You can Learn from my Mistake

I think I handled the situation somewhat well by hiding and not subjecting myself to that woman, but a better solution would have been to switch schools. Although the school did have some merits, the majority of teachers were maniacs. Moral: if faced with people who don’t float your boat, find some new sailors before you sink.

Sheila Styles: a Store of Sadistic Smiles

I should have known better than to enter that neon-pink store of tacky jewelry and claustrophobia again. You’d think five hours of blaring pop music and Jackie screaming at me whenever I hung a necklace half a centimeter lopsided would have been enough. But no, I just had to go back for more. The thing is, I was absolutely desperate for a job. After months of never-ending calls and emails to every store on Martha’s Vineyard, from candy shop to cinema to shoe store, after months of hearing “sorry we’re not hiring,” I was willing—although just barely—to set foot in that despicable place again.

The first time I entered Sheila Styles was during Memorial Day weekend, when I went to the Vineyard to scout out jobs for my two-month stay later in the summer. I went to all the places I’d tried to call and email, but my in-person solicitations proved to be as futile. However, Sheila Styles was the exception. They were as desperate for employees as I was for work and no wonder; everyone besides me was smart enough to steer well clear of the vicinity.

I slipped Sheila my resume as I strolled down the street, stopping at every shop like an eager trick-or-treater. But the difference between trick-or-treaters and me is that they get what they want, and I didn’t.

Sheila called me within half an hour of the disposal of my resume. Well, it was Jackie, technically, who did the calling: Jackie, the evil puppet, working for Sheila, the behind-the-scenes puppeteer.

I answered my phone in the bookstore across the street from Sheila. “Mariel? Come in five minutes wearing a white top, black skirt, and black shoes.” I told Jackie I didn’t have this attire, and even if I did, I wouldn’t be able to go back, change, and be at the store in five minutes. Seriously, what did she expect? I should have realized right then and there that something was fishy. But my fishy radar seemed to have shut itself off, which often happens in times of desperation. She told me that was fine and to come anyway. With naïve excitement, I opened that door and set foot in that store.

Sheila hugged me and smiled like a siren highly practiced in the art of capturing the helpless. “We are so glad you’re here. Aren’t we, Jackie?”

“We are,” said the puppet.

“We have so many boxes of jewelry to deal with. You’ll be such a help.”

Her glossy smile, the screechy girl singing on the radio, thick perfume, and the smell of cheap metal clogged my throat and I struggled to breathe.

“I’m only here for the weekend. But I can start working when I return to the Vineyard.” My toes felt clammy in my shoes. My fingers fidgeted.

“Yeah, we want you here this weekend, though!” Sheila exclaimed. “We’ll pay you $7 an hour—you and your friend.” She motioned to Lauren, standing motionless behind me.

Lauren and I exchanged confused glances.

“Uh, OK,” I said.

We were sucked in, and there was no turning back.

For hours, Lauren and I were jewelry-hanging machines, putting skull necklaces; robot necklaces; and huge, hideous gold necklaces on the wall. Some necklaces fell apart before we even touched them. The beads were ready to pop right off and get the hell out of there. I couldn’t blame them.

Jackie would reprimand each of us quite consistently. “Too cluttered!” she kept saying. “What do you think you’re doing?” But I have no idea what she expected from us because the walls were buzzing zoos of jewelry. There was literally no place to hang a single necklace more. Yet the boxes of them were endless, and it was our job to fit everything. It was a project for geniuses, not young college kids. We should have been making $700 an hour.

And Sheila tried to get off without even giving us the $35 we made in those five torturous hours. After we worked well into the night, Sheila wanted us back bright and early for more. We politely declined and inquired as to when we’d be receiving our earnings. “Sunday at 11,” she said, and out we scooted, into the fresh air of freedom.

When we returned Sunday, Sheila said she wasn’t ready, that we should come back later. We could see right through her: she was hoping we’d forget or give up and never return again. But a few hours passed, and we marched right back in, ready to demand our meager amount of money, and she grudgingly handed it to us.

“Well, I’m sure glad that’s over with,” I told Lauren. “Never again will I set foot in that place.” Yet, little did I know…

…that upon my return to the Vineyard, in a frenzy of jobless desperation, I would force myself to enter the one store that might want me. Regina, Sheila’s sly sister, with that same dangerous smile, greeted me and was quick to inform me that I could start working in just a few hours for a “two-hour, unpaid trial.” Oh, Sheila. I bet she’d pulled this trick a thousand times before on desperate girls like me—girls who, in their desperation, forget that unpaid trials are, in fact, illegal because slavery is, in fact, illegal.

“Just remember,” recited Regina, “white top, back skirt, black shoes. And carry a clear handbag just in case.” She actually thought I’d steal something? Thousands of fake jewels were bursting from the walls, yet of them all, there was not one I’d consider worth stealing.

I returned in uniform to be a slave. After two hours of welcoming customers and watching them waste their money, arranging handbags and getting yelled at, receiving no training whatsoever, I reminded Jackie that I had to leave. “Oh, fine,” she said.

I was expected back that evening, and back I went—back to the screeching songs and rows of plastic jewelry. “Jackie, I need to speak with you,” I said as I entered.

“Not now!”

I wanted to ask her if I’d be getting paid from then on, but she had no time for such questions, and so I worked and wondered for half an hour. Then it was apparently time to close. They’d made me bike three miles back to their store to work half an hour.

“Jackie, will I be getting paid for this”

“How am I supposed to know?”

“Well, if I’m not, I can’t really put more time into this.” I knew I was being completely reasonable and wished I could look her in the eye and not sound so nervous.

“Regina may or may not be coming in tonight. Maybe you can ask her.”

“Well, should I wait, then?”

“I don’t know! You’re wasting my time!”

With that, I stumbled out of there. I hopped on my bike, blinking back tears, and wishing Jackie didn’t have the power to elicit them from my eyes. Upon returning home, I typed up Regina an email, explaining the situation, and sent it to her at queenpleasant@yahoo.com. I was too agitated to even smirk at the irony of her email address. She called me, and I called her back, and she didn’t answer, and that’s when I decided I was through. Never again would I set eyes on Sheila, I decided. Zero jobs were better than that one.

But I was wrong. I saw her. Again. Don’t worry. It’s not as bad as you think. I was, in fact, at my new and improved job at Murdick’s Fudge when she made her appearance. She pretended we were old friends. “Love your hat, girl,” she said, pointing to my Murdick’s baseball cap. I knew she wanted something, because she’s the type of person who’s only nice when she wants something.

“So, you must have heard about my new reality show,” she said.

“Nope, I haven’t.” (No one has heard about your show, Sheila. No one cares, Sheila).

“Well, I’m going to eat ice-cream in the show, and I need to sample the ice cream from all the places in Martha’s Vineyard to figure out what’s my favorite. (I bet the show is all made up, Sheila. I bet you just want free ice cream, Sheila).

She wanted to try every single flavor, but Dmitri only let her try a few, thankfully. Finally, she left, Regina in tow. “Call me about that job, girl!” Regina yelled.

“Yeah, ok.” (Not).

Sheila Allen has had a “Help Wanted” sign on the door for the past month or so, and I doubt it will come down anytime soon unless they start paying their employees. 

Where I Went Wrong and What You can Learn from my Mistake

First of all, I should not have entered that store again after that first terrible experience. But I did, and they didn’t pay me. So I should have told on them because not paying is illegal. Obviously. But I didn’t feel like putting any more time towards them, so I let them continue with their tyrannical behavior. For all I know, they’ve taken advantage of 100 more innocent girls since then. Moral of story: report bad people so they’ll stop infiltrating the world with their filthy ways.