THUGLIT Issue One - [6]

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The Ikea was both colossal and confusing. There was so much shit to buy, Brandy Ashton didn’t know where to begin. Some of the displays looked very modern to her, and hinted of a future that would leave her behind in the dust unless she bought something. Also, she noticed the only way to get through the store was by taking the longest route possible.

Brandy realized what the mad architects behind the maze were cleverly doing; resented them for it. Though it was her first visit to the store, she wondered why she had even bothered.

Finally, she settled on a Bolman 3-piece bathroom set, a Svalen bath towel (the one with the angry fish with the sharp teeth), and an Idealisk corkscrew. She had been saving an exquisite bottle of Beringer White Zinfandel all month, and bought some brie that morning to pair with the wine. Thinking on the wine paired with the cheese, she tingled.

But then she thought of the long bus ride home. The #65 bus she had taken from the metro light rail-how she would have to wait another ungodly amount of time on the bus going back. She thought again of the wine, the cheese, and everything was okay.

“Excuse me?” Brandy said to the girl at the work station. Her name was Erica according to her nametag.

Sullenly, Erica looked at Brandy.

“Can you help me?” Brandy finally said, wondering if she broke a two-by-four over Erica’s head, would it wake her up? “I have a question about that entertainment center over there.”

Erica glanced back at the copy of Cosmopolitan (underneath: Rolling Stone). She closed the magazine, as if helping Brandy was a waste of her time. The disdain was written on her pretty, young face: how dare she be bothered.

Brandy said, “How much is it? There’s no ticket on it.”

“Two hundred and twenty-five dollars.”

“Is it available?”

“Yes, but we don’t have the bottom doors in,” motioning to the bottom cabinets. “They won’t be in until Saturday. You’ll have to come back if you want them.”

“Is there any way to have the doors delivered?” Brandy asked.

“No.”

Surprised, Brandy said, “There’s no way to have them delivered? What about the floor model, is it for sale?”

“No,” said Erica, annoyed, trying to hide it.

“Is there a manager available?”

Erica gave a look that said: I can’t believe you’re wasting my time with this. No longer trying to hide it, she said annoyed, “Why do you want to talk to a manager?”

“Why do I have to explain myself to you?”

Now Erica had the look of a person holding their breath: that frozen, bated breath expression when something totally unexpected is said and they are trying to figure out what to say next, how to respond.

More than anything, Brandy hated dealing with these kids. Spoiled, bratty kids who acted like they were owed the world. Erica looked fresh out of high school-young, pretty; but Brandy knew, attitude trumped looks, any day. She had at least fifteen years on Erica, and still, she looked just as good. The only difference were the little crow’s feet growing at the edges of Brandy’s eyes that perhaps betrayed her age.

She waited for Erica to say something. Finally, she said, “Because you’re not being very helpful. Maybe there’s something the manager can-”

Erica talked over her, “We can deliver the doors. Where do you live?”

“The west valley.”

“We can deliver them, but it’s going to cost you eighty-nine dollars.”

“So they can be delivered? Why didn’t you tell me that in the first place? I still want to see the manager.”

So, little Erica made the call. Talking a few minutes on the phone, she said, “The manager will be here in ten minutes, if you still want to wait.”

Go fuck yourself.

That was the look on Brandy’s face.

Jesus, she hated dealing with these kids. She wished she had that two-by-four. Right now, she wanted nothing more than to bash in Erica’s pretty little face.

The gold chain called to Brandy, from her neck. The same simple gold chain her mother had passed to her when she was a little girl.

Momma Ashton-on her deathbed, dying of cancer-had passed the heirloom to her only daughter the way her mother, and her grandmother, and her great-grandmother had done generations past, all the way down the family line, to the very first Ashtons that had settled in the northeast (what possessed them to move and settle in Arizona, she would never understand).

When the first Ashtons arrived penniless in America, they kept the gold chain no matter the indigence or hardship, as a symbol of providence, and reminder that fortunes were made through diligence and hard work.

Brandy stormed off, so furious she wanted to cry.

No one looking, she stroked the gold chain and felt better. Stroking the thin gold chain always had a calming, soothing effect. There was nothing she would not do to protect that chain, to keep it in the family, in the hopes of one day passing the heirloom to her own daughter.

On her way through the winding maze, Brandy spied a fat woman with long hair down to her hips, long denim dress down past her knees. The woman was asking one of the employees for help.

He told her he would be along to help her in a minute.