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CYRUS IS SPINNING
shellie zacharia
Cyrus is spinning tonight the flyer on the thrift shop door says, so that when I
push open the door, my palm touches my name and for a moment I feel like some
kind of god; some beaten down god, the kind with wrinkled tunic and laurel wreath
all askew, wine spills on my sandals. That’s what I’m thinking, but that’s not what
others would think, not the crowds that come to the dance clubs to pump and shake
and gyrate and almost fuck right there on the dance floor while I play the tunes. They
chant, “Cyrus! Cyrus!” and they don’t know how I hurt and hang my head at home,
how I stare at my girlfriend’s sleeping face and wonder just how to fix something that
was once so good.
When I push open The Dusty Rose door, this little bell attached to a strand of
Mardi Gras beads clangs against the glass, and there’s this “hey” that comes from
behind a big pile of clothes at the front counter. It’s Sweet Marie. She’s there every
Saturday.
“You might like this,” she says, holding up a blue guayabera. She’s a pretty girl,
with dark hair and pale white skin, and with that little black tank top she’s wearing
today, I take a long look at the tattoo that begins at the base of her throat, moves
downward. A snake. Tongue flickering between her breasts.
I reach for the shirt. Stain-free. Soft.
“You okay?’ she asks. “You look a bit beat.”
I know. I look like hell. Not much sleep with me coming in at 4 a.m. and Jane
waking up to tell me she’s made a decision – she wants a baby. And then I said
something about how she’d have to stop drinking her whiskey at noon and then
there was this sort of passive fighting we do where we get real quiet and make sure
our bodies don’t touch in the bed, though it’s only a full size mattress which means
we’re lying there real still.
“Not much sleep.”
“Me neither,” she says, and I think it’s because she’s having lots of sex, sweat
beading on that snakeskin, her skinny little body all angles and movement.
I smile. She smiles. The phone rings. She picks it up, and the way she says, “Hey
there,” I know she’s talking to her boyfriend. That’s the way Jane used to speak to me.
I head over to the pants section and breathe deeply. There’s a lot I like about thrift
shops. I like the smell of sandalwood and cigarettes and laundry detergent. This one
in particular has this other smell, which is Sweet Marie, something flowery, one of
those smells for soothing the soul.
I like the idea of taking on a bit of someone else’s vibe. That’s what’s cool about
thrift shops.
“You ever try fortune telling?” Sweet Marie calls out to me.
I turn to her. “Nah. Why?”
“Coffee grounds,” she says. “Just found this book that helps you figure it,” and
she holds up a paperback.
“What’s your cup telling you?”
“Well,” she says, but then the phone rings again. Her voice gets all hushed and
low. I grab a pair of baggy jeans and a pair of wool trousers.
I skim the coats section and pick out a nice green corduroy blazer. Maybe some
English professor wore it with a pair of jeans and black cowboy boots. The girls in the
class would think he was great, maybe a bit too old, but great. The guys would hate
him at first, but then they’d see he was a good guy. They’d want to drink beers with
him, but he’d say things like, “Got to get home to the wife.”
I could be into that – looking like a professor. Especially when I put my glasses
on. Jane says I look wicked smart then and she wants to have sex, which is good by
me. Except Jane left the house this morning without a note, after we spent the night
like two corpses there in the bed, nobody turning or shifting.
“Hey,” I shout over to Marie. She still has the phone to her ear, her lips pursed
together. I motion that I’m heading to a dressing room.
“I’m not happy here,” Jane says to me the other day. “It’s not the right market for
me.” She’s an artist, makes fancy marble sculptures. She says she needs to get out of
this college town and go to a bigger city. “More cultured,” she says.
“But I’m happy here,” I tell her. I’m an east coaster, a southern boy, I say, because
she’s talking about California.
Maybe Jane’s headed out west, I think as I look in the mirror. Got herself in the
car, dancing in her seat to the bad radio tunes she likes.
“Cyrus.” I hear Sweet Marie’s voice outside my dressing room.
“Yeah?”
“Decent?”
I’ve got the pair of baggy jeans on. My own tee-shirt. “Yeah.”
Marie slides the curtain open, peers in.
“I like the music you play at the clubs. You’re good at reading the crowd.” She
smiles. Her lips are now painted this pale pink, frosty like window glass in winter.
“Thanks.”
“Mind if I come in?” And I guess it doesn’t matter if I mind, because she’s
squeezed herself into the dressing room, her face lifted upward. She is tiny.
Her tongue pushes out, rests on her top lip. The snake moves as she breathes.
I’m thinking, oh man, oh man, but then I lean down and kiss her, and hell if I
know why, maybe it’s the guy whose jeans these were, maybe he was one of those
guys who gets love in a dressing room, but something’s going on and I’m kissing
Sweet Marie.
“You smell nice,” I say.
“Jasmine.”
And that’s when the bell on the door clangs and a man’s voice, “Marie,” booms
into the shop.
“Merde,” she whispers, and I’m thinking, “Oh God, she’s French,” and it’s these
jeans I just know it, but my lips linger, my hand squeezes her hip one moment
longer. She runs her hand over her denim miniskirt. She sticks out her lower lip like
a little girl pouting, and then she moves the dressing room curtain slightly, letting
herself out into the store.
“Albert,” she calls out, and I tug at the vinyl shower curtain of pink and green
stripes, making sure it’s all the way closed. One of the rings sticks on the pole, ripping
the curtain. It makes a popping sound.
The music in the store is turned louder. Afro-Caribbean. Good dance beat.
I put my own pants back on quickly. I stare in the mirror, wiping at the pink frost
smeared on my lips. Merde. I pull open the curtain.
Nobody. There’s nobody in the store and it’s a tiny place, nowhere to hide. I walk
up to the front counter. Sweet Marie’s fortune telling book is there. So is her cup of
coffee. I peek, but it’s half full, so I can’t tell what’s gonna happen. But I want the
blazer, the guayabera, and the jeans. And on top of that pile of clothes Marie had
been working through is this pair of shoes, brown leather Rockports. Size 10.
“Nice.” I pick them up. The soles are only slightly worn so I slip them on. Heels,
toes, all balanced. I check my wallet, lay $20 on the counter right next to the coffee
cup. I swear I consider drinking that coffee so I can see what I find, but I don’t. I
throw the clothes I want over my shoulder and I’m out.
The afternoon light is startling. Marie and Albert are leaning up against the
storefront wall. Albert’s got a cigarette dangling from his lips. He’s large, wide like a
truck. Marie waves. I smile, turn the other way, and as I’m moving, trying to take it
all slow, I hear Sweet Marie call, “Thanks. Come again.” I nod and continue down the
sidewalk, old shoes in hand.
(c) 2008 by Shellie Zacharia