Meeting Wonda

I’m a penniless starving artist. I seem to have a lack of physical objects and a tiny but very cozy apartment. I have denied a sense of wide-eyed innocence and clung to the bland ideals of a jaded age. With handful of exceptions. I dream. Or at least I have dreams like anybody else. I wanted the American dream. I have a dream to publish my novels, to take care of my loved ones and along the way help organizations. You know awareness issues. I wanted to help survivors of domestic abuse, victims of hate crimes and equal rights. I had seen battered woman needing help, drug abusers manipulating people and elderly people being abused by family. I wanted to believe in a better tomorrow and always held the belief that a better tomorrow always started with me. If I wanted to attain my dreams, help people- it could start with me living a good path and making the right decisions.

The only thing I seemed good at was selling things. I prided myself on selling quality products. I figured even though my life wasn’t where I saw myself I could at least bring some form of happiness and satisfaction to others. Karma, eventually it would pay off somewhere. Keep a good cycle. Live a good life, surround yourself with good people and you can live a good life.

What did I have to lose? Sure as hell wasn’t money or a relationship.

I was waiting for the right opportunity. The right person to work with and every day, I meditated, I prayed. Every day my desire grew to make life better. I’d meet Wonda while working as a cashier at a grocery store. I remember the first time I ever noticed her. I was sitting down for a break making a mild attempt at forcing time backward but failing. She walked with a heavy stomp with a noticeable hunch. A translucent white blouse gripped her body with desperation. A black lace bra stood out like magic marker. She slammed down her designer purse in a cart and began digging furiously into the large bright blue purse.

People walked by her, averting their eyes as if she could smell their fear.

She began a march through the store. The store oozed with the brash loudness of her personality. I poked at my half eaten burger watching her in curiosity. Working in customer service, you get a lot of strange types in every shape and color. Yet somehow, this stood out. What was it? Was it the outfit or was it the crooked stomping?

As for her torso ensemble, I figured that she didn’t know any better. On one hand I had figured she doesn’t know and on the other, I thought it was done on purpose. Who was I to judge? At least she wasn’t naked. I finished my break and drudged back to my department.

My specialty in this store was simple. I sell booze. Any and all types. I studied sale strategies, read up on content and did my best to deliver the best quality product I could. A good glass of wine can make or break a situation. I was good at my job; in fact I was awesome at my job. As I was maintaining the store, she had lumbered into my department. I kept my gaze locked on to her face. Don’t look at her bra, just keep your eyes straight ahead, I thought to myself. She asked my opinion on good wines for people who like sweet and only sweet.

                For the time being I pushed it of my head and continuing to work a job I hated but as least I was attending school and if I got the right job I would be on the right track. I just had to look for the right opportunity. Wonda started coming in more often. Not for booze but for her prescriptions. She would glance halfheartedly at the wine. Tapping her long talons of her finger nails against the shopping cart. I she came in to get some advice on wine. For her daughter, she claimed.

                Her eyes never left mine as we talked she appeared to be interested in the information more than the product itself. But even more I kept on with my sales Schick. Don't be fazed, I thought to myself.  It was always the small adage I lived by.  When you're looking down the barrel leading an unsuccessful life and living in Brokesville, you live by a handful of things. In my case, I lived by my word. I could work honestly and lead a good life if I would live by a few simple things. My ambiguous religious code was set in one statement, “don't be a dick, be a dude.” To me you didn’t need to worship a deity to live a good wholesome life. It didn't hurt mind you but use a sense of good judgment and there will be no gray areas. 

                I didn’t like the idea of shoving religion down my throat, why the hell would I do that to anyone else? I had a bullshit alarm that is set off when anyone says certain words. One of my favorite sentences is, “I am a Christian _____. I would never do _____” Whenever anyone defines themselves as a certain definitive thing, chances are they are not that thing and are using it as a defense to whatever wrong doings they are doing. I had heard it over a hundred times and each time I was right. Each time that statement was given, it would take a little bit of digging before I found out whatever truth they were trying to hide.

                “You know?” Wonda had dramatically underlined in her voice once more. I nodded my head in agreement. What were we talking about again? Her heavily lined eyes widened at the lack of my response.

                “It will get better,” I said with a warm smile. Her eyes seemed to demand more of my attention than I was willing to give. Her eyeliner seemed to have escaped its designated zones and a loose blackened streak settled itself on her cheek.

                “I’m going to be flying to Kanas city tomorrow and see my father.” That’s right her father. I had trouble remember the story of every person who came in. I remembered them but usually had to be reminded.  “He is going in again for treatment.”

                “He is doing the right thing and I am sure with time, he will be healed.” What the heck was he diagnosed for? Crap.

                “But its prostate cancer!” She insisted further. “They are hundreds of people who die each year from it.” She brushed her hands through her hair lightly. I was surprised that her numerous amounts of bracelets hadn’t gotten caught in her heavily sprayed hair.

                “There are also hundreds of survivors as well,” I pointed out. That much I knew, the director of this store had recently overcome a battle with cancer.  “Granted,” I paused. “It’s not an ideal situation but cancer research has come a long way even over the last five years.” She scoffed childishly. “It’s true; there are several forms of chemotherapy that are very effective.” She finally turned her attention to the wine. I noticed the bizarre absurdity of her mouth.

                Her mouth mimicked that of the cartooned parody that was the hateful “Jews” propaganda from that the Nazis used to hold a nation hostage. I noticed a little bit of drool escape her mouth. “I’m not interested in this wine,” she said staring at our Moscato selection.  A half hour had slipped away, I thought as my eyes jolted to the clock. Typically, I had already sealed the deal by now and most customers would be happily on their way. “I want something sweeter.” Sweeter than Moscato? I searched my mind for a second.

                “Moscato is typically the sweetest wine on the market the only one that I can recommend is ice wine but that will run you way above a decent price range.”

                “I don’t really care about price,” she said with a flamboyant shake of her head.

                “A bottle of ice wine will run you about seventy five dollars plus and it will only be approximately three hundred and seventy five milliliters. We won’t be able to give you one that I can guarantee a 100% quality guarantee.”

                “Quality guarantee?” raising an eyebrow at me, she leaned against her shopping cart.

                “It’s something I personally have tried, bought and intend to buy again. I don’t sell things that ,I, myself would not enjoy myself.” She nodded her head contemplating what I was saying.

                “Well, I don’t want to have anything that tastes like wine. You know?” I could hear the echo of horn trumpeting “wah-wah.” I looked it her concealing my confused look. Then why shop for wine at all? But then again, I got a lot of this type of clientele in. I liked to call them ‘Wine Virgins’ and I usually got them started on the ideal ‘starter wine,’Moscato. What do you do when they shoot down your first choice? “You know?” she repeated.

                “What did you have in mind? What type of drink do you want?” I shoved the feeling to start rubbing my head down and tried to focus on the situation.

                “I want wine.” She said as if this was something she said to me a hundred times. “I want a sweet wine.” I had to kick up my game. There were sweeter wines but they were more like syrup than wine but since I was running out of options. I went to the dessert wine section that housed some of the syrup and various malted wine beverages. Mad dog 20/20, Arbor mist, Boone’s Farm and other so called wines. That had low prices combined with high alcohol with high sugar.  Poor man’s hooch, pinched nose guzzle and the dreaded of all alcohols. A true wino would consider drinking toilet water before that stuff.

                “There are several options here,” I said looking at Marsalis. Good product, good price and you could cook with it. Out of the corner of my eye I saw her eyes lit up. Rock on!

                “What’s this?”  She said with a curious look in her eyes.  Yes! I finally nailed it! I wanted to give myself a much warranted pat on the back.

                “This is Marsalis,” remarking smoothly. I got this! I nearly cheered with joy. I might make someone happy in the process. I reached out and grabbed the bottle off the shelf. I held it out on display triumphantly.

                “No, not that, this.” She pointed to the middle of the shelves.

  Oh god no. “This looks yummy!”

 It was only my most dreaded of varietals but the one I tried to avoid at all costs.

 “And it says its strawberry flavored!” She had to be kidding. There was no way she was going to get- “Arbor Mist white zinfandel.” I hide my shudder. “I’m going to get this one. It looks good.”

 I don’t think she cared about my guarantee. With a whopping $3.33, She plopped the wine in the grocery cart with barly a thought toward me. Wonda started hobbling toward the store exit; I decided to walk with her to the door. “I’m really worried about my father.”

                “It’s good that you are going to see him soon,” we stopped at the door attached to the rest of the grocery store. “I think it will do a world of good for both you and him.”

                “I know, right?” I smiled and bided her a good day. She hobbled to other parts of the store for lord knows what.  Glancing at the clock I noted that not only more than an hour had melted away but I was behind in my work. Before long a cashier brought over the strawberry Arbor mist. What was the point? I tilted the bottle in my hands and reflected. After all that what was the point?