06/09/2012
To Judy Faye and those of you who knocked at B. Sweet Antiques and Surprises on Saturday: I apologize. I was tied up. No, really, I WAS TIED UP! I had what you would call the ultimate "sit down" with the boss.
I opened the store early that morning, looking forward to the postman bringing me news of my raise. I dusted the English oak buffet and the parquet dining table. I even quick-washed the white teacups before the first customer stepped in. I was in the process of heating tea water when I felt an unexpected chill. Before I could turn, a velvet blackness engulfed me and a voice as soft as the velvet that surrounded me whispered, "This is for your own good. This is for your own good. Be calm."
I screamed. Finally recognizing my assailant as Beatrice Sweet, I let out a scream even I barely recognized. Like a cougar in the woods, it wailed wildly. I couldn't stop it. I didn't want to. She pulled the sack closer then I felt the sharp pressure of a rope around my waist.
Surely some passerby would hear. Useless, useless--It's Saturday in downtown Rusk. Out-of-towners will just speed away thinking some wild animal wandered from Oakland's wild woods to the Square.
It seemed like hours that I caterwalled and writhed, all the while feeling the squeeze of the rope and an unnerving caress of palm and fingernails on my forehead. I was pretty tired.
"Uncle,"
My final scream. Produced an unexpected result.
"That's better," she purred. "My poor twit. Why do you fight me? You know I will prevail. When I untether you, my dear, I expect you to be still and listen."
Her voice was melodic, a lilting iambic pentameter (almost Southern). I wilted, relieved to have my screams quieted. She eased the hood from my head and faced me. Her sneer had softened and her eyes glistened with humor. She looked at me with such goodwill, I was shaken. What now?
"Sit here." She pulled the wicker portrait chair close. I sat, exhausted.
"Now, that's better." She patted my knee.
"Are you comfortable? I am going to ask you a simple question and I want an unvarnished Texas woman answer--no hysterics--just truth. Do you DESERVE a raise?"
She locked the door.
I gulped. My mind raced. What is she getting at? OK, Steph, think. I open the store. I dust once a month. She's only seen me napping once. Um...what else? Should I bring up my letter--the part about her being the 1% and my needing a raise. What about the modern thinking I brought up? Should I mention all the stuff about "EARNING a living" being old fashioned. The new way is to spread the wealth, get free phones, level the playing field, make sure that everyone gets the same as everyone else, be a victim.
No. This thinking thing is hard. What is the truth? Do I deserve a raise?
"Mrs. Sweet, I don't deserve the raise. I just thought you might just give me one since you have money to spare. I'll say please."
"Call me Bee, honey" she said. "No, your raise proposal has been turned down, and I'll tell you why: your logic is flawed. I want you to think about what gives strength and pleasure in life. I want you to think about pride. I have learned from being in Texas for the last few months that you folks have independent spirits, although you prattle at times. In your hearts you not whimpy victims."
She brushed past me, unlocked the door, and gave a queenly wave, "I will be travelling for the next few months gathering information for a book. Work hard and face the challenge. I will return." Her voice was soft. Her manner was Southern. Her determination was Texan.
Whew.
