20
Alana
“Esperanza!” I whispered, trying to sound exotic and mystical. “Esperanza!”
To be honest, Esperanza was giving me a sinus headache, maybe even an infection. At first sniff, the scent hinted at clove and floral. Breathtaking! Or so I thought when I hit the cosmetic floor ready to whap some sales butt.
But the smell began to wear me down, and when one teenage girl joked that it resembled tiger urine, I couldn’t lose that connection. Now, one spray of Esperanza and my mind was immediately transported to the restrooms at the Central Park Zoo. And as scents go, that is not at the top of anyone’s list.
“Ladies, try Esperanza! The scent of mystical proportions. . .” I didn’t know what the hell that meant, but since it was the damn theme of this perfume, Greg, my boss, wanted it “out there.”
“Gotta get it out there,” Greg kept telling me over the phone. “If women don’t try it, they’ll never know they love it. So that’s your primary goal: get the scent out there.”
To be honest, the only ones really “out there” were weirdo Greg and the even weirder singer, the Esperanza, who was rumored to live with two Siberian white tigers in a two-bedroom apartment somewhere uptown. It’s hard to figure the math on that—two bedrooms with two tigers? I guess the cats had to share. Hey, that’s New York real estate for you.
I had read in the Post that Esperanza tongued their fur like a mama tiger, that the co-op board wanted her out of the building because her place wreaked of tiger piss, that PETA reps were hiding in Central Park waiting to douse her with fake blood, that she dropped out of Brown and lied about it on her application for Miss Teen Goth America.
Everything I’d ever read about my new employer was outrageous, but one simple fact remained: she was a wealthy celebrity, while I was a deb in financial rehab, pounding the marble floors of Bon Nuit to get wealthy again. Where’s the order in that universe?
So far, my wealth goal was a distant target and all that pounding was wreaking havoc on my D&G sandals, as well as my delicate feet. Just yesterday when Suki was giving me a pedicure at Salon Armage she found a crack on the heel of my left foot. “Ouchie!” she said, showing me the spot. I had to restrain my horror long enough to ask for the hot wax treatment. Suki was very understanding, but my spa time had been ruined. Cracked skin, like an old granny! Please.
“Esperanza!” I hissed, holding up the bottle as an older blond with blue eye shadow happened by. “Would you like to try Esperanza?” I asked her.
“I guess,” she said without much confidence.
I sprayed her wrist from the tiger-shaped bottle. She gave a delicate sniff, then glanced away and headed off.
“It’s available in toilet water and cologne,” I called after her. Maybe she’d double back after shopping. Maybe she’d come back and buy two, one for herself, one to give away as a gift.
“Esperanza,” I hissed, thinking that I sounded like a snake. I stepped up to a passing girl, who quickened her pace to avoid me. Obviously in a hurry, I thought, but she would be back.
Back to dodge me again.
Back to try a sample of Passion or Eternity across the aisle.
Who was I kidding?
This job sucked and I knew it. My feet hurt, my first full week of work had brought me a mere three hundred and thirty dollars after taxes, and this whole spray and buy sales tactic was so ten years ago. Nowadays, any woman who was into scents applied her fave before she left the house, and we all know that you never, ever mix scents, unless you want that table by the men’s room at Nobu. Conversely, the women who wanted a spritz were novices, tourists in the land of scent, happy to visit but eager to leave before their visas expired. And if a tourist can get something for free, why pay?
“Esperanza,” I called out as I gracefully crossed the cosmetics floor to the Bare Shoulders counter. They made the best lotions, and my hands were feeling so dry right now. I figured I’d steal a dab of lotion from the display.
“Esperanza ... it means hope.” More like hopeless.
Just my luck—at the Bare Shoulders counter, the tester of Exotic Cucumber lotion was empty. I looked around and waved to Karo, one of the nicer sales assistants. “Hey, hi! Could you help me out, Karo? You’re all out of Exotic Cucumber.”
“Again? Let’s see.” She crossed to the counter and frowned. “It’s our best-seller in the hand cream line.”
“And I can see why. It feels so velvety, and how about that antiaging formula? What do you know about that?” I asked.
“They tell me it’s laboratory tested, and I say if there’s even a chance of it working, let’s give it a go,” Karo said. She slid open the cabinet and put a “tester” label on a new bottle. “There. Try that, sweet pea.”
I squeezed a tiny aqua pool on my hand and rubbed it in. “Heaven!”
Karo giggled. “I keep telling my husband, it stops aging, honey. One of these days I’m bringing some home to put on his johnson. See how that works out for him.”
“You wild woman!”
“And you with the hands. Honey, you don’t need antiaging cream on those beauties.” She held my right hand up by the pinkie and examined both sides. “Perfectly proportioned. Shiny nails, healthy cuticles. And your skin ... mmmm-mmm.”
“Excuse me, girls, but I’m looking for Exotic Cucumber,” the woman said, getting right into our faces. Her husband followed behind on an invisible leash, an over-the-hill bald man who was obviously pussy-whipped.
“Esperanza?” I asked the bossy customer, bottle at the ready.
“God, no! Talk about overexposure,” the woman yapped to her husband. “I’ve had enough of the tiger lady, and I’m allergic to some of the chemicals used in perfumes. But Exotic Cucumber is intriguing. Is that a tester?” She lifted the bottle, turning it around. “I don’t know. You’re wearing it, right? Do you mind if I smell your hand?”
The husband folded his arms, obviously bored.
“No problem.” I pressed my hands together prayer-style and waved them under her nose. “It’s a very subtle scent.”
Bossy lady sniffed cautiously. “Nice. And look at your hands. Daryl, look at her hands, they’re like butter.”
Again with the hands. I let myself grin. They were one of my better assets.
“That’s not from the cream, Muriel,” Daryl piped in.
“Who cares?” his wife snapped. “Darling, you have lovely hands. Doesn’t she, Daryl?”
“Beautiful,” he said in a tone that begged “can we go?”
I smiled at them, wondering why Daryl looked so familiar. I could see him in my mind, in another time and place. “Wait a minute, aren’t you the agent? Daryl Mousekowitz?”
“Malkowitz.” He nodded.
“The theatrical agent,” I said, recalling that Hailey knew him from the business.
As he nodded again and Mrs. Malkowitz tried on some lotion, a light bulb popped in my head. Maybe even exploded. This was a big-ass idea. “Your timing is perfect, because I need to engage an agent.”
“You and every waitress in town.” Daryl shoved his hands into his pants pockets. “Muriel? She needs an agent. Give the girl a card.”
“You see, I’m going into the business of hand modeling.” I brought a hand demurely to my cheek and batted my eyelashes.
Daryl grunted, but Muriel turned toward me, her eyes growing wide. “Yes, I see it.”
“So call my office next week,” Daryl said lethargically.
His wife slapped his arm. “Don’t be an idiot! This girl has fabulous hands.” She popped open her purse and handed me a business card. “Forget the screening, doll. Call tomorrow and give your information to Sherri. We’ll have a contract out to you next week, and I’ll look tomorrow to see what auditions we can line up.” She squinted at my hands one more time, then smiled. “Exquisite. I’m sure we can set you up with something.”
Can I tell you, I wanted to throw my hands up in the air and do a happy dance right in the center aisle of cosmetics!
But first thing’s first. I had to hit the restroom and wash the tiger stink of Esperanza off my precious fingers.
Then, of course, back to Bare Shoulders for another round of Exotic Cucumber.
Take it from me, exquisite hands are no accident.