Most of the stuff I put on here will remain in first draft, but sometimes I like to tinker with a piece. This one I wanted to work with for a couple of reasons. One, even though the dialogue was authentic and quoted as verbatim as I remembered it, the character (now named "Gloria") seemed to start spouting some political philosophies suspiciously close to my own. I decided to fictionalize the dialogue a bit to make it more authentic. Funny when that happens!
Also, I wanted to make her a little more dimensional. And flesh out some of the narrator's inaccurate perceptions.
Now what's happened is something that often happens. I don't know which reads better; The unedited version or the second draft? Is the first voice more real and spontaneous? Is the second draft more alive?
The feedback in my email box (and from Emma Lou in front of the dairy section at Whole Foods this afternoon :0)) is so helpful and means a lot to me! Just knowing that some of you are reading this is major motivation.
xo
Laure
12/16/11
Nail salon, Capitola
“Oh, he’s a cute one!” says the woman next to me. She’s looking at the big screen in the nail salon. “That’s Tebow, alright.”
She’s a type, this woman. Make-up gathers in the crease of her plump neck, gold rings adorn her fingers like cigar bands from the finest Cuban. Her name is probably Gloria or Lorna or Pammy. She considers her nails her finest asset and beams when friends exclaim “Gloria, your nails are always picture perfect. Were you ever a hand model?”
“Oh, he’s creating such a fuss right now,” Gloria says. “Has everyone up in arms just because he goes down on one knee to give thanks to God right there in the stadium.”
Tebow. I’d never even heard of the guy and then today, he’s all over the place. First on NPR, then KGO and now, this woman.
He’s apparently a super-human football player who writes bible verses in the black smudge under his eyes. Like the one about God so loving the world that he gave his only son.
“I don’t know what people are so upset about,” Gloria says.
This is a conversation I don’t want to have.
I’m tired for one. I have a cold which has left my nose red enough to be a stand in for Rudolph. Plus, I have tried variations of this conversation with my own relatives, hopeful that we can agree to disagree, respect each other’s differences. We have all agreed to avoid such conversations in the future.
Gloria, on the other hand, has a high success rate with this kind of conversation. She’ll throw out tantalizing tidbits like this and nine times out of ten the person next to her will agree wholeheartedly. Then the two of them will put their heads together like old chums at a high school reunion, tackling topics like prayer in schools, and tsking over how you can’t even say ‘Merry Christmas’ anymore.
“Don’t even get me started on Obama,” one of them will say.
“Don’t even get me started on Obama,” one of them will say.
Before Gloria plopped herself down, I was looking at all of the customers with their pants hitched up past their swollen ankles. I was looking at the row of Vietnamese women attending to their feet.
One young client was talking loudly on her cell phone when she yelped suddenly, causing all of the bowed heads to shoot up. An almost inaudible undercurrent of Vietnamese started up. “So sorry,” said the pedicurist, dabbing at the foot. “No bleeding,” she said.
The woman laughed into her phone.
“Dude,” she said. “I just got stabbed with cuticle clippers!”
Further down the line, next to me, another customer issued instructions.
“Not too short,” she said. “Just a little off the top.”
I looked at her toenails which were long and curling at the ends.
They must hate us, I thought.
“This feels great,” I tell the manicurist who’s massaging my hands before applying polish. She smiles. The outline of her lips is a dark, swollen ridge, evidence of a bad reaction to cosmetic tattooing. Her name tag says 'Tina' but more likely her name’s Anh or Trinh.
“Sure, Tebow’s a Christian,” Gloria says. “They say he’s exploiting that. I say if you’re going to exploit something, why not that? Am I right? Plus, he’s celibate. Better than hopping from bed to bed, I say.”
She’s talking to me. The manicurists don’t join in on conversations like this. There’s a definite line drawn in nail salons of this type. Not a ‘we’ versus ‘them’ line, but a ‘we’ and ‘them’ line. Customers and technicians. American and Vietnamese. English speaking and Vietnamese speaking. And something disturbingly close to Superior and Servile.
An ex-massage therapist, I know the risk of repetitive stress injuries and I tip ‘Tina’ well over what the nail salon owners charge. I admire the artistry of the miniature flowers she paints on my toenails.
Still, I doubt that her American dream involved scraping dead skin off of cracked heels.
“I’m not like other Christians though,” Gloria gestures at the big screen. The sports report has been replaced by politics and a list of the Republican candidates. “There’s not a-one of them I’d vote for,” she says. “That would surprise some people. They think all Christians are like those right-wing crazies.”
“I think there’s a spectrum,” I say. I don’t think all Christians are right wing crazies, just the most vocal ones, like Gloria. I am surprised.
“Exactly!” She’s happy I’ve finally responded. “That Newt was on ‘The View’ and he said some awful things about the poor. Said they were all and pimps and prostitutes.”
I look at Tina who’s been peeking up at me throughout this conversation. I know the salon owners bus a lot of these manicurists over from San Jose. I’d bet they pay them less than minimum wage. It seems like a racket.
“Even if I agreed with Newt’s politics, I wouldn’t vote for him. Purely for aesthetic reasons,” I say, moving my head closer to Gloria’s.
She laughs and lowers her voice. “I say Obama’s done as well as he could have considering the mess he inherited.”
“I agree,” I say, surprised again. I wouldn't have taken her for an Obama supporter.
“I was not happy with George W. either,” she continues.
Even though I’m feeling hopeful about Gloria, physically I’m feeling worse. I'm supposed to go to a party later, but just thinking about putting on a little black something makes me feverish. Not to mention powdering a nose that will reveal itself at first blow.
Tina peeks up at me again and says something, but her voice is too soft.
“What?”
“You look beautiful,” she says.
I smile and meet her gaze before she looks away.
“Thank you. Is Tina your real name?”
“No, my real name is Grace. This smock is someone else.”
“Well then, thank you, Grace.”
A girl with everything but her face tucked into a red hoodie sticks her head in the door.
“Do you guys do shellacking?” she calls out.
“Shellacking?” Gloria, who has appointed herself the salon spokeswoman, is incredulous. “Do you mean gel? They do gel.”
She looks back at me and shakes her head. “No one knows anything these days.”
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