“What’s your name?”
She hesitates. “Miranda Hobbes. H-o-b-b-e-s. You can get my number from information.”
And as she walks away, I nod, making a dialing motion with my finger.
Chapter Seven
“It’s Chinese silk. From the 1930s.”
I finger the blue material lovingly and turn it over. There’s a gold dragon stitched on the back. The robe is probably way more than I can afford, but I try it on anyway. The sleeves hang at my sides like folded wings. I could really fly in this.
“That looks good on you,” the salesman adds. Although “salesman” is probably not the right word for a guy in a porkpie hat, plaid pants, and a black Ramones T-shirt. “Purveyor” might be more appropriate. Or “dealer.”
I’m in a vintage clothing store called My Old Lady. The name of which turns out to be startlingly appropriate.
“Where do you get this stuff?” I ask, reluctant to remove the robe but too scared to ask the price.
The owner shrugs. “People bring things in. Mostly from their old relatives who have died. One man’s trash is another one’s treasure.”
“Or one woman’s,” I correct him. I screw up my courage. “How much is this, anyway?”
“For you? Five dollars.”
“Oh.” I slide my arms out of the sleeves.
He wags his head back and forth, considering. “What can you pay?”
“Three dollars?”
“Three fifty,” he says. “That old thing’s been sitting around for months. I need to get rid of it.”
“Done!” I exclaim.
I exit the store still wearing the robe, and head back up to Peggy’s.
This morning, when I tried to face the typewriter, I once again drew a blank. Family. I thought I could write about my own, but they suddenly felt as foreign to me as French people. French people made me think of La Grenouille, and that made me think about Bernard. And how he still hasn’t called. I considered calling him, but told myself not to be weak. Another hour passed, in which I clipped my toenails, braided and unbraided my hair, and scanned my face for blackheads.
“What are you doing?” L’il demanded.
“I’ve got writer’s block.”
“There’s no such thing as writer’s block,” she proclaimed. “If you can’t write it’s because you don’t have anything to say. Or you’re avoiding something.”
“Hmph,” I said, squeezing my skin, wondering if maybe I just wasn’t a writer after all.
“Don’t do that,” L’il yelped. “You’ll only make it worse. Why don’t you go for a walk or something?”
So I did. And I knew exactly where to go. Down to Samantha’s neighborhood, where I’d spotted the vintage store on Seventh Avenue.
I catch my reflection in a plate-glass window and stop to admire the robe. I hope it will bring me good luck and I’ll be able to write. I’m getting nervous. I don’t want to end up in Viktor’s 99.9 percent of failed students.
“My Lord!” L’il exclaims. “You look like something the cat dragged in.”
“I feel like something the cat dragged in. But look what I got.” I spin around to show off my new purchase.
L’il appears doubtful, and I realize how flaky I must seem, shopping instead of writing. Why do I keep evading my work? Is it because I’m afraid of b
eing confronted by my lack of abilities?