You’ll Never Believe What This Woman Did in a Bagel Shop
By Celeste Hamilton Dennis
The giant inflatable Mets mascot looked like somebody had taken a bat to its baseball head. It flopped and twisted in the wind on the Johnsons' lawn, trying desperately to stay rooted. Priya sipped her tea. She was quite enjoying its suffering. Faced with T.V. or her front window, she'd choose Mill Lane any day.
It seemed all her neighbors had those puffy things at one time or another. The Alonges blew up a giant turkey for Thanksgiving. Mr. Biolansky dragged out his alien whenever this country got into a huff about immigration. And forget about Christmas next month. Santa in a Hawaiian shirt next to a palm tree. Santa bowling penguins. All of Levittown was competing to see who could have the biggest and best. Priya couldn't understand why anyone would want such ugliness on their lawn.
Mrs. Johnson rolled up in her Jeep. Got out and fetched her fussy baby from the car seat, then grabbed Kohls bags from the other side of the car. Four plastic bags squeezing one wrist. A diaper bag on the shoulder. Strands of red hair stuck to her cheek. It was the same scene every Saturday.
Poor girl. She needed a break. And Priya needed company. Her daughter Kamini liked to stay in the city, complaining that the LIRR train was too crowded and too "bro-y," whatever that meant. Her husband Anu was back in Ahmedabad, visiting his mother. He was fixing up their apartment. Him thinking they'd retire there was foolishness. No way was Priya going to give up being so close to the beach to be poked at by Anu’s mother for wearing jeans or not putting enough coriander in her curry.
Priya started out the front door, slippers still on. She welcomed the cold air.
"Mrs. Johnson!” she called. “Come! Come inside for some tea.”
She didn't hear her. Priya yelled again, louder. "I've got a kettle on! It’s no problem.”
Mrs. Johnson slammed the car door with her hips and turned toward her own home. Sometimes these younger women needed to be forced to rest. Priya started across the street toward the Johnson's home that had doubled in size the past year. She made it to the sidewalk, stopping when confronted by the Johnson's overflowing garbage can with a paper bag sticking out. Her paper bag, she was sure. She took it from underneath a folded pizza box and peeked inside to find her jalebi cracked in half. Besan ladoo flattened. Kaju katli split in pieces yet still fragrant with rosewater. The homemade sweets had been a gift to the Johnsons to celebrate Diwali, her favorite time of year when she held the childish hope that good can triumph over evil. Priya’s stomach burned.
The baby let out a dinosaur-like cry and Mrs. Johnson stopped, turning back toward the car. Priya ducked her head and hurried down the sidewalk, slippers still on. She'd bought them at Kohl’s because the golden embroidered flowers reminded her of the flats she’d worn for her wedding when she was young and wanted America more than she wanted Anu. Never mind going back to the house now. She welcomed each unexpected concrete bump, every broken slab. ‘Step on a crack, break your mother's back,’ like little Kamani used to say. Her daughter loved those cracks.
Priya knew she was close to the turnpike when she could smell lamb from the Argyrous’ backyard. She continued walking. The neighborhood turned into what the people here called a “village green,” although there was no village, nor was it green. There was the post office with that nice-looking young man whose perfectly shiny bald head reminded her of her Uncle Rafi’s. The liquor store where Anu bought the rum he sometimes shared with her. O'Toole's, a bar her coworkers went to—they never invited her because they thought she was a prude. An army surplus store where a man in dirty sweatpants was walking by, pushing a shopping cart.
The air was nipping at her heels. She pulled her cardigan tighter around herself and tried to smooth the stray grays flying in the wind. Couldn’t have the cars zipping by thinking she knew that man in the sweatpants—although he would've eaten her sweets. Said thank you, even.
She continued past the abandoned KMart that gave her a cinnamon candle habit one winter, past the Friendly’s take out window she and Anu frequented most weekends for a Hunka Chunka sundae (because they liked saying "hunka" and "chunka"), past all the people worrying and hurrying in parking lots until she arrived at Bageltown. It had been only minutes but it felt like she'd flown across the ocean and back.
***
Bageltown was packed. The two girls behind the counter taking orders moved slow but nobody seemed to mind because they were cute in the way sporty girls here were. Twigs, too, as if they'd never even had a bite of the bagels and cookies surrounding them. They each had matching dark mops of hair on their heads and “Lady Generals” sweatshirts. The taller girl had a splash of freckles on her cheeks. Priya went to the back of the line by the drink case stocked with orange juice and Yoo-Hoo. Yoo-Hoo!
She’d left her front door open. All Channel 12 news talked about these days were home invasions. But they never talked about who was stealing all the hidden cash from Indian homes on the other side of the Turnpike, homes that clustered around each other on the flower streets: Azalea, Orchid, Peony. Her friend Madhu's theory was that it was someone who knew. Like that waiter at Dosa World, a young boy with the faintest trace of a mustache who poured Priya's water a little too fast. He screamed nervousness. She'd made the mistake of saying "Mill Lane" aloud in front of him last week.
“Ma’am, do you want your bagel toasted?” the shorter girl said when it was Priya’s turn.
Priya shook her head. "But make sure you cut it nice and even." She twisted the top of the paper bag in her hands like desperate clowns do with balloons. The bag! Stolen straight off the property of her neighbor, an exhausted mother, and carried all this way. She was no better than Dosa Boy.
The girl looked at the bag. By now the bottom was greasy, stained with ghee, and beginning to tear. "Um, okay,' she said. "Whatever you want." Priya twisted harder.
Dosa Boy was probably in her living room right now discovering the twenty dollar bills she'd ironed and tucked inside a wedding invitation envelope she’d saved because she couldn’t dare see the thick cream paper go to waste. A brass Laxmi statuette guarded it on the bookshelf.
The girl toasted the bagel anyway. Priya was careful with each bite but the butter snaked down through her fingers. Anu would have had a napkin ready for her to wipe her hands, and she was glad for his absence. She pulled her own napkin from the flimsy metal dispenser. Her teeth gripped the fluffy bread again and tore through the sesame seeds. Today, the tip of her tongue didn’t tingle, nor did food taste like metal. Menopause had brought on a burning mouth. Her mother, her masi, her nani had all had the same affliction, and she was grateful to still be connected to them, all these miles away.
Before leaving she stopped in at the restroom, and placed the bag next to the faucet while she washed up. The bag now had her buttery fingerprints and was wrinkled and lumpy, but still smelled like flowers. She headed to the hand dryer. It wasn’t working. Priya shook her hands. Again, nothing. It ignored her. She shook them harder. It still ignored her. The woman at the hand dryer on the other side of the bathroom turned to look at her. She had long fluffy, frayed strawberry blonde hair that looked like somebody had glued one of those fringe curtains onto her head.
"See the picture?” she said. She motioned to a drawing of two hands, their long fingers outstretched toward one another. “Move your hands like this.” Her shaking was a frenzied shoo, and Priya could tell she’d had years of experience telling neighborhood kids to get off her lawn. Priya’s shoo was tamer in comparison, more like halfheartedly telling the office dog to stop licking the leftover lunch spilled on the floor when she really wanted him to clean it up for her. She didn’t shoo much.
“I don’t know what I’m doing wrong,” Priya said. By now, Dosa Boy was drinking the cup of tea she’d left out. She was sure of it. “Please."
“Here, lemme help you.” She clanked over in hot teal pumps. “Ever since Tommy Lombardo bought this place, service has gone to shit. Too much coke. And not the kind your grandma gave you.”
Priya had been on Long Island for over 20 years and still, these women shocked her with the way they said anything that came to their lips. And those lips! Painted with hues of red and pink and orange. Colors that belonged in films, not on mouths. This woman, her mouth was pink like a breast cancer awareness sign.
The woman put her hands under Priya’s dryer. The warm air blew, and wisps of her hair caressed Priya's arm. “See?” the woman said. Gold rings with sapphire and diamonds adorned her fingers. Real gold. None of that cheap stuff from CVS. “Easy.”
The dryer shut off. Priya tried again. Dead air. She grabbed the bag from the sink and gave the metal a light smack with it, causing a bigger tear. The smell of rosewater and saffron overtook the soapy tang in the air. She closed her eyes, breathing in home, and waited for the woman to sigh or make a rude comment or ask if she lived in "Hinduville," the next town over.
Instead, the woman said, "Good air freshener you got there." She was gone before Priya had the chance to say thank you. Priya wiped her wet hands on her pants and marveled at the woman’s ridiculousness. Air freshener!
The line at the bagel counter had doubled in size. At the front, a short man was yelling at the tall girl. He had on jean shorts that Priya guessed he'd just grabbed out of the dryer, and was waving his arms all wildly like the inflatable arm guy in front of the flea. She couldn't tell if they were fighting or excited to see each other. She inched her way closer so she could find out.
"Everywhere I go I get that same look," he said to the girl. "You're doing it right now! Smirking at me like I'm some kind of dope."
The girl rolled her eyes and put a waxy package on the counter. "Here's your bagel."
"Is it because I'm short? Is that it?" he said. He smacked the counter. They were definitely fighting. "I'm sick of this shit. I get it everywhere I go, even online. Dating sites suck. All of yous swipe right on my photo but can't handle it when you meet me."
"Ew, you're like my dad's age." The girl turned around to her friend who was making extra large half and halfs and ignored him.
A crowd was starting to gather around the craziness and the line folded into itself. Some teenagers were filming the scene with their phones, laughing. Spoiled brats. Kamini had come home once during junior year of high school, crying about wanting one of the latest iPhone things, as if they had the money. "When you graduate," Priya had lied to her, not understanding the need to capture every joy, every humiliation. The beauty of living was in the forgetting. She learned a long time ago that memories were burdensome, nagging things best left behind. Otherwise, they stuck to you.
Priya cupped the bottom of her bag and tried to move her body through the crowd, a body that had lost its edges as she’d gotten older. “Excuse me,” she said. “I need to get home.” Her stomach grazed the backs of men she knew to be cops with blue flags on their lawns, and women she recognized from the schools. “Sorry,” some of them said.
The crowd had carried her this way and that and she was nearly touching the man now, surprised at the pleasantness of his orangey smell. He’d kept on talking about how even though short men lived longer, and had a low risk of cancer, women didn’t know how good they could have it. "You women are all the same, you know that?" he said. He turned around and bore his beady eyes into Priya. Stupid short man. Up close his head seemed more pineapple-like with white spiky hairs decorating his chin. He pointed a curiously long finger at her. "Even you, sweetheart."
Her survival in this place relied on her ability to stay quiet. To not flinch when the neighborhood kids stuck their tongues out at her while riding bikes, to not say a word when the deli guy took everyone else’s orders before hers, to not slap the teacher when she told her she needed to wash Kamani’s clothes better because they “smelled funny.” She absorbed their language and looks and let them simmer inside her.
This man, well, her co-workers would say he had some goddamn nerve. She tossed her paper bag at him, arms outstretched. The bag flew out of my hands! Poof! she’d tell Anu later. It bounced off the gentle slope of his belly and the sweets fell to the floor. The chum chum rolled into the crowd. A piece of jalebi stuck to his sneakers. He looked down at his feet. Looked up at Priya with wide eyes and said nothing. He'd finally shut up.
"You've got some goddamn nerve," she said. She tried to mimic the shoo from the woman in the bathroom and her body felt lighter with each motion of her hand. So this is what shedding politeness felt like. The women in her family, always serving and pleasing the men who outnumbered them, would disapprove. She smiled.
Her sentence had quieted the voices in Bageltown. A few teens with their phones still out giggled. Someone yelled “Get outta here!” Another yelled “Asshole!” She didn't know if they were talking to the short man or her. It didn’t matter. She stole the short man’s bagel off the counter.
***
Kamini called. "Mom, oh my god, you’re viral! Like, the whole world has seen your video!”
Her daughter was breathless on the phone. She could hear the chatter of the city in the background, thousands of mouths moving and legs shuffling on sidewalks. Kamini was probably on her way to some party. The girl was always on her way to a party.
“I know what viral means,” Priya said. “I’m not a dummy, you know.” She had floated down Jerusalem Avenue and was now staring at the white scalloped awning on her house that delighted her even after it bent from the snowstorm that one winter.
The teenagers at Bageltown with their silly cameras. Of course. The world these days was filtered by what they wanted to see, at the expense of everyone else.
“Mom, I - “
"Kamini, girl, listen,” Priya said. “I want to tell you what happened,"
Priya would never watch the viral thing. And when Anu asked, she wouldn’t let him either.
“I already know, Mom," she said. "The internet loves you!”
“Stupid short man,” Priya said. The words rolled on her tongue softer than she'd expected. "Don’t marry anyone like that, understand?”
Kamini laughed. Then told Priya she was about to get on the train to go to some launch event and would call her later. She was a good girl, that daughter of hers, even if she thought she knew everything.
Priya squeezed the bagel still in her hands. The wax paper was loosening its grip on the bread and starting to unfold into wings. The cream cheese oozed. Such sloppiness, this bagel. She didn't need it. Across the street the Johnson's garbage can was exactly as she'd left it, with its lid half open in a reluctant grin. She marched over and placed the bagel, thwap!, straight on the lid of the can. She lifted the bagel up and thwapped it again because she liked the sound. Through the window she could see Mrs. Johnson in the kitchen, baby on her breast while her other kid jumped up and down on a chair. Poor woman. She could probably use something to eat.
Celeste Hamilton Dennis is a writer and editor based in Portland, Oregon. She’s currently working on a book of short stories connected by her hometown of Levittown, New York.