Excerpt: The Fixer

Around the 69k mark of the story; our main character Genesis has been going through a lot of things with her family and friends, and she's off to interview a woman that makes her reflect on her life.

I looked absolutely hideous.

Well, not absolutely hideous, but my swollen nose and bruise under my eye gave the appearance that I was on the losing end of a fist fight.

The most logical thing to do after leaving Yvonne’s was to go home, put a compress on my nose, and go to bed – forgetting this day even existed.

But I never did things the easy way, and I damn sure avoided logic or I wouldn’t wind up in most of the messes that crept into my life.

After driving around for an hour, watching people stop at red lights, look over at me, and gawk, I headed to Changes, the country’s largest indoor flea market – right in the heart of Southwest Louisiana.

Jennifer insisted I do a piece on the owner Deborah Williams.

“She is such an inspiration,” she told me days ago when I informed her that I already had my ideas for the remainder of the month. “You’ll love her, you’ll love Changes, and you’ll probably walk away with a couple cute things for yourself and the house.”

“But what about my other articles?” I asked, weary. It wasn’t that I had a problem with going to Changes. I had never been. Never once even thought about going, no matter how many times my mother called, bragging about things she bought there on her once-a-month trip.

My uneasiness had everything to do with Jennifer. Every month, she gave me a batch of ideas and allowed me to pick the ideas I wanted to develop into articles. If she had her druthers, Around Town would be solely a collection of my articles, but she wanted to give other writers their moment to shine, too. For the most part, I had carte blanche on the stories I wrote, but every once in a while, Jennifer had a story that only I could handle. I never questioned it; it was more money in my pocket. But lately, since the worlds of all my friends and family were beginning to collide with mine, I couldn’t help but notice that the chosen articles held more than just money in my pocket.

“What about your other articles?” Jennifer said, looking over the top of her glasses at me. “Really?” She shook her head and tousles of blond curls framed her face. “One article will not sidetrack you, girl. Now, get to it. Chop, chop.”

“You sure there is no lesson to be learned from this excursion?” I asked, sitting before her, eyebrow raised.

She laughed. “This is not a special episode of Blossom, Genesis.” We both laughed. “Do you know that Changes has been here for almost ten years, yet no one has ever really talked about it or the owner?”

I leaned back and crossed my arms. “And you’ve been e-i-c of Around Town for how long? What took you so long?” I smelled set-up.

Jennifer gave me her sparkling smile, the one that made her blue eyes shine. “I guess I was just waiting for the right connection with a writer,” she replied, blowing me a kiss. “It’ll take a sensitive writer to ask the right questions and get that personal interest story I’m looking for.”

I didn’t press it. I nodded, made a few notes to research Deborah Williams, and promised Jenn she’d have the article in her hands by the weekend.

A few days later, with a swollen face, and no real information on Williams, I sat in my car in the too-crowded parking lot of Changes.

I slipped my camera strap around my neck and made sure my mini-recorder was in the side compartment of my camera case. With the hands of a true make-up artist, I applied foundation and blush to my face. I was no girly-girl by any stretch of the imagination, and I hated most make-up, but every few months, I always bought me fresh foundation, blush, eye shadow, and lipstick – just in case. In case what, I had no idea.

By the time I stepped out the car, I couldn’t see the dark purple bruise under my eye or near my nose; however, the prominence of my nose was front and center.

With pad and pen in hand and extra pens in the camera case that kept rhythm against my right hip, I walked across the huge parking lot and saw the sign for Changes: a beautiful sunrise on the horizon with the word Changes right along the sun’s arc. Beneath the horizon was the flea market’s catch phrase: You can make them today.

I chuckled. “Sure feels like a special episode of Blossom’s about to air.”

Changes is as huge as any of those colossal, cold, everything-you-could-ever-want-and-need-in-one-location stores. However, unlike those stores, Changes has heart and warmth as soon as you step into the automatic sliding doors.

Before I was five feet inside, I was given a hug and a hello, and asked if I would like water, juice, or hot chocolate while I browsed around. Though it was a blistering June day, I smiled and accepted some hot chocolate.

Changes was a labyrinth of aisles that housed everything from sofas to microwaves, from tennis shoes to paint, from make-up to light bulbs – everything that was needed to start a life over was offered there. And in the back, in five small rooms, classes were held on things like self-defense, resume writing, job interviews, computer basics, and making a budget.

It seemed that Deborah’s mission was to get people who felt they were at the bottom of the barrel to a higher standard of living.

I already loved her.

I was sifting through some cute checkered pajamas when a light lilting voice called, “Genesis Baxter?”

I turned and immediately knew I was staring at Deborah Williams. She was a woman that exuded love and kindness. Her skin, the color of well-kneaded dough looked smooth and soft. Her body, ample and sturdy, looked built for hugs. Her smile, bright and unwavering, looked true. But her eyes, her eyes told me that the Deborah Williams who stood before me was a woman who had been through some things, who was still going through some things, yet she refused to let any of that hold her back.

My love for her deepened.

Her delicate hands brushed along her purple T-shirt and peasant-inspired skirt before tightening the cream and purple scarf that adorned her head.

“I must look a mess,” she said, laughing.

“No,” I said, lifting my camera to her, “you look perfect.” I tipped the camera toward her and said, “May I?”

“Yeah, let’s get this part of the show over with.”

I took nearly a card-worth of pictures – of Deborah alone, with co-workers, of the store, the classrooms, some of the patrons. I talked with several of the patrons and co-workers, getting really great quotes for the article that already began to form in my mind.

After pictures and initial interviews, I wandered the store and found Deborah in her office – if you can call it that – sipping tea from a Portmeirion Botanic Garden demi cup, saucer in her free hand. The room looked as if it was pulled from a catalog for Victorian drawing rooms. Only the desk and file cabinet at the far end of the room marred the image.

“Are you ready for me, Mrs. Williams?” I asked.

She patted the empty space next to her on the crimson Victorian sofa. “Come sit,” she said. “And please, no more Mrs. Williams. It’s Deb.”

She told me to help myself to the tea, and I did. As soon as I sat beside her, she asked, “Care to tell me about what happened to your face?”

It wasn’t said in a mean way – well, not in a mean way directed toward me. More toward the person who might have inflicted pain on me. I couldn’t help but to smile. We were a lot alike in the fact that we appeared sweet on the outside, but if you hurt something or someone we care about, all sweetness was gone; it was kick-ass time.

I chuckled. “Let’s just say I went to help a friend and a closet door connected with my face.”

She eyed me questioningly.

“I swear,” I said, laughing, surprised at how forthcoming her presence made me feel. “Besides, shouldn’t I be the one asking questions?”

“You’re right,” she said, smiling that sweet mother smile. “Ask away.”

And I did, and the more I asked, and the more I learned, the more Deb became someone I needed to know in my life.

She told me about losing her husband and two children in a car accident fifteen years ago, an accident that was caused by faulty mechanisms in the vehicle. The automobile company, looking to sweep things under the rug, offered her insane money in exchange for her silence, but she said no, went to court, and after a year-long court battle, walked away with an even more obscene amount of money and more importantly, her voice.

I admired her for telling me the entire story without once shedding a tear. I could tell it still affected her – the glossiness of her emerald eyes told me so.

“I spent three years in a cave,” she said, adding a cube of sugar to her new cup of tea. “I hardly recall bathing, thinking, feeling, being, anything. I wanted to die but was too much of a chicken shit to do it myself. I thought if I just stopped existing God would do it for me.”

I smiled. “But he didn’t.”

She shook her head. “Nope. Thought I would be better use here. So, I took a large portion of the settlement money, moved from Texas to Louisiana, and started Changes.”

“And how do you keep everything in stock? Is it all coming from you, your money?”

“I’ve been blessed,” she replied. “I pay the mortgage for this place and all utilities, but everything else, to include products, services, and pay for my workers comes from donations through companies and business.” She smiled, and my heart softened even more when I tear slipped down her cheek. “Many companies have struck up five-, ten-year deals with us, so we’re fully operational for years to come.”

I whispered, “Thank you” when she handed me some tissues. I wiped my wet cheeks and said, “So, what’s your overall philosophy, Deb? Why Changes?”

“There’s a really long-winded answer I could give to that, but here’s the short version: Change was the only thing that moved me from the angst I carried. I want to offer everyone the opportunity to change their lives for the better, too.”

“That is really beautiful,” I said while changing the tape in my mini-recorder. “Do you mind if I ask about the scarf? I didn’t want to pry, but…”

“Cancer. Breast cancer to be exact.”

I bit the inside of my cheek to keep my tears in check. “Is it,” I started, too afraid to jinx her with my next question, “is it terminal? Will you be OK?”

The smile she gave nearly blinded me. “As of two weeks ago, I am in remission,” she said, “thank the Lord. My hair’s actually starting to grow back. Have a look see.”

She lifted her scarf from her head and tufts of silky tight red curls clung to her scalp. In some spots, the bone-white skin of her scalp still shone.

“Take a few pictures,” she said, shrugging. “If you’re going to reveal yourself, you might as well reveal the beautiful and the ugly, right?”

I nodded and said, “Right” before lifting my camera and focusing on taking great pictures despite my blurry vision.

After another hour of questions and answers, both Deb and I sat back on the sofa in silence. I had no idea what was on her mind, but I was feeling very humbled.

No one person was better than another, but hearing Deb’s story made me realize that the story, the life I tried so hard to escape from wasn’t as bad as it could have been. It also made me realize that I was still stuck in my cycle of nothingness. I needed to make some changes in my own life, for my own life and no one else’s. Deb was a woman who, first and foremost, loved and respected and enjoyed the life she led. That love, respect, and joy flowed to others through Changes.

I wanted the beauty of my life to flow goodness to others, too.

“Can I ask you another question?” I said. “Not really related to the interview.”

I cut my eyes toward Deb. She had her fingers intertwined and resting on her belly. Her eyes closed.

“Of course,” she replied.

“Why did you agree to do the interview?”

She smiled, eyes still closed. “Jennifer’s mother is a good friend of mine.”

“Ahh,” I said, laughing. “So Jenn did orchestrate this?”

Deb opened her eyes and turned to me. “She did. According to her mother, Jenn thought this interview would be as cathartic for me as it would be for you.”

I sighed and let the tears fall. “Wow. That’s pretty damn sweet of her.”

Deb nodded and patted my hand. “I think so, too.”

I wiped the tears with the back of my hand and took a breath. “You know,” I began, I have far more material here than I would ever need for just one article.”

“You don’t say.”

I looked at Deb and found her smiling at me. “I do say.” We chuckled. “Might I pitch an idea to you?”

Deb pointed toward her teapot, and I nodded. As she poured us another round of tea, she replied, “Pitch away. There might be something for me to catch.”