Sex, Lies & Cellulite

"Lady, can I wear my boa constrictor?" Sylvia Hunter looked up from rearranging costume jewelry to focus on the woman standing on the other side of the glass counter. The most noticeable aspect of the woman's attire was what appeared to be an actual, living snake coiled around her neck. It wasn't particularly big, girth-wise no larger than a garden hose, and probably no longer than a yardstick. But it was definitely a snake. Syl loved volunteering at Critter Comforts Thrift Store and had fun helping customers. So rather than vault over the other jewelry counter behind her, screaming "Snake!" at the top of her lungs--her first inclination--she lounged against it. "That could be problematic. Like with the belts and shoes. Some of them might be relatives." The woman stared, looking befuddled. "Huh?" "You know--snakeskin?" Syl made an "eek" face to express the snake's likely reaction to seeing its Uncle Fred as a boot. "Oh." The woman's smile was more polite than amused. A clear indicator that Syl was no Jerry Seinfeld. "So, can I?" the woman asked. It wasn't a volunteer's job to make that sort of decision, but Syl was, by nature, a problem solver, as all women were who'd surmounted a quarter-century of the obstacles of wife-and-motherhood. She saw no reason to bother the manager just because the question of boa constrictors had never come up in her year as a volunteer. Critter Comforts was a folksy, easygoing place, not requiring shirts or shoes, since some customers came in because they needed them. Nevertheless, allowing man-eating snakes was a stretch even for their casual standards. On the other hand, they had no rule against letting people come in with little doggies in their handbags or on leashes. She supposed a pet boa constrictor could be welcomed, if it was on its best behavior. "I guess it's okay," she said. "We have three resident cats we're very fond of. So keep your little, um, friend wrapped around your neck. I don't want any cat-size lumps in its belly when you leave." The woman seemed to get the joke this time and laughed. "Oh, no problem. Abner's a baby. He could do no harm to a soul." Syl crossed her arms and gave Abner a stern look. "Okay, Abner, I'm expecting gentlemanly behavior from you." Even if Abner had a taste for people, there wouldn't be much danger, since the place was pretty dead this afternoon. With the temperature hovering around one hundred degrees people weren't venturing out to shop. Only a few brave souls had been in. Like the cross-dresser who showed up once or twice a week looking for size-sixteen pleated skirts. He'd lucked out today and found one. Syl got a kick out of his delight when he handed over his three dollars. You'd have thought he'd won the lottery. Customers came in all shapes, sizes and circumstances, from New-Age artsy to eccentric to indigent to plain old bargain hunters, like her. Syl enjoyed every experience. Critter Comforts, with all its kookiness, had become an odd kind of refuge for Syl. She didn't like to admit it or even think about it, but lately, for her, the store was a happier place than her home. Since the shop was so dead, with nobody shopping but Snake Lady and Abner, Sylvia decided to see if Lydia, the manager, had any priced donations that needed to be shelved. She left her post at the cash register, between the two jewelry counters, and headed toward the back and the manager's office, also known as "the kitchen." Lydia Moore was a bright, energetic thirtysomething who never let a thought go unspoken. With Lydia, you knew where you stood along with everything that flitted through her head. Syl liked that about her boss. She rounded a corner into a small hallway of the old, converted two-story house. A couple of steps over squawky wood and she entered the kitchen where donations were priced. Farther back in what had once been a bedroomRoszel, Renee is the author of 'Sex, Lies & Cellulite ', published 2007 under ISBN 9780373881260 and ISBN 0373881266.