THE NEXT DAY at work, the store is empty. Miss Lena goes into a fitting room and prays for about forty-five minutes, but no customers come. The dresses are hanging neatly; the dressing rooms are cleaned out; everything’s arranged. The other salesladies are gathered in a corner, having a hushed conversation that halts every time I walk by. I open the storage drawer by the register, get out a few blank “hold” tags, and start drawing the faces of the salesladies on them. I have a black ink pen, a yellow highlighter, a red pen, and a green highlighter. After drawing and coloring each one, I cut the tags into fat little paper dolls. I’m a pretty good artist, so the likenesses are striking. I give Miss Michelle a big bulge in her cheek, like she’s sucking a candy. On the heads of the Braughn sisters I draw golden crowns using a highlighter. On Miss Liaskis’s face I draw a line of tears, because she is always so sad and frustrated. And surrounding Miss Lena’s head, I put a yellow halo. Her eyes are pointing upward and she has a gentle, beatific smile on her face. I sketch our manager, Miss Dani, with faint, faded-looking lines, because she’s like a ghost; I sense her more than I actually see her.

I give the paper doll of me bigger eyes and fuller lips than I really have. I’ve been thinking of having my lips done lately, but it costs so much. I’m just waiting for the day when they come up with a way to make your eyes bigger. I’ll be the first in line to do it.

Miss Lena comes out of the dressing room and looks glumly out at the empty sales floor. “God must have some bigger business to take care of today,” she says.

“Maybe he’s spending his time in Yugo,” I say.

“He’d better be,” she says, “because I have been asking him every night to help out over there.”

Miss Lena walks over to me, looks at the paper dolls, and picks up Miss Michelle from the top of the pile.

“This looks just like Miss Michelle,” she says.

“Here you are,” I say, and I dig through the pile and pull out Miss Lena.

“Oh, my!” Miss Lena says, and her eyes tear up and she hugs me. “You have made me an angel.”

“No,” I say, “a saint. Angels have wings.”

Miss Lena spreads out the paper dolls on the counter, then picks up Miss Dani and, in an approximation of Miss Dani’s raspy, smoker’s voice, says, “You girls get to work! What are you doing playing with paper dolls?”

I grab Miss Michelle and say, “Oh, go back to your office or buy something from me!”

Miss Lena hops Miss Liaskis across the counter to the register and jumps her among the keys, crying, “Somebody, please help me! Somebody, please!” Then Miss Lena snatches up the doll of me, walks her over to the register, and says, “Don’t worry, don’t worry! I’ll fix it for you.” She picks up the Braughn sisters and makes them speak like Zsa-Zsa and Eva Gabor, even though they sound just like Americans in real life.

“Dah-ling,” Miss Braughn the older says to Miss Liaskis, “Vat iz your problem?”

“Pah-lese,” says Miss Braughn the younger, “just get out of our vay. You’re such a nuisance!”

I am laughing hard. Miss Lena and I have never talked about anything except God, Jesus, Mary, Yugo, and customers. I’ve always thought that she was oblivious to the goings-on of the sales floor, but now she does an entire show for me. She even closes the doll of herself up in the storage drawer next to the scissors and the alarm-tag remover to pray for customers.

“Make some more,” Miss Lena says. “Make some customers and a couple of those men who come in to see Miss Dani. And make Cecil for me, too.”

Cecil is the stockboy who is really a sixty-year-old man. He loves Jesus as much as Miss Lena does. They often stand in the middle of the sales floor, Cecil leaning on a rolling rack, Miss Lena ignoring the customers, and discuss the wonders of the Lord. If Cecil isn’t pushing a rolling rack or carrying a box of hangers, then the customers glance nervously at him, wondering what a black man is doing on the dress floor in “San Francisco’s Finest Department Store” (according to their ads). Cecil’s skin is as black as oil, and the whites of his eyes are as yellow as scrambled eggs. This makes him scary-looking to all the wealthy white ladies. But there’s nothing to be scared of; aside from Miss Lena, Cecil’s the most faithful Christian I know.

While Miss Lena continues to play, I make two pickle-faced customers wearing hats and holding giant purses, and a gay couple I call Bartholomew and Tobias. Miss Lena laughs when I tell her their names.

“Why’s that funny?” I ask.

“Those names are so formal,” she says. “Why not Bart and Toby?”

“Because,” I say, “everyone knows that gay men always use their full names.”

Miss Lena laughs again. She thinks I’m being zany.

On the Cecil paper doll, I draw a giant halo, just like on Miss Lena’s. She picks up the Cecil doll and kisses it right on the lips. I am so shocked by this that I just stand there and look at her.

“You be me, and I’ll be Cecil,” Miss Lena says.

“Why, hello, Cecil,” I say, with Miss Lena’s sweet voice.

“Hello, dear,” Miss Lena says in a deep voice, jutting out her bottom lip as if this will help her reach a lower octave.

“So many customers today; Jesus must be smiling on us,” I say.

“Jesus always smiles on a lady as beautiful as you,” Miss Lena says, and we both burst out laughing.

The two of us are leaning on the counter, holding our paper dolls, and roaring the way my friends and I do when we’re drunk and rowdy and obnoxious. I don’t know why this paper-doll thing is so funny, but I’m cracking up so hard my stomach hurts and I have to pee. Miss Lena has tears running down her face and is stomping her little foot in time with her laughter. After a couple of minutes of this, Miss Michelle wanders across the sales floor to see what we’re up to.

“What’s so funny?” Miss Michelle shouts, a scowl on her face. She is too far away to see what we’re doing. Miss Lena grabs the Miss Michelle paper doll, rocks it back and forth, and with a frown mouths, What’s so funny?

I am screeching with laughter, slapping my hand on the counter — the whole bit. Miss Lena is slightly more composed than me, and quickly gathers up all the paper dolls and dumps them in the drawer just as Miss Michelle approaches our register.

“Just what are you two hyenas laughing about?” Miss Michelle asks. She is angry now, furious at us for having so much fun.

Miss Lena and I clutch each other’s arms, turning our heads away from Miss Michelle and taking large gulps of air to try to control ourselves.

Finally, Miss Lena calms down enough to say, “Jesus has blessed us today.”

“I think Jesus gave you a whop on the head today,” Miss Michelle says.

“No,” Miss Lena says, “he blessed us with joy.”

Miss Michelle scrunches up her nose.

Just then the escalator deposits a group of four women at the border of Petite Dresses and Contemporary Dresses. We all freeze and quietly watch to see where they’ll go. Two head over to Formal Dresses, and two walk this way, into Petite Dresses. Miss Michelle snorts — I mean really snorts through her nose — and walks away.

“You take them both,” Miss Lena whispers to me. “I’ll go pray for more.”

RENEE AND I hit the Triangle again tonight. At Perry’s, I order a platter of fettuccine Alfredo and a side of fries. It’s an eating day, and I plan to do it up right. Renee watches me eat while she drinks a Bloody Mary, sipping the red liquid from the trough of the celery stalk. I try to tell her about the paper dolls and Miss Lena, but it’s not as funny when I describe it. “I guess you had to be there,” I say.

After my meal, I order a zombie, which is fruit punch with about three different kinds of rum in it. It’s an expensive drink, but you only need one to get drunk, even on an eating day, so it factors out as a bargain.

Later, at a club, I see a girl wearing a five-hundred-dollar dress that Miss Lena sold her. It was Miss Lena’s only sale that day. The girl’s not much older than me, and when she bought the dress I secretly hated her. I couldn’t stand the fact that someone my age had so much money. I also couldn’t stand her puffy lips, like miniature balloons stuck to her face — what I wouldn’t pay for lips like that!

Renee and I are on the dance floor, dancing together, but at the same time looking around to see if any guys are watching us. I scoot up close to Renee and shout over the music, “see that bitch over there?”

Renee turns her head, then rolls her eyes, meaning, Yeah, what a skinny bitch.

“she bought that dress for full price: five hundred dollars!”

Renee looks back at her again and checks out the dress. “i wonder how much her lips cost!” she says, and we both crack up.

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