Sweet (Part I)

By Cathy Lemons © 4/4/2020, All Right Reserved

1986, Dallas, Texas

To watch Ron charm a southern old lady behind a jewelry counter was something to behold.

We all three, me a Texas homespun slender brunette, Donald, a fat handsome Arab, and Ron, a long, lean sweet talker waltzed into a Dallas mall, one of those huge, refrigerated, endless, underground worlds, and go to work.

Ron wore a suit, his tie skewed off to the side. He swept his blonde hair back with both hands and settled his eyes on which victim. It would not matter. All the old ladies loved him. We stared down into a sea of glittering wonder: diamonds, rubies, emeralds, sapphires--all behind a long glass case.

“Oh let me see that one,” Ron said, pointing to a giant rock set on a shiny band.

The lady with her slow southern way, took her key from a small Styrofoam cup and opened up the glass cage. Brought out the ring like a big smiling surprise.

“Sweet!” Ron said with a slight whistle between his teeth. He motioned for Donald and me to come over. My boyfriend's fat stomach practically rested on the glass counter.

“Well? Which one should I get her?” He said.

“Oh Ron look at that one,” I said, pointing to a huge, glittering diamond rock.

He held the ring up to the light and squinted deliciously, as if he were staring at something magnificent in his mind--something only he could see. A wide smile spread across his lips, exposing his front missing tooth.  That gap made his smile even more charming.

“What? It has little diamonds on the band. Exquisite! I think when she sees this, we'll cinch the deal. Don't ya thank?”  He said in his southern voice.

“Oh yaais it’s luvleh. All of our jooowelry is guaaranteed too. Now let me see,” said the sales lady. She had a big puff of teased hair that rested on her big square head like a sprayed helmet. A powdered blue nest.

“My daughter was married last year.”
“Oh she was?” said Ron
“Oh yaees, it was a wonderful weddin’. Her ring was a lot like this.”
“Would you like to see my girl's picture?” asked Ron. His lips were wet.
“Oh honey yaees”

Ron brought out his wallet, and pulled out a small photo of his girl. He would beam like a little boy. The clerk's eyes rested on his picture spell bound--a photo of a woman with short red hair, slicked down, her wide nose covered in big freckles.

“Oh, she's darlin. Just darlin. Have you proposed?”

“Not yet. I have to have this first!”  He held the ring up to the department store's giant florescent light. 

“Well there’s a special on this ring if you have a credit card with us, 10% off! And I might be able to hep ya even more.”

“Would ya do that for me?” 

“Oh yaais. I just can’t picture your girl with any other ring,” she said nodding her head back and forth and looking into Ron’s eyes.

Ron looked down at the ring in his hand, then looked up at Donald, who just stood there with his hands in his pockets. His dark curly head kept swiveling nervously from one exit to the next. I decided to be the bold one, “Go on and get it Ron! I think she’ll love it!” I said.

Ron put the ring down on the counter, stood back--just for an instant--then he snatched the ring up in his fist and say with that slight lisp, “Sweeeeet!”

Then, with a very serious voice, Ron would say, “I would like to open up a credit account here, ma’am.” We all applauded his decision.

Sometimes Ron spent an entire hour at the counter hovering over all the different types of rings and jewelry pieces and chatting with the clerk. She would smile and fold her soft white hands down on the glass and listen intently to his wondrous love affair and how Ron was about to marry the girl of his dreams. It made one weep. Really. Because he believed it. All of the story was so well told, so filled with details. How they met, where he would propose. How he would keep her picture close to his bed at night. What he would say to convince her to marry him. It was an endless dance for Donald and me to watch.

Of course we were all higher than kites and on cameras. But we let Ron do his dance. Eventually, and with exceptional southern courtesy, we departed the store with the beautiful, expensive ring, the necklace, the bracelet, and the matching earrings. And the grandma counter clerk would beam as we walked away. Ron insisted on holding all his little white boxes against his chest.

“Well I sure hope the best for you both. Come back now and tell me how it all worked out for y'all,” she said.
“Now now!  I'll do better! I'll bring her here to meet you with the ring on her finger!”
“Oh you will?”
“Oh yes!”
“Well that would be wonderful!” She tilted her head to the side like a giant Cocker Spaniel.

I half expected Ron to say "Sit!" And she would.

It was beautiful. And oddly heart breaking. I watched this performance four times a day. The smooth saunter up to the counter. The old woman who smelled of baby powder and perfume, her delicate Southern Belle hands. Ron in his gray suit, bending over the counter, chatting and winning her over. We would always go to our fence in Oak Cliff after these department store scores.

Max. 

He was a giant, smiling bald man with beady eyes set inside a meaty head.  He always wore a white t-shirt. He carried a loaded silver Magnum in one pocket and a wad of cash in the other. We usually pulled up at dusk in our beat-up Chevrolet filled with the goods. He would stand behind a high fence and I could hear his big dogs barking.

“HUSH!” he’d say squinting into the car lights.

When he saw it was Donald and me with Ron, he would take some keys dangling from a nail on a board and open the fence up.

Inside Max’s compound there were all kinds of construction materials piled up on every side. We would make a deal and it was always very fast.

“What ya got for me tonight?”

“Well we got a stereo, everything brand spankin’ new, a stove, and some tools back there,” Donald would say, his blues eyes twinkling.

 Max would motion for Donald and Ron to start to unload the stuff. He’d open up a box and inspect it a bit, and then he’d just peel off the money from his big wad of cash.

“We are gonna make a run tomorrow, do ya need anything?” Donald would ask.

“Donny, I need me some roof shingles. I’m bout to fix up some of mah houses, and I can use as many as you can brang,” he’d say in his craggy highish voice.

I could always see Max’s wife, Anita, peering out from the screen door behind, making sure Max was ok. The story was that Max chose his young wife from a trafficking line-up of nude Mexican women. She was as loyal as a dog and would fetch a coke or a key at his command. She was reliable and sturdy.

He liked to talk. He once told us that he shot a black man dead on the freeway on a hot afternoon and got away with it in the 1970’s.  They got in some argument and he took his gun out and shot the “nigger” down. He never went to jail for it.

I knew Max was a horrible man, but for some reason I did not feel any fear of him.

Max would buy everything we could carry, jewelry, huge quantities of heavy shingles for roofs, refrigerators, stoves, stereos, fancy TVs, and carpenter’s tools. He always paid in cash and gave us a fair deal.

Then we would all three, me and Donald and Ron, go back to a department store—loaded with cash--sometimes that same night.

We bought everything. I bought 10 dresses. One with a bright aquamarine blue sash sprinkled in glitter like a magic cupcake. A red sleek form fitting jumper. A beautiful black laced skirt that swung out in a hoop. Patent leather high heels, bags, shiny cosmetics.

Donald bought appliances.

And Ron bought jewelry.

Where did we get the credit?

Ron had a briefcase filled with credit card applications from his job as a Cable TV rep.

Then we would take our loot and head to Max’s, drop the stuff off, get the money, and go to West Dallas to score our heroin in little silver papers that smelled like putrid earth--black tar heroin.

Then one night it all came to a big smash up ….