Fiction: MA'AM
by Candace Lyons
"Have a nice day, ma'am," the checkout clerk all but chirps, handing Clara her register slip.
"You too." She scoops up her bags and leaves the supermarket as dazed as if she'd just walked into its sliding glass doors instead of through them.
Ma'am!? She's never been called ma'am before -- especially by someone more or less her own age. Well, the clerk is definitely less, but not much; probably 18 which means ... a tiny half dozen years. Maybe that isn't so tiny to a teenager, yet this possibility can do nothing to outweigh the horror and Clara shivers despite the 80˙ air.
None of her friends has mentioned getting ma'amed, not even Betsy who usually mentions everything. Clara debates calling around to take a survey then realizes that, if she's the only one who has crossed the boundary, she'll feel even worse so she decides to keep her mouth shut, pray the incident is an aberration, and forget it. But that word, that awful word, won't let her as it accompanies each of her footsteps -- ma'am, ma'am -- the entire four blocks to her apartment.
Once there, Clara abandons her groceries on the kitchen table and hurries to the nearest mirror where she frantically searches for gray hairs or crow's feet. That the quest proves fruitless can't soothe her. Clara is wounded, truly wounded, and feels as if she has no one to turn to which is also a new, and unpleasant, sensation. "Old and alone," she announces to her reflection in sepulchral tones yet, ironically, this strikes Clara as funny and, once back in the kitchen, she finds herself humming Silver Threads Among the Gold as she puts her groceries away.
Clara's humor continues to improve since no other stranger imposes reality upon her and she simply avoids the offending clerk's register even if it means choosing a much longer checkout line when food shopping. Then one day, Betsy phones to say she needs a new bathing suit and asks Clara to come along for a second opinion.
While settling the bill, Betsy gets ma'amed too. Clara watches her friend's reaction closely but Betsy's complexion neither pales nor reddens and her smile is genuine as she actually chats with the saleswoman! On the way to a post-purchase coffee, Clara, still amazed, asks, "Have you been called ma'am before?"
"Lord, yes," Betsy laughs. "Ever since Dennis and I got married." She shifts her package to lift her left hand, "It's the ring."
"Oh, of course," a fleeting hope of commiseration does a slow death in Clara's heart, "and it never bothered you?"
"Nope," Betsy replies. "In fact, if I remember correctly, it was as thrilling as getting called Mrs. Logan instead of Miss Richards."
"I'll take your word for it seeing as I've never been called either," Clara remarks.
"We're not talking about you," Betsy chides Clara with a playful nudge then looks her in the eyes, "Or are we?"
That's all the encouragement Clara needs and the supermarket episode unreels like a documentary before her brain can produce a less tragic version.
"Without a logical explanation," she sums up, lifting her own, unadorned hand, "trust me, it's a blow."
"Clara, are you serious?" Betsy gives another laugh then shakes her head. "Get over it because, these days, teenagers rule the cash registers and it's bound to happen again. You can't be that sensitive if you want to survive."
"You're right," Clara sighs and Betsy rewards her with a smile of approval but she really doesn't understand the problem so it's no consolation.
Later, when Clara is home and alone once more, her mood keeps deteriorating. The idea of improving it with a survey returns now that she's assured she hasn't initiated the rite of passage but she's still left with the question of who to ask. All her close friends are married so their experience would be Betsy's or a variation thereof while Clara and her equally single friends go out to have fun – not to trade confidences -- and this particular transition is strictly confidential as far as she's concerned.
I should have just become Mrs. Sullivan right after high school, Clara tells herself now. She and Rob had started going steady in ninth grade, seemed destined for each other despite their constant bickering, and then, senior year, Clara was awarded a scholarship at too good a university to pass up. The relationship didn't even survive fall term. Returning at Christmas pinned to a Beta Sig, she discovered Rob and Sherry Clifford were engaged. Their mutual betrayal instantly absolved Clara and Rob of all guilt which allowed them to remain friends and, if there's time, she still drops by to see the Sullivans when back in her hometown visiting her parents.
A moment's regret over having perhaps passed up her only chance tweaks at Clara yet further reflection leads her to conclude fate had stepped in with that scholarship, sparing Rob and her from a few painful years where bickering would probably have escalated into fighting -- if not hand-to-hand combat -- followed by a too early divorce to go along with their too early marriage. Then again, Rob and Sherry are still man and wife. But Clara isn't Sherry so that doesn't count and avoiding the shock of being called ma'am wouldn't have been worth the rest.
Bolstered by this insight, she's at peace with herself and recovering nicely when the shock is renewed by a gas station attendant. He looks even younger than the checkout clerk but this doesn't prevent Clara from falling headlong into another funk. She arrives at her apartment happy only that she didn't have an accident driving home since the recurrence has left her more than distracted; though not enough to keep her from noticing the light blinking on her answering machine.
As she listens, Clara feels saved. It's Philip -- pushing 30, single and, better yet, a friend she does confide in -- suggesting one of their dinners. The perfect solution! Why hadn't sounding out the male of the species occurred to her before?
"Can you remember the first time someone called you sir?" Clara greets him in front of the restaurant.
"Fine and yourself," Philip laughs, used to Clara's abruptness.
"Look, I'm too hungry to answer here on the sidewalk. Let's get a table and order. That'll give me time to think."
They always go to Luigi's because it's close to both their offices; nevertheless, Clara dutifully opens her menu in case the day's special can tempt her away from the usual osso buco. But the chef's selection has calamari in it which makes Clara's nose wrinkle and she keeps her menu open only because Philip is still hidden behind his then forces herself to remain patient until they've been served. As soon as the waiter is out of earshot, however, Clara ignores her plate, leans forward and says,
"Well?"
"YES! I remember, okay?"
"Good. How old were you?"
"Twenty-two. It was just after graduation. I went to a record store to stock up on CDs and the cashier asked me, 'Will that be cash, check or credit card, sir?' I looked at him thinking, where does this kid get off calling me sir? Then I had to laugh at myself because, if I considered him a kid, I was a sir."
"And you didn't feel awful?"
"Awful? No. Surprised at most but, almost immediately, what I felt was relieved."
"Relieved!" Clara, for her part, is aghast.
"Yeah," Philip grins broadly. "That 'kid' had bestowed me with a sense of authority I sorely needed. In three weeks, I was going to find myself behind a desk as an upcoming junior executive and had been sweating bullets wondering if I could cut it because, up until then, I still felt more in the same league with the cashier — you know, that age when you're at, say, a department store waiting to be helped and the person behind the counter looks right through you as if you're invisible while he or she deals with the grownups."
"Now that you mention it," Clara has a flashback, recalling as well that she'd had a belated attack of baby fat which rendered her visible indeed for a year or so in mid-adolescence but, even given her temporary girth, she too had trouble making her presence known wherever she didn't have to queue up.
"Anyway, I'd been afraid all those three-piece suits would never take me seriously and that 'sir' assured me I had nothing to worry about. Does this answer your question?"
"Yes – well, no. Not really."
"Why not?"
"Because, the past few weeks, I've gotten called ma'am and the only thing that's bestowed me with is a giant case of the blues."
"It'll pass," Philip assures her, a bit dismissively for Clara's taste, then changes the subject, "Have you seen Angela lately?"
The subject stays changed which is just as well for, by the time their spumoni arrives, Clara has regained a little perspective. During the next few days, she even tries to feel a sense of authority though her attempts are foiled when the sales staff seems determined to ignore her while she's choosing a perfume at Good Scents. Yet, in this instance, the outcome is highly positive.
"I'm just a kid!" Clara exults with a welcome rush of euphoria that lasts until – damn it! – a teller ma'am's her at the bank.
Clara's mood nose dives yet again, leaving her feeling like a yo-yo. What is she? She doesn't know anymore which plunges her spirits even lower.
After moping around this limbo a few days, Clara gets fed up with herself and decides to do something useful like ... aha, returning her books to the library. She arrives at the same time as a dapper gentleman in his 60's who ceremoniously sweeps the door open, insisting,
"After you, young lady."
Clara almost kisses him then settles for a thank you said with so much gratitude the man arches a bemused eyebrow. How could he know he's just pronounced the magic words, giving Clara a status that will stop her moods from bouncing up and down until she's queasy? Lady, hmmm okay, it's time to accept the fact she's left child- and even teen-hood behind. But is that so bad as long as she's still young? If she gets ma'amed again, it won't bother her either seeing as people who deal with the public have no other word to use. Above all, it's only a word. Young is a state of mind.