X-Ray Vision Ch. 01: Discovered

"What's the biggest you ever found?" really curious, in a young enthusiastic way I found honestly refreshing.

"A crate of money, probably millions. But it's at the bottom of the bay. Fallen off a drug-smuggling boat is my guess. Anyway, I can't swim so it's gonna stay there."

Her eyes got wide; treasure-hunting is a fun fantasy and I was the ultimate beach-comber.

She had more questions but I begged off, tired. Which I really was.

She settled into bed, stripped naked after an initial hesitation. I could see her thinking Did it matter, when I could see everybody naked any time I wanted?

She paused before climbing in, gave me a wave through the wall, blew a little kiss. Cheeky! I called "GNight!", playing along.

Asleep instantly, exhausted from stress and trauma and sudden relief, saved by a guy with pizza and a condo and x-ray vision.

I took a little longer. What had I gotten myself into? It'd been big trouble in the past when somebody got a clue what I could do.

She seemed different. Maybe it would be different. We'd see.

I drifted off, my focus on the upper cloud cover, weather coming in, satellites orbiting overhead, the people in the space station shooting past. The usual stuff.

Morning came, and with it the smell of cooking.

Cooking! I had been eating frozen dinners, fast food, restaurant food my whole life. Mom didn't cook once she got cancer; Dad never cooked at all.

I valued home cooked food somewhere up there with sex and oxygen.

Through the shower, into beach clothes and out to the kitchen. There was 'the girl' at my stove, skillet, cans open, something awesome bubbling in a pot, in a skillet.

She looked at me brightly. "Hope you don't mind! Thought I should repay you for your kindness!"

My gratified look made her giggle. "You don't get cooked for very often?"

"Miss, the way to this man's heart is definitely through his stomach. You cook all you want, I'm never gonna say a word against you."

I cleared the pizza mess, got some plates from the dishwasher, forks from the drawer, set the bar for two.

She noticed. "Nobody else? No sweetie in the picture?"

I shook my head. "I guess I'm too weird for most folks. Nobody lasts a month, they get the creeps at my mysterious ways, get to thinking I'm spying on them somehow."

She smiled impishly. "Well, you are! Let me assure you, it's way better to just say things like that, than to leave her guessing."

I nodded, accepting her wisdom. I'd never felt free to 'just say' what I could do. I didn't think that would go over so well.

At least, not with the usual kind of person. This girl, she was something else.

She began plating her (my) eggs, some sliced fried spam, instant potatoes she'd magically transformed into delicious cheesy wonderful.

I did as she'd done last night, focused in on the food until I found my awareness return to the room. Found her looking at me fondly.

"I.. I don't get real food very often."

"Somebody should teach you to cook! You'd be a whiz, you can tell when the steak is cooked thru, when the potatoes are done."

True; it would definitely be easier to trim vegetables, seeing through the potato to the 'hidden' bad spot.

"How does the morning look?" I could tell she was feeling better, a new woman in fact.

She looked grave. "You were right, food and sleep changed everything. That bastard can go fuck himself. I'm gonna go back to being me."

I nodded, a sober expression. Not gonna lecture to her, but it was good to see her self-confidence returned.

"You have anybody to go back to? What are your plans?"

Eager to please, she started in "I can be out of your hair almost immediately. I'm gonna look for a job today. I can do lots of things, food service, office work, copyediting..."

"That's gonna take a little time," I started, and her face fell.

"No! I don't mind! You can stay here as long as you need. I don't have many guests. And you are a peach; it's a relief to have somebody to talk to."

"I'll look for a roommate, a college student or secretary or something. Maybe just a couple of days?"

I nodded, "Don't rush it. Get a good job, a good situation. You deserve that much, after what you've been through."

"I can pay you back, as soon as I get a paycheck..." she trailed off, remembering I didn't give a fuck about money.

She needed some way to reciprocate, that was clear. I knew of a way.

"You can cook. If you cook, even one day a week, that would be great. That would be enough for me."

The relief was immediate; this was something she knew, could deal with.

"I have a kick-ass red chili-cheese enchilada. Cheap ingredients, tastes like heaven."

My smile was so wide, she just had to laugh. "You are so easy to please! I don't know why those women didn't stick around to see this side of you."

She was gonna be a fine roommate. In fact if it lasted longer than a few days, that would please me even more.

Picking up the plates, she busied herself with washing. I had nowhere to be so I hung around, lazing on the bar stool.

Her strong tanned arms were graceful, her motions sure and practiced. Watching her back flex as she moved dishes, scrubbed, turned this way and that to put things away was a joy.

Her bones moved with a gentle flexing that only the young have, still mostly cartilage, not calcified stiff like full adults. That was also a joy to see.

She turned to ask me something, saw me looking, looked down over her shoulder, back up at me.

"Is my spine especially interesting?" She caught on quickly. I grinned, nodded Yes!

"Well, knock yourself out. No guy has ever checked out my vertebrae before." She wiggled her butt, making a curious delicious wave travel up her backbone.

I colored, a little shy about being caught perving on her youthful skeleton. But I continued to watch.

Changing the subject, "I don't have a car. There's a bus service, but it's packed with tourists this time of year. Maybe we could just walk downtown, it's not even a mile."

She brightened. "We? Do you want to show me the sights?"

"You mentioned food service, office work. We could walk past a few places, check out if they're working well or understaffed, you could go in and offer to help out..."

"Oh! Use your super power for good! I like that. And if I get a job out of being jane-on-the-spot for some overworked restaurant manager, so much the better!"

I liked being a super hero. My life was lonely, and I'd done so little for anybody, for so long. It felt good to be useful.

"I'll change into walking clothes." Something occurred to me. "You don't have any other clothes?"

She shook her head No! "He took everything. But I can..." she ran down, out of ideas.

"Lets get you dressed for success. It'll pay off in the end - first impressions are huge, you want to look the part."

She was going to object, caught herself. The money thing again, not an issue for me but it was for her. I explained.

"It'll give me something to do, a friend to spend time with, even for a day. The money is easy, if it's not too much anyway. And if you want to be a friend in return, I don't know, cook two days a week. Use your skills to make our lives better."

She thought, nodded, held out her hand. I shook it.

She talked as we walked down the beach.

"I cashed out of my life, bought an expensive vacation. Nobody to return to, nothing back there for me. Was going to meet a nice guy, settle down, have a life here. That failed quick."

I objected. "No! Just a bump in the road. You can do whatever you want, put your mind to. Lots of guys would jump at the chance to meet you. Don't sell yourself short? Or them. Not all men are bastards."

"I know; love is possible blah blah. But forgive me if I ride the cynical wagon for a few days."

That seemed reasonable.

I thought of something. "I don't know your name. My name is Gregory. Greg."

"Greg. I like that! Strong, unequivocally male. Mine's Jillian, Jill." She held out a hand, and I shook it. "Pleased to make your acquaintance."

"So Jillian, Jill. If you'll indulge me, we can walk along the boardwalk for a while."

"Certainly, Gregory, Greg! I would be glad to."

We were passing the frontage along the beach, a riot of gaudy signs, trinket sellers, colorful garb.

And lost items. I scanned as we went, always on the lookout for a freebie. Didn't take long; it never did.

"Just a minute." I left the boardwalk, squatted in the sand, reached under, pulled out a salt-stained satin bag. Inside - a few scrunched-up bills, a lipstick, a condom wrapper. No ID.

Taking just the bills I pocketed them, dumped the rest in the boardwalk trash can.

She looked at me, pursed her lips, raised an eyebrow. "You are a handy guy. I ever lose my purse, I'm coming to you."

"A dollar here, a dollar there - it adds up." I was openly pleased at the praise, a new thing for me. I'd hidden this all my life, it was a thrill to show off.

And it was more than a dollar or two. More like fifty, twenties and change. Somebody's mad money.

"I can probably find something to wear along here?" she was anxious to get this clothing shopping over with.

I disagreed. "Mostly for tourists, not the look you might want to present? There are better places a couple blocks off the shore."

She got nervous when we turned onto a street with upscale shops. "I can't afford this stuff!"

I was going to explain about money again, but stopped. This was how she felt; it was not my place to tell her what she was comfortable with.

"There are bargains even here. Lets see if we can find some office outfit for a reasonable price."

Still uncertain, I led her by the hand into the shop I often used. A tailor, a small Vietnamese man, unknowable age, and I saw in the back the much younger Vietnamese woman at a sewing machine.

He spoke his perfect British English which I was pleased to see surprised my companion.

"Mr. Gregory! How nice to see you on this fine day. What can I do for you? Or for your enchanting friend!"

Jill smiled, instantly at ease with Mr. Nguyen. I introduced them.

"Mr. Nguyen, this is.. Jillian." I didn't know her last name.

She took his offered hand, got a firm handshake. "Please, call me Phuong." He smiled his gold-tooth smile, always the charmer.

"Are we here for more... formal attire?" Jillian nodded, suddenly shy.

"Khang! Please attend! Customer!" He called through to the back room.

Miss Khang came through a beaded door, stood beside and one step behind Phuong, the polite way to address a senior.

A tiny woman, a blend of traditional Vietnamese and modern American, she was dressed in a sensible wool skirt, a black knit top suitable for work.

But underneath she was all sexpot and lace with a bra designed to do it's best for her brief charms while dazzling the eye, and a tiny, tiny pair of panties I had to look for carefully to distinguish from her jet-black trimmed-and-combed bush.

Sizing Jill up with a glance, signaling that she should turn around, Miss Khang observed, turned without a word, disappeared into the back.

Almost immediately she emerged with a women's business blazer and skirt on a hangar. Holding it for Mr. Nguyen, he took the blazer, examined it critically, nodded.

Jill took it when offered, slipped into it. It was nearly a perfect fit, comfortable over her shoulders, maybe a little broad at the waist. Phuong critically tugged, pulled. Miss Khang was making notes, ostensible taking her cues from Phuong's clucks and frowns.

Nodding, Jill took it off, handed it back, Miss Khang taking it over one arm.

"A blouse!" Phuong intoned. Miss Khang disappeared again.

"This blouse..." he inclined his head toward her, "will not complement the suit. Something fine, not lacy, businesslike but feminine."

Miss Khang returned with a selection of blouses in satin and linen, offered them to Phuong. He plucked at them critically, indicated his choice, linen with a wide placket and ivory buttons.

Miss Khang motioned for Jill to follow her into the back.

We passed the time, chatting over the weather, the annoying tourists, the state of the world. Out of the corner of my 'eye' I could see Jillian stripping to her underwear, slipping into the blouse and suit.

To my untrained eye it fit perfectly. It certainly made her look nice. Though she looked nice in anything, if you know what I mean.

In a trice Jill was back, decked out in the complete suit.

I smiled my biggest smile. Jill blushed, turned around as Mr. Nguyen tugged, pulled and Khang made notes.

"Do you like it, dear Jillian?" He was ever the gentleman, but clearly he had already decided it was the right suit for her.

Jillian nodded gravely, unwilling to venture an opinion in the presence of the monumental expertise of Mr. Nguyen.

He smiled, satisfied. Miss Khang took her in charge, retreated to the back room again.

"Will she be desiring anything else today?"

"I think two, maybe three of these beautiful suits? In different colors, suitable to her palette. Charged to my account?"

Phuong smiled, pleased at the deal. It was almost as simple to tailor three suits as one.

Jill returned, in her original clothes. She looked happy.

"You may expect delivery in two days?" Mr. Phuong was not really asking.

I interjected. "If it would not be inconvenient, Miss Jillian would benefit from a more aggressive schedule, perhaps this afternoon? For one suit only?"

Miss Khang made a note, looked to Phuong for confirmation. He nodded graciously.

"Thank you for your invaluable advice and expertise, Mr. Nguyen."

He smiled, nodded, smiled at Jillian. "For such a charming young lady, I am always pleased to offer my assistance!"

They left, Jillian a little flustered. "You didn't pay? What did you mean, 'one suit only'?"

I considered how to respond. "I have an arrangement with Mr. Nguyen. He will not hurt my wallet, since I use him for everything. He took a liking to you, which is another plus."

She looked suspicious. "How many suits did you order?"

I held up my hands. "Just the three! You can't go to work in the same clothes every day."

She looked exasperated. "I'll never pay you back! I feel I'm getting in deeper and deeper."

I could not, would not belittle her concerns.

"Let's consider it this way? Looking professional, looking the part, will get you a better job at a better employer. Instead of a waitress, a manager. Instead of an office temp, a hiring manager."

She now looked doubtful. "I'm not qualified for those jobs."

"You're qualified for any job you can do. The trick is to convince them you can do the job, before they even look at your resume. People make decisions based on their feelings, and justify them later."

She took that in, nodded decisively. "I can do that."

I was sure she could. I remember she'd come here to remake herself, to cast off her old life and create a new one.

And as the sage said if you think you can do something, or you think you can't, either way you are right.

Given the delay in tailoring, no interviews were likely this morning. We instead opted to cruise the commercial district, my senses alert for interesting developments.

Twice I hared off to pick up some lost item - a zippered cash bag with two hundred dollars and no deposit slip under a post box; a discarded pair of pants in a dumpster with a twenty in the pocket.

Jill looked on with an amused look. "You do seem to find lots of opportunities."

I smiled, "Those were two of about twenty. The rest were small change, or too hard to reach. I have gotten selective in what I'm willing to do, for a few bucks."

I put my arm out, absently restraining her progress as we reached a corner. A bicycle messenger whizzed out, hurtled into the crosswalk, barely missing us.

Jill accepted my cues, accustomed to my seeming precognition now, continue to talk.

"How will you know when a job opportunity arises?"

"For a restaurant, which you have expressed an interest in, I'm looking for a busy place, clean kitchen, full cash box, orderly office. Then you want to find that person who's overworked, everybody coming to them every few minutes with a question.

If their stress levels are high, by which I mean their heart rate, vascular constriction, extremity temperature out of ordinary, we have our candidate employer."

She nodded. "We just figure out who would help them most, and I walk in, say I'm that person. It seems a little like, I don't know, a con?"

A reasonable objection. I'd had similar thoughts myself, for years.

"I just say to myself, if I knew this person well and they described the situation to me, would they welcome my help. If they would, then it's a sincere application of knowledge with intent to do good. Nobody is being fooled or taken advantage of."

That seemed to do it for her. She started scanning the street herself, as if she could see something I missed. Not likely, but her input, her enthusiasm for a particular business or neighborhood was certainly good information to guide my scan.

"That restaurant has people waiting outside?"

I 'looked' inside, took a minute to evaluate.

"They have staff constantly in motion, nobody sitting on their hands. The kitchen is clean, busy but not overworked. I think they may be working to capacity. Short of offering them a new location with a larger dining room, I'm not sure we can help them."

She accepted that, moved on.

"That dry-cleaner lobby is empty. Could they need somebody to bring in customers, or a delivery driver or something?"

I watched the activity inside for a time. The racks were full by the window, but empty behind. The till was empty. The lady on duty at the desk was watching a ball game.

The chemical vats inside were empty or nearly so. No delivery van waited in the alley, and the back door lock was rusty with disuse.

"I believe that is a front, perhaps a money-laundering location. They're not cleaning any clothes in there. What they have seem to have been there a long time."

She exclaimed gleefully "That's wonderful! You can tell that just by looking! I'm impressed!"

It was honestly not hard to impress, when you could actually see through walls. But I accepted the praise anyway, grinned at her.

The next corner a florist had tables of plants outside, coolers lining the walls inside. The till was full, order slips filled a tray. A man in the office was rubbing his forehead, troubled.

Two youngsters fooled around behind the counter, ostensibly arranging flowers but just chatting, moving things around without accomplishing anything. The phone was ringing, and nobody answering it.

"Here's a possibility. Overworked owner, undertrained help. Too many orders and not enough hours in the day. Plenty of inventory but nothing moving."

"You think I should approach them? What would I say?"

I had some doubts. "This may be hard to fix. The kids in front seem sure of themselves, but don't know what they're doing. Perhaps nephews the owner is obliged to employ? Also he's in the back instead of out front kicking butt and naming names."

She caught on quick. "Even if I could help, he's demonstrated an inability to take action. Not likely to make a decision."

We walked on. Something occurred to her.

"Mr. Nguyen, Phuong, didn't seem very respectful of Khang." Just an observation, she was making no judgement. I liked that.

"Don't be fooled. Khang is his granddaughter. When we're not there she's calling him Ông Ngoại, an affectionate term for maternal grandfather. Making tea, sitting with him, combing his hair, reading him the Vietnamese newspaper.

He'll be scolding her, but without any venom. In a way he sees as responsible, affectionate. She loves him, far as I can tell.

She's really in charge, did you notice? When there was a decision to be made she made it, offering the options to him for form's sake, to make him the 'face of the business'. All the actual decisions and skills were hers."