Big Cherry Holler - Adriana Trigiani [12]
As Pearl has transformed, so has the Pharmacy. With Pearl’s cum laude degree in business administration from the University of Virginia at Wise, she has transformed Mulligan’s Mutual from a pharmacy that sold beauty aids to a full-service personal-needs department store. She began by talking to our customers and asking them how she could improve business. Then she goosed the staff (Fleeta permanent, and me part-time since Etta went to school) and set out to make the place more professional. We wear smocks (even though Fleeta rebels by keeping hers untied so it flaps like a vest on a construction worker). No more smoking behind the counter or eating lunch on packing boxes. No more Fleeta chugging back peanuts and Coke while sizing up a customer. No more putting the WE’LL BE RIGHT BACK sign on the door to hit a yard sale.
Pearl considered every aspect of the business before she made her changes, including ambience. She removed the garish fluorescent tubes installed by Fred Mulligan (the original owner and the father who raised me). “Soft light and music draw business,” Pearl promised. And she was right. Some days we can’t get rid of the browsers. Pearl even thought to stock Estée Lauder cosmetics, which attracted new clients who used to have to drive all the way over to Kingsport for that sort of high-end specialty item.
Pearl outdid herself with the window dressing this month. In her homage to autumn, she built a papier-mâché tree festooned with leaves spray-painted gold. A mannequin dressed like a farmer (he’ll be Santa Claus come Christmas) holds a rake next to the tree. It’s a simple concept, but Pearl put it over the top by burying a fan in a fake mound of dirt to blow the autumn leaves around. What a scene. It looks so real that Reverend Edmonds, in awe of the artistry, rear-ended Nellie Goodloe as he drove past one morning.
“I got an idea,” Pearl says as she sweeps leaves into a dustpan.
“Fleeta and I are not doing a floor show to attract more business.”
“I’m not entirely sure that would attract business.”
“Thanks.”
“I have a better idea. Did you know that there used to be a soda fountain back in the storage room?
“When I was little, Fred Mulligan closed it. Said it was too much work.”
“The pipes are still in the wall. And they work. It wouldn’t take much to put in some appliances and reopen the kitchen. We could serve breakfast and lunch. Keep the menu small at first. The only place to gather in town is Hardy’s. How many sausage biscuits can you eat?” I don’t want to disappoint Pearl, but the answer to that question is: a lot. Brownie Polly holds the record—fourteen sausage biscuits in one Sunday morning.
Pearl continues, “It would be fun for the town. It would be profitable for us. I think we should do it.” She rattles off the list of positives with such enthusiasm, I can tell she has already made her decision.
“It sounds like you did your research.”
Fleeta sticks her head out the door. And what a head it is this morning. Her hair is piled high on her head in waxy brownette curls. A tightly woven braid encircles the curls like a licorice tiara. A cigarette dangles from her mouth. In the daylight, Fleeta’s rouge is so bright, it sits atop her cheeks like little orange bottle caps.
“Mornin’, Cleopatra.” I pat my cheeks, which makes Fleeta pat hers. She feels the two pink “X’s” of tape holding down her spit curls and rips them off. The curls lie against