by Brea Brown
“But—”
“Really, Mo. You wait too long, and you’ll lose your nerve.”
Dad placed a gentle hand on Greg’s arm. “Okay, okay. She gets it. Why don’t you let the poor girl enjoy her party? She’s only had her diploma for a day.”
The two of them wandered away from me, but not before I heard Greg mutter, “I already had a job lined up before graduation,” to which Dad laughed and replied, “Yeah, well, you’re the go-getter.”
Five years later, I’m still in Kansas City. I’ve become a seemingly permanent fixture in this temporary gig of mine, but I’m okay with my life. Job counseling isn’t sexy, but it’s a paycheck.
The first time Colin noticed my diploma on the wall, he said, “So, you display your degree, because…?”
Originally as a joke, I thought but didn’t say. Instead, I said, “Most people don’t read it, so it lends an air of authority. If nothing else, it proves I saw something through to the end, no matter how irrelevant it’s turned out to be.”
“Well, I think it’s brilliant,” he said, licking his lips and approaching my desk once more. “Truly. I’m a bit of a film buff, myself.”
I was willing to leave it at that, but he winced. “Oh, blimey. That sounded quite patronizing, didn’t it? You probably have more film knowledge in your little finger than I do in my entire— wherever that information is stored. Oh, bollocks. I’m making a real pig’s ear of this. Never mind. I’ll simply, er, take my referral and go now.”
That’s when, to my horror, I started laughing.
He nervously joined in.
Soon, we were both wheezing and wiping tears from our eyes and faces. When the hysterics subsided, I threw out, half-joking, “You should see my film collection sometime.” As soon as the invitation was out, I regretted it. Blushing, I held out the referral card to him. “Never mind. Here. I’m sorry.”
“No! I’d love to see it. Maybe with some other people around, though. For your safety, of course. Because—I say this as a former bobby—it’s probably not wise to invite strange men to your house. I’m the strangest of strange men. My mum says so.”
Relieved, I laughed. Three days later, he came over and, with Rae as a chaperon, stood in awe in the middle of my “movie room.” He borrowed three films—and promptly returned them less than a week later. We’ve been friends ever since.
Today, nearly three years after that, I fill out the last two blanks on the referral card, attempting to make my horrible penmanship legible, and sign it with a flourish before sliding it across my desk.
He takes the two steps required to arrive in front of me and plucks the cardstock square from the surface.
“Right. Thanks.”
I nod while clicking my pen. “No problem. If that doesn’t work out for whatever reason, you know there’s plenty where that came from. You could supplement those hours gift wrapping. There’s a kiosk for that at the mall, too, and they’re hiring.”
He tucks the card into his back pocket. “There’s a reason every gift I’ve ever given you was in a bag. The things I wrap look like they come from someone without opposable thumbs.”
I laugh at his apt description but stop short when he suddenly slaps his forehead and says, “Oh, bloody hell. I’ve moaned on and on about my life and didn’t leave time to ask you about that party you attended with Rae! I’m still a bit miffed she didn’t ask me, since we’re so close, and all.”
Considering his barely civil relationship with Rae, the mental image of him at that particular event with her cracks me up. “Um, you dodged a dull evening. Other than dancing with the team’s quarterback, Jet Knox, and giving him my phone number when he asked for it, it was a snooze-fest.”
He snaps his fingers. “Pity. I was all set to hear some grand tales. But perhaps something will come of the exchange of digits?”
Scoffing, I reply, “Doubt it very seriously. It’s been weeks, but I’ve heard nothing. There was no exchange. My phone number only, to be lost forever in a jumble of women’s numbers in his phone, I’m sure.”
“We need to work on your sense of romance.”
“Romance only happens in the movies.”
Conscious of the time and my next appointment waiting, I stand and circle my desk to give him one of the three hugs he claims he needs each day, “for emotional stability,” and walk him out. “Let me know how it goes at the mall. I especially need an update on the Santa hat situation.” Not wanting to give my waiting clients any ideas about hugs being part of the standard service, I let him go before I open my door. Ringing phones and outer-office chatter greet us.
“I will,” he says. “Well, I’ll try. That’s a good enough promise, right?”
From him, yes, considering he has an aversion to texting I haven’t been able to figure out.
He shakes my hand, mock formally.
Over his shoulder, I see my next client, another repeat customer. Frequently visiting my office is where Vanessa’s resemblance to Colin ends, unfortunately.
I feel a headache coming on.
Three
Christmas Plans
Vanessa wasn’t my last headache of the day, by far. The headaches didn’t stop when I left work, either. The latest obstacle to my achieving a relaxing evening at home is a bumper-to-bumper standstill traffic jam on the interstate. And, to make this experience more delightful, my brother’s ringtone, “Relax” by Frankie Goes to Hollywood, interrupts my fantasies of red wine and mindless television.
Since I may as well be sitting in a parking lot, it’s perfectly safe to answer the call. I’m not happy about answering, but I know my brother well enough to know he’ll keep calling until I do. Plus, I’m that bored.
“Gregory,” I greet him drolly.
“Hey, Mo. Got a second?”
“From the looks of things, I have several. What’s up?”
“I wanted to talk to you about Christmas.”
Barely, I stifle a groan.
Mom and Dad are finally taking the cruise they threaten to take every year. While I’m happy for them, their plans leave me at the mercy of my older brother and his fiancée. Thanksgiving was nearly two weeks ago; I’ve been waiting and wondering when I’d be given the itinerary for “our” holiday plans.
When he doesn’t continue right away, I prod, “Yes?”
He clears his throat. “Deirdre and I were thinking the three of us could get together on Christmas Eve. That way, she and I would be free to spend Christmas Day with her parents.”
My gut reaction is to easily agree to this arrangement, but before I do, it hits me: that leaves me alone on Christmas.
My millisecond’s hesitation makes him rush on, “I mean, if that’s okay with you. You know what? Never mind. That’s not going to work, is it? Well, is it?”
“Uh…” A picture of myself, sitting alone in my house, listening to carols on the radio station that plays them 24/7 from Halloween until the day after Christmas, drinking hot tea, and wrapped in one of the many hideous afghans our grandmother crocheted when she was still alive and had nothing better to do all day in the nursing home flashes through my head, and I barely choke out the “Okay” that was trying its damnedest to stick in my throat.
It’s not okay. But neither is spending the day with Greg and Deirdre. So, he might as well make his fiancée and her family happy.
“Are you sure? I feel bad that you’ll be alone on the actual day.”
“Who says I will be?” I retort lightly. Before he can press me for details, though, I ask, “What time do you want to get together on Christmas Eve?”
“Seven. At my place. We’ll have dinner, exchange gifts, and play a game.”
This isn’t a rough plan, either. He means those things will happen. In that order. I’ll be out the door and on my way home by ten, my gifts in one hand and a wrapped plate of leftovers in the other. It’ll be gloriously scripted and non-spontaneous. No surprises.
Greg and Deirdre are—How do I say this diplomatically? Ah
, screw diplomatic—anal retentive. Both of them. Type-A bookends. God help their future children.
“Sounds… fun,” I say weakly.
“We plan for it to be.”
“Then it will be.”
If he senses the snark in my tone, he doesn’t call me on it.
“Hey, listen. The traffic’s starting to move,” I say, staring at the stationary license plate at eye level on the back of the enormous SUV in front of me. With that lie, I make plans to watch the Chiefs game at his house on Sunday, as usual, and hang up.
“Ho-ho-holy shit, this Christmas is going to blow,” I declare to nobody.
I finally make it home after the snarl that turned my twenty-minute commute into a nearly hour-long nightmare. Dispensing with my shoes and my bra is Priority Number One. Then, with a contented sigh, I greet the man of the house.
“Howdy, Jason. Or are we Matt tonight? Either way, it’s been a day. Where’s my drink? How many times do I have to tell you to have that ready for me when I walk through the door? Honestly. You may be a crack spy, but you’re a shit fake-husband-slash-sex-slave.” Winking on my way past the last picture, I pat its wooden frame. “Only kidding. I love ya.”
I don’t talk to all of the framed movie posters on my walls. It just seems rude to ignore Matt, since he watches me take off my bra every day—with the exception of Bourne Number Three, who’s a gentleman and keeps his back turned.
My poster collection is the only personal touch I’ve added to the living room’s otherwise bland decor, with its stormy-gray walls and white molding. Light-blocking, white, wooden blinds cover the windows. Maroon embroidered sheers hang in front of them on pewter rods. The window dressing has one primary job: block out light during my weekend movie marathons. Privacy is a bonus. Not that I do anything in here that requires it.
I bought the matching microsuede couch and armless chair with ottoman in a slightly lighter gray than the walls but still dark enough to hide my clumsy food (okay, wine) spills. My dining area holds a lovely set that includes a table, chairs, and china hutch—empty of any fine china, mind you—but I prefer to eat in front of the television, unless I have company.
The place is generic, temporary, and noncommittal, like something from a box store circular. Or a timeshare condo that has to appeal to many different tastes. That’s intentional. I didn’t expect to be here long, so when making interior design decisions, I played it safe. I basically staged it, figuring it could be sale-ready in a matter of hours. All I have to do is take down my posters, and voilà!
That is, if I hadn’t lost my nerve.
Over the years, the wall hangings have covered more and more of the gray. I’ve bought or salvaged them from stores and cinemas, and they’re in every room, including the bathrooms.
“It’s impossible to go with Patrick Swayze checking me out,” Greg complained once after using the toilet.
I’d laughed. “Too bad. Johnny, Baby, and I have meaningful conversations during bubble baths.”
Not really. But that tidbit served to annoy my brother and make him think I’m even flakier than I am, which was the goal. Actually, I don’t normally keep the Dirty Dancing poster in the bathroom. When Greg’s expected, I change out the Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon print that better fits with the cherry blossom shower curtain. Because I like to see my big brother squirm.
He deserves it—not just for abandoning me at Christmas.
At that mental reminder, I sigh again, this time not-so-contentedly, and plod down the hallway to my bedroom, where I peel off my work clothes, drop them in a pile next to the bed, stare at them for a second, then reconsider and hang up the stuff that’s still technically clean but will become hopelessly wrinkled in that heap. My bra goes on top of my dresser (isn’t that where they go?) to be worn tomorrow. And probably for several days after that, if I’m being honest. I pull on a large sleep shirt, turn off the bedroom light, and head straight for the kitchen.
After dispatching a frozen dinner into the microwave, I retreat to my movie room. My film collection fills up my spare bedroom, which I’ve turned into a miniature version of that endangered species, the video rental store. Above the door, I’ve even plastered the ubiquitous “Be Kind, Rewind” signage I purchased from a Blockbuster “Going-out-of-business-for-good-sayonara-thanks-for-nothing-Netflix-and-Redbox-and-the-rest-of-you-ungrateful-movie-loving-bastards” sale.
There are no posters in here, because built-in shelving covers every available inch of wall space. I’m also up to my second row of movies on each shelf. It’s not an ideal system; it’s cumbersome for cataloging and organizing when I add new films. I’m not sure what I’m going to do when I truly run out of space, which will be soon, at the rate I buy movies. I guess I’ll—gulp—cull the collection. Or buy a bigger place. I’ll worry about that when it happens, though.
Right now, my biggest concern is zeroing in on which film best suits my mood and will be keeping me company for the evening. Standing in the middle of the room, I close my eyes and tap my eyelids. It’s likely I own any film that floats through my head, so I focus on my feelings.
After that depressing rush-hour conversation with Greg, Home for the Holidays with Holly Hunter is perfect. I walk straight to the section of shelving that houses the H’s. Since the film is one of my favorites, I own it on both VHS (the original purchase) and in digital format, but I slide the newest version from its slot on the shelf and carry it with me to the living room.
The microwave dings as I press “play” on the remote, and that familiar Paramount summit appears on my screen, soon surrounded by the circle of stars that almost always gives me goose bumps. Because I’m about to have an experience. Good, bad, or indifferent. I’m going to meet some new friends or reunite with old ones. In this case, I know exactly what I’m about to get, and I’m going to love every minute of it.
It’s going to be much more satisfying than that lonely meal for one that’s bound to be volcanic on the edges and glacial in the center.
Before I can burn a single taste bud, however, my phone chimes next to me on the arm of the sofa. An incoming text from Rae reads:
Have you checked out KB’s Twitter account lately?
The answer is, surprisingly, no. I still haven’t forgiven Mr. Tight End for being a no-show to the Christmas party and dashing my fantasies. Allegedly, he was spending the bye week in his hometown of Cincinnati, to visit family and watch his brother, a Bengal, play the Thursday night game. I guess nobody told him his biggest fan would be at his team’s Christmas party. That definitely would have changed everything.
With one hand, I text back, No, while taking my first bite of lukewarm lasagna.
I’ll give you a minute
I navigate to Busch’s Twitter page. All I see are the usual pre- and post-game pep- and smack-talk tweets.
I go back to my text conversation with Rae.
I don’t see anything weird. What’s up? Did he propose to me out there? I told him I didn’t want all that publicity!
Ha. Ha.
Seriously. What?
He must have taken it down. Or was told to take it down. Some groupie asked him if he was single, and he replied, Send me your picture, and I’ll let you know. Ugh!
I never said he was classy. Just that he fills out those pants mighty nicely, and I’d hit that
You’d be a match made in heaven
Make it happen, Lewisberg. KB, wrapped in a bow, delivered to my house, on Christmas morning. BAM.
NO. He makes Jet Knox look like a choir boy. And a Rhodes scholar
Knox will do, in a pinch
Have G set you up with someone from his work
I’d rather die
Nice, stable, normal human resources guru
You want me to date my brother?
One of his friends
He doesn’t have friends
Colleagues?
Gross. Don’t you have bags to pack for your trip tomorrow?
I’m all set. Ready to kick
some Raider rumps!
That sounds like something stolen from KB’s tweets
Eff you. I’m going to bed
Love you! G’night!
I want to tell her to say hi to Jet for me, but not only would that be pathetic, but it would break my perfect streak of not talking to her about him in any context other than football. It’s getting easier. At first, I wanted to ask her all the time if he’d said anything about me to her, not caring if it made me sound like a teenager. But the more time passes, the more I realize nothing’s going to happen there, and the chances of him remembering me are slim.
Not that I expected to get a call or text. After all, I’m me and he’s Jet Knox. He’s probably already deleted me from his contacts to make room for all of the other numbers he’s collected in the past month. Which is just as well. As much as I like to joke about it and talk a big game, guys like Jet Knox and Keaton Busch are way out of my league.
Tuning back into my movie, I contemplate how Robert Downey, Jr. or Dylan McDermott are more my speed: cute, unattainable, and thousands of miles away.
Four
Rae & Maura: A Friendship
Rae and I have been best friends since she moved into the house next door the summer before we started sixth grade. She was a scrappy tomboy who reminded me of an older version of Scout in To Kill a Mockingbird. Freckled, wiry, and dirty, she introduced herself to me with a business-like handshake and a confident, “We’re going to be best friends,” when my mom dragged me over to the Lewisbergs’ house to welcome them to the neighborhood.
