The Cubicle Next Door

by Siri L. Mitchell

  Like Fridays.

  So I was alternating scanning my electronic version of the Gazette with sipping coffee at the bookshelf when Joe walked in.

  “Did you know Estelle’s son has cancer?”

  “No.” I tried to keep my visits to Estelle on an as-needed basis.

  “It’s not looking good. She might have to fly back to take care of him.”

  “When was he diagnosed?”

  “March.”

  “Wow.”

  “Yeah.”

  Cancer. The thought of your body consuming itself from the inside was the worst sort of horror I could imagine. Much worse than the B-grade horror films Grandmother and her friends loved to watch. There were few things that truly terrified me.

  Cancer was one.

  Death was the other.

  Not mine.

  Grandmother’s.

  THE CUBICLE NEXT DOOR BLOG

  Waste not

  At least half of the environmental and health problems of America could be solved if Americans stopped snacking. Or if they started snacking properly. People eat what’s readily available; I understand that. But why can’t people take two seconds to throw a bag of carrots into their shopping cart and then take it into work with them to snack on? Why do they have to grab individually-sized packages of chips and candy? First of all, they end up paying more for the privilege than if they bought a family-sized bag and ate them a handful at a time. Because that’s all there is in those tiny cellophane packages: a handful. Second, it’s inefficient to wrap millions of tiny things instead of thousands of large things. It costs more money and takes more energy. Third, what happens to all of those tiny packages? I’ll give you a hint: They don’t get recycled. And yet those snacks still keep being made and the packaging still keeps being produced. Why? Here’s my theory. The people who eat those kinds of things are fundamentally lazy. If they can’t be bothered to make a wise economic choice—to buy a large portion of something and divvy it up themselves—then they certainly can’t be bothered to make a wise environmental choice.

  I’ve come to the conclusion we all practice our religion with the opening of our wallets…and we either worship ourselves and our own convenience or we worship something else.

  Posted on June 15 in The Cubicle Next Door | Permalink

  Comments

  I couldn’t care less about the environment, but I do care that I’m the one who usually has to clean up the mess in the break room.

  Posted by: justluvmyjob | June 16 at 07:33 AM

  We have to worship something other than ourselves, or we’ll all turn into pigs. Wait—we already have!

  Posted by: philosophie | June 16 at 06:41 PM

  Six

  The following day, Wednesday, was my birthday. It was also bridge night. All of Grandmother’s friends came over to play. All three of them. I always tried to be around because I was the Designated Substitute. And I always tried to make them something to eat because for years I’d also been the Designated Taste Tester of dozens of batches of cookies made with secret ingredients, like ground-up popcorn, lemon-lime soda, and Snappy Tom tomato drink.

  Knowledge is power.

  The only cookies I eat now are the kind I buy from Wild Oats.

  The ladies were all in their early-80s. And, amazingly, all of them lived alone. Two of them still drove, although they carpooled on Wednesdays.

  None of them ate much. I think Grandmother was the healthiest of the bunch and even she picked at her food.

  I baked things like banana or zucchini bread. Things they wouldn’t feel too guilty about eating. That night, after dinner, I had made Fruit Cocktail Cake. A birthday cake they wouldn’t feel bad about eating and that wouldn’t send their blood sugar levels hurtling off the charts.

  Grandmother kept me company in the kitchen while I baked and then cleaned the dishes. At 7:00, the doorbell rang. On any other evening, any of the women would have walked up the path and kept going until they reached the back door, which opened into the kitchen, but bridge night was special. They all dressed up and they all came in through the front door. It had been held at Grandmother’s house for as long as I could remember.

  Grandmother got to her feet and went to let the ladies in.

  We’d already set up the card table and positioned four chairs around it. I gave them about ten minutes to get seated and then went in and took orders for drinks.

  “Jackie! Good week?” Adele smiled up at me. She was my favorite. She had sparse tufts of carrot-orange hair she carefully fluffed over her scalp. She wore purple tracksuits and glasses on a chain around her neck. She is one of the nicest people I know.

  “It’s been fine. What would you like?”

  “A tall glass of ice water will do.”

  Ice water had been “doing” for the last 20 years.

  “Thelma?”

  “Milk.”

  Thelma was a tank in every sense of the word.

  “Betty? What can I get for you?”

  “If you don’t have any gin, I’ll have to settle for water.” Betty still thought she was 40. Still thought if she fluttered her eyelashes enough and dropped enough hints, she could have anything for the asking. Including men in a wide variety of ages. For an 80-year-old, she was extremely well-maintained.

  I got the drinks, including a glass of milk for Grandmother, and passed them around.

  The ladies insisted on singing “Happy Birthday” to me. Then they each gave me a present. I could tell, without opening, what each gift was. Adele’s was bound to be something for my hope chest. It didn’t seem to matter to her that I didn’t have one. Betty’s would be a compact of makeup or a vial of perfume; hope sprang eternal. Thelma’s was always something useful, like a can of mace. Grandmother’s would be a donation to one of my favorite charities.

  I opened the gifts. Thanked the donors. Displayed them on the coffee table.

  Then I went upstairs, changed clothes, and went to work on my blog. I’d thought of a few more changes to make. I was interrupted a few minutes later.

  “Jackie? Jackie!” I could hear Grandmother’s voice calling me from downstairs.

  I yelled back from my room. “What?”

  “Are you there?”

  “What?”

  “Jackie!”

  “What!” Everything about Grandmother was aging gracefully except for her eardrums. They’d already pulled up stakes and headed to Arizona. I went to the top of the stairs where she could see me.

  “You have a visitor.”

  “Who?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Odd. Grandmother knew everyone.

  Adele crept up behind Grandmother, put a hand on her arm, and leaned toward the stairs, looking up at me. “It’s a man!” She thought she was whispering, but she wasn’t. And as soon as she said “man,” I knew whom she meant.

  Joe.

  He was the only person in Manitou Springs Grandmother didn’t know.

  And he had to show up on bridge night.

  I used to wonder what God would give me if he ever thought I needed a thorn in my side. Now I knew for sure: Joe.

  “I’ll be right down.”

  I went back to my room and pulled a T-shirt on over my tank top. Not that he was here for sightseeing, but…well…I don’t know.

  I went down the stairs, leaning on the railing as I went so the stairs wouldn’t squeak. I wanted to see what Mr. Congeniality would do with a room full of geriatric belles.

  I tiptoed across the front entry and peered around the corner. He was looking at pictures. Grandmother’s friends had gotten out their wallets and were accosting him with the photos they’d stashed inside. I didn’t have to see them to know what the pictures were. Their granddaughters. They were shameless. All of them.

  And I’d bet money Grandmother thought she had a leg up on the competition because her granddaughter was there, in person.

  “A very pretty girl, Mrs. Robinson.”

  “Thelma. You can call me Thel
ma. Please.”

  Adele had put her glasses on. She shoved her wallet right on top of Thelma’s. “This is my granddaughter, Lisa.”

  “She looks very nice.”

  Betty actually elbowed Adele in the ribs. And when Adele looked over at her, she took the opportunity to hold her wallet up as far as she could. It barely cleared Joe’s elbow.

  Grandmother spied me. “Jackie!” By the way she was smiling, I could tell I’d pegged her. She looked like a proud 4-H exhibitor at the State Fair.

  Joe had taken Betty’s wallet from her hand and was still looking at it. The photo was probably of her granddaughter, Nikki. She was one of those naturally blond and breezy California girls. And she was kind too. I’d met her the summer she divorced her third husband. She’d come out to Manitou for a break.

  Joe looked over at me and grinned.

  “Can I do something for you?” My plan was to get him to the kitchen and then scoot him out the door as quickly as possible.

  “Yeah. Do you have a ladder I can borrow?”

  The ladies’ eyes were bouncing between us as if they were watching a tennis match. It was making me feel uncomfortable. “If you can come out to the garage…?”

  “Ladies, it was nice to meet you.”

  They twittered and fluttered back toward the card table.

  Joe paused. Then he turned back toward the table. “What are you playing?”

  I started toward him, intending to grab his arm, kick him behind the kneecaps, club him over the head, do anything to make him leave.

  Adele was the one who answered. “Bridge. Do you play? We’re always looking for a substitute.”

  Liar! Maybe they had been ten years ago, when the other half of the original group of eight was still alive. But I was the only substitute they needed now.

  “I play poker.” He made it sound like a question. As if they might want to play. I could guarantee they wouldn’t. Wednesday nights were sacred.

  “Poker? What do you think?” Adele queried the group. Everyone nodded. She turned toward Joe. “You in?”

  “I’m in. Is there an extra chair?”

  Betty headed toward the dining room. She was probably planning on placing Joe’s chair right next to her own. I really should have followed to carry the chair for her, but I was still gaping at the scene in horror. “You can’t play poker! You play bridge!” What was happening here?

  Grandmother frowned at me. “We know how to play poker too. That’s what we played in the early days.” The Early Days meant the 1960s, when their kids were graduating from high school.

  “Joe can’t play.”

  “Don’t be rude. Of course he can.”

  Joe was casting long glances at both Grandmother and me. He cleared his throat. “I don’t have to stay. All I wanted was a ladder. I’m painting my living room. I should probably go, anyway.”

  I braced my hands against the table and stood on tiptoe, speaking toward his ear. “It might be better. They’ve been playing bridge on Wednesday nights for years.”

  Thelma rapped my knuckles with a deck of cards. “Don’t talk about us like we’re not here. Joe stays.”

  “Ouch!” Well, that was that. When Thelma made up her mind, she made a mule seem even-tempered.

  Betty was pulling a dining room chair through the front entry. She was bent nearly in half, grasping it by the seat.

  “Let me do that for you!” Joe was beside her in two seconds. He set the chair down on all four legs and then took Betty’s hand to help her regain her posture.

  Faker! Her eyelashes fluttered and she placed an unsteady hand over her heart. “Thank you, Joe. You’re so strong.”

  I didn’t need that. I walked out of the living room and had almost rounded the corner to the stairs when Grandmother’s voice stopped me. “Jackie? Aren’t you going to play?”

  I kept climbing the stairs. “No, thank you. Not tonight.”

  “Joe needs the ladder.”

  “Call me when you’re done and I’ll get it for him.”

  They did better than that. They sent him up to find me two hours later.

  “Knock, knock.”

  If people aren’t going to go to the trouble to knock on a door, then why do they say the words? It’s one of those questions I’ll ask when I get to heaven. If I don’t kill Joe first and get disqualified.

  “Yes?”

  “Do you mind getting me the ladder? I really do need it.”

  I turned from the computer to look at him. He was standing with one arm propped above his head against the doorframe. He looked tired.

  “Did they give you a hard time?’

  “They beat me. Took me for fifty dollars!”

  “Good for them.” Maybe he wouldn’t come around again. I pushed my chair away from the computer, rose to my feet, and looked around for some shoes. I opened the closet, picked up the closest pair of Converse I saw, and shoved my feet into them.

  When I turned around I saw Joe, still standing in the doorway, casting nosy glances around my room. I marched past him, closed the door, and trotted down the stairs. I was in the kitchen before I realized he wasn’t behind me. I retraced my steps and found him in the living room, saying his goodbyes.

  Adele was counting the money she had won. “You’ll have to come next Wednesday. You might be able to win your money back.”

  “Only if I can sit next to you again.”

  Grandmother stopped Joe as he turned to leave. “Do you have our phone number?”

  He shook his head.

  Grandmother wrote it on the tally sheet and then handed it to him. “Call if you can’t make it.”

  Joe took the piece of paper, folded it, and tucked it into his wallet. “I’ll put it on my calendar. Wednesday night with the card sharks.”

  They all giggled.

  Honestly! How do you like that? They’d switched from bridge to poker. And I’d been replaced. They’d gotten a permanent substitute for their substitute.

  He raised a hand. “Goodnight.”

  We walked through the kitchen and out the back door. There was a suggestion of stillness in the air. Night was settling around us. “Does your house have air-conditioning?”

  “No.”

  “Do you have any fans?”

  “Not yet.”

  Couldn’t he do anything for himself? “Just a minute.” I went into the house, unplugged the fan from the living room and started carrying it away.

  “What do you think you’re doing?” Grandmother used to add “young lady” to questions like those.

  “Joe doesn’t have any fans for his house yet.”

  Choruses of “poor boy” followed me back to the kitchen. They probably would have run out and gotten him a snowmaker if they’d had the means.

  Joe was sitting on the back steps. I almost tripped over him.

  He stood up and put a hand to my elbow to steady me.

  I held the fan out between us. It wasn’t a very big one, and it was at least 15 years old, but it was something.

  Moonlight made his face glow. “Thanks. I’ll return it to you as soon as I can get my own.”

  He put his hands out to take it from me, but they clasped around my own. I tried to move mine, he tried to move his, the fan teetered in the middle.

  “Just let me carry it.” I clutched it to my body.

  “I can—”

  I was already moving down the path toward the street.

  Joe caught up with me while I was unlocking the garage. He stood right next to me, blocking the moonlight.

  I fumbled with the key. “Do you mind?”

  “No door opener?”

  “Yes. It’s called Jackie.”

  “Here. Let me.”

  He took the key from my hand, unlocked the door, and pushed it up.

  I pointed to the ladder.

  He pried it away from the wall without bumping the car. “Can you do without it until next week?”

  “No hurry.” I held out the fan. “Do you have enoug
h hands for this?”

  He hooked his arm through the ladder, hefted it to his shoulder, and then took the fan from me. “No problem. Thanks.”

  I stood there, watching him for a moment as he clanked down the street.

  Seven

  The ladies were standing in the kitchen arguing when I got back. It sounded bad, but it’s only because they had to shout to make sure the others would hear them. They were arguing about me.

  “She wasn’t rude. She was shy.” I could always count on Adele to stick up for me.

  “Shy people don’t say anything. She said things.” And I could always count on Thelma to think the worst about me.

  “So she said things. She’s the one who lives here.”

  “She works with him all day. She knows him better than we do. Maybe she just doesn’t like him.” And Grandmother was rational, if nothing else.

  “She likes him. I know how it is. She’s sexually frustrated.”

  “I’m what!” I don’t know why I was surprised at that statement. Betty always turned everything into something about sex.

  They scattered like a flock of pigeons. A flock of very slow-moving pigeons.

  Adele laid a hand on my arm. “We’re concerned about you.”

  “Why?”

  She exchanged glances with the other women.

  “Why?”

  “We just think it’s time you found a man.”

  “Really.”

  “You are over thirty.”

  “And you’re getting snappish.”

  “And chewing ice cubes.”