You know how awful your voice sounds when you hear it on video? Being quoted to yourself is five times worse. What was I doing writing love letters on the Internet? It was almost like poetry. And I suck at poetry. I always have.
This is my personal hell: having Joe read my blog to me verbatim, from start to finish. Over and over and over again. “Maybe we shouldn’t be reading it.”
“Why not?”
“Maybe she didn’t think anyone would see it.”
“It’s on the Internet in the public domain. Why would you blog if you didn’t want people to read it?”
I didn’t know. I really didn’t.
Joe fell silent for about 15 minutes.
I sorted through my e-mails. Updated my Outlook calendar with various meetings. Cleaned out my Sent Items e-mail box. “Are you still reading?”
“Yes.”
It took him about two more minutes. Then I heard his chair push away from the desk. “It’s an M Day—I’m late!”
“See you later.” I said it to his back as he went flying down the hall. I sighed. Slumped in my chair. Everything was okay.
I was still safe.
Later in the evening, after all the trick-or-treaters had gone to bed, I went into the blog. Went to the reports area where it listed how many people had visited.
My heart skipped a beat.
I blinked. Squinted at the figure. Blinked again. But there was no way to turn 20,000 into 2000. Or even 200. In the last 24 hours, I’d had 20,000 people visit my blog.
My life had been placed into a fishbowl. I had become an exotic species of Internet fauna. Twenty thousand people, whom I didn’t know, now knew both the first and the last things about me. They were reading all my secrets. And recently, every single entry of the blog had to do with Joe.
What was I supposed to do?
I closed out the reports and returned to the blog site. Scrolled through the comments from my last entry. I looked for comments from my regulars first. It made me feel better to know there were still people out there who had been with me from the beginning. There were about 20 times more comments than normal. Some made me laugh. Others made me blush. Several I deleted.
What was I supposed to do?
The blog had always been available for anyone to see. Nothing about that had changed. Joe had read it, but he still didn’t know it was me…blogging about him. Nothing about that had changed, either. There were thousands of people peering into my soul, but no one had the ability to assign that soul to me. So everything was okay. I didn’t have to do anything differently. I only had to keep on doing what I was doing.
All I had to do was keep pouring out my thoughts and my feelings—my heart—onto the Internet.
That’s all.
THE CUBICLE NEXT DOOR BLOG
Setting the blog straight
Okay.
The first thing I want to say is that this blog is not about John Smith. It’s about life in a cubicle. The Cubicle Next Door. Get it?
It was originally established to vent my feelings about the life of a worker hidden away behind a tiny desk in a large bureaucracy.
And that’s it.
If you personally feel some emotional connection to my thoughts or feelings, all I can say is it’s entirely coincidental. If you misconstrue these posts to be from some virtual girl next door, then that’s your mistake.
I just wanted to make sure we’re all on the same page here.
Posted on October 31 in The Cubicle Next Door | Permalink
COMMENTS
You go, girl!
Posted by: grrlpower | November 1 at 01:13 AM
On the same page? Oh yes, we certainly are. ;) (Meet me in the supply closet tomorrow at 3:15.)
Posted by: iknowubabe | November 2 at 06:05 AM
Relax. We’re with you. You’ve perfectly captured the essence of the modern human condition.
Posted by: philosophie | November 2 at 08:34 AM
Of course it’s all about the job.
Posted by: justluvmyjob | November 2 at 09:31 AM
Methinks you protest too much.
Posted by: theshrink | November 2 at 08:45 PM
Eighteen
About the whole Internet blog thing? I just made one tiny miscalculation. I hadn’t realized Joe would become a regular reader.
Or that he would read the entries aloud to me every morning.
I just made sure I drank my coffee after he was done. Because if I had actually been awake enough to hear him, I might have had to slit my wrists.
Why didn’t I just stop blogging?
I couldn’t.
No one knew about Joe except for me. And the 30,000 people who read my blog. The numbers increased daily. There was no one I could talk to about him. Not in real life, anyway. So the blog served some sort of purpose. I could imagine it was like talking to a friend.
Or a mother.
It made things a little trickier. I had to try not to quote myself. Online or off.
But people started connecting. I lost track of how many comments I received thanking me for giving a reader the courage to just tell Mary or Sue or Tina about their secret crush.
I couldn’t stop blogging.
I was offering a benefit to humanity. I was running a do-it-yourself dating service.
I was stuck.
One morning Joe returned from his M day lectures at lunchtime. He threw his bag into the far corner of the cubicle. I heard it hit the wall.
He walked around the wall dividing us and leaned against it.
I swiveled my chair to face him. “What’s wrong?”
“Everything. I don’t know if I can do this.”
“Do what?”
He threw his hands out. “All of it. Everything. The whole cubicle desk job routine.”
“You miss flying?”
“Yeah. I don’t quite know what to do…aside from repainting my house, room by room.” He rubbed his hands across his eyes. “It’s not just about the flying. It was the chase and the hunt and the mission. It was the reason behind the flying I enjoyed. I guess I hadn’t realized how much of me…how much of my life…was about being a pilot.”
“Give yourself a chance. There’s got to be something else you enjoy doing.”
“I used to play football, but it’s not like I can do anything with that. The football team already has a sponsor. I checked. The same colonel’s been doing it for about fifteen years.”
“You don’t like teaching?”
“I do, but…I guess I just have to get used to this being what I do.” He smiled. I’m sure he probably meant it to be cheery, but his smile didn’t reach his eyes. “Hey, I’ve noticed you’re having lots of not-so-good days lately too.”
“Why do you say that?”
“You haven’t been your normal snarky self this week.”
“Shouldn’t that be a compliment? Maybe I’ve become a reformed communist mercenary. Ever think of that?”
“No. I think it’s something else.”
I got a tingly feeling up and down my spine. He knew. Somehow he’d figured it out. This was it. “What do you think it is?”
“I think it’s like that girl on the Internet says.”
No question as to which girl he was talking about. “What does she say?”
“You find yourself behaving in completely unexpected ways…you think you might not even like being snarky. You’re starting to have fun. So you’re trying to figure out which perception of yourself to reinforce. The snarky one or the nice one.”
“That wasn’t TCND. It was NozAll.” As if he knew anything at all.
It was the dimples that gave me the warning. “I thought you didn’t read that blog. I thought you said blogs were a waste of time.”
Think fast.
“Um…”
Think faster!
“I don’t. Really. It’s just that…you’re the one who reads it. To me. All the time.”
The dimples disappeared. “Well…that’s true.”
/>
“It is. Every morning.” Every single morning.
“So, you have plans for tomorrow, for Veterans Day?”
“Always.” At least this year, Veterans Day fell on a Saturday. Ironically, the past year when it fell on a Friday, it was just a normal school day at the U.S. Air Force Academy.
“What are you doing?”
“Visiting the cemetery.”
“Which one?”
“The Academy’s.”
“By the roach clip?”
“The what?”
“The Polaris Memorial. That weird statue. It used to be by the chapel…we’d twist sheets to put in the middle of those metal tongs. Made it look like a giant roach clip. You know.” He put two fingers up to his mouth. Pretended to smoke a joint. Crossed his eyes with the effort.
“I visit to put flowers on my father’s grave.”
His eyes uncrossed his eyes and sobered up. “He’s buried there? You’re kidding.”
“No, I’m not kidding. He died in Vietnam.”
“I’m sorry. A lot of people died in Vietnam. A lot of good people.”
I nodded. Then I stood up and walked over to the coat tree where my jacket and scarf were hanging. Pulled the scarf off and wrapped it around my neck.
“Nice scarf.”
“Thanks.”
“It…uh…pretty much matches anything.”
“Pretty much.”
“You didn’t pay for it, did you?”
“No. I made it.”
“Why?”
“Because I needed a scarf. And I felt sorry for all the yarn at the Salvation Army.” It had been sitting there in a giant plastic bag. All of it dyed in colors nobody wanted anymore: various shades of brown. Rust. Orange. Garish green. Startling purple.
“And now we can all feel sorry for you.”
“It’s just a scarf. And it’s indestructible. Feel it.”
Joe took hold of an end and rubbed it against his cheek. Dropped it. “It’s scratchy.”
I picked up the end he’d dropped and tucked it into the coil I’d wound around my neck. “It’s acrylic. It’ll last forever.”
“Are you sure you want it to?”
“It keeps my neck warm. That’s all it has to do.” I pulled my green duffle coat on and fastened all toggles but the top one. Pulled the hood over my head.
I went down the stairs and out by the Aero Lab parking lot and sat on the wall. I had a prime view of a tangle of trees and bushes and frost-browned grasses in the valley below. I let the cold chill of November seep into my thighs and then into my bones.
I hunched my shoulders and felt the coat stretch taut against my back. I found that if I dropped my head just the slightest bit, my chin dropped down into the scarf. It was scratchy, but I could also smell the lingering scent of Joe.
The next day I removed some sprigs from a rosemary plant growing in a pot in the kitchen window. Then I put on my coat and scarf, got into my car, and drove up the interstate toward the Academy. Pulled into the cemetery and parked the car. Stayed inside until I was certain I was alone.
I’d told Joe I was going to put flowers on my father’s grave, but, in truth, I never had. I’d always taken rosemary. It’s the one thing I’d remembered from English class, that quote by Shakespeare about rosemary being for remembrance.
And I did remember.
I remembered things my father had never had the chance to know.
There were already flowers on top of his grave. A dignified ruffle of blue carnations, white daisies, and red roses interwoven with red, white, and blue ribbons. The same arrangement as the year before. And the year before that. As long as I’d been paying my annual visits, in fact. I assumed they were from my father’s parents.
I knelt to tuck my sprigs of rosemary in between the flowers.
Because I remembered too.
“Hi, Dad. It’s me.”
I touched the marker. Read the words I had memorized years ago.
Michael Murray O’Flaherty. Captain, U.S. Air Force. His graduating class. The date of his birth and the date of his death. Four lines which encapsulated everything I knew about him.
I rose to my feet and stood beside his grave for a while. Watched an airplane trace an arc high above me, leaving white contrails stretched across the sky.
Joe called me later that afternoon. Wanted to talk about church.
“Are you ready to concede?”
“No. I just thought maybe we should change strategies.”
“How?”
“Maybe we should consider proximity instead of—”
“Personal recommendations?”
“Yeah.”
“The closest is just down the hill.”
“Isn’t that Catholic?”
“We don’t have to take communion. We could actually walk. Save about—”
“A gallon of gas. I know. What time should I stop by?”
“Just a second.” I searched the Internet for the name of the church. Ended up having to specify “Manitou Springs.” “Service…er…Mass starts at ten fifteen.”
“So I’ll pick you up at ten.”
“Fine.”
“We can do lunch after. Instead of breakfast.”
He picked me up at 10:00 on Sunday. I wore my darkest jeans for the occasion. I had the feeling Catholics were probably dressier than Protestants.
We walked down the hill, turned the corner and came upon the church. Just walking into it was a magical experience.
Low stone walls enclosed the lot. We walked across a stone-and-brick bridge that breasted Fountain Creek. A grotto to our left offered a chilly haven. A statue of Mary, sheltered inside, implied infinite peace. A listening ear. A willingness to give you the benefit of doubt. God knew what he was doing when he gave Jesus a mother.
Would that I had been so lucky.
We walked through the iron gate, now pushed open, and toward a small white church. Its narrow windows were lined in blue. The roof over the door and the roof over the church were both topped by simple white crosses. But the best part was walking inside.
People noticed we were there. They validated our presence by smiling. Or simply by looking at us. Not in our direction or over our shoulders, but into our eyes.
We listened to a sermon. Homily. Whatever it’s called.
There was a moment, when people went up for communion, when I thought I might feel awkward, but I bowed my head and began to pray instead. Let my mind revisit the beauty in my world.
A recent view of Pikes Peak, the wind fanning the snow off the top of the mountain. The solid, steady rhythm of the anniversary clock on the mantel in the living room. A clock that had marked the hours of my grandfather’s days and the minutes of his grandfather’s before him. The brilliant intricacy of a computer and its interlocking pieces. A machine made up of incredibly small parts that had the power to map out the universe.
I had just finished sampling that particular thought when a hum began to infiltrate my consciousness and lower my thoughts to more mundane levels. Like who was doing the humming and why.
As if I couldn’t guess.
I opened my eyes and slid a glance toward Joe.
His elbows were propped on his knees, his head resting against clasped hands.
Maybe…maybe it wasn’t him.
I glanced around. Didn’t notice anyone being overtly odd. Resumed my prayer.
Heard that hum again.
Opened my eyes. Noticed Joe’s feet.
They were tapping.
I nudged him.
He flinched. Straightened. Looked at me and mouthed, What?
I put a finger up to my mouth. Shh.
He looked around. Looked at me. What?
I leaned toward him. “You were…” He really didn’t know he had been humming. Communion was over by that point, so I just dropped it.
Afterward, we walked out of the church and into bright sunshine. It warmed our faces even as our bodies hunched against a chill wind.
We walked over the bridge and up the hill toward home.
We were almost at Grandmother’s before Joe remembered about eating. “Want to grab lunch somewhere?”
“You could…do you want to come in? I could fix us something.”
“Sure. Thanks.”
We turned at the house. Climbed the steps from the street.
Joe retrieved the key from under the mat. Opened the door and then stood aside to usher me in, his hand at my back.
We walked together into the kitchen. Found a note on the kitchen table. Grandmother was out with Oliver. Didn’t say out where. Didn’t say when she’d be back.
I sighed. It was her day. She could spend it with whomever she wanted to. I opened the refrigerator and took a mental inventory of the contents. “Do you want an omelet?”
“I’d love an omelet. I always burn them when I try and make one myself.”
“You probably cook it too fast. You have to be more patient.”
I gave him some mushrooms to slice while I grated the cheese. Then I started some butter melting in a pan and whisked the eggs while I waited. I knew Joe ate out for lunch when he was at work, but I had no idea what he usually did for dinner. “Do you cook? For yourself, ever?”
“I get by. Tacos are easy. And spaghetti. I grill. You want me to wash this for you?” He was holding up the cheese grater.
“Thanks.”
He put the grater on top of the cutting board he’d been using and took everything to the sink. Turned the water on high. Squirted dish soap over it all.
I walked over and turned the faucet off to stop the water from going straight down the drain. “Most of the time, people don’t need as much water as they think they do. You don’t need any really until it’s time to rinse.”
“Yes, ma’am. Where’s the sponge?”
I handed him a washcloth.
“And the problem with a sponge is…?”
“That most sponges aren’t made of sponge. They’re synthetic.”
“Which is evil because…?”
“They aren’t biodegradable.”
“And smelly old washcloths?”
“Can be washed. Again and again and again.”
He shook his head and started scrubbing. “When they start making washcloths with a scrubby side, that’s when I’ll make the switch.”
While I put the remaining eggs and cheese away, Joe finished up the dishes and set them in the rack to dry.
The Cubicle Next Door Page 14
