Thankfully, Grandmother had left the porch light on. It made it easier to find the key under the corner of the doormat.
Joe retrieved it and unlocked the door himself. Pushed it open. “Thanks for coming with me. Technically, we shouldn’t have been there, but I had a great time.”
“What do you mean we shouldn’t have been there?”
“It was the cadet Christmas Ball.”
“Then what was Todd doing there?”
“He’s an AOC.”
An Air Officer Commanding. He was in charge of a squadron of a hundred cadets.
“We shouldn’t have been there?”
“It doesn’t matter. Who knew? And we had fun.”
The whole evening I’d felt out of place. As if I hadn’t belonged. And I’d just discovered how true that was. I hadn’t.
“Well…” Joe leaned forward, his arms out.
I walked into them.
He gave me a hug and then he patted me on the back. “Thanks.”
I smiled at him, walked inside, and shut the door.
But on the way upstairs, I felt like crying. And I didn’t know why.
I found myself standing in front of Grandmother’s room, so I pushed her door open. “When you’re at a buffet and there are things to be picked up with toothpicks, do you use the same one for everything?”
She closed her book and took her glasses off. “You use a different one for each thing.”
“What about dip? If there’s a spoon, do you put dip on the vegetables or on your plate first?”
“Your plate.”
“And cheese spread…?”
“Goes on the plate first.”
“And when you go into the bathroom and girls are standing there smiling at themselves in the mirror?”
“They’re checking to see if there’s something stuck between their teeth.”
“You knew? All those things? How come you never taught me?”
“I—”
“The world is full of rules and I don’t know any of them. None of them. Not one. And Joe knows them all.”
THE CUBICLE NEXT DOOR BLOG
Why?
What did I ever do to you?
Why do you think you can just crash into my world and drag me out into yours? Why do you think I’d even want to go? Who do you think you are? Why can’t you just leave me alone? Why do I even care?
Posted on December 9 in The Cubicle Next Door | Permalink
Comments
Are you just being rhetorical? Because I don’t know.
Posted by: NozAll | December 9 at 11:58 PM
You care because he’s there.
Posted by: philosophie | December 10 at 06:19 AM
What did he do? What happened? I don’t get it.
Posted by: survivor | December 10 at 08:37 AM
It could be anything. Maybe you make him laugh. Maybe you help him see the world in a different way. Maybe it’s because you’re pretty. Maybe he admires you because you’re fearless. Maybe there’s just something about you that sets his heart on fire.
Posted by: theshrink | December 10 at 2:30 PM
I still think it’s because he wants something from you.
Posted by: justluvmyjob | December 10 at 3:12 PM
Twenty-Six
Most of the people who commented on the blog I’d posted on the ninth wanted to know what the big deal was. And I couldn’t tell them. Because I didn’t know.
But I did feel foolish. As though I had enjoyed something I had no right to. The ball. The dances. Joe.
I’d finally stumped NozAll. That had been worth it. And theshrink’s comment had made me laugh.
Fearless? Obviously he didn’t know me at all.
The whole ball experience had made me self-conscious. Self-aware in the worst sort of paranoid way.
Joe must have sensed my mood because he didn’t say much when we walked to church the next morning. And there was lots he could have said. Like, “My, your hair looks…different.” It would probably look different for the rest of my life. No thanks to Adele. Whatever she’d done when she was trying to scalp me had created a hundred tiny knots on the top of my head and a permanent pouf. And when I’d tried to wash all the makeup off my face earlier in the morning, the soap had left my eyes red-rimmed and dry. I sat on my hands during the service so I wouldn’t scratch my eyes out or tear my hair up by the roots.
We lingered for coffee after, chatting with some of the members…parishioners?…the nice people who filled up the pews.
On the way up the hill toward home, Joe asked me a question I had to stop and think about. “Want to go to the Christmas party with me?”
I did. And I didn’t. “Are you asking me on a date?” Another one?
“I’m asking you on a carpool. There’s not much point in driving separately. Especially out to Larkspur.”
That was true. Larkspur was in the hills between Colorado Springs and Castle Rock, but it felt as though it was in the middle of nowhere. Especially in the winter. At night.
“Oh. Then sure. But I’m driving.” And I’m not wearing makeup or letting anyone touch my hair ever again.
“Do you think that’s wise?”
“I think it’s better for the environment. I’ll pick you up at five thirty.” I’d signed up to bring an appetizer, so theoretically I needed to be on the early side of late.
“And…can I ask you a favor?”
“Just as long as it doesn’t involve a felony, like going to a ball you’re not invited to.”
“Nope. Just driving me to the airport. In Denver.”
“When?”
“The next morning. Sunday.”
“Just as long as I’m—”
“You can drive.”
The next, Saturday evening we carpooled up to Larkspur. When we reached our destination, we weren’t so early that we were able to park in the driveway. We settled for a precarious spot on the winding road that led up to the house. Joe carried a six-pack of beer in one hand and a duffel bag in the other. But they still didn’t stop him from somehow managing to open the front door for me.
I plowed my way through the crowd. A couple people saw the cheese mold I was carrying and followed along behind me. When I arrived at the kitchen, the countertops, island, and table were already overflowing with food. I did a little tidying up, mixed baskets of various shaped pretzels, and emptied several plates by placing stuffed mushrooms, mini quiches, and wedges of summer sausage on the same platter. I collected used cups and threw them away against my better judgment. By the time I was finished, there was plenty of room for my small platter, but half the mold had already been eaten. I confiscated the box of crackers from someone and arranged what was left of them around the cheese.
In the process I spied a familiar toxic mix of homemade punch disguised in a gallon-sized milk container sporting a hand-drawn skull and cross bones. Stayed well enough away.
I grabbed a bottle of water, filched a few mushrooms, and went out into the living room. I sat down on the fireplace hearth and waited for the festivities to begin.
I didn’t have to wait long.
Fifteen minutes of polite conversation later, Joe came stomping down the stairs. But it wasn’t the Joe I’d come with. This Joe was a malign elf chomping on a cigar. Dressed in a green turtleneck and tights with a red tunic over the top. An elfin hat. Long pointed ears and curly-toed shoes completed the picture. He had slung a garbage bag over his shoulder.
Someone dragged a chair into the living room for him. He sat down and began calling names. Ms. West Point was first.
She tried to just stand there quietly beside him, but he yanked her down on his knee.
“That West Point’s tough. I heard a story once about a cadet who was having a hard time staying awake. The instructor told him to stand up along the wall. So he did. He stood in front of a window, figuring the fresh air would help him stay awake. But he fell asleep anyway. And he fell right out the window. Woke up when he hit the ground. Go
t up, ran back to class. And you know what the instructor did? Gave him a Form 10 for leaving without permission.”
Everyone roared.
Ms. West Point just smiled.
Joe Elf handed her a brand new package of Form 10s, wrapped in a cheery red bow.
He went through about half the department.
And then he called my name.
I got up. Went over. Wasn’t about to sit on his lap.
But he smiled around the cigar at me and winked. And when he put a hand to my waist, I suddenly felt myself perched on his knee.
“A little bird told me you’re very belligerent…er…diligent about your job. That you treat computers like treasured children and coworkers like common criminals. So here’s a little something to help you keep the ruffians in line.”
Ruffians. Only Joe would utter a word that had gone out of use a century ago.
He handed me a pair of brass knuckles.
Everybody laughed.
I didn’t think it was very funny.
The next morning brought snow with it. And it had started sticking to the roads.
About ten minutes before I was supposed to pick Joe up, he knocked on our door.
“I thought I was supposed to pick you up at your house.”
“You were. But I changed my mind. We’re taking the SUV.”
“That would involve me driving it back from the airport, and I don’t do SUVs. I don’t even normally sit in them. I’m making a big exception in your case.”
“Then make it a gigantic exception.”
“My car is fine.”
“Your car is made out of a shoebox. I wouldn’t be surprised if the engine was held together by rubber bands and clothespins.”
Now that was not nice. And he must have known it.
“It’s just that I don’t want to be flying over Utah worried about whether or not you made it home alive. Okay?”
He wasn’t really asking a question. In fact, he could have substituted the phrase “Got it?” because he was clearly not going to let me drive my car. Not that morning.
I grabbed my wallet and shoved it into my pocket. Felt the doormat with my foot before I shut the door to make sure the key was still there. It was.
Joe opened the SUV door for me and shut it after I got in.
I felt the SUV slide for a fraction of a second as we turned onto Manitou Avenue. Joe drove at 25 mph down to the interstate. And compared to other vehicles, he was going fast.
At the stoplight I glanced around, surveying the traffic. It wasn’t too heavy. Hopefully it would remain as light until after I got home. I trusted my own driving in bad weather, but I wasn’t so sure I trusted anyone else’s. In looking over into the other lane, I saw a single duffel bag on the backseat. And that was it.
“Aren’t you staying for the week?”
“Christmas through New Year’s. There’s lots of celebrating to do. Lots of nieces and nephews to play with.” He saw me looking at the bag. “They teach you how to pack light in Boy Scouts. How to make one pair of underwear last four days. Things like that.”
“By washing it in a stream?”
“By wearing it right side out, frontward and backward. Inside out, frontward and backward. Four days.”
“With the added benefit of being able to scare away bears with your foul scent.”
Cars had already begun to slide off the interstate. I saw Joe look at them as we passed by, and then he slid a look at me.
He had been right about the weather. “You were right. We needed the SUV. Are you happy now?”
“Ecstatic.”
My car was not the most stalwart of vehicles. I have never pretended it was or wanted it to be. Because most of the time in Colorado when snow falls, it’s gone by the next day. Sometimes by the same afternoon. So most of the time, I don’t need a Driving Machine. The environmentalist’s dilemma: Stay at home the two days in the year when the snow is really bad or waste gas for the remaining 363 days?
Easy choice.
North of town, at Monument, the shoulders of the road looked like a game of bumper cars. The altitude was just enough different, the wind had just enough bite, that the road turned into an ice rink under certain conditions. Like the ones we were having. Looked like the early birds had gotten more than they’d bargained for that morning.
Joe downshifted and steered around a three-car collision. “When you come back this way, try not to step on the gas or the brake unless you really need to. Just go slow. No quick movements.”
“You might not believe this, but I’ve been driving in Colorado most of my life. If you tell me next how the roads become slippery right after it starts to rain, I’ll have to throw something at you.”
“It’s really slippery out here.”
“I know.”
“Just warning you.”
“I’ll be fine.”
“Maybe you could call me when you get home. I’ll probably still be waiting at the gate.”
“Right. I’ll hurry home so I can do that.”
“Don’t hurry, but would you call? Please.”
“I’ll call.”
He made me write his cell number down on a napkin I fished out of the glove box.
We finally made it to the airport and climbed out. He grabbed his duffel bag. I walked around to the driver’s side, trying to avoid the biggest piles of slush.
“Thanks. See you next year.” He lifted a hand as he walked backward toward the curb. “Merry Christmas.”
“Wait.”
He stopped.
I walked up to him, took a small paper bag from the pocket of my coat, and gave it to him. “Some cookies. For the flight.”
His smile encompassed his whole face. “Thanks.” He leaned down and kissed me on the cheek. “A pretty woman to see me off. Food to take with me. What could be better? You’re not going to cry, are you?”
“No.” Not on the outside.
“Well…I’ve got to…” He shrugged. “Have to go.”
“Bye.”
“Bye.”
I watched him walk into the terminal.
He’d left the monster running, so all I had to do was get in and drive.
I made it out of the airport without sliding around too much and merged onto the interstate. It was slippery. More than I had realized.
But driving the SUV was kind of…nice. It was. It was nice to be so far off the ground. It was nice to be able to see around and over the tops of other cars while I was driving. It was nice to think of those thick tires biting into the snow, cutting through the slush. Nice to know that if I got in an accident, I’d probably come out of it just fine.
And I began to understand the right of all Americans to own an SUV, even when they don’t need one.
I pointed the beast south and let it rumble down the road.
In the last decade, there had been an explosion of growth from South Denver toward Colorado Springs. Castle Rock, the midpoint, was a slash of tidy middle-class suburban sprawl. Rows of new developments were strung across the two sides of the interstate, their white frames gathered like a flock of seagulls against the lee side of the mesa.
When I got to Monument Hill I downshifted. Many vehicles in the Colorado Springs area sported bumper stickers saying “Ski Monument Hill.” They weren’t just being facetious. Monument is notorious. It’s the most treacherous place between Colorado Springs and Denver in the winter.
I crept past the fake tree cellular tower near the County Line Road exit. Saw the chapel in the distance. From my vantage point, coming down the decline, the foothills looked likely to sweep the northern parts of the county up in their undercurrent and deposit them on the other side of the hills.
But as I drew parallel to the Academy, I could see the illusion. The movement was halted by a plateau, a brief pause in the march of land up to the Continental Divide.
By the time I reached Manitou, the sun had banished the snowstorm and driven the clouds into hiding. The snow had begun to melt
off the streets.
I parked the monster in Joe’s driveway. I’d walked halfway home before I realized I hadn’t locked it. I never lock my own, but I figured I owed Joe’s vehicle that courtesy. Went back.
I beeped the key chain at it.
Turned around and started home again.
I picked up my pace when I remembered I was supposed to call Joe to tell him I’d made it home okay.
THE CUBICLE NEXT DOOR BLOG
Gone
The department is a wasteland of empty chairs and abandoned desks. I feel like a forlorn, forgotten child. It’s strange—I used to love this week every year. I could actually get things done. No meetings. No e-mails interrupting my work. And now I’m counting the days. Dropping paperclips into the mug on my desk one-by-one. Why has your absence made my week so bleak?
Posted on December 27 in The Cubicle Next Door | Permalink
Comments
If you’re converting the Christmas holidays into a personal affront, you might suffer from abandonment issues. Rejection is an instinctive fear, one of the first we ever experience. But the biggest tragedy of abandonment is that the victim often copes by blaming and then abandoning themselves. Many victims of abandonment go through life sabotaging all their close relationships.
Posted by: NozAll | December 27 at 08:09 PM
Don’t pay any attention to him. I feel the same way about my officemate. Most of the time I want to kill him, but when he’s gone…well…I guess I kind of miss him.
Posted by: justluvmyjob | December 28 at 08:10 AM
I hate to say it, but it might be true. Maybe absence really does make the heart grow fonder.
Posted by: philosophie | December 28 at 08:12 AM
Get over him. People come and go. In fact, mostly they just go.
Posted by: survivor | December 28 at 11:41 AM
Twenty-Seven
The ladies reverted to bridge that Wednesday night. They didn’t need me as a substitute, but I lounged in the living room anyway, eating a slice of applesauce cake and sipping tea. That’s when Adele had her great idea. “Let’s go up to Cripple Creek!”
The Cubicle Next Door Page 21
