Life, Libby, and the Pursuit of Happiness

by Hope Lyda

  He knew he was right, and he knew I knew it because he dropped the argument, not as a peacemaker but as a fighter who had no need to throw a final punch when his contender was already maimed enough to concede. The difference between us—I always liked to throw that final punch. (This next part would also be shown in slow motion.) “Don’t come crying to me,” I paused for effect as I faced him, “when club bouncers call you Nancy and ask you out. You say I don’t ‘get you,’ but really…pastel crystals on your guitar strap…do you even get yourself?” I had to shout the end of this, because he was already ten paces ahead…and counting.

  A woman reinforced her child’s fleece earmuffs with her hands and looked at me with disdain.

  I stink. There’s nothing worse than realizing you stink, except figuring this out the day after you’ve decided to figure out who you really are.

  I didn’t even try to follow Angus. Instead, I pretended my boyfriend and I hadn’t just argued. I walked away with my head up and a “do-de-do” sort of whistle in my step. And just like an intoxicated person whose crawl pace fooled no one—my la-di-da stroll read like guilt. Kids would point and say, “Mommy, that mean lady can’t hold her words.”

  I made my way across the brick street to the original Starbucks, tossed a five-dollar bill into a guitarist’s case a few yards from the entry, and went into the cozy stall with a long, old-fashioned bar.

  The first sip of hot, fresh coffee lifted my spirits enough for me to consider the pleasure of having the day to myself, but I was still angry at my behavior…and his. On my way out, I stepped into a picture being taken by some tourists of the front awning. “Who’s that angry lady?” their friends would later ask while perusing digital slide shows.

  The guitarist pulled at my sweater with his mittened hand and said five bucks paid for a special request.

  “Um…let’s see. How about ‘Brown Eyed Girl.’”

  “Ah. A Van Morrison fan. My pleasure.” He started to strum.

  “Wait, let me ask you something.” I glanced at his guitar case and saw “Property of Albert” written with whiteout along the lid. “Albert, as a musician who wears black and has a certain image, would you pin blue crystals to your guitar strap?”

  Albert scratched his head under his Mariners baseball cap. “I would.”

  “Oh.”

  “If I was forced at gun point to play at the Ice Capades.”

  He started laughing. I started laughing. It was as though he knew about the disaster that had taken place. He was my soul mate. He was at least thirty years my senior and missing four front teeth, but here he was. Before I could ask for his phone number, I carried my little victory with me as I maneuvered through the weekend crowd. I could not get any more pathetic.

  What on earth was up with Ariel? Why hadn’t she called?

  Five

  On Sunday morning I walked along Pine avoiding the requests for handouts by staring straight ahead and ignoring the ruddy-faced men and women who watched the trickle of pedestrians with sleepy eyes. A couple of the regulars I greeted with a shake of the head and a smile. Some people barked unkind remarks at those requesting money.

  I don’t mind that they exist.

  With horror I realized what I had just thought. Who am I to grant them approval to exist? Who am I to “not mind”? I was just like everyone else holding my latte tightly against the wind. I was also sidestepping these human beings who had once been first graders with large-print books, thick crayons, and reams of butcher paper dreams.

  Wait! I pulled a Fred Flinstone foot stop.

  I could evolve. I backtracked to one of my regulars. Occasionally I had given him my pocket change but never a personal exchange.

  With eyes and a hairline that indicated he was my peer, my regular slumped against the brick wall of the Luster Spa—an image that would send Ariel into a tirade about the contrast of affluence and poverty in this city.

  “Hey. Hi. Um, hi.”

  “Whoa.” He looked up at me blankly.

  Yes. Whoa. The breath. But, upon observation…the eyes…under drooping lids…the eyes were bright blue and kind.

  “I’m Libby. Libby Hawthorne.” Oh, great. My full name. At least I hadn’t given him my address.

  “Hey.”

  “I nod to you on my way to work a lot. I smile at you…?” This was going as well as my attempts at cocktail hour banter.

  He continued a dialogue happening in his head. “Then my parents and sister died in an air balloon accident. Now I’m alone.”

  My body recoiled. There was no proper response for this strange announcement. I didn’t believe it for a second. Maybe a split second. But he said it with a rote tone. Just when I was trying to become a better person, I was being had.

  I could look past this. He was alone. It shouldn’t matter how he ended up that way.

  “What’s your name?” The personal approach might pull him from his routine.

  He seemed to think about this for some time. As though the question involved a formula, “Darrell?” he looked for affirmation.

  “I just wanted to say hi, Darrell. I come by here every day. Well, every weekday that is. I work at…” I stopped myself before I could reveal everything about myself. “Just down the street. That’s sad about your family.”

  He didn’t care about empathy. I think I saw his bright blue eyes drop to my chest and then to my purse. I pulled back. “Sorry you’re alone, Darrell. See you next time,” I said, defeated.

  “Poof, like that.” His eyes faded and he looked past me to a better mark.

  I didn’t change the world. But I shook up my routine.

  While waiting in line for a bagel at my favorite bakery, I stared at the faded orange tiles and tried to envision all of the empty cubicles and offices I would face on Monday. I vowed to call a few of the pink-slipped employees next week to see how they were coping. Underneath this planned gesture of goodwill lurked a little bit of envy.

  Forced change can be a good thing.

  Forced change had, after all, brought me to Seattle. My family moved, scattered, and I followed the sane limb of our family tree.

  Forced change redirected my major from business to literature. Well, okay…a seriously demented business advisor, Dirk Atkins, started pursuing me, so I chose to pursue world literature and it had turned out to be a good direction.

  Forced change sent me to Paris for my last semester of college study.

  Well, okay…my former advisor’s misplaced interest turned to obsession, and I had to run away to Paris. I changed my required senior thesis from Nineteenth Century Midwestern Literature of the Plains to Eighteenth Century Paris Literature Along the Seine. I flew to the city of romance…alone. And Dirk promised to destroy the fictional notes he had placed in my business file about me stalking him in case he ever got in trouble.

  I’ve never trusted that he eliminated this fantasy file. Prior to all job interviews I’m nauseated, certain the lies will appear and mar my otherwise decent school record. “Ms. Hawthorne, it says here that you stalked your advisor. How does this past incident prepare you for a future at (fill in the blank) corporation?”

  Upon reflection, forced change was about the only way I ever made a decision to alter my life’s course. How sad to think I couldn’t muster the courage to make good choices on purpose or in accordance with a higher calling.

  Mr. Diddle pointed at the folded piece of paper I had under my arm. “What is on that paper?”

  “Okay. This visit I have an agenda. I received an email from my Aunt Maddie. You know the one?”

  “Yes, you’ve mentioned her. She sounds fascinating.”

  “She is, and she suggested that I read a particular book. It’s probably not something you’d get in, but…well, here.” I was embarrassed to show him. This man knew better than anyone where I spent my Sundays. He would think I was a hypocrite when he saw the title. I watched his face as he read the highlighted portion of Aunt Maddie’s email. He nodded, paused, and nodded a
gain.

  “Good book. I think I have several copies in several editions.”

  “Multiple copies? You’ve only got one copy of Tuesdays with Morrie, for Pete’s sake. Most individuals own more than one copy of that book. There’s the one you buy yourself and then the one you get for Christmas from a relative and then the used copy some friend gets for you because they can’t remember if you’ve read it…”

  “I’m getting your point.” Mr. Diddle motioned for me to follow him. Nomad got in line and we made our way to the small religion section. I had browsed there a few times when Mr. Diddle was back in his office. He pointed to the bottom shelf and then rubbed his lower back, indicating that he would not be the one to retrieve the volume. I sat on the floor and brushed Nomad’s ears with the back of my hand while skimming the untidy row of spines. Two copies of a small white book with blue lettering caught my attention. I pulled gently from the top of the spine to bring the book out of its narrow home. A motion as familiar to a reader as it is to a slot machine enthusiast.

  “I expected it to be much bigger, the way Aunt Maddie talked about it.” I looked up. Mr. Diddle was back at his counter. Nomad stayed with me as I began to read.

  On Monday Cecilia’s manic mode provided a morning’s worth of entertainment. She buzzed around the office in what seemed to be some bizarre nesting ritual. Consensus by the coffee machine was that she was actually marking her territory before Blaine arrived.

  He would be my boss. I cringed at the thought of saying “Blaine” twenty-four times a day. “Any more memos, Blaine?” “Milk with your coffee, Blaine?” “Can I schedule a tee time for you, Blaine?” “Does your stapler need a refill, Blaine?” What if he asked me to call him Mr. Slater? I dumped my decaf coffee and filled up with a double of the hard stuff. Sometimes caffeine gave me a better outlook.

  I organized my desk in mock unity with Cecilia. I’d promised to have a better attitude if I got to stay on. Of course, I figured staying on would involve a promotion. Nevertheless, I’m still here, and the attitude should be adjusted. In one of her loops through my part of the hallway, Cecilia stalled. Her thin loon neck craned to see me through the crack in the door. I was unwinding paper clips to clean out croissant crumbs from my keyboard.

  “Oh, good,” she yelled, too strung out on adrenaline to adjust her volume.

  “Pretty resourceful, huh?” I replied, feeling casual with her. Like two people who have faced tragedy together, we were oddly linked. We were chums. That, and I still had a “whatcha gonna do to me now” mind-set. Oh, silly Libby…I would find out.

  “I will have maintenance take care of the little things, Libby. Your time would be better spent packing your personal belongings.”

  “Excuse me?” Hey, amnesia woman! If you’ll recall, I’m one who remained after the corporate rapture. Remember?

  “Well, the computer and work files will stay for your replacement. You need only move your personal things to the cubicle across from Blaine’s office. I guess I should’ve mentioned that last week. But then, how long could it take to set up a cubicle? Like a minute?” Cecilia snorted her condescension.

  “Cubicle?” I wasn’t really asking. And I didn’t want the word to be spoken again, so I filled the vacuum created by the force of bad news with words. Any words. “Oh, yes. Cubicle. Thought you said cuticle and I could not figure out what you meant. I thought you were confusing me with your manicurist again. Like my first day here…remember that? That sure was fun back then. Five years ago when I started the account executive training program and thought (shrill laughter) that it led to actually being an account executive.” I held my belly in a faux Santa laughter pose.

  She was already down the hall. I lost her somewhere around cuticle. I hadn’t even insulted her.

  A total waste of courage.

  I sat back down and surveyed my wonderful, little office. Sure, “small, dark” office in previous descriptions, but suddenly it had the charm and potential of a Soho loft. I could put up mirrors along the south wall reflecting a potted plant garden on the north side. That mural of Marilyn Monroe I have always wanted would be painted in the far east corner and bleed onto the ceiling for a three-dimensional look.

  And…dang.

  I used the paper clip to carve Cecilia’s home number and direct line to her suite at the Desert Rehab Center into my small, dark desk with smooth, self-locking wooden drawers complemented by charming pewter deco handles and matching slender metal legs, and…dang.

  My personal belongings consisted of a PalmPilot, which I didn’t know how to use, a piece of red licorice, a special pen I’d bought for my one-year-on-the-job anniversary gift (I thought it’d be used to endorse my first check reflecting a big raise. Instead, its first usage was to write Cecilia’s cell phone number in the men’s bathroom at the King metro station), and a photo of me and Ariel sitting on the coffee bar at Elliott Bay. Ariel had written “Girls with a latte to offer” on the blackboard-finish frame.

  It did not escape my attention that there was no photo of Angus to gather and transport. My mind rewound to “I second that demotion” and I shivered. Photo placement of a guy in a business setting was unthinkable unless one was very serious.

  Or very desperate.

  Marsha Whitefield, now a mere cubicle over, placed a photo on her desk after one kiss…or even before. The shot was always taken by surprise attack (just like the kiss, I presumed) on a first date; you could tell, because the guy was…well, still with her. Mystery date of the month was usually framed within the doorway to Marsha’s apartment, upon arrival, and looking very surprised or angry to be greeted by the flash of a Minolta.

  Here I had a willing guy. A decent guy who looked good in his uni-hue, death-of-a-Garanimal outfit. But I would never pin snapshots of our good times on my bulletin board. With that sobering assessment of my lackluster love life, I grabbed my roller chair and trundled down the hall to the professional equivalent of a permanent time-out corner.

  Would my future ever involve a strategic, intentional forward move?

  Six

  Ariel sat crouched on my stoop. Her long blue-black hair draped her face as she leaned over to paint her toenails. When she looked up and saw me, she let out a “Whoop! Whoop!” and raised a grocery bag containing ingredients for her Fiesta Night Spéciale.

  She gave me a quick hug and we headed up to my apartment, where she patiently listened to my confessions of suckiness. I curled up in my papasan chair, positioned in the doorway of the kitchen so I could watch her cook enchiladas.

  “Extra peppers?” I whimpered between contemplation and confession.

  “Sure, hon, sure.” Somehow she never sounded condescending.

  “Maybe…maybe extra lime and cilantro too?” I was reverting to sick days home from grade school when I could request any television show and exactly how much chocolate I wanted in my glass of cold milk. Of course, it was our beloved nanny, Charlotte, who squeezed in that extra shot of Hershey’s. I smacked my lips recalling the childhood beverage bliss and anticipating the adult version. The blender finished grinding a special concoction, and then Ariel topped off our drinks with lime wedges and swizzle sticks.

  For the next couple of hours we gorged ourselves, laughed, and tossed around the rubber ball I used to exercise my wrists to avoid carpal tunnel at the ripe ol’ age of thirty. I recounted my week over and over, partly because I forgot what I’d told her and partly because she kept asking the same questions over and over. Even in the fog of gluttony, I questioned myself. I wanted to be free desperately, but from what?

  “It’s not too much to ask is it?” I asked vaguely.

  “What was the question?”

  “I worked hard and followed their rules for five years. That should be honored, right? A plus B equals C. We all learned that equation. Shouldn’t they follow it?”

  “They?”

  “The big corporate, own the world, run our peon lives ‘they.’”

  “Ah, yes. I vote yes. But do they
take votes?”

  I pointed to her. “You have just pinpointed the cause of the problem. No, they don’t take votes or ask for opinions.”

  “So in the past twenty-four hours you lost a job, were assigned a new one, and had a major blow out with Angus. You realized that you have been faking your way through life and that you are kept from your purpose because other people won’t follow the formula. Does that cover it?” Ariel had her feet up in the air cycling. She said it would help her body process her food and drink more quickly, thus easing her bulging belly. I sensed she was getting more sick with each push of the pedal.

  “Yes. That about…oh, and I scared a little boy. Not entirely intentional, which should count for something.” I said this from my upright position on my Pier 1 settee.

  “Right. You scared an innocent. And your summation…you suck. That is a bit harsh. You did have quite a blow, did you not? All of the bad behavioral issues relate to that one important fact. It really cancels out the evil behavior. Let’s just focus on the positive. You go first.” She had slowed her pedaling while talking. At one point, she lost her rhythm and was pedaling both feet in the same direction.

  “This could be happening to shake me out of my routine. I was beyond bored with the job I had.”

  “Right. Right. Good. Keep going.”

  “Well, with a demotion I won’t have a more responsible, stressful job.”

  “Bravo. Bravo.”

  “Or the extra money that goes with such responsibility and stress.”

  “Positive only, please.”

  “I decided to start figuring out who I am and what life I’m supposed to lead.” I braided the fringe on my afghan—a gift from my grandmother for my college graduation. It was brown and orange and quite horrific, but under certain circumstances the wavy lines were like a Diaper Dan dress up doll. I tied bows with the yarn. I followed the squiggles with my finger. I poked my thumb through the stitches. It was comforting.

  “And…”

  “Um…and…my friend Ariel came over to take care of me.”