by Hope Lyda
“It’s a good thing you don’t write our promotional copy,” I said before I could censor myself. My hand flew to my mouth, too little too late. Blaine laughed quietly. Mave did not.
“I’m sorry,” I explained, “but the description sounds so serious.”
“This is serious, Libby. I’m not here to sell you on this job. I’m here to paint the picture, the real picture, of what your responsibilities will be at Reed and Dunson from now on. Don’t consider this job change to be your ticket to easy street around here.”
“Believe me, that’s as far away from my interpretation as one could get. What past perks are you talking about, exactly?” Try as I might, I couldn’t imagine what they considered a perk. Free toilet paper all day? My “buy 10, get 1 free” coffee card did get extra punches because I bought Cecilia two lattes a day. I’d be sad to lose that.
Mave tapped her fingernails on the table and searched lower on the piece of paper in front of her. “It says here you received two weeks of vacation. Of course, with the job change you won’t have that.”
“That much, you mean,” I said, correcting the ending of her sentence.
“No. You won’t have that benefit. Not for two years.”
“No vacation for two years? How…”
“You’ll be required to practice a new skill set, or perhaps an old one that will need polishing and perfecting. Are you prepared for what this means?”
“I do,” I said without thinking.
Cecilia stifled her laugh and Mave furrowed her brow.
“What does this mean exactly?” I asked.
Mave returned her gaze to the folder. “Your areas of weakness will be evaluated by Blaine Slater.” She paused, nodded to Blaine, and continued. “And a plan of action will be created. Job seminars, course work, job shadowing, perhaps.”
“Job shadowing?” I envisioned myself walking five paces behind Philip, taking notes, while he gloated with a grin that pulled his red cheeks to his elfin ears.
“We may have another assistant within the corporation mentor you so that you can see how Reed and Dunson prefers its assistants to be and to work,” she explained.
“Broken and without compensation” my mind hollered. It’s not enough to be demoted, I have to be demoted and told I’m not qualified for the post.
Mave interpreted my expression perfectly. “Maybe we should be asking Ms. Hawthorne if she accepts this position. I’d assumed Cecilia discussed the implications fully and asked you this important question.”
With my stomach churning and my hands shaking, I said, “I accept this position.” I could turn this in to a positive. The worse the job is, the more motivated I will be to make a change for the better.
Blaine cleared his throat. “If I might comment?”
Both women purred.
“I have looked at your file, Libby.” Blaine turned in his chair toward me. “And you are quite qualified, more than qualified, for this position. We will discuss your skill set at greater length later. Today I have meetings back to back, but I’ll spend time with you on Monday first thing.”
“I’ll bet she can’t hem pants,” Cecilia sneered.
Mave turned to her cohort and shook her head.
I looked over at Cecilia with awe. Even she usually knew when to keep her true nature to herself. Something Mave said was flashing in my mind. She called Blaine the new account executive vice president. That was Cecilia’s position.
“May I ask…what is Cecilia’s title?”
Everybody raised their eyebrows at this question. I wanted to take it back.
Mave responded, “The announcement has not been made, so of course you must keep this confidential, but later this week Cecilia will be honored with the position of Executive Director of Accounts.”
Cecilia stared at the large diamond-and-emerald ring on her right hand.
I wasn’t the only one affected by the corporate shift.
“Congratulations, Cecilia,” I said softly.
She nodded, still mesmerized by her jewelry and the soon-to-be past life it represented. Everyone in the room knew that the “director of” title could be translated as “a short jump to figurehead” in the language of real life. It was just a matter of time before Cecilia would be asked to represent the company only at corporate anniversary parties and when a low-level client that nobody could be bothered with needed a companion for dinner or a ride to the airport.
With a little relief and a surprising amount of compassion I realized that the shame I’d been feeling earlier wasn’t truly mine, but was Cecilia’s.
Eight
On Saturday Ariel called around noon to be sure I wasn’t wearing the purple silk shirt we both had purchased at Nordstrom’s anniversary sale. I assured her I only saved it for nights out in nonsmoking environments. We, along with Ferris and our friend Oliver Weston, were going to the Below-Zone club to watch Angus perform. They were attending out of politeness, and I was attending out of girlfriend responsibility. However, as the day wore on, I knew there was another purpose for tonight.
Angus and I had barely spoken all week. On Friday I’d thanked him for the earrings and we filled silences with talk of weather, schedules, and my new job. It was almost as if…as if it were our recap conversation.
The inevitable recap takes place about the time you are no longer waking up with the solitary thought I’m single again. It happens just as you forget how his voice oddly dips at the end of a question. It happens when you cannot quite recall how his features fill his face and your mind recalls only a blurry flesh canvas of Picasso lips, brow, and eye. And it always occurs in some unexpected place like the noodle aisle at an Asian market or by the crosstown map at the bus station. Simultaneously you look up and overlap each other to say, “I didn’t know you liked squid ramen/rode the number 35 too.”
Once the irony of your bizarre crossing of paths is diffused, the illegitimate recap begins. Illegitimate because he says nothing of the nineteen-year-old Gap assistant manager he kissed in the dressing room (they hit it off so much that it seemed like a real date) and, of course, you forget to mention that his DVD collection was sold at your apartment’s swap meet to pay for your new leather jacket.
And as you walk away from the always-a-letdown recap, either relieved it is over or freshly brokenhearted, you realize afresh that you are indeed single. How is it that life happens that way?
I pulled myself out of this melancholy scene. I didn’t shake it completely, though. I had seen the future, and I knew it. I began scouring my closet for a good breakup dress. I couldn’t spend time searching for my life truth and striving for significance in a relationship that had been doomed from the start. We argued so much about whether we were too alike or too different that we forgot to discuss who we actually were.
The one photo I had of Angus and myself rested on my dresser. Angus’ friend Johann took the photo at a street fair last year. I was wearing a summer dress that resembled maternity wear, and we were eating from the same spindle of cotton candy. I selected the same dress for tonight. I could say goodbye to the dress and to Angus in one shot. I slipped the dress over my head and was horrified when the tentlike frock had to be maneuvered carefully to fit over my hips. Lesson learned: Never make fun of how plump you looked in an older photo until you have evaluated your current size and look.
I put on a black cardigan sweater and the Pike Market crystal earrings as I went down the stairs of my apartment to the cab waiting on the street. I didn’t know if the earring thing was a cruel gesture or a sentimental one. That is how little I knew myself. Sentimental or sadistic? I had them on and off about four times on my way to the club.
Angus had been trying to set up a gig for months at this bar in Belltown. Then out of the blue he got a call for his band to stand in for some LA band that got the lucky call to stand in for the band replacing The Cure at some major environmentalist shindig. For the past week Angus mentioned this three degrees of separation from The Cure about every other
conversation. No doubt, they were bragging it up as well.
Below-Zone was starting to fill up with confused music fans. Some had misunderstood Angus and thought he was opening for The Cure. Others were die-hard fans of the punk band that was originally slated. But they were warm bodies, albeit dressed in hip-hugging leather and sporting pink spiky hair, and with a couple beers their discerning tastes only required loud music. Angus was good at loud—on stage lamenting rage and failure or at home with me expressing angst. He was in a constant state of regret. Once when I gently confronted him about it, he thought for quite a long time, and then loudly said it gave him edge. Not “an edge” but edge, as though he meant adrenaline. He’d been pleased with his response all evening while I daydreamed of showing him the edge of the ledge.
Ariel was waving frantically from a tall bistro table toward the far back corner right behind a big speaker. Ferris and Oliver were with her already. They had probably selected the seating arrangement…we would vibrate all evening but we’d be able to hear each other talk. I was surprisingly calm about my plan for tonight as I walked over to my friends. The breakup seemed out of my control yet fully in it. I rarely had this kind of feeling and was afraid I’d never have it again unless I honored it.
“I see the fan club positioned itself well away from the stage.” I greeted Oliver with a real kiss on the cheek and Ferris with a simulation.
“We’re here for you, aren’t we?” Ferris pushed my chair in behind me. “And why is it that Oliver always gets a real kiss and I get blown off?”
“Because she has seen you scrub a toilet. There is no romance potential anymore,” Ariel matter-of-factly stated, hailing a bald waitress.
“Exactly.” I choked on my gum, laughing. Getting out tonight was what I needed.
“What’ll it be?” The waitress-and-charm-school dropout hollered from two tables away. A table overflowing with grunge-ites blocked her path to us.
“Just Coke please. With lime,” I said to a round of strange looks from my friends.
“Since when?”
“Can’t a woman change the way she lives?”
“Cokes all around. And the appetizer platter,” Oliver yelled to the unenthused waitress, who saw her potential tips for the evening take a sharp, carbonated dive.
Ariel drummed the table along with the opening band’s beat. I hoped my pals would not bash Angus the entire time. They liked him as a person but accused his music of being high decibel without a cause.
“Before the big show begins, I have good news to share,” Oliver announced, pushing his bangs away from his dark brown rimmed glasses. “I’ve been invited to be a part of an exhibit and fund-raiser event for the Seattle Art Museum. They are highlighting local talent. A good public relations move for them and a great opportunity for me.”
“We’ll be there. How great, Oliver,” Ariel said, cheering on our friend.
“It’s about time they thought of you,” I added.
Ariel nudged Ferris. He looked up slowly. “Their shows are probably too commercial for your latest work.”
“I’ll be showing my photographs. Those seem tame enough for the after-5:00 office crowd,” Oliver conceded.
“Never mind Ferris, Oliver. He is still mourning Tanya,” Ariel said.
Our waitress arrived with a platter of greasy food in various forms and four large Cokes, all with sections of lime and red straws.
“It’s officially over?” I asked. “When did this happen?”
Ferris held the ice cubes under the surface of his Coke with his finger, squinted his eyes, and thought for a moment before responding. “No talking for a month. Is that official enough? She sent her Neanderthal brother to pick up some books I borrowed from her. Is that official enough?”
“Tanya owned books?” I asked. Everyone but Ferris laughed.
Ferris was a cynic on any given day, but when you add on brokenhearted, he was a complete downer. I was curious how Tanya broke the news and the heart, but I didn’t figure he’d appreciate my impromptu research survey right then.
“Hey, where is Pandora ‘Princess of the Pack’ these days?” Oliver asked, noticing that our third femme fatale was missing. Pandora Garrett was a former high school pal of Ariel’s, who entered our motley circle a couple years ago when she returned from New York to produce for a Seattle documentary company. Her “princess of the pack” identity emerged when she became the designated yuppy-puppy dumping ground among our network of friends and acquaintances. She took in the dogs that couples adopted to practice their parenting skills and then ditched when either a baby or an animal services representative arrived. The marriage counselors who suggested this great plan seemed to forget that they were talking to workaholic urbanites with tiny, expensive apartments and no time to spend with each other, let alone a dependent dog.
Pan was the only person anyone knew who owned a house (thanks to a kind, dead uncle) with a real backyard. She started by taking Baxter, an adorable hound dog, after our friends Milton and Katrina got pregnant. Then came Wendell, the Dalmatian my sister adored when she first decorated her house in art deco. He was the first color-coordinated accessory to go when the kids arrived. Last count, Pandora was up to five dogs and three cats, and she was in a constant state of pandemonium keeping up with vet appointments and dog walking.
“You reminded her about it, right?” I asked Ariel.
“One of the dogs was sick with worms or something. Or a fungus. Something unsuitable for table discussion,” she muttered.
I looked over at her. She and Pan had had a big fight recently, but nobody would fill me in. Neither one was a game player, so I knew it was a serious dispute. Ariel asked me about my work meeting. She was ending any further discussion about Pan. “I think I held my own,” I responded, letting her off the hook for the time being.
“Are you still in your I-stink mode?” Ariel asked.
“Basically, yes.” I pondered my agenda for tonight. “Angus will soon think so.”
“Uh-oh. I wondered why you were wearing the Little House on the Prairie number. It had to be full-blown depression or a breakup tactic. Hmm?” Ariel looked me over. I laughed. She had pegged the style exactly.
“You’re breaking up tonight?” asked Ferris with obvious anger, apparently ready to draw a sword in haste to keep yet another wench from destroying a good man.
I shrugged off his bitterness.
Oliver leaned in. “Okay, lass, tell us the story.”
“We aren’t headed anywhere. We barely get along. I mean, we appreciate one another, but we’re starting to tear one another down on a regular basis. It isn’t healthy.”
“It isn’t healthy? Meaning you are bored or you have found someone more interesting.” Ferris was ready for a fight.
My mind flashed to Blaine. I shook my head like an Etch-a-Sketch to clear it. “Ferris, this isn’t a good conversation to be entering into with you right now.”
“I find it utterly disgusting that women think the end of a relationship does not warrant an advance conversation with a guy.” He made the motion of washing his hands. “The end is just something to take care of. Broke a heart. Done.” He motioned as if crossing off a shopping list item. “Women have blamed guys for this same nonchalant demeanor. It is a total double standard. Women are two-faced.” In silence we awaited his next mime interpretation, but he gave no further performances.
“We still don’t like guys who do that,” Ariel countered, strong chin out.
I gave her a disapproving look. “Thanks for the help.”
Ferris looked away, disgusted. I knew he thought Angus and I made a bad match, but his wounds were so raw he wanted an argument more than he wanted to be right. I left it alone, glad to hear the band announced. I hadn’t even noticed the opening act, though they definitely were strong competition for the loud portion of tonight’s affair.
“What’s this?” Ariel said with disgust as she pulled a patch of fuzz from the weave of my sweater.
Ferri
s and Oliver both said, “Eww.”
I thought for a moment. “I think I last wore this at Pan’s house. That looks like…” I paused to examine the feline fur. “Rafael. He’s the long-haired one, right?”
“I assure you I have no idea.” Ariel took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. “Libby, even secondhand cat hair can kill a girl’s dating life.”
“Better stick with Angus,” Ferris said with a grunt.
My headache was in full swing. I excused myself to the restroom. The swinging door to the women’s bathroom opened to a black-and-purple interior with a slanted ceiling. Rummaging through my purse for my travel pack of aspirin, I barely gave notice to the leggy blonde in fishnet stockings leaning over the sink until I felt her stare in my direction.
I stopped digging and looked up. She had blond hair on one side of her part and black on the other. It was rather stunning, so I stared back.
“Aren’t you Angus’?”
“His?”
“Girl.”
I nodded, even though I wanted to argue that Angus didn’t own me.
“I’m Karina. I was his before you. Well, a couple before you, actually.” She leaned in closer to the fogged up mirror and applied black eye liner—around her mouth. She had to stop for a second as she let out a short laugh. “Does he still talk with an English accent when he makes love?”
“He only speaks in ancient Chinese proverbs,” I said and turned to leave. The truth was, I had no idea. I kept Angus at a distance. Some self-protective part of me knew I was kidding myself by trying out this alternative life. I may have walked into the bathroom uncertain, but I was full of resolve when I returned to the table as Angus and his band started in on their playlist. I would follow through.
Oliver headed out prior to the encore, saying he had some matting to do for the upcoming show. That was being gracious. The guy who frequented jazz clubs would rather pick his nose with a shoehorn than listen to this music longer than necessary.
