The Reverse Commute

by Sheila Blanchette

  She worked in a cubicle on a computer all day long, in a large room with rows and rows of cubicles, over eighty people clicking and clacking on keyboards all day. The offices with windows were along the walls of the renovated old warehouse. She was in the big, dingy middle of the room where the light was always dim and dreary. Even worse than the noise of the eighty keyboards, was the HVAC system with its constant hum of blowing air. One of the pipes had a leak, making a steady high-pitched sound, like a teakettle whistling.

  Her job was to convert printed material into a web-ready format. She edited everything from literary works to medical and scientific journals. In the fourteen months she worked there, she read very few articles that interested her.

  She was required to keep a minute-by-minute timesheet of how long it took her to edit each article. Five articles a day were the current expectation. When she became proficient at meeting that requirement, she was expected to improve on it. She started at four and that was hard enough. She wondered where it would ever end. If she did too good a job too soon, she might end up reaching a plateau where the bar was finally set too high, and then what would happen?

  These were not her expectations when she graduated from college. This was so far from creative writing she felt she had lost her energy and spark. She started to write a story about her cross-country trip shortly after she got back to Boston. She was also working on a screenplay about a group of college graduates living in an old house in Portland. But she hadn’t worked on either project in four months. She complained bitterly about this to Nick.

  “It’s work. What do you expect? You’re lucky to have a job in this economy,” he said.

  “I expect to be fulfilled. I expect to be mentally, creatively and spiritually challenged.”

  “Spiritually? Seriously? You’re always so dramatic. Work is not a spiritual experience. Join a church or something.”

  She stared at him with a look of disgust. “Do you know me at all? Hey, you’re the one who was studying up on work passion, weren’t you?” She paused for a second, furrowing her brow. “You know something? That reverse commute of mine is a double entendre. I just realized that.”

  “A double what?”

  “A double entendre. A phrase that can be understood two ways. Most people commute into Boston for work but I do the reverse, commuting to the suburbs. And it could also mean that I had all these expectations when I graduated from college and here I am moving backwards. Not moving towards my dreams, but further away from them.”

  “I don’t get it.”

  “That’s because you majored in accounting and didn’t get that well rounded education.”

  “Very funny. You know what your problem is? You over think things. People have to work. It’s a fact of life. Get over it. Just do your job well and maybe you’ll get a promotion. You might even get an office with a window. Maybe your problem is the lack of sunlight. I’ve heard that can cause depression. So set a goal and go for it. Soon you’ll be working in an office with a view. Why do you always give me that look? What?”

  “This is what I have to look forward to? An office with a window? That’s not working for me, Nick. Life is too short to not be doing what you love.”

  “Well, I tried to help. I’ve got to pack for a business trip to Chicago tomorrow.”

  “Okay. I’m going for a walk.”

  “If I’m asleep when you get back, don’t wake me up. My flight is really early.”

  She put on a flannel jacket with a soft fleece lining and headed out the door into the crisp, cold January night. Gazing at the dirty snow banks lining the sidewalk, she thought about how the snow only looked nice in the city while it was coming down, before the plows came by, creating hard packed black mounds speckled with chunks of tar that didn’t even look like snow.

  She walked over to a small city park with a playground and sat on one of the swings. Reaching in her pocket, she found a bud. Rummaging around in the other pocket, she found a lighter and a small wooden pipe. She sparked up and took a few long drags, slowly exhaling, leaning her head back, watching the smoke drift up into the starry night. It was quiet, although she could still hear the noises of the city, cars honking, a fire engine's siren, people passing by talking quietly, the sounds muffled and off in the distance. Pumping her legs, the swing lifted her higher and higher.

  She realized she was going to have to do something about her situation. Moving back to Boston with Nick was not working out. Neither was her job. She knew she had to move on, but she couldn’t figure out how to do that quite yet. The logistics overwhelmed her. Rents were high in Boston. Nick originally wanted to live in Back Bay but couldn’t afford it, so he settled for a two family apartment near Cleveland Circle, but it was still expensive. She was having a hard time paying one third of the rent on her meager salary, and she had that two hundred dollar a month school loan to pay. If she moved out on her own, she definitely couldn’t quit her job.

  It dawned on her that she was really not much better off than when she waitressed in Portland. Yes, she had what some would consider a good job, but it was certainly not what she imagined it would be. She did have health insurance and two weeks paid vacation, but between working forty hours and commuting, it left little time to write. Maybe she should bring her laptop and start writing on the train.

  She sighed, hopping off the swing. She needed to figure it all out. When she got back to the apartment, she'd check Facebook to see if any of her college friends were looking for roommates.

  A dim light glowed in the left front window, the rest of the apartment dark. Nick must be asleep. She walked up the steps slowly, holding onto the ornate, black wrought iron railing. Stepping into the hallway, she heard the tenant downstairs playing his oboe, a sad, mournful sound.

  The couple downstairs had been together for twenty years and recently got married when Massachusetts passed the gay marriage bill. Their living room was set up as a Japanese tearoom, a little house with screens made out of paper on wooden frames. Straw mats covered the floor. A teak table sat in the middle of the teahouse. Traditional Japanese scrolls hung on the walls and beautiful vases were on the floor in the four corners of the house. It was simple and peaceful.

  They invited her downstairs for a formal tea ceremony quite often, but only when Nick was out of town. Nick had been invited once, but he wasn’t really comfortable. From the minute he had to take his shoes off entering the apartment, she could tell he was uptight. She wasn’t sure if it was the ceremony or something else he didn’t like, either way it upset her.

  She loved the peacefulness of the whole ceremony, the soothing ritual of making and pouring the tea. The quiet Japanese music, the trickling water fountain.

  Bruce worked as a fundraiser at a women’s shelter in Roxbury. Bill played the oboe for the Boston symphony. They were happy in their work and after twenty years of being together, they took the wildly romantic leap of getting married. This amazed her and she loved thinking about what it said regarding the possibility of finding happiness.

  Upstairs in her apartment, she only heard the oboe when she was in the bathroom. If she was feeling sad, which was quite often these days, she put the toilet seat cover down, piled a few towels on top to make it comfortable and sat listening to Bill practice. If sound had a color, the sound of the oboe would be blue. Sometimes she liked to think Bill sensed her sadness through the floorboards and was playing just for her.

  She quietly took off her clothes, dropped them on the floor and crawled into bed without waking Nick. She dreamt of making a bed out of fluffy towels in the bathtub, drifting off to sleep listening to the sad sound of the oboe.

  A B&B IN THE ISLANDS

  In early October at the Ryan house, the leaves on the trees were turning orange, red and yellow. The sun rose later, the light that filtered through the bedroom windows was no longer as bright and warm as it was in the summertime.

  At six a.m., the alarm went off as usual. Ray rolled over, got up and put his slippers
and bathrobe on. He went downstairs to make coffee.

  Sophie turned the shower on and brushed her teeth while waiting for the water to warm up. The strobe light still blinked in the addition, although it was hard to see in the pale early morning light. She hadn’t seen the squirrels in a few weeks. Ray hunted around for babies in the attic rafters, but didn’t find any. She needed to remind him to shut that thing off. She hadn’t checked the electric bill that month, but knew it had to be higher than usual.

  She got dressed and made the bed while watching TV. Rick Perry was talking about keeping the birth certificate thing alive for the fun of it. Sophie turned off the TV, while muttering to herself. “Another stupid jerk from Texas. Obama’s as American as you are. God help us all. Why do they waste our time with this garbage? This is news?”

  Downstairs she made lunches in the kitchen, then went into the living room and folded clothes, while sitting on the couch. Ray was in the recliner dressed in his paint clothes, watching a John Wayne western.

  “So Ray, Jesse's launched, finally we are officially empty nesters. Do you think you could finish the bedroom by Thanksgiving? You’ll have two months, and although the twins never really got to enjoy it while they lived here, it would be nice to have it ready when they come back for the holidays. If we’re really selling the house in the spring, it’s got to be done. The bathrooms need to be finished.” She looked up at the TV. “Hey, can we get some news on here?”

  Ray pointed the remote at the TV, putting the Today Show on. Matt Lauer was interviewing the family with nineteen kids. “Ray, this isn’t news.”

  “Nineteen kids? I would say that’s news. Imagine raising nineteen teenagers. I’d be dead by now.” He turned back to the Western he was watching. “Yeah, I’ll start working on that bedroom.”

  “So you’ll finish the closet and put in the floor?”

  “Well, we have to decide what kind of floor we want. Hardwood, wall to wall carpeting, linoleum.”

  Sophie looked at him incredulously. “Linoleum? Are you serious? I thought we discussed this and said we would go with what’s in the dining room. Yeah linoleum, that’s what I want. That’s really nice in a bedroom, easy to clean. Here you go with the passive aggressive routine again. You know what? I don’t care, you pick. If you want linoleum, fine. I just want a floor.”

  “I didn’t really mean linoleum. I just meant we have to decide.”

  “We did decide. You’re just pulling my chain, avoiding what you have to do. Throwing up roadblocks like you always do. I think you’re leading me on about running a B&B in the islands. You have no intention of really doing it, do you? You want to stay in this house forever, die here and be buried in the backyard.”

  “I’d rather have my ashes scattered in the river.”

  “See.”

  “I’m joking, Sophie. Not about the cremated part though, you know I want to be cremated, right?”

  “Ray, you know I’m thinking about you, too. Do you really want to be climbing ladders at sixty five, struggling to pay the bills and battling with that stupid old snow blower of yours every winter?”

  “Maybe I’ll be able to afford a new snow blower one of these winters.”

  “Oh my God, I can’t tell when you’re teasing me or telling the truth anymore. I don’t know, I just don’t know, maybe I’m crazy, but it makes sense to me to go somewhere and run a B&B. You’ve got the handyman skills. You do plumbing, electricity, carpentry, yard work.”

  “And painting, my specialty, and, yes, you are slightly crazy. Why are you always so difficult?”

  “I could handle the reservations, the accounting, the website. We both love to travel and we cook. We’ll make banana bread for the guests and have happy hour in the evenings with one free drink and an appetizer of the day.”

  “It sounds great, Sophie, and hopefully it will be in the islands, because we love it there.”

  “Yes, and hopefully a French or British island, because they have healthcare. I think the islands fall under those countries' universal healthcare. I’ll Google that at work today.” Sophie carried the basket of folded clothes to the bottom of the stairs then grabbed her things. Heading to the door, she stopped, turning towards Ray. “Oh right, you’re leaving for the golf weekend after work.” She walked over to the recliner, leaned over and kissed Ray on the cheek.

  “I’m sorry I’m so bitchy, honey. It just overwhelms me sometimes. You know we have no retirement, right? I cashed out that 401K when I lost my job, to pay for health insurance, then got slammed with taxes and penalties for early withdrawal. We haven’t contributed to your IRA in years, the last ten years, to be exact. So we’re working to the bitter end. Hey, that’s the name of a resort in the BVI. I wonder if they did the same thing we’re thinking about?” She shook her head, as if she were waking herself up, trying to focus. “Anyway, if we’re working forever, let’s make sure we’re doing something we love. Right?”

  “Right. I’m with you. Believe me. I’m back in the addition next weekend. I love you, too. Relax, do something fun for yourself while I'm gone.”

  ABOUT THE WEEKENDS

  She thought she was much too young for this life she was living. Working in the suburbs at a nine to five job. Living with her boyfriend in what was turning out to be a loveless relationship. She was too young for a loveless relationship. She should be having mad, passionate sex. She wondered if they stayed together out of habit, or maybe insecurity. He said he loved her, but when she asked him why, he didn’t really have a good answer, not the answer she was looking for. Just the other day she asked him, “What is it you love about me?”

  “Ummm. Everything.”

  “Everything, like what? Give me something specific.”

  “Your smile. You can be very funny. I like your sense of humor, although you could lay off on the sarcasm once in awhile.”

  “That is my sense of humor. Sarcasm and irony are two of my favorite things.”

  “I don’t really get the irony part.” She arched her eyebrow at him and dropped the subject.

  Nick thought they should be saving money to buy a condominium. He set up a savings plan for them. It included splurging for dinner at a restaurant on the last Friday of each month. He said it would be something to look forward to.

  “Who gets to pick where we eat?” she asked.

  “We’ll take turns.”

  “Can’t we do this every week? Once a month seems kind of harsh.”

  He always picked the Italian restaurant around the corner from their apartment. He liked the fact that it was close to home. “I’m tired at the end of the week. I don’t want to have to go far just to eat out,” he said.

  “That’s why I thought Saturday was a good idea.”

  “But don’t you think it’s nice not to have to cook when you get home from work on a Friday?”

  “Yes, and that is why I also thought every Friday would be a good idea.”

  “We’ll never get a condo doing that.” Nick was getting exasperated with her.

  “Why do we want a condo? The housing market is dismal. Some economists say it’s better to rent right now.”

  “Dismal? Are you reading Krugman again? I told you the Wall Street Journal has a better editorial page than the Times.”

  “Hey, Krugman was right about the housing bubble.”

  He always ordered the veal marsala or the chicken saltimbocca, alternating each month. She tried something different each time, but worried if she stayed with him long enough she would end up having to order the Roman style tripe in red sauce. An adventurous eater, she liked most things, but drew the line at cow stomach.

  When it was her turn to pick the restaurant, she chose something different each month. Thai, Sushi, Lebanese. This past month she chose an Ethiopian restaurant in the South End. “The South End? What time are we having dinner?” he whined.

  “It’s not that far, just the Green Line into town. I actually think it’s closer to the theatre district, so it’s not far fro
m the Copley Square station. I’ll Google the directions at work today.”

  “What kind of food is this? Isn’t there a famine in Ethiopia?”

  Needless to say, the evening didn’t go well. It was a snowy Friday night in late January. When she checked the website, she saw it was quite far from the T-stop. She suggested they drive, knowing he would complain about the walk, especially in the snow. Instead he complained about the parking. It took them twenty minutes of driving around to find a parking space.

  She loved the restaurant the minute they stepped in the door. The room was filled with colorful rugs and wicker baskets. They were seated on low footstools at a short round wicker table, the top of the table a round basket with low sides, the food served in the basket, family style.

  “We don’t get plates?” He sounded like a little boy fussing and complaining.

  “You use this bread as your plate.” She held up a piece of soft bread with little holes in it.

  Disgusted, he said, “It looks like a sea sponge you’d find at the bottom of the ocean. How do we get the food onto the bread?”

  “You use your hands.” She picked up some chicken and rolled it up in the bread. “This is really delicious.” The chicken was spicy with sweet hints of cardamom and nutmeg. She braced herself for his response, knowing he wasn’t going to like it.

  Later that evening, he made himself a peanut butter sandwich and watched the Celtics game. He barely ate the food at the restaurant and sat most of the evening like a sullen child waiting for her to finish. All night he talked about an audit in Dallas that would require him to be gone every week in February and most likely through March. He might even have to stay some weekends.

  She didn’t tell him she had been to the restaurant before. She didn’t tell him she ate out quite often when he was traveling, meeting friends from college, or people she worked with who also lived in the city. Sometimes she stayed on the North Shore after work and went out with her friend Dan from accounting and the guys in the IT department. She justified it by telling herself he ate out when he was traveling for business, but she knew he would point out that his dinners were on the company’s expense account, and she was spending money she should be saving for the all-important condominium.