Who You Know

by Theresa Alan

  “No problem.”

  Eleanore burst into the lunch kitchen, all smiles. “I just got my hair touched up.” Her voice was as welcome as the shrill of an alarm clock in the middle of a deep sleep.

  I nodded but said nothing.

  “It’s so funny,” Eleanore said, “because as I’ve gotten older I’ve watched all my friends’ hair get lighter and lighter. But I was already blond, so it’s not that big a change for me.”

  Paige said quietly, “I was thinking of getting my hair dyed the color of Margarette’s hair. What do you think? I think your hair is gorgeous, Margarette. I read somewhere that tons of women are dying their hair to get the shade of red you have naturally.”

  Eleanore offered what was probably supposed to be a smile but looked more like the expression of someone charged with changing a particularly rancid diaper. “I’m sure that would be lovely,” she said. Eleanore got her Tupperware dish out of the refrigerator, and with a curt nod, exited the kitchen.

  At once, my mood improved considerably. I didn’t even bother to hide my smile.

  AVERY

  The Bullshit Hits the Fan

  Sharon never got back to me about my request to pursue new challenges. Instead, Monday morning, the first e-mail I read had the subject line “Congratulations, Jen!” It was sent from Sharon to the entire office, and it announced that Jen would be the interim manager while Sharon was on maternity leave.

  I called Les’s extension and asked him if he could meet me outside by the picnic table.

  I slipped on my coat and went outside to wait for him. I didn’t know how to handle his declaration of love for me, so I decided to ignore it. I hoped he wouldn’t bring it up again and everything would be the way it had been between us.

  I watched Les come outside and cross over the yard to the bench where I sat.

  “What’s up?” he asked.

  “Did you get the e-mail?”

  “What e-mail?”

  “Sharon announced today that Jen, who never does any work, gets to take over for Sharon while she’s on maternity leave. I can’t believe this place.” I waited for Les to say something, anything to make me feel better, but he didn’t. “So don’t you have any reaction?”

  “I’m sorry you didn’t get the job. You deserved it.”

  “Les, what’s up? Is something wrong?”

  “Avery, I can’t do this.”

  “Do what?”

  “I can’t just pretend I don’t have any feelings for you. I just can’t be your buddy. This is too painful. I love you, Avery. I’ve never met anyone like you.”

  “What are you saying, that we can’t be friends anymore?”

  “I hope we can be friends again. I just need some space. I can’t talk to you or see you for a while. I’m sorry.”

  “What about our dance lessons? What about yoga?”

  “I’m sorry, you’ll have to go by yourself. I can’t see you for a while.” Les walked inside, leaving me alone in the cold.

  After work, I came home and made myself a tofu and broccoli stir-fry and listened to the very loud silence of the phone not ringing. I ate dinner, listening to myself crunch. Eight o’clock, nine o’clock, and still no word from Les. He couldn’t be serious about not talking to me, could he? For the last month, Les and I had talked on the phone or gotten together every night, often talking for hours at a time. I kept thinking of stuff I wanted to tell him. Plus, I really needed to talk to someone about this Jen thing. I obviously couldn’t call Jen or Rette. Mom would listen, but she wouldn’t really understand.

  I picked up the phone. I set it down again. He would get over me soon enough, right? He’d find someone else and then we could be friends again. Of course if he found someone else, he’d be busy with her all the time, and I’d be in the exact same place I was now.

  At a little after noon the next day, I was approaching Pam’s office to pick her up for lunch when I heard Mark’s sharp voice.

  “The deadline was Monday. That was five days ago. We can’t wait any longer!”

  She said calmly, “Mark, Expert hasn’t approved the copy yet.”

  “It’s your job to see that they do.”

  “I sent it to them three weeks ago. I’ve followed up three times this week, gently reminding them that the deadline was Monday, but if they don’t approve the copy, we can’t go live with it. They are the client; if they don’t have time to approve it just now, we have to accept that.”

  “You’re just going to have to give me what you’ve got. We can’t wait any longer because you can’t meet your deadlines.”

  “But what if Expert has changes? Won’t that just be more work for your programmers to have to put it up and then replace it with new text?” she said calmly.

  “Yes, but I don’t see that we have any choice.”

  “Okay, I’ll e-mail you what I have. I’ll give Expert another call and see if I can impart the urgency of the situation.”

  Mark stormed out of the office, nearly barreling into me.

  I apologized even though it wasn’t my fault. He rolled his eyes.

  “That sounded fun,” I said to Pam.

  “He’s a little passionate, but at least he cares,” she laughed.

  “Do you have time for lunch?”

  “No, but I never have time for anything. I do need to eat. I’ve really been looking forward to catching up with you.”

  We went to a deli nearby. I told her over sandwiches and chips that I’d be interested in moving into her department if there were any openings. I told her I enjoyed writing and reworking the research reports, and I’d love to do something a little more creative like write copy.

  “I don’t have a ton of experience in writing, but I’ve been reading up on writing persuasive copy,” I said. “I’ve kept a journal for years. I wrote for my school paper in high school. I know that’s not much, but I did enjoy it. And I read a lot.”

  “I don’t have any openings right now, but I’d be happy to give you a shot at writing a brochure. Writing copy isn’t easy. Unlike graphic design or computer programming, everybody thinks they can do it, and they’re not shy about letting you know their opinions. But if you’re serious about it, I think you’d be great.”

  “I’d love some new challenges. I haven’t been doing a very good job of moving up the ladder here, and I don’t quite understand what I’m doing wrong. I work hard. I have good people skills. I’ve been here as long as Sharon has, but she keeps getting promotions so much faster than me.”

  Pam studied her sandwich. She looked like she felt guilty about something.

  “What?” I prodded.

  “Of course I didn’t work here at the time—” she began, “but I’ve heard that Morgan’s had some concerns about you since you sent a brochure to the printer without his approval? Apparently there were some errors in it, and it turned out to be quite an expensive mistake. He expressed some concerns that maybe you weren’t a team player.”

  “What are you talking about? I never—wait, do you mean the time Sharon sent a brochure to the printer without his permission?”

  “That’s not the way I heard it.”

  I felt sick to my stomach. Suddenly, it all made sense. Why Sharon had been promoted ahead of me: She’d pinned the brochure debacle on me. For four years, Morgan had thought I’d deliberately thwarted his authority. Morgan rarely had occasion to work with me directly. He spent far more time with Sharon, who could tell him anything she wanted to about me, and obviously did. She could, say, take credit for work that I did. And I let her get away with it.

  I spent the afternoon in a daze. When I got home and unlocked the door to my apartment, I paused for a moment, looking at the empty, quiet rooms. I couldn’t face another long evening alone.

  I had to talk to someone. Les was the only one who would understand. I’d feel better if I could talk to him. But he’d been avoiding me at work.

  I missed him. I missed our friendship. I missed talking to him and hanging out wit
h him.

  I picked up the phone and dialed his number. I got his voice mail. Was he really not there or was he screening his calls? “Hi Les, it’s Avery. I really want to talk to you.”

  He didn’t call back. I went to bed around midnight, but didn’t sleep. My spirit felt bruised.

  I went to work the next day bleary-eyed and groggy. As soon as I walked in the door, Mary charged toward me, stopping me in my tracks.

  “Did you hear?” she asked.

  “Hear what?”

  “They fired Pam. They’re making her take the fall for Expert backing out of us doing their Web site.”

  “Pam? It wasn’t her fault IT was late in development.”

  “Mark said she was behind on the copy, which delayed the rest.”

  “But Mark could have done the initial specs and storyboards without the copy . . .”

  “I saw Pam with her box of stuff going down the elevator,” Mary interrupted. “It was so awkward. I just wanted to die. It’s so sad, isn’t it?” she said, not looking at all upset about it. “I guess that’s the way it goes sometimes.”

  JEN

  I’ll Drink to That

  Mike wanted to take me out to celebrate, but the prospect of spending the night with him was about as desirable as getting my clitoris pierced. (What is that about anyway?)

  Anyway, I had a bajillion presents to wrap. I got a quart of light eggnog and a bottle of rum and spread the presents, wrapping paper, tape, scissors, and ribbons out in front of me. To save calories, I poured drinks that were more rum with a splash of eggnog than vice versa, but it was festive nonetheless. I hadn’t bothered to do a whole Christmas tree deal, but I did adorn my living room with sparkling lights.

  I held my glass up to toast myself. “To more money and new adventures.” I drained my glass. Actually, I didn’t get a raise right away, but it would come. I did have more power at least. I could see myself as a managerial dominatrix: “Get that report on my desk by five!” Whitcha! My whip would crack across their desks.

  The phone rang. I looked at the clock. 9:45. “Hello?”

  “Hey, babe, how are you?”

  For a moment, I wasn’t sure who it was. I knew it wasn’t Mike, and I didn’t think it was Tom. Then I knew: Dave.

  “I’m good. How are you?”

  “I miss you.”

  My heart didn’t race. In fact, I felt a little annoyed. I knew exactly how this was going to go: He’d ask to come over, we’d have sex, and then he’d leave and I wouldn’t hear from him again for weeks. “Guess what? I got a promotion.”

  “Congratulations. That’s great. Can I come over? I’ll bring champagne, we can celebrate.”

  “No, Dave, you can’t come over.”

  “Are you busy? Is someone there?”

  “I am busy, but that’s not why you can’t come over. We’ve been broken up for almost five months now. You can’t call me whenever you get horny and expect me to do cartwheels over the chance to see you.”

  “Jesus, what’s up your ass? If you don’t want to see me that’s cool, you don’t have to be all bitchy about it. Merry fucking Christmas.” With that, he hung up. Hung up! On me. What a jackass.

  But whatever, it had taken me five years, but he was out of my life now, and that was the important thing.

  The phone rang again, and I figured it was Dave calling back to say something bitchy, so I let the machine pick it up.

  “Hey Jen, I heard the good news! Congratulations!” It was Rette.

  I picked up. “Thanks!”

  “Oh, hi. So, I hear you’ll be the big woman on campus while Sharon is gone. I’m so happy for you. You deserve it. You worked hard for it.”

  “Thanks. I’m excited. It feels good.”

  “Are you drinking?”

  “I’m celebrating.”

  “By yourself?”

  “Yeah. So?”

  She didn’t say anything.

  “So do you have a point or what?” I said.

  “I just—when’s the last time you went a night without drinking?”

  I thought for a second. I couldn’t remember. “I don’t know.”

  “Jen, I’m worried you might have a problem.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean I think you may be an alcoholic.”

  “What the fuck? God, can’t you just be happy for me? Are you so jealous of me that you have to insult me like that? God, you are such a buzzkill.”

  “Jen, I’m very happy for you. I’m just worried about you. You’ve been drinking so much lately. Alcoholism runs in the family, you know.”

  “Nobody in our family is an alcoholic.”

  “Except Mom and her father, Grandpa Bob.”

  “What? What are you talking about?”

  “I’ve been worried about Mom’s drinking since high school, so in college I did a report on alcoholism to learn more about it. I did a lot of reading and research and interviewed a rehab counselor. I asked him whether someone who comes home every night and promptly makes a martini and then two or three more and spends every night in a hazy blur of alcohol was an alcoholic, and he said yes. He said the person is a high-functioning alcoholic, which means they can hold down a job—often a high-status one—and they can get wasted every night but still keep things together enough to keep their job and family and a house—at least for a while, unless things get worse. I also asked Mom if anyone in our extended family drank too much, and she said her dad was a raging alcoholic. He got four DUIs back in the days when you could rack up DUIs like trophies and never spend a day in jail.”

  “Huh. Well whatever. I’m fine, Rette. I’ve just been going through some tough times. I know I’ve been drinking too much, but I’ll stop. Why did I never notice that Mom had a problem?”

  “I don’t know, maybe because you’re a self-absorbed bitch?”

  “Oh yeah, right. So, did you ever confront Mom?”

  “Yeah. She nearly tore my head off, telling me to mind my own business and that I should concentrate on my own problems and take a look in the mirror and lose thirty pounds—those were her exact words. It was a fun night altogether.”

  “So you thought you’d piss me off too?”

  “What am I going to do? Watch my little sister drink herself into the grave? You’re a pain in the ass, but you’re the only sister I’ve got.”

  I knew Rette was right that I’d been drinking too much, but I’d deal with it just like I dealt with my weight: I’d just be stricter with myself. I’d never have more than a drink or two at a time.

  Even though Sharon hadn’t left yet, work was already a lot more stressful. Sharon was giving me all her work, and I was already too busy to get my own done.

  I left the office at seven, too late to catch a Tae Bo class. I got home from work full of restless energy. I paced around the room feeling wired and edgy.

  I called Rette and Avery, and they agreed to meet me at the Mountain Sun for some dinner. It was kind of a granola place, but they had great—oh shit, they had great beer.

  It’s fine, it’s okay, I could go there and not order a beer.

  Forty-five minutes later, when the waiter came and asked if we wanted anything to drink I think, I don’t want any skanky tap water, I’ll get a beer, but just one. I’ll nurse it for the whole night. Rette gave me a look. I ignored her.

  “I am so bored,” I said to Rette and Avery after the waiter, a skinny white guy with a scruffy beard and Rastafarian dreadlocks halfway down his back, left. “I just don’t know what to do with myself without Dave. When I was living with Dave, we were always going out, going to the bars to play pool or darts or hanging out with friends. We were always having people over or going to our friends’ places. I’ve just never faced all these empty nights by myself before.”

  “Can’t you still hang out with those friends?” Avery asked.

  “I lost them in the breakup. They were mostly Dave’s friends from when he worked as a ski instructor or bartender. I never really ma
de my own friends here.”

  “Maybe you can join a book club or a pottery class,” Avery offered.

  “A book club? Pottery? Yeah, that’d be a big no.” The waiter brought our food. Rette had a veggie burrito. Avery had a vegetable sandwich, and I had a salad with light Italian dressing.

  “I’m having a thirty-and-a-half crises,” Avery said.

  “Say what?” I said.

  “When I turned thirty, everyone asked me if I was upset about it, and I wasn’t. Everyone said they had their crises at thirty-one or thirty-five or forty or whatever, as if a crisis were inevitable. They weren’t happy with the way their lives were going, and whatever birthday they were having during this tumultuous time in their life was just this milestone that made them stop and reflect on their lives, and that’s what brought on the crisis. Well, yesterday it was my half birthday, and I realized that I failed in my dream of being a dancer, my dream marriage was a disaster, and in general my life is a huge flop.”

  “Avery, I think you’ve been hanging out with me and Jen too much. You’ve become a total downer,” Rette said.

  “I just don’t understand these feelings I’m feeling,” Avery said.

  “It’s called depression. You’re just not used to it, but I know all about it,” Rette said. “Still, your melancholy is like my ecstatically happy.”

  I went to take a sip of my beer and realized it was empty. Shit. How’d that happen? Where was the waiter? What was I supposed to do, die of thirst?

  I tried to concentrate on the conversation, but I was dying for another beer. Finally the waiter came back and asked if I wanted a refill.

  “Yeah, please.”

  “Avery, just a couple weeks ago you were telling me that I had my whole life ahead of me and I could do whatever I wanted with my life. Hello? Sound familiar?” Rette said.

  “Yes, but the thing is, how can I do whatever I want with my life when I don’t know what it is I want to do?”

  As promised, I limited myself to two beers, but by the time we were done talking, the nice buzz I had worked up was wearing off. I was starting to feel edgy again. I stopped at the liquor store for a pint of Absolut Citron, but not to get drunk or anything; I just needed a little help falling asleep.