These Boots Weren't Made for Walking

by Melody Carlson

  So the four of us head over to the gym, which is improvising as a dance floor tonight, and when the DJ begins the next song, which I'm glad to hear is a fast number, we go out and attempt to dance. Despite those teeth, Cowboy Bob looks pretty good in his boots and leather vest, but he is not much of a dancer. Still, we make an attempt. By the end of the song (and a few dumb jokes from me), he seems to loosen up some. We dance another one, but when a slow song comes on, I tell him that I'd like a break, that I'm thirsty. He seems relieved.

  “What do you do?” he asks as we sip some kind of green and ghoulish punch that Cindy, the red-headed receptionist, now disguised as Lily Munster, dipped out of a big, black cauldron.

  I give him my minibiography about getting my MBA and working in marketing for a few years before deciding to reinvent myself. Eager to change the subject, I inquire about him.

  TmaCPA.”

  “An accountant?” I say stupidly. Like what did I think—maybe he's certified public astronaut

  He nods. “Yes. I work for Warren and Wesley.”

  “The bookkeeping place,” I say. “I've seen their office on Main Street.”

  “Most people think it's kind of boring work,” he says, “but I like it.”

  I nod. “Its good to do what you like.”

  “What do you like?” he asks. “I mean, as far as work goes?”

  “That's what I'm trying to figure out,” I admit. Then I hear a fast-paced song starting, and I decide that dancing might be preferable to talking, at least with this guy. “Want to dance some more?”

  He smiles shyly. “Sure. That was kind of fun.”

  I wave at Emma, the lonely bowling ball, as we head back to the gym. I'm surprised she's still here. Her offer of escaping this scene for food is starting to sound better than spending the evening dancing and chatting with Cowboy Bob, the accountant.

  As we're dancing to a goofy disco tune, Bob's mustache tumbles from his upper lip and is about to be trampled underfoot. As he touches his upper lip with a worried look, I decide to rescue the furry little thing that resembles a fat caterpillar. I bend down to pick it up, and I hear a loud ripping sound behind me. This is not good. Nor is it good that this sound is immediately followed by a rush of cool air on my hind end. I stand up straight, putting one hand behind me to feel the seat of my dad's old baseball britches. Sure enough, they've split right down the middle.

  I hand Bob his fake iriustache and excuse myself, backing away from him with both hands holding on to the seat of my pants. Then, realizing that spectators might also be behind me, I turn around just in time to see Catwoman and the Flying Ace and several others loitering near the entrance to the dance area. And I can tell by their semishocked, semipitying expressions, they've witnessed the whole pants-splitting thing.

  I'm sure my face is crimson as I shoot out of there still clutching my bottom. I spot Emma, the forlorn bowling ball, rolling toward the exit. I imagine the double doors turning into pins that she will knock down, with me barreling through right behind her. I rush toward her, still holding the seat of my pants, and call her name.

  “What's wrong?” she asks as I practically shove her out the door.

  “Can I catch a ride with you?” I ask breathlessly.

  She catches her balance and stares at me in wonder as I explain my unfortunate incident in colorful detail. Before long we're both laughing about it.

  “I'm guessing you don't want to get something to eat now.”

  “I just need to go home,” I say desperately.

  “No problem.”

  Once I'm safely in my driveway, I thank Emma for the ride, then go straight into the house and make a beeline to the full-length mirror in my room so I can survey the damage—not to the pants so much as to my ego. Is it even possible to still have an ego when your backside looks like this? The baseball pants have a vertical split that runs all the way from the waistband to the crotch. To make matters worse—or maybe not when you consider the coverage I was getting—I'm wearing an ugly pair of light blue granny panties. Why do I even try?

  spend all day Sunday lying low, hoping the town will forget about my granny-panties-clad derriere making such an unexpected appearance at the Black Bear Fitness Club Halloween party. My mother assures me that no one even noticed. Yeah, right!

  But by Monday I know I need to get serious about my can-do plan. First I call and report the credit-card fraud. This takes longer than I expected and involves filling out some forms, which I arrange to have faxed to my mom. The woman I speak to says that these cases rarely get resolved and that I shouldn't assume that Monica's real last name is Johnson. Duh. Then, despite the pain of almost emptying my checking account and saying good-bye to my severance pay, I pay off the Valentino boots and most of the credit-card bill, telling myself that one way or another Monica Johnson is going to make good on this.

  Thinking of Monica reminds me of Will. I wonder how he's doing, whether he got a good restaurant job, and if my little recommendation helped at all. I wonder if he got his cell phone reconnected and am tempted to call the number he gave me, but what would I say? That I've managed to do practically nothing since I got home? Still, it would be good to hear his voice. Without giving it any more consideration, I punch in his number. To my utter surprise, he answers.

  “Uh, Will,” I say, wishing I hadn't done this. “Hey, this is Cassidy.”

  “Oh, hi, Cassidy. What's up?”

  “Not much. I just wondered how you're doing.”

  “Great, actually. But I'm at work right now. Not a good time to talk.”

  “So you got a job?”

  “I did. Thanks for writing that recommendation.”

  “I'm so glad for you.”

  “Life going well for you too?”

  “Uh, sure. Things are great.”

  “It's good to hear your voice. I wish I could talk—”

  “That's okay, Will. I'm just glad to know everything worked out for you.”

  “Thanks, Cassidy. Catch you later, okay?”

  “Yeah, sure.”

  I hang up and try not to feel envious that Will has a life. I mean, really, I'm glad. He's a great guy. It's very cool that he has a job. I don't know why I assumed that he'd be like me, stuck in a slump. His life is on track. He's moving on. Well, good for him.

  Staring at my sorry bank balance drives home the point: I need to follow Will's example and get a job too. So I set up my laptop computer and printer and update my resume, which is pretty impressive, if you ask me. Then I pour another cup of coffee and sit down to scour the classifieds in search of something that suits my educational training and experience. But all I find are ads like “wait staff needed for weekends and evenings” or “cashier for convenience market, experienced only” or “money-making opportunity for motivated salespersons,” which smells like telemarketing to me. Finally I fold the newspaper and decide I must try another tack. I get out the skinny local phone book and start to list any businesses that might need a marketing guru, which is what I've decided I am. Of course, my list is pitifully short and not very promising. Eventually I wad it up and toss it into the trash. What was I thinking when I moved back here? How can I possibly make a decent living in a town this size? And I can't keep living with Mom. Not only is it humiliating to have to admit that I live with my mother, but it's frustrating to witness her social life, which is much more highly evolved than mine.

  Despite my optimistic can-do plan, I'm afraid that it's useless to attempt to accomplish it in this town. And even if I did get a job here, I still don't have a car to get me back and forth from work once the weather snaps, which it will soon. Oh, Mom would probably loan me the down payment, but what's the point if I end up working at the Dairy Queen or 7-Eleven?

  To fight off the gloomy cloud of depression that's settling over me, I decide to at least stick to my regimen of walking. I even consider walking to the fitness center and having a nice long swim, but the idea of seeing someone who saw my behind at the costume party d
eters me. I wonder if I'll ever be able to show my face there again. Maybe I should take Penny up on her offer to work out with me. If I stick around, that is, which seems increasingly unlikely.

  Its crispy cold outside, but the air is invigorating. I walk briskly, striding down familiar streets and crunching autumn leaves under my feet. I could get used to this rural sort of lifestyle. As much as I tried to convince myself I was a city girl, part of me likes the slower pace here. Still, it's no good without a job. It's even less good without a social life. And it wouldn't hurt to have a boyfriend either! This leads me to think of Todd again, which is totally ridiculous. My chances of winning the lottery are probably better than my chances with him. And so, with all these things against me, I decide that it's poindess to stick around. As soon as I get home, I'll go online and do a national search on one of those job-finding Web sites, and I'll take the best thing that pops up, no matter where it is.

  Even as I make this decision, I feel a lump growing in my throat. I feel so lost—more lost than I've ever been in my life. More lost than anyone should be at the age of thirty-one, an age when most people are really starting to get it together. The thirties are supposed to be the decade when your career takes off, the years you become financially stable, maybe even get a BMW or something along those lines. It's a time to buy real estate and settle down with the one you love and start a family. Of course, these sad thoughts are underscored as I walk through a quiet family neighborhood. I see neat little houses with bikes in the yards and moms loading complaining kids into minivans, and moms walking with strollers toward the litde city park. And I feel so sad, so robbed. Life is so unfair. It's not that I want to be stuck at home with a couple of kids, but it's not that I don't either. Frankly, I don't know what I want. I just know that I don't want this. I don't want my life.

  As I turn back toward home, I feel tears streaking my face again. I'm having a pity party of one. But it's my business, and if I want to cry, so what? There's no one around to see me. Even if there were, it couldn't be a worse humiliation than I experienced on Halloween.

  I feel so desperate that all I want is to give up. I know the only thing that can really help me at times like this is to pray. I also know, despite the confident claim I made to Eric, that I've been pushing God further and further away since my life fell apart. Even though I thought about going to Gary Frye's church yesterday, I couldn't make myself do it. The truth is, I've been secretly mad at God. Maybe I subconsciously thought I could do a better job of putting my life back together than he would. It wasn't like he did such a great job before, when I was following his direction—-at least that's what I thought I was doing. Suddenly I'm not sure. I'm not sure of anything except that my life has fallen apart, and I'm falling apart with it.

  And so, feeling totally directionless, I decide as I turn the corner toward my house (really my mom's house) to ask God to intervene. I confess to him that I've been mad, that I'm hurting, and that I'm not doing such a great job. If he has a better plan, I ask, won't he please, please reveal it to me? I don't know what more to say. I know I'm groveling, but I figure God's used to that sort of thing. And maybe he wants us to grovel sometimes. Maybe we get too full of ourselves, and maybe he wants to remind us who's really boss.

  It's noon by the time I get home, and Mom's pretty car is in the driveway. I'm not eager for her to see me looking so miserable, since it only seems to frustrate her. So as I go inside, I wipe my wet face and decide I'll tell her that the chilly air made my eyes water and turned my cheeks red.

  “Cassie!” She looks happy to see me. “I was hoping I'd find you. You'll never guess what happened.”

  “You sold another house?”

  “Well, possibly. But that's not what I'm talking about. This has to do with you.”

  “What?” I feel a faint flicker of hope.

  “I had coffee with Ross Goldberg this morning.” She smiles mysteriously.

  “Let me guess,” I offer. “He proposed marriage to you, and he wants to adopt me and give me a million dollars as a—”

  “No, silly! But he might want to give you a job.”

  “Yeah, right.” I roll my eyes as I remember the selection of low-level jobs at Black Bear Butte. “What, as a lift attendant? Or maybe I can work at the snack bar in the lodge. I can sling a mean bowl of chili.”

  “No, not anything like that, Cassie. He needs a marketing consultant. He said he's ready to take the ski resort to the next level. He's made lots of improvements and wants to see some money coming back in. He thinks he needs a really good marketing campaign, and I told him you might be just the one to do it.”

  I feel my eyes light up. “Really?”

  “Yes! Isn't that wonderful?”

  I nod without speaking, remembering my prayer of moments ago.

  “Of course, you'll have to interview with him and—”

  “I just printed out my resume,” I tell her.

  “Perfect.”

  “Uh, was Ross at the party Saturday night?” I ask uncomfortably “I mean, do you think he saw the, uh, spectacle I made of myself?”

  She laughs. “Really, sweetie, almost no one noticed. And Ross was not there. He doesn't even belong to the fitness center. He has this great workout room in his home.”

  “You've been to his home?”

  She looks slightly uncomfortable. “Well, yes. At one point he was thinking of listing it. I think that's the first time I saw it.”

  “So you've been there more than once?”

  “Well, we're friends, Cassie. You know that.”

  “So is it your friendship that made him think up this marketing job?”

  “No,” she says, “not at all. We were just chatting, and he mentioned needing to do something. And I told him about your background. He didn't even know.”

  “And he really wants to talk to me?”

  “Of course.”

  “So what do I do? Should I call him or what?”

  “Call his assistant.” She pulls a business card out of her jacket pocket. “Her name is Marge, and she'll set it up.”

  I hug Mom. “Thanks! This is so cool.”

  “And, honey?”

  “Yeah?”

  “You should probably wear something nice—you know, businesslike. Ross is from the old school. He likes people to look professional.”

  I try not to feel insulted. “Mom,” I say in a tone that sounds like I'm fifteen again, “I know how to dress for business. I have a pretty decent professional wardrobe that I haven't even unpacked yet.

  “Well, you do have a nice pair of boots,” she admits with a twinkle in her eye.

  I scowl at her. “And I have some nice things to go with them.” I don't tell her that those nice things have probably kept me from having a bigger savings account and a car. “Uh, Mom,” I venture, “I'm guessing I'll have to go to Black Bear Butte for the interview, right?”

  She nods as she thumbs through the mail.

  “Well, I don't have a car.”

  She looks up at me and frowns. “That's right.” She thinks for a moment. “I suppose I could loan you mine.”

  I can't help but grin at the thought of being behind the wheel of that hot litde car. “I'd be super careful with it.”

  She nods but doesn't look totally convinced. “Maybe if you get the job, we should look into getting you transportation of your own.”

  “Well, if I get the job, I could probably afford a car.”

  By the afternoon I have an appointment with Ross on Thursday at two. This motivates me to swallow my pride and head to the fitness center. My short-term goal is to work out every day before this interview, as well as to eat right. I also plan to unpack my working clothes, do some laundry, and visit the dry cleaners, and I might even get my long hair cut into something more stylish and flattering. I'm not exactly ready for that makeover Mom would like me to have, but I plan to do everything I can to spiff up my image. At the moment, it's not terribly impressive.

  I wouldn't s
ay that I'm a new woman by Thursday, but I'm off to a pretty good start. With my mom's encouragement and financial backing, I made an appointment with her hairdresser, Crystal. On Tuesday I got my long hair cut into layers that curl softly around my face and stop at my shoulders. Then Crystal highlighted it with auburn, something I've never even considered. But I like it. I saw Emma at the fitness center yesterday, and she said my new do makes my face look thinner. Then, after my haircut, Crystal introduced me to a “beauty associate,” Gloria, who's the local makeup guru, and I made an appointment with her for the next day. Gloria gave me some basic pointers and sold me some cant-live-without items, which I had to use my Visa to purchase, but I'm sure it's all worth it. The overall effect is quite an improvement. Plus it made my mom happy.

  Thursday morning I meet the day with a brand-new optimism. I go to the fitness center as usual, then hurry home to get ready for the interview at Black Bear Butte.

  Knowing that Ross Goldberg is a man of discerning taste, I realize I must dress as impeccably as possible. I'm going with businesslike chic. For the chic part, I choose the Valentino boots. The Ralph Lauren tweed suit should do the rest. I realize this combination could be risky because it rendered me jobless last time. But, really, I can't blame these innocent clothes for that. I'm not superstitious.

  Even so, I feel anxious as I drive Mom's beautiful car up to the ski resort. My nervousness is partly due to the fact I'm not that great a driver. We had a dusting of snow this morning, and I'm worried the roads may be slick. Consequently I'm driving like a grandma.

  Even more than that, I'm nervous about this interview. I'm a litde inexperienced when it comes to interviews. I mean, I haven't interviewed since I got out of college. And then I had only two interviews before I landed my previous job. So when it comes to impressing a potential boss, I feel pretty clueless. On one hand, I could blow my own horn, but that might make me look like a conceited show-off. On the other hand, I could act teachable and eager to learn everything about the ski-resort biz, but I don't want to come across as ignorant. Finally I decide that a combo might be my best bet.