Bernadine feels a sense of calmness inside. Xanax has never made her feel this way.
“Anything else you can think of?” he asks.
“No. Except. Thank you, again.”
“You’re quite welcome. It’s the least I can do.”
Is That Your Final Answer?
I’ve been having a fantastic pity party. I’m on day three. Tomorrow it ends. I’m suffering in bed because I feel worthless. I even think my soul hurts. I’m not sure yet if this sauvignon blanc is helping, but I’m giving this bottle the opportunity to lift my spirits. I can’t remember how to tell if you’re drunk or not. Savannah is coming over sometime this evening so I’m trying very hard to pace myself. I’m also watching Halle Berry in Catwoman. I would kill for her body and those cheek-bones. Bitch. Whoops! Not supposed to say that anymore. Huzzie!
I’ve been trying to read What Should I Do with My Life? by that fine-ass Po Bronson. Now that’s a white boy I would go out with. Maybe he could help me find another job. He did say something I thought was deep and totally agree with. Po said: “We want to know where we’re headed—not to spoil our own ending by ruining the surprise, but we want to ensure that when the ending comes, it won’t be shallow. We will have done something. We will not have squandered our time here.”
I don’t mind doing a little squandering today. Sometimes you need a break from the pressures of the real world. This is why I bought two bottles of this blanco. On top of trying to find a new direction for my life, I figured I could also be entertained. I’m surrounded by a sea of novels I’ve been meaning to read since forever: What You Owe Me, Soul Kiss, Discretion, You Know Better, A Love of My Own and Understand This. But where to start? I don’t know. You can get a lot of inspiration from books. First, you actually have to read them. What is Halle doing out on that ledge? Trying to save a cat? Is she crazy? I can’t remember how long it takes her to turn into Catwoman. I do not have all night. That’s not true. I do. I’m bored. For the hundredth time today. I wish I could concentrate on something for more than a few minutes. I fast-forward Halle a few scenes, then decide to watch TV until it gets to the good part. I saw bits and pieces of this movie with Sparrow and of course she had to narrate.
I’m still in my pajamas and I’m glad Sparrow’s out with her friends and not practicing the violin, which would probably send me right over the edge this evening. It’s so melancholy. I’m also glad she understands that her mom’s been feeling a little purple since she got axed. And I just need to play this all the way out before I get it back together. She’s never seen me like this although she seems to enjoy taking care of me. I can’t eat her so-called cooking. I also haven’t had much of an appetite. I’ve had oatmeal and raisins for breakfast and lunch. I have self-pity for dinner.
I wish Savannah would hurry up and get here so I can tell her I’m not going to Paris with her. I don’t want to be a burden. I know she was just feeling sorry for me. Well, maybe not sorry. She was caught up in the moment and, because she cares about me, opened her big mouth and invited me. I bet it was probably a matter of hours before she called Bernie up and said: “Girl, I think I made a major mistake.” And then Bernie would have asked her: “How?” And Savannah probably said, “I opened my big fucking mouth and invited Robin to go to Paris with me because she sounded so pathetic right after she got fired.” Savannah made it crystal clear on Blockbuster Night she didn’t want anybody going over there with her.
I don’t need to spend money for a vacation when I don’t have any coming in. Thanks to my dad, I’m somewhat set up, but I need to know what it feels like to be frugal. I spend way too much money on bullshit. Plus, Savannah didn’t say a thing about my staying in that apartment with her. I wasn’t about to ask. Everybody knows how expensive hotels are all over Europe.
I stare at the television and here comes yet another commercial about a cure for suffering from something. I take a tiny sip of my wine instead of a long slow one. Yes, I wanted to change jobs. One day. Yes, I did my job by rote. No, I wasn’t challenged. Yes, I’m worried about how I want to spend the rest of my life. No, I haven’t thought that far ahead. Of course I’m probably supposed to look at this as some kind of blessing. I’m not feeling it. Of course things happen for a reason and this is probably a chance for me to reevaluate what I might really enjoy doing. As of this moment, I have yet to think of anything that would lift my skirt.
If I see one more commercial for Viagra, I swear to God, I might just go out and find me a guy who’s been stricken with all the side effects, because at this point, I’d take a sixty-year-old blind deaf-mute on Viagra with a four-hour erection, three or four times a month, and call it a fucking day. How lucky could a woman get?
This wine is good.
What is going on? This is like the third or fourth or fifth commercial for an antidepressant I’ve seen tonight. As a matter of fact I’ve been noticing just how many prime-time ads all seem to be pushing pills for whatever might ail you. Apparently it’s a lot. Are we baby boomers the new geriatrics or what? One week I wondered if I had restless leg syndrome. Then I worried about fibromyalgia—whatever it is. Whatever happened to Crest? And Oil of Olay and “Where’s the beef?”
There are so many commercials for antidepressants that if you aren’t depressed you feel like maybe you’re the one missing out. I’m starting to wonder if I should get a few months’ supply of Cymbalta to help me wade through this rough patch, although I don’t think I make a good candidate for depression. Feeling sorry for myself takes too much time and energy. I’m also finding out how hard it is to do nothing. Three days is long enough to be blue. Tomorrow I hit the gym. I’m going to sweat out every drop of despair. And booze.
I switch back to Catwoman and there is Halle in her tight black jumpsuit, looking like the sexiest cat I have ever seen on two legs. You go, Halle. After a few more minutes I realize I’m not in the mood for watching her prey on folks.
Oh-oh. Savannah’s here. Romeo and Juliet look nervous. I hear her knocking hard. She never rings the doorbell. “I’m coming! Hold your horses!” I dash down the stairs, feeling a little light-headed, so I cool my jets.
Before I open the door I press my cheek against it: “Don’t say a word about how bad I look, because I haven’t been in any mood for dressing up, okay?”
“Okay! Open the door, please, Robin! I have to go to the bathroom, badly!”
She dashes past me in very tight denim capris. “Savannah, have you lost a few pounds?”
“You must be delusional,” she says from behind the door.
“I think you have. Your ass looks smaller.”
“It’s not. Believe me. It’s called Lycra.”
“So, how was your date?”
“It’s a week from Sunday.”
“Are you psyched?”
She comes out, stands in the hallway and crosses her arms. “Not really. I’m not looking for a new love just yet, Robin. How long have you been in those pajamas?”
I look down. “Three days.”
“Does that mean you haven’t bathed?”
“I guess not.”
“We’re going to change that.”
“I don’t feel like being clean.”
“You’ll feel better. Come on.” She takes me by the arm and pulls me upstairs to my bathroom. She begins to run me a bath, pours in my favorite bubble bath. I sit on the toilet. “Stand up, Robin.”
I do. She puts the seat cover down. “I see you’ve had a few, huh?”
“A girl’s just gotta have fun, sometimes.”
“Can you get out of those pajamas?”
I look down. Why are there so many buttons on this top?
“Don’t worry about it. Where do you keep your hairbrush?”
I point to a drawer.
She gets it out, along with a scrunchie, and pulls my hair up into a ponytail. “Stand up, Robin.” She unbuttons my top and pulls my bottoms down. I hold on to her shoulder for balance. She tests the water. “Go ahead, sweetie.
Get in.”
I do exactly that.
“This all makes sense, Robin. And mark my words, it’ll be better soon.”
“What makes you so sure?”
“Because this is just a transition.”
She hands me my sponge ball.
“It’s bullshit. That’s what this is, Savannah.”
“I know. But you have a chance to start fresh.”
“Fresh?”
“When we’re in Paris. You can think about which direction you might want to explore.”
“I’m not going to Paris with you, Savannah.”
“Yes, you are.” She flops down on the toilet seat a little too hard. I kind of chuckle.
“It was a nice gesture. And you know I appreciate it, but I really need to stay here and get my life together.”
“Your life hasn’t fallen apart, Robin. You just don’t have a job. Where’s Sparrow?”
“At midnight bowling.”
“But it’s not midnight.”
“They start early.”
“It sounds like fun.”
“It is. It’s more like a club. Neon lights. A DJ who plays nothing but hip-hop music. They dance and everything.”
“Is it only for teenagers?”
“No.”
“We should go.”
“Not on the nights they go.”
“We could start a night for us boomers.”
“Do you know how to bowl?”
“Roll the ball down the middle of the lane and knock over the fucking pins. Duh.”
This is funny. Savannah is a hoot sometimes. I’m glad she’s here, glad she’s my friend.
“I still like to dance. Don’t you?” she asks.
“Speaking of dances.”
“Don’t go there. Please! Give it a rest or I’ll get up from this toilet seat and drown your ass!”
“Okay, okay. How long were you planning on staying this evening?” I ask her.
“Until we work this out.”
“Work what out?”
“Your future. Paris.”
“I already said I’m not going, Savannah.”
“But I invited you.”
“I’m uninviting me.”
“You should come anyway.”
“Are you deaf? You should go by yourself. Just the way you planned. I need to stay here and figure out what I’m going to do next.”
“Are you sure you won’t come?”
“Not now. Another time.”
“And that’s your final answer?”
“That’s it. And thank you for inviting me, Savannah.”
“You’re quite welcome.”
She stands up. “All right, get your ass out of there. You should be sparkling clean. I didn’t see you wash those ears! Where’s a clean towel?”
“Open that cabinet. They’re in there. You want some wine?”
“No thank you. And you’re not having any more either.”
She hands me the towel. I wrap it around myself.
“You’re in good shape, Robin. I swear you make me want to exercise.”
“You will when it’s important enough to you.”
“That would be like last year. Anyway, put on a pair of fresh pajamas and meet me downstairs.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
I do as I’m told. When I get downstairs, Savannah is helping herself to one of my Lean Cuisines. I sit at the table in the nook and cup my chin inside my hand. “It looks like I’m still unemployed.”
“You know, Robin, let’s get this over with, okay?”
“Okay.”
“We all know you were tired of that boring-ass job and you’d reached that stupid glass ceiling, right?”
I nod.
“Think of this as a blessing.”
“Please don’t start with that blessing stuff. It’s so lame.”
“I’ll put it this way. You have no idea what opportunities might be out there waiting for you to seize them.”
“That’s another one! Have you started going back to church again?”
“Shut up, Robin. No. Although it’s not a bad idea.”
“I don’t know how to handle this, okay? I’ve never been unemployed before.”
“You have a degree in business. You also have something most people who lose their jobs don’t have. Backup funds.”
“I don’t think about that money because it’s for when I’m older.”
“And when does that start?”
“I need some new skills. The kind that are marketable.”
“Then go back to school and get some.”
“I’m too old to go back to college, Savannah.”
“That is the biggest crock of shit I’ve heard in a long time. Too old to learn?”
“What would I look like sitting in a classroom with kids fresh out of high school?”
“Times have changed, Robin. Interspersed in most of those classes are students of all ages and backgrounds. There’s a lot of people who’ve decided to change lanes, even after years of being successful. You tell me where it’s written that you have to be eighteen to get into college?”
“You’ve got a point. I don’t think I’d feel right.”
“Then you should think about what Gloria suggested.”
“You mean opening my own consignment shop?”
“I looked it up. Check your in-box for a change. There’s more than fifteen thousand of them all over the United States. That should tell you something. You’d be your own boss. Blah blah blah. I’m not trying to do a hard sell, but it sounds like it’s right up your alley.”
“I do love to shop. I wonder if I’d get the same charge watching other people do it?”
“Have you been back to that yoga class?”
“No. I was waiting for you.”
“Don’t hold your breath.”
“Okay, so can you like go home now? I’m tired.”
“You’re buzzed. There’s a big difference.”
“Show yourself out. And thanks again.” I give her a hug then head back up to my room. I fall across the bed. I think I hear the door close. Then again, it could be Halle, kicking her neighbors’ door in when they refuse to turn that music down.
I keep my word. In the morning, I go to the gym. I do not want to believe I have a hangover. I think I do. I’ve been on this treadmill for forty-three minutes. I’m dripping with perspiration and it probably reeks of sauvignon whatever. I’m taking a long sip of Cytomax when I hear a voice I haven’t heard in years: “Robin Stokes. As I live and breathe.”
I turn to match the voice with the face. Standing next to me is Michael, obviously reincarnated. He is not fat by a long shot. He’s also handsome. What happened to those puffy cheeks? He must be gay now because he’s buff. I’ll bet it’s from steroids. I press the STOP button. “Is that really you, Michael?”
“It is I. I was pretty sure that was you,” he says. “You have just made my day. I don’t believe this. I was just thinking about you this morning. Wondering what you might be up to. I kid you not.”
“What are you doing here? I thought you were living in Miami?”
“I moved back to Phoenix about a year ago. I have a CPA firm. My kids have graduated from college. And I just bought a house not far from here, which is why I joined this gym. You look fantastic, Robin.”
“So do you, Michael. I almost didn’t recognize you.”
“I’ve lost a few pounds since the last time we saw each other. So how are you? What are you up to? Are you still in underwriting? Ever get married? You don’t look like you’ve had any kids.”
“As a matter of fact, I just got riffed from our old firm if you can believe it, and no, I never got married but I do have a sixteen-year-old daughter.”
“You won’t have any problem finding another job—that is, assuming you’re looking for something in the same field.”
“I don’t know what I’m looking for, to be honest with you. I’ll figure it out. It just happened. So, how about you, Mic
hael? Did you ever remarry?”
“No,” he says and winks at me. “Maybe I’ve been waiting for you.”
Thank You
Gloria had no idea why the policeman was pulling her over.
She wasn’t speeding. She came to complete stops when she was supposed to. She definitely wasn’t tailgating. Or weaving. And Blaze and Diamond were securely strapped in their car seats. This Tahoe was much bigger than her Volvo but Gloria knew how to handle it. She hadn’t broken any laws.
“Here comes the policeman, Gawa,” Blaze said with a tinge of excitement in her voice. Even Diamond, who was sucking her thumb, looked rather eager.
Gloria put her flashers on and rolled the window down. “Yes, officer, did I do something wrong?”
“First, may I see your license and registration and proof of insurance, please? Hi there, kids.”
They merely gazed at him.
After Gloria handed him the items, she turned to the kids. “It’ll be okay. Don’t worry.”
“Well, ma’am, you were doing thirty-one in a twenty-five-mile-per-hour zone. And,” he said, looking into the backseat, “I’m not sure this is such a safe way to drive with these little ones in here.”
“I understand, Officer, but my speedometer is digital and it said I was only doing twenty-six. I’ve been driving in this neighborhood for over twenty years. It’s the route I take to work. I obey all speed limits.”
“That’s good to hear. For now, however, I’m going to have to issue you a citation. I’ll be right back. It’ll only take a few minutes.”
“Gawa,” Blaze said, and leaned forward in her car seat so the straps made her look like a prisoner. “Fight it! Don’t pay it! Just go to court!”
Gloria turned to face her five-year-old granddaughter. “What do you know about fighting and going to court, young lady?”
“Every time the policemens stopped my mommy, as soon as he leaved she would say: ‘I’m going to fight this damn ticket! I’m not paying this! I’ll just go to court! I was not speeding!’ ”
“Oh, really,” Gloria said.
Diamond was nodding her head in agreement. That thumb was probably wrinkled by now.
Getting to Happy Page 29
