“So, are you looking into teaching gigs?” I asked her, changing the subject.
“Ah, no,” she answered. “That was the beer talking. I’m not giving up my retirement.”
That was the theme for a lot of my friends. Now in our forties, it was as if they were superglued to their careers, even if they dreamed of doing more, flying higher, scaring themselves a little. They ignored those dreams in favor of the only security they knew in this world. I couldn’t blame them. Nothing was certain anymore.
It was easy for me to talk about following long-held dreams because I had nothing to lose. But the truth was, I once had the “secure” job with benefits—that thing that’s supposed to make you feel like you’re going to be all right. But after years and years, moving into new homes that required a down payment and dealing with unexpected expenses, all of it was gone—the retirement, the 401k—and I hadn’t even lived extravagantly. I’d never been out of the country. I’d never bought a new car unless mine was officially dead.
So the security I was supposedly working for was lost anyway. It never really existed. What I saw people clinging to weren’t guarantees, but promises, too often unfulfilled.
Would Ellie understand this? I’d listed my occupation as a writer, which wasn’t exactly a lie. But I wasn’t writing for a company anymore. In Mystic, she asked what kinds of things I wrote, and I only told her the impressive stuff—billboards, brochures, things from my past. But I had lied to her, or rather, I had omitted the whole layoff part. Would she be angry? I was already starting off on a bad foot, lying to her. She’d never trust me now. And trust was important to me—right up there with good hygiene and good taste in music. I was violating my own standards. I’d have to tell her. My conscience was screaming in my ear. Anxiety spread its tentacles across my back and torso. She seemed to be an understanding person, I told myself. And downsizing was happening everywhere. Surely she’d understand.
I’d decided to write to her that night and tell her. I’d have to deal with whatever her reaction was.
That night, my hands shook as I typed. Cookie looked quizzically like she knew something was wrong. She had such awareness in her green cat eyes. Maybe it wasn’t awareness, just the way they were slanted. Maybe the only thought in her head was when I was going to give her another treat.
I wrote:
I’m sorry, Ellie. But I wasn’t entirely honest about my work. Yes, I’m a writer. But I recently got laid off. I’m still in the embarrassment phase, so it wasn’t something I wanted to volunteer. I hope you don’t look at me differently. I swear I’m not a deadbeat who sits around eating Twinkies, watching daytime talk shows. I hate daytime talk shows. They’re all about getting discounts on the latest shoes. I don’t even like shoes. I’m probably the only woman who has like three pairs in her closet. And even then I usually alternate between two pairs. Okay, I’m rambling. I’m rambling because I’m scared. I’m sorry if I seemed dishonest. Please don’t think I’m a pathological liar whom you can never trust again. In my spare time, I’m writing novels and screenplays and things I’ve always wanted to. I’m very ambitious, just not making any money at it yet. Well, I had a wonderful time in Mystic. I hope you did, too. —Sydney
It was a sad, meandering email and I wanted to delete the whole thing. I almost did, but Cookie kept climbing on the laptop. I was afraid she’d create a bunch of typos and make it worse. So I hit Send and took a deep breath.
Then I went to the kitchen to get Cookie a tuna treat. They smelled disgusting, but they made her so happy she swirled in circles like a dog just to get one. I figured anything that could make a cat do that, she deserved it.
By the time I got back, there was already a response from Ellie. I braced myself. My heart pounded. Now was the time when she was going to cut me loose. Now I’d learn the real reason why she wanted to leave so soon.
I opened it. It read:
Thanks for telling me. I completely understand. It’s hard enough having to deal with the emotional stress of a layoff, let alone share it with someone you’ve just met. Honestly, I think novels and screenplays are way more interesting than billboards. I have things to share with you too. But there’s plenty of time for that. I had a great time in Mystic too. —Ellie
What? What was it? Maybe she really was the one for me. But of course, I couldn’t let myself be happy for more than thirty seconds, so my mind immediately drifted to “What things did she have to share? Did she have some deep, dark secret?” Of course she did, I decided. This was all too good to be true. She had to be missing a foot or at least a toe, something I wouldn’t have seen. She was walking around with a prosthetic foot in a shoe. Not that I would care. I’d get used to it. Or did she really teach fifth grade? Maybe it was third grade. Wait. What was the big reason to lie about that? Even my inner voice was calling me an idiot. What if she was really a man? A very good drag queen? Suddenly I was sad. That would explain her not wanting to share a room with me—if there was something between her legs that she didn’t want me to know about.
It was like getting a deal on a car. You find exactly what you want, but the price seems unbelievable. And there’s a reason for it. There’s always a catch. I had to figure out what the catch was. She was beautiful, nice, didn’t rush me. Before her, I’d only known two kinds of lesbians—the cold, uninterested ones who can’t remember your name and the kind that want to move in with you after you say hello. I had no point of reference for Ellie.
Penny came out of the bedroom for her nightly glass of milk.
“Hey,” she called.
“Hey.” I sounded worried.
“What is it?”
“I’m wondering if Ellie is really a man.”
“Are you kidding me?” Penny laughed.
“She mentioned having more things to tell me.”
“That could mean anything.” Penny patted my shoulder.
She was right. A few moments left alone and my thoughts were runaway horses, galloping into all kinds of strange places. I already had her as a third-grade-teaching drag queen who was missing a foot.
“True,” I agreed. “Maybe she just smoked pot.”
“Eew. I hope not.”
“Lots of people have, you know.”
“Have you?” she asked.
“Well, no. But I’ve always been very square.” I hung my head.
“Get some rest,” she urged. “You seem like you need it.”
“I guess…” I fumbled for words. “I guess when something goes well, I just wait to see how it’s going to get screwed up.”
“It doesn’t always have to.” She gave me a wise smile and went to bed.
My sister Joanne was right. She and I didn’t know how to handle happiness. We were more comfortable when something bad happened. Maybe because it made more sense. Maybe it was more familiar. If I won the lottery, I’d probably stay indoors for fear of getting hit by a bus or falling space debris. I think my fear of success sprung from an article I’d read about Margaret Mitchell. First she writes this bestselling novel, Gone with the Wind, then she gets run over by a car. That was the reason I had trouble finishing anything I wrote—the fear that getting published was a sure way to get run over by something.
If I were Ellie, I certainly wouldn’t want to get involved with me. I was nuts.
On Monday morning, I got a call from Debra. She said that one of her friends had a good job opportunity for me. I needed to meet her and a couple of women she hung out with for lunch at Le Jardin. It was an ultra-fancy restaurant. The entrées cost more than my rent. But Debra said it was her treat. So I donned my nicest business attire, a simple blue suit and crisp white shirt underneath, and headed for the little French bistro I’d always passed by with no intention of ever setting foot inside.
I met Debra there. She waved me over, dressed in her lime-green business suit with expensive pearls I’d never seen before.
With white linen tablecloths, the restaurant was the kind of place where you’re afraid to si
t down for fear of wrinkling something.
“Hi, you look great,” Debra gushed, taking both of my hands in hers.
“So do you,” I said, sitting down.
She sat back and studied me with her hand tucked under her chin.
“How are things with Kurt?” I asked.
“Oh, fine. We’re fine. We’re thinking about getting engaged.”
“Thinking about?” I repeated. How did they decide to think about it, and what was that conversation like?
“Yeah,” she replied defensively, rearranging the breadsticks in the basket. “You know they give you as many as you want.”
“Great.” I bit into one, not realizing how hard they were. The crumbs flew all over the flawless white linen. “So when are your friends coming?”
“Any minute.” She checked her watch. “Look, you know the one I told you who might have a job for you?”
“Yeah?”
“It’s Kirsten Foster. She’s really glam, and she works for an in-house marketing department at Anne Hirsch Cosmetics.”
“Anne Hirsch? Well la dee dah!” I was impressed. You couldn’t open a magazine without seeing one of their advertisements.
“Yeah, and there’s something you should know.” Debra’s eyes darted around; she looked nervous.
“She’s a CIA operative? What?” I laughed.
“Kirsten and Susan, my other friend, Susan Kent, they know you’re a friend of mine.”
“Well, that’s good.” I shrugged my shoulders, completely clueless.
“But they don’t know you’re, you know.” Debra looked toward the door.
“What? I’m what?”
“You know,” Debra repeated, her voice almost a whisper. “Don’t make me say it.”
“Am I a criminal or something and just don’t know it? You’re acting really weird, Deb.”
“They don’t know you’re a lesbian,” she said softly.
“A what?”
“A lesbian!” Debra announced it to an older couple who was just leaving. The lady glanced at Debra curiously, probably surprised to see one up close.
“Wow.” I sat back and stared blankly at her. We’d been friends for six years. I met her when she did some consulting for the company where I worked. A bunch of us had lunch one day, and Debra and I bonded over a love of Barbra Streisand, which the others at the table mocked. Once we started quoting Yentl, I knew we’d be friends for life. “I’m surprised you’re making it such a big deal. If it’s never come up before, it’s never come up. I didn’t expect you to introduce me as Sydney, your lesbian friend.”
Debra smiled, looking a little relieved. “Well, I didn’t know how out you wanted to be, especially with a potential job interview. I don’t know all the protocol!” She took a sip of ice water with shaky hands.
“Calm down,” I said. “It’s okay.”
“Look,” she continued. “You have to understand. The Anne Hirsch company is kind of conservative. I didn’t think you’d go for it, so I never mentioned it. But since it’s been so hard for you…out there…”
“You mean there’s been an opening for a while?”
“Well, yeah, but I know how you are.”
“Debra, listen. I don’t want to be some political poster child for lesbians. I’m not trying to make statements everywhere I go. I just want to live my life, okay?”
She nodded, more relieved.
“How conservative are we talking?” I asked. “Are there crucifixes hanging everywhere? Only white employees? What?”
“I don’t think so,” she answered.
I had been joking.
“I’ll bet money their fashion department is full of gay men,” I said. “And they’re based in New York. Hello?”
“Just don’t say anything like that to my friends, okay?” Debra looked solemn; she suddenly seemed embarrassed by me.
I didn’t get a chance to say anything because her friends showed up right at that moment.
“Hey!”
“Hey!”
Kirsten and Susan could have been twins, with white-blonde peroxide accidents on their heads, similarly tailored suits and legs for miles. I stood up to shake their hands and felt like the odd sister who was kept in the attic.
“This is my friend, Sydney Gray,” Debra said. “The one I was telling you about.”
“Yes.” Kirsten took me in with one expert glance and sat beside me. “You have great bone structure.”
“Yeah, she does,” Susan chimed in. “Look at those cheekbones.”
“Thanks,” I responded. “I pride myself on my cheekbones.”
They both nodded intensely, not yet realizing that sarcasm was my first language.
“Oh, you’re being funny!” Kirsten exclaimed. Then she laughed a high-pitched, squealing laugh. “She’s funny too! Isn’t that cute?”
“Yeah, she’s a hoot.” Debra glared at me from across the table.
“So how do you all know each other?” I asked.
“Oh, we go back a long way,” Susan began. “About eight or nine months ago. Debra’s in our quilting club.”
“You quilt?” I looked at the alien across the table who had replaced my actual friend.
“Yeah,” Kirsten added, “we get together and try to make blankets or those tea cozies…”
I mouthed “tea cozies” to Debra, who was not amused.
“The best part,” Kirsten continued, “is how we get to rag on our husbands, or her boyfriend, all night long. It’s great. You want to join?”
I smiled broadly. This was pretty amusing. “I’m an expert quilter,” I lied. “I wouldn’t want to make you look bad.”
The two women seemed fascinated.
“I’m also Mormon. I make quilts all day with my sister wives.”
“She’s kidding!” Debra interrupted. “She has a warped sense of humor. Very warped.” If the fire inside Debra could escape, the whole place would have burned down.
Kirsten and Susan stared at me with gaping mouths.
The waiter came and mercifully changed the subject. All of them ordered salads with balsamic vinegar. I had the double-decker pita with turkey and cheese and ranch dressing and fried fat thrown in for good measure.
They kept staring at me after I ordered. I could almost see their brains trying to compute who or what I was.
“So I hear you’re looking for a job?” Kirsten touched my arm sympathetically.
“Yes, I’ve been an ad copywriter for nearly twenty years, but my company was downsizing, and you know marketing is always first to go.”
“Right.” Kirsten looked at me, sipping her water. “Did Debra tell you I work at Anne Hirsch? Not the queer fashion side, but the cosmetic side.”
I almost choked on my breadstick. Did I hear her correctly? Or was she using “queer” in another way, as if peculiar? I hoped so. But Debra’s face was now crimson, so I didn’t think so.
“What’s with the fashion side?” I asked.
Debra sank a little in her chair.
“Well,” Kirsten explained. “We’re the cosmetics division, so we write ad copy and design for all print and television ads relating to mascara, lipstick and her newest base powder, which is to die for.”
“The kind that blends in no matter what’s wrong with your skin?” Susan gushed.
“Yes,” Kirsten confirmed.
“Oh!” Susan sighed. “I’d kill for some of that.”
Kirsten turned back to me. “We get free samples of everything.”
I was supposed to be salivating by now. But I got most of my cosmetics at drugstores, not high-end department stores. The skin care regime seemed like it would take forever if you really followed it, especially at bedtime. Cleanser, exfoliator, wrinkle minimizer, moisturizer—I’d be so exhausted I’d fall asleep in the bathroom sink.
“It sounds great,” I replied.
“But we’re in our own building on Park Avenue,” Kirsten continued. “The fashion division is in another building, thank God.”
“Oh, I know.” Susan shook her head.
“It’s all these flaming queens and models who won’t speak to you.” Kirsten sipped more water. “They do photo shoots and stuff over there. I couldn’t stand to work near that, listening to those fags yakking about their boyfriends all day long. The way they talk, they’re more feminine than most women!”
Susan laughed hysterically.
“Fags?” I repeated.
By now, Debra’s face was covered by her napkin.
“I really don’t care for that word,” I said as politely as one could, I suppose.
“Really,” Kirsten commented. “What does it matter to you? It’s not like you’re a dyke. You actually have hair!” She laughed uproariously along with Susan.
Obviously, my feminine suit, makeup, jewelry and the fact that I didn’t have a buzz cut had them fooled. Clearly I was not one of those people. And suddenly, this small-town Florida girl who didn’t really want to be an activist felt this fire shoot straight up her ass and up her spine until flames flew out of my mouth.
“Actually, I am,” I replied. “We’re sometimes able to blend in by changing our outer wear. It’s how we survive in the wild.”
Both women looked puzzled. They didn’t get the joke.
“I’m a big, raging dyke. And I hate that word too, by the way.” I stood up. “If working at that company means working with the likes of you, I’ll pass.” I started to leave, but I paused, gazing at Debra for a moment.
She was horrified, not because of what her friends had said, but because of me, for making a scene. I saw it all in one glance. She looked apologetically at them and followed me out the door. When we got outside, I turned to face her.
“How could you? Hanging around with these bigots? I’ll bet they’ve said this before, and you don’t call them on it, do you?”
“Is that my responsibility?” she asked. “I need to fight for the gay cause just because one of my friends is? No thank you. This may come as a shock to you, but I don’t get the whole gay lifestyle. I’m not really for it, okay? I can be your friend, but I don’t have to agree with your lifestyle.”
I went numb all over. “No, Debra. You can’t be my friend if you don’t think I deserve the same rights as you.”
The Comfortable Shoe Diaries Page 8
