by Brea Brown
Based on first impressions and stereotypes (sorry, but it’s the most efficient way to go when meeting so many new people at once and when determined not to offend anyone with off-handed comments), we have, among others: the former beatnik who still thinks Jack Kerouac will never be equaled (Karl); the Marxist who sneers at pretty much anything anyone says and turns it into a debate about class (Irene); the sensitive poet who speaks barely above a whisper and constantly jots things in the small journal she keeps at hand (Paige); the no-nonsense former journalist who speaks in short sentences, eschews adjectives, and manages to make everything he says sound like a fact (Dan); and the prim and proper schoolmarm prototype who has cat hair on her cardigan sweater, which she wears year-round, and diagrams sentences in her spare time (Marcy).
Then there’s Dr. Brooks. I mean, Miles (first rule of Thursday nights at Saul’s, Jayne: first names only!). He’s harder to pin down. Definitely an intellectual (you can spot that from a mile away, with his perpetually-distracted air, hair that’s somehow always about a week overdue for a cut, and wrinkled khakis and plain dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up to mid-forearm), but he doesn’t seem out to prove anything. Tries to portray a balance of intelligent and down-to-earth and is in touch with what the rest of society values, even if it sometimes perplexes him. Likes to laugh. Likes to make others laugh. He’s the peacekeeper. And the cruise director. And the moderator.
“Jayne!” he calls down the table to me now. “You’re so quiet and mysterious. You must have something to add to this potentially-volatile conversation about pop culture’s contribution to the decline of the educational system.”
I shrug and smile. “Not necessarily. I agree that there’s no motivation to get an education when we’ve been conditioned to believe that anyone can be the next big reality TV star.”
“Can we somehow blame Facebook and other social media for part of this?” he queries with a raised eyebrow.
“Absolutely,” I reply. “Facebook, Twitter, blogging… it’s all deluding us into thinking our every thought and action is interesting to the rest of the world. ‘Why shouldn’t I have my own TV show? People love my Tweets.’”
“They are mighty fine,” Karl leans closer to me to say sotto voce.
After the laughter dies down, Miles winks at me. “Excellent. As long as we can blame social media, I feel okay.” He looks around the table. “Okay. Honest answers, now. How many of us are on Facebook?”
Several hands, including mine, go up. Most of us don’t feel the need to apologize, but Marcy splutters, “I have a large family, and we’re spread out all over the globe. It’s the easiest way to keep in touch.”
Miles ignores her justification. “Twitter?”
Fewer hands go in the air, but they mostly belong to the Facebookers.
“And who writes a blog? I’m including blogs you may write for professional purposes, too. Doesn’t matter. They’re all the same.” He chuckles when he and I are the only two who don’t raise our hands. “My, my, my. How interesting!” Again, he turns his attention to me, “Jayne… why don’t you blog? Don’t you think you have invaluable information with which to bore—I mean, educate—the World Wide Web surfers?”
“Nope,” I answer honestly. “But I’m impressed when other people can find topics to feed their blogs. I’m the most boring person on the planet.” I turn it around on him. “What’s your excuse?”
He considers it for a second. “Too busy. Too lazy. Too dull. Dan, what’s your blog about?” he asks, turning to the Mark Twain lookalike next to him.
“Wooden boat building. What’s it to ya?” he answers semi-jokingly.
Miles widens his eyes. “Nothing. I’m extremely interested to find this out about all of you. Let’s go around the table and say what your blogs are about. No laughing or judgment, I promise. This is fascinating!”
“Knitting.”
“Writing, of course.”
“Politics.”
“Feminist theory.”
“Paleo lifestyle.”
“Marathon running and training.”
“Grief management.”
“Yoga.”
“British period dramas.”
Miles raises his eyebrows at that one but maintains his composure and keeps his “no laughing” promise.
“Antiques.”
They skip over me, the non-blogger.
“Cockatiels.”
“Hand bells.”
“Children’s literature.”
The easy flow dries up when it’s Paige’s turn to report. She fidgets, looks beseechingly at Miles, and with an uneasy smile says, “Subject change?”
Wryly, Miles remarks, “It’s always the quiet ones,” before realizing he’s close to breaking one of the gathering’s rules. “Okay, Paige. What’ll it be, then?”
She looks down at her plate. “I dunno. Anything else, I guess.”
I feel so terrible for her—and the ensuing pause is so awkward and uncomfortable—that I blurt, “My upcoming novel is semi-autobiographical.”
All heads turn in my direction.
I blush. “Something… different… to talk about. Maybe.”
“Indeed it is!” Miles agrees in his typical easygoing fashion. “You all know that Jayne, here, is in the process of publishing her first novel, which has already been optioned by a film studio.” Nods all around and several “Kudos” and “Congratulations.” “What parts are real and what parts are fiction?” he asks, resting his chin in his hand.
Wiping the corners of my mouth serves as a way to stall while I cringe at putting myself on the spot and then debate how much to tell before deciding it’s pointless to be coy, since I’m the one who brought it up, and it’s all about to be public knowledge, anyway. Might as well get used to talking about it.
“Well… the whole story is basically true—my parents and sisters were killed in a house fire when I was out of the house at a post-high-school-graduation party—with some poetic license taken with individual events and conversations, etcetera.”
Nobody says a word. Nobody moves. For a second, I wonder if I’ve harnessed the power to freeze time around me.
Embarrassed at what seems to be an unknown (to me) social faux pas, I laugh nervously. “Sorry. Major conversation killer, I guess. Maybe I need to practice my delivery. Book signings are going to be a real drag otherwise…”
That tickles Irene, who cackles across the table from me. Her laughter breaks the spell over the rest of the diners, who re-animate and seem to remember how to talk.
Dan quips, “We’ve been conditioned to think that all tell-all books are about sex or drugs. Death threw us for a loop.”
Since Miles has done most of the talking tonight, I reflexively look to him for a reaction, but he merely nods thoughtfully at me and looks away, at Irene, who’s saying, “Readers will benefit from having read your book and will know this information at a signing, though. Like Dan said, I think none of us was expecting something so… dramatic. Or for you to say it so matter-of-factly.”
“It happened a long time ago,” I state, trying not to sound too defensive.
“Couldn’t have been that long ago,” Karl counters. “You’re still a young thing.”
“Fairly,” I allow. Uncomfortable with the intense attention, I say, “Anyway, I’ve spent a lot of time with the topic while writing this book, so I guess I’m somewhat… desensitized… to my feelings about it. I’ve had to figure out a way to be more objective about it, or else I would have spent the past five years in the fetal position. Plus, once you hand a book over to a publisher, you have to emotionally detach. At least, I found that was the case for me.”
“Editors can be ruthless,” Marcy concurs. “I’ve been through several. I’m like the Liz Taylor of the publishing world. Couldn’t seem to find one who understood me… until I was finally assigned to a female editor. It’s been smooth sailing ever since.”
“What kind of books do you write?” I ask politely, glad to m
ove onto someone else.
“Erotica,” she answers simply. “I guess they figured that a male editor would give me the opposite perspective, but it never seemed to work out that way. We always ended up butting heads. My new editor and I are very like-minded. It’s quite refreshing.”
While everyone else shares their editor horror stories, I push the remaining food around on my plate. It’s not that I don’t have anything to add to this topic (I probably have more material than I’d prefer), but I don’t feel like trashing Luke to these people. To anyone. He’s off-limits. And I guess that’s pretty telling.
Anyway, I’ve done what needed to be done: I’ve changed the subject and gotten Paige off the hot seat (although I’m dying to know what she blogs about that she’d rather not discuss). I’m covertly studying her profile while she listens to someone whose name I can’t remember tell a funny story about a news director he used to work for when he was a television news producer when I get the sense that I’m being watched. Sure enough, when I glance at Miles, I see he’s the culprit. I smile shyly. He grins back and doesn’t look away. I have no idea how to interpret the gleam in his eyes.
*****
The weekends are the worst. I’m not a museum person, but I’ve already resorted to riding the train into D.C. to visit all the museums and tourist attractions in my efforts to not sit at home alone on the weekends. Strangely, seeing all those things by myself made me feel even lonelier. So, it’s not something I’m proud of, but I’ve taken to spending time at Fairfax on the weekends, sometimes even in my tiny office. It’s pathetic, but at least I’m sort of surrounded by people on campus. I know all I have to do is walk a few steps to the door that will take me outside, where I can come in contact with other humans. Knowing I’m part of a community—however peripherally I’m involved—keeps at bay the yawning blackness of depression that threatens regularly.
It doesn’t even matter (much) to me that the students with whom I come in contact are in their late teens and early twenties, and I’m usually lost when listening in on their conversations. How is it that only a few years can make such a big difference? Are my contemporaries as mystified by the generation immediately following us, or am I simply out of touch?
The English building has always been deserted on weekends, so it’s not like there have been any witnesses to my loserdom. As far as anyone at our Thursday night get-togethers knows, my social calendar is hopping on the weekends. They probably assume I divide my time between cranking out my next book and hobnobbing with interesting people. If they knew the truth, they’d pity me. And suggest I blog about it. Or get a cat.
So today when I hear squeaking sneakers on the asbestos tiles in the hallway outside my office, I brace myself to be caught reading students’ papers on a Sunday, and I prepare myself for the inevitable outpouring of sympathy and hobby suggestions. Of course, I guess I can console myself with the fact that this person is also at work on a Sunday. Or maybe it’s a student (although that would be even sadder, so I hope it’s not). I’d close my door to discourage any social interaction, but I get breathless and faint in the four-by-six room when the door’s closed for longer than thirty seconds, so I’ve resigned myself to facing the consequences of being lame and friendless when Miles stops in the doorway.
“Jayne Greer. What the heck are you doing here?”
I figure the truth is probably the easiest answer, so I give it to him, unvarnished. “I have nothing better to do.”
He laughs. “I’m sure. Let me guess: you promised you’d return those papers tomorrow, but you procrastinated, so now you’re frantically working to get them done.”
I know I should take his out, especially since it’s obvious he doesn’t believe the truth, but the only person I lie to on a regular basis these days is me. Sheepishly, I insist, “No, really. I am that sad.” I say it with a smile, though, so he doesn’t know how sorry I feel for myself.
“It’s a nice day out,” he states. “Cold, but sunny. Do you like the outdoors?”
I wrinkle my nose. “Not much. I like the beach.” I could kick myself for saying it, but there it is. Damn my need to fill the silence when he’s around!
He grasps onto that detail. “Oh? Being a Midwesterner, I wouldn’t think you’d have much experience with beaches.”
Pretending something on my laptop has grabbed my attention, I look at the monitor and say distractedly, “Only from travel.”
“I see.” He looks down at his shoes. “Well. Far be it from me to discourage your admirable work ethic, but… would you be interested in doing something a bit more… recreational?”
“Such as…?” I’m not down with ’shrooms or other mind-altering substances, which the word “recreational” always brings to mind.
His head snaps up at my wary tone, and he laughs at what must be the equally-leery expression on my face. “Nothing scary.”
“Is it legal?”
“Uh… yes. I think it’s safe to say that it is. I’m no lawbreaker.”
I blush at what he must perceive to be my ridiculous mistrust of him. “I’m sorry,” I tell him. “I don’t mean to be socially awkward; it comes naturally.”
Shaking his head, he replies, “Don’t worry about it. I stopped by here to grab a movie coupon I left on the printer Friday, and then I was going to go see said movie… alone. But it would be much better if I had some company. Would you like to join me? You can even have my coupon.”
Although it doesn’t matter, I ask, “What’s the movie?”
He lifts his chin. “I’m not ashamed to tell you that I’d planned to see the new period piece starring all the usual English actors who are in every period piece. But we can see something else, if you’d rather.”
“You had me at ‘period piece,’” I say, closing my laptop, grabbing my purse and coat, and digging my keys from my coat pocket.
Jogging toward the main office, he says, “Great! I’ll meet you back here in a second with that coupon I promised.”
No coupon required.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Miles has saved me from the interminable weekends from Hell. Since it’s so cold and often snowing, we tend to see movies together a lot. That’s fine with me. It’s casual and on neutral turf, and it doesn’t make me feel (too much) like we’re doing something the college may frown upon. Because nothing like that is going on. Nothing. We’re truly just friends. As much as Gus and I are friends. Except I don’t point out hot guys to Miles, because I don’t think he’d be interested, judging on some things he’s said about past relationships with women.
Not that I’d be against dating Miles, if he asked me. He’s an attractive, funny, positive, intelligent guy. If nothing else, it’d be interesting to try it out. Maybe it would take my mind off a certain married man who continues to plague my thoughts and dreams when I’m not careful to keep myself too busy to think.
But if Miles is waiting for me to make the first move, he’ll be waiting a long time. I don’t do that, especially to satisfy mere curiosity. I mean, if I had a burning passion for the guy, I might consider it worth the risk of rejection. But I won’t put my pride or our friendship in jeopardy simply to see if I feel the same attraction—or stronger—when kissing him as I did when I kissed that other guy in Marblehead.
That other guy.
“Hey.” I interrupt Miles’s analysis of the differences between the movie we just saw and the book upon which it was based.
He stops mid-sentence, holding his mouth open for a few seconds, and then he closes it before asking, “What? Am I being obsessive again? I hate it when they change major plot points. After all, it was written that way for a reason. I understand filmmakers sometimes have to cut things out for time’s sake, but in this instance, the changes were gratuitous and offensive.”
Even though I didn’t read the book in this particular case, I still say, “I totally agree. As an author, I say the screenwriter and the director need to respect the original telling as much as possible. But tha
t’s not why I interrupted you.”
“Do I have food on my face?” He swipes at his mouth with his napkin.
“No. It, uh, occurred to me, though, that… maybe you didn’t know something kind of important. Or maybe you do.” I swipe the salt shaker from the table and start playing with it.
“Jayne Greer. You’re being quite enigmatic!” he says proudly, as if it’s a rare skill that I’ve only now mastered after months of training.
I do my best impersonation of the Mona Lisa. “Well, I’m sure you do know what I’m about to tell you. As the English Department Head, you’d have to know. Maybe you’re responsible, now that I think of it.” I tap my fingernail against the metal top of the shaker. “Fairfax has offered me a two-year contract to continue teaching creative writing.”
He grins indulgently. “As a matter of fact, I did know that. I was wondering if you knew, since you haven’t brought it up. I didn’t want to step on any toes and speak out of turn by telling you, if you hadn’t gotten the offer letter yet.”
“How much did you have to vouch for me to make that happen?” I ask him.
Widening his eyes innocently, he says, “Not at all! Obviously, I was consulted. But your work speaks for itself. Your students love you. You’re accessible. You get along well with the other faculty members. You’re published. What’s not to love?”
I smile modestly. “Aw, you’re embarrassing me.”
“I’m serious!”
“Okay. Enough of that.” His effusive praise is only making what I’m going to say harder to say. “The thing is… I can’t accept it.”
He sits back in his chair and makes a sound like he’s been punched in the gut. “W-what do you mean? Why not?”
I avoid eye contact while moving my attention from the salt shaker to my water glass. I wipe the sweat from it. “Well, I have a book tour coming up. And sometime after that, they’re going to start filming the movie based on my book. And sometime during all that, I have to figure out how to write two more books, which I haven’t even begun to write. I don’t even have any ideas.” He’s the first person to whom I’ve dared divulge that information.
