S.D. Youngren - Rowena 1 - Rowena's Life.txt

by Rowena's Life

  Rowena watched him go, bewildered. Somebody tapped on her desk and she jumped; a petite blonde woman in a cranberry-colored blazer. "Here comes the battleaxe," the woman said. "If she asks, I'm in the Ladies' Room, okay?" She gave Rowena a friendly wink and hurried off.

  Three more people rushed past. Rowena looked around, expecting to see driver ants or at least a tiger.

  A middle-aged woman with stiff, wood-colored curls all over her head was advancing on her, marching in heavy-footed determination. She wore severe silver-rimmed eyeglasses (with chain) and an equally severe expression; even the carnation in her lapel looked starched.

  She came to a halt at Rowena's desk.

  "Hello," said Rowena feebly.

  The woman slapped some papers down in front of her. "I see your Out box is still empty," she said.

  "Well, I--"

  "Where's Campbell?"

  "In the Ladies' Room?" Rowena hazarded. The woman's eyebrows shot up.

  "In the Ladies' Room?" she gasped. "Is he--one of Those? Or--" and she looked really horrified, "one of Those? Mr. Schmed will certainly--"

  "No--he--Campbell? Did you say Campbell? Oh, I'm sorry, I thought you--no, I don't know where Campbell is. I--I have no idea."

  The woman bent down, planted her hands on the desktop, and peered at Rowena, hard. "You look like you're lying."

  "No; no, I'm not. Really. You know I wouldn't lie to you." She hoped the woman knew it. "I'm just--embarrassed because you thought I'd said Campbell was--but I was just confused."

  The woman kept staring, though her gaze eased just a bit. "Really, Ma'am," Rowena concluded humbly. The woman snapped upright so violently her glasses flew off.

  "Don't call me Ma'am! Don't ever call me Ma'am! Ma'am is what you say to an old woman. I am not a Ma'am!"

  "I--I'm sorry," said Rowena, hoping very much that this was a dream. "I only meant to show the respect due--due your position."

  "Well. It is certainly true that a certain amount of respect is due Mr. Schmed's Personal Secretary. However, when you speak to me, you say `Yes, Eloise,' `No, Eloise,' `I shall endeavor to do better next time, Eloise.'"

  "I shall endeavor to do better next time, Eloise," Rowena said.

  "That's more like it," said Eloise, and marched off, slapping papers onto empty desks in relative silence until she came to one which was occupied with someone else to berate.

  Rowena reflected that at least you don't have to talk to driver ants.

  "Yes, Eloise," the new victim said.

  Rowena began sifting through the papers--loose papers, bundled papers, envelopes--which Eloise had given her. She peered around her desk; yes, she had a wastebasket. She picked up a memo and read it.

  "In the interests of safety, all personnel will avoid performing their duties in a hazardous or reckless fashion. W. Schmed."

  Rowena read the memo again. She thought of hazardous and reckless things she might do to Eloise. She reread the memo once more, thinking that in a dream it would probably have changed.

  It hadn't.

  She heard footsteps. She scrawled out a response to the memo--"But not at the expense of productivity"--and jammed it into her Out box.

  But it was only the blonde woman in the cranberry blazer. "Did she ask about me?"

  "No," said Rowena. "She asked about Campbell, though. I was so flustered I told her he was in the Ladies' Room."

  "Oh, God!" the blonde squealed. She put her hands over her mouth and giggled madly.

  "I seem to be having," Rowena said, "a bad day."

  "You think you are. Wait'll Eloise finds poor Campbell."

  Rowena hoped it was a dream again.

  She worked as best she could for what must have been several hours--what must have been a not-dream. She read more memos. She checked lists. She filed things. She answered the phone, transferring people at random because she didn't know where they should be sent. When someone asked her about the wrong transfers, she said she'd gotten a few herself. She returned from lunch and found her Out box empty again.

  She hoped it was maybe a dream after all.

  Just after four o'clock, someone stopped by her desk and gave her a smile. She put her latest caller on hold.

  "Just wanted to tell you," the man said, "that Mr. Schmed loved your reply to his memo. He thinks it's brilliant. He just can't stop talking about it." He patted her shoulder, awkwardly. "Keep up the good work," he said, and strolled off.

  Rowena hoped it was Friday.

  Rowena Chooses Between Coffee And Tea

  Fiction by S. D. Youngren

  --------------------------------------------------------------------------------

  Rowena and her friend Terese met at a coffeeshop for lunch.

  "So," asked Terese, picking up her menu, "how was your Christmas?"

  Rowena grimaced. "Don't even ask."

  "That bad?"

  "Let me have some coffee first. Or tea. Whichever."

  She ended up ordering Earl Grey, and when it arrived she cooled it just a bit before sipping slowly.

  "Okay," said Terese, setting her cappuccino down. "Now tell me about your Christmas."

  Rowena sipped again, savoring the smoky dry flavor of her tea. "Just the usual," she answered, "only a little worse."

  "Worse? What happened, somebody tell your mother about Santa Claus?"

  "They wouldn't dare; not with my little cousins there. Linda and Lindsey, the Terrible Twins, and Ryan and Tiffany and little Bobby, who, being too young to run screeching through the house, join in the fruitcake fight, and try to pull down the Christmas tree, had to content himself with crying the entire evening at the top of his lungs."

  "Ah, childhood," said Terese.

  "My mother told my grandmother and my aunts about this cute little dinner I fixed for her and Dad some time back," Rowena continued. "She made it sound like I'd built it out of Play-Doh. But it seems the kitchen was too small for my sister and me, so they sent us off to baby-sit."

  "I won't even ask," said Terese. "You know what your problem is? You haven't had any operations. I bet if you had an operation or a tubal pregnancy or something else suitably gory to tell them about, they'd let you at least toss the salad."

  "Funny thing about that kitchen," Rowena said. "It grew magically bigger after dinner when there were dishes to be done."

  "So who watched the kids?"

  "They were sent out to play with the dog. But luckily for him he's a smart dog, so they just spent a few minutes trying to find him and then got bored and played with Tiffany instead, Bobby being unavailable for the purpose. But Uncle Harry heard her screaming and went charging out there before they actually managed to amputate anything."

  "Good for Uncle Harry."

  "He got into a big fight with Aunt Dottie because of it. She thought he was being too harsh on the little dears."

  "Spare the rod," said Terese.

  "Normally I don't go in for that sort of thing," said Rowena, "but as they say, there's an exception to everything, and as my aunts will gladly tell you, these are exceptional kids."

  The waitress brought their sandwiches; Rowena waited until she was gone before continuing. "And speaking of exceptions, Uncle Bernie was there."

  "The one your mother would never leave alone with you?"

  "That's the one. This year Aunt Yvette was in the hospital until the 23rd having another fascinating operation--"

  "Please, I'm eating."

  "So Uncle Bernie did the Christmas shopping for her." Rowena bit into her sandwich, taking her time, letting the possibilities sink in. "Uncle Bernie," she said at length, "gave all the women lingerie."

  "All--"

  "He gave Maralynne and me lace teddies," Rowena continued. "Maralynne was furious. He gave the white one with pink trim to her, and the black one with red trim to me."

  Terese made a small choking noise. "No wonder," she said.

  "My mother was mad too," Rowena said. "Aunt Yvette tried to ignore the whole business, but my mo
ther was mad. Partly because her innocents were being corrupted, and partly because he gave her a nightgown marked Size Large."

  "Nice to know she hasn't lost the protective instinct," said Terese.

  "I can't even tell you what he gave Uncle Harry. The moment he opened it his face got all red and he banged the lid down and refused to let anybody see it. He wouldn't talk about it either; he just told Aunt Irene he'd show it to her when they got home."

  "The mind boggles," said Terese.

  "The children, of course, all got anatomically correct dolls."

  "Of course."

  "Grandma apparently knew about Uncle Bernie's gifts via ESP and tried to take the curse off them by giving Maralynne and me sheets with teddy bears printed on them," Rowena said. "Aunt Dottie gave Maralynne the book I asked for, and of course gave me Maralynne's New Age tape; we got them quietly switched when she wasn't looking."

  "What about the teddies?"

  "We kept the ones we were given. I told Maralynne the white one would show off her tan."

  "Good thinking."

  Rowena raised her cup. "Here's to the teddies," she said. "Here's to Aunt Irene's duplicate coffee machines and Uncle Milo's computer-printout Christmas letters."

  Terese raised what was left of her cappuccino. "Here's to the yellow parakeet Dad bought Mom thinking it was a canary," she said. "Here's to the kids who play with the boxes instead of the presents."

  "Here's to the stale popcorn they eat off the string," said Rowena. Suddenly a hand appeared in front of her, holding a glass one-third full of orange juice. "To the meaning of Christmas," said a voice. "And to Santas who never fill your stocking with coal no matter what you've done."

  Rowena turned, followed the arm back to a grinning stranger behind her. He was about her own age, fair-haired and, despite his intrusion, basically harmless-looking. He was wearing a necktie with SammySammySammySammySammySammySammy embroidered a bit crookedly all over it.

  "New tie?" was all she said. His grin widened.

  "How'd you guess?" he asked. He clinked his glass against their cups. "Merry Christmas, ladies," he said. "Happy New Year. Peace and Plenty, and always remember, it's the thought that counts."

  He withdrew his arm, drained his orange juice, and got up. From the yellow smear on his plate Rowena guessed he'd been eating breakfast. He set some money on his table and gave them a little bow. "And while we're at it, Happy Valentine's Day," he said, and left.

  "How strange," said Terese.

  Rowena picked up the last of her sandwich. "Strange?" she asked. "You sit there and listen to me tell you about my nutso family and all you can say is that he's strange? I'm insulted."

  "I said strange," said Terese. "Not strange-er."

  "Okay," said Rowena, "then I forgive you." She raised her cup once again. "Here's to friendship," she said, and they clinked.

  Rowena Gives A Report

  Fiction by S. D. Youngren

  --------------------------------------------------------------------------------

  Rowena dumped her project onto her kitchen table. She was already tired. "I can't believe I got sucked into this," she said aloud. "I'm out of school. Right? I'm - not - in - school - any - more!"

  She glared a moment at the assorted papers and books, then fixed herself a bowl of soup and a cup of tea, grabbed some bread, and began.

  "Stupid job," she muttered. She wasn't supposed to have to do things like this. She didn't get paid enough anyway.

  Around eleven o'clock she fixed another cup of tea.

  Around twelve-thirty she fixed a third cup of tea. She had her fourth cup at two; and at a quarter to three she put her head down. She had her notes together, at least, but what about Visual Aids? And how was she going to explain all this as if she knew what she was talking about, and was relaxed and confident and all that? And what about--

  "How can they give me all this at the last minute?" she demanded. "What am I doing, staying up all night? I'm not a doctor, and I'm not in school any more!"

  She closed her eyes a moment. Just a moment, she told herself, and she would get right back to work. Right away. Immediately.

  She ran and ran; she was late for her Finals. She ran faster and faster but she wasn't getting anywhere; the scenery around her never changed; the same tree remained four feet ahead of her. She dropped her books and they scattered; as she stopped running the books picked themselves up and, flapping their covers, flew away, their pages hanging down like fan-shaped tails.

  Then she was sitting at a desk in a large lecture hall. The professor, a broad-faced man with a very wide mouth and a round belly, said, "Your grade will depend entirely upon one problem, which I shall put up on the blackboard. Please copy the problem onto your paper and show all your work." He walked to the board. "Those of you on the left half of the room, work the problem I put up. Those on the right, work the TA's problem."

  The TA looked exactly like the professor. "Nohow!" he said. "I want to do the problem on the left."

  "Contrariwise, I am already putting the problem up," replied the professor. The TA grabbed an eraser and charged. There was a scuffle. Rowena and the other students sat quietly. Eventually the contestants got up and dusted themselves off. They walked back to the blackboard, one on the left and one on the right, and silently wrote their problems. Then they walked to a low table and sat down, side by side, and grinned at the class. Rowena still couldn't tell them apart.

  She looked at her problem: 1/2 + 1/3 =

  She couldn't believe she was getting off that easily. This was supposed to be college. She wrote down the problem, and the answer, then filled in the work she was supposed to show. She looked over at the other problem, just out of curiosity.

  Calculate pi to 42 places.

  Rowena looked at this, then back at her own problem, which was 1/2 + 1/3 + 1/4. She looked at this, hard, then back at her paper. 1/2 + 1/3 = 5/6, her neat but unnecessary work underneath. Luckily she'd used pencil. She erased = 5/6 and most of the "work" and then wrote in + 1/4 = and glanced up at the board, which now read 1/2 + 1/3 + 1/4 + 1/5 =.

  Rowena sensed trouble. She made the addition and looked back up; sure enough, 1/2 + 1/3 + 1/4 + 1/5 + 1/6 =. Rowena made the change and quickly escalated to + 1/7 in hopes of staving the thing off; on the contrary, when she looked up the problem was up to 1/8. Rowena scribbled her way up to 1/13 before glancing up again; sure enough, there it was--1/14. The problem had spilled to the next line. Rowena put her hand up and the professor came over--or was it the TA?

  "When is it going to end?" she asked. "Could you tell me where it's going to end?"

  "Nohow," said the TA.

  "Well, I can't do anything with it until it stops."

  "That's your problem," said the TA, and snickered. He went away. Rowena looked at the blackboard: 1/15. Rowena wrote that down, and looked again--at 1/16. Apparently the thing had waited for her while she talked with the TA. Rowena considered. Keeping her eyes carefully on her paper, she worked her problem as if it ended at 1/17, but did not write 1/17 anywhere on the sheet. This done, she looked up carefully to see, at the far edge of the bottom row: 1/37.

  Rowena took a breath. She scribbled over the work she'd done and looked back at the board: 1/39. Thirty-nine? As she watched, the numbers began ticking over; when they got to the bottom of the board, they started again from the top.

  Rowena went back to her piece of paper. She drew a large infinity sign and circled it. Where she was supposed to show her work, she drew little flowers and butterflies. At one point she looked at the right-hand problem, which had not changed. The problem on the left--hers--whizzed by faster and faster and faster.

  Rowena tried to push her way to her next class, but the students crowding the walkway kept shoving her in what she thought was the wrong direction, though she couldn't be sure. Suddenly she was turned right around and shoved with some force through a doorway.

  "Sit down," said a slow deep voice. "We've been waiting for you."

&nb
sp; Rowena sank meekly into an empty chair. "This is an oral exam," the professor continued. His eyes were large and cowlike. "Are you ready?"

  "Yes," said Rowena, without conviction.

  "Very well." He glanced at a sheet of paper in his hand. "Recite Paradise Lost in its entirety."

  "Ummmm . . . it's . . ."

  The professor folded his arms and looked at her. "That--that would take a long time," Rowena faltered.