The Brenda Diaries

by Margo Candela

  This is how tutoring went: I sat there for two hours on Tuesday and another three on Wednesday and tried to figure out how we could turn his vocabulary of “huh,” “umm” and “like” into an essay about Kafka’s The Metamorphosis. I struggled until I was red in the face.

  Finally, Wyatt took pity on me and came right out and said I should just write it for him, which is the arrangement all his prep school friends have with their tutors. He added that not only were his parents totally cool with this, they’d fire me if I didn’t do it because they’re not paying me $40 an hour (plus expenses) for him not to pass his English class.

  I should have known something was up, but his parents, who are movie producers, were super nice and kind of hip for people who are in their 40s. At the interview, I asked about meeting their kid, but they said he was busy with swim practice or reading to the blind or whatever lie they’ve convinced themselves is true about Wyatt.

  How can people be so blind and not see they’re ruining their kid? But it’s not my job to teach adults how to be better parents. My job is to make Wyatt understand why The Metamorphosis is more than just a Wikipedia page.

  By hour five, I realized I had a choice to make. Would I stand on principle, get up and walk out or pocket the $250 that was waiting for me in an envelope on the hall table? What would you do?

  What I did was write his essay for him, but I didn’t give it my all. If he gets higher than a B, it’s obvious the other turd buckets’ tutors are trying way too hard or getting paid more than I am.

  Friday, April 8:

  Maya is insisting we go out tonight. It won’t be a sophisticated dinner enjoyed by two college educated women. No. We’re going on a bar crawl that won’t end until Maya finds someone’s bed (or backseat) to crawl into. Joy.

  Saturday, April 9:

  Maya is still asleep. Unfortunately, she’s doing this sleeping in my bed. Plenty of guys offered to buy us drinks and while she didn’t turn any of them down, she did keep talking about this guy she’s supposedly in love with. By the time she realized she needed to change tactics, she was too drunk to do much more than keep from falling on her face. I lugged her home and was so exhausted that I didn’t bother to kick her out of my bed when she clambered in next to me at 5 AM.

  I hope she wakes up soon. For once, I’m in the mood for brunch-type food. I’ll even put up with her talking about this supposed love of her life if she pays for my waffles.

  Sunday, April 10:

  I invited Jared over to do laundry at my place. If this doesn’t lead to sex on or near my Kenmore, I’ll be seriously bummed out. I mean, how much more obvious do I have to be?

  Monday, April 11:

  Working for Glenn again this week. Most of the appointments are for filing extensions which means they’ll be back in a few weeks to cut some painful checks. Suffice to say, these jerks never bring me any leftover swag. They’re the kind of people who drive around in their Mercedes looking for parking meters with time left on them.

  Tuesday, April 12:

  Have to make sure Mr. X’s appointment time is moved so he doesn’t have to see his soon to be ex Mrs. X who can’t be scheduled on the same day as the woman who her husband is leaving her for. This is why I’m worth every penny Glenn pays me.

  Wednesday, April 13:

  Even though I hate when other people do it, I call Summer while I’m in line at Starbucks for lattes for me and Glenn. Theo wants to book me for next week and Summer wants to know if I’m willing to drop another assignment to work for him instead. Both of us would make more money if I do.

  “He asked for me? By name?” I try to keep my voice low, self-conscious that the people directly in front and in back of me can hear me talking about my business.

  “You and only you,” Summer says. “Is there something going on you want to tell me about?”

  “Don’t be gross, Summer. He’s like 40 or something. He’s married and has a girlfriend. Plus, it’s gross. He’s got issues. Like the kind which only a dominatrix can deal with.”

  “Oh! Like that movie about the guy and the girl.... What was it called? You know where she gets the mail?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Summer.” I do but I don’t want to add fuel to her gossip fire. “I have to go.”

  “So you’ll do it?” She already knows I will. In the end, money is money and I’d rather earn more of it than less.

  “Yes. But don’t read anything into it. He’s just a client.” I hang up, aware that my one sided conversation has given those listening all sorts of ideas of what I might do for a living.

  “Hi, what can I getcha?” the cashier asks.

  “Two grande triple lattes. Actually, make one a venti.” I have nothing more to hide so I might as well get what I really want.

  Thursday, April 14:

  You know those words no guy wants to hear? No, not “I’m late.” The other ones. Yeah, those. Well, instead of me saying “We need to talk,” a few days ago I heard them come out of Jared’s mouth instead. According to him, we needed to talk about us. I fully own up to not being one of those cuddly, super supportive girlfriends who needs constant reassurance that the sun rises and sets on her happy, fat face. I keep my feelings to myself and believe everyone should do the same.

  So what did he want to talk about? Feelings! All sorts of feelings! How he feels about me, how I feel (or don’t) about him, how we make each other feel about ourselves and each other. Then he put me on the spot by asking “Do you consider me your boyfriend?” He gave me all of a bathroom break to think about it. Jared can be pushy when he wants to, which is really surprising because he’s usually so very mellow about everything except parking tickets.

  As I flossed my teeth, I thought very hard about where I want my personal life to go. I wasn’t sure I even wanted a boyfriend since they take up so much time and I’d been pretty okay with not having one since I managed to get rid of the last guy. Relationships are like work, but you don’t get paid in money. Instead you get sex and someone to hang out with.

  I worked the floss between my molars and realized that my life would suck a little bit more if Jared wasn’t in it. When it comes down to it, isn’t that what being in a relationship is about? I tossed the floss into the trash can (something Sluthammer never manages to do with floss or tampon wrappers) and marched out of the bathroom. Jared looked up from my Lucky magazine with those big puppy dog eyes of his that got all round and slightly teary when I told him, “Yes, you’re my boyfriend. Whatever. Okay? Let’s go get something to eat.”

  At Johnny Rockets, the one at Farmers Market next to the Grove, which is my favorite place to eat after something stressful happens, he made a big show of eating off my plate, calling me “honey” and being so damn boyfriendy, it made me lose my appetite. He asked what we’re doing this weekend, if I wanted to spend the night at his place, if I’d go shirt shopping with him and on and on. I tried to wave him off so I could focus on getting my throat to stop constricting, but he kept gushing all over me about how happy he was. He never asked me if I was or wasn’t. He just assumed it was all lollipops and rainbows for me, too.

  Thing is, Jared is a really nice guy. No, not nice. Anyone can be nice, he’s kind and kindness comes from being a genuinely good person. He’s also the kind person who wants to be kind to me 24 hours a day. As I watched him pay for my hot dog, fries and banana chocolate milkshake, I couldn’t help wondering what he sees in me.

  Yeah, all those feelings I’ve been avoiding for most of my 23 years on this planet are now biting me in the butt. Great.

  Friday, April 15:

  I’ve put together my outfits and am now doing my ironing for the coming week. Maya is disgusted with me. This doesn’t bother me at all.

  Saturday, April 16:

  For someone who just got in from being out last night (and who didn’t come home with her underwear), Maya is being very judgmental.

  “You can’t be serious, Brenda. What’s wrong with you?”
>
  “Nothing. This is completely normal to want to spend time in my apartment doing apartment things. I spend all week working to pay the rent; I want to get my money’s worth on the weekend.” It’s way past 11 and all I can think about is how much I want my Starbucks and how much I don’t want to make the effort to go and get it.

  “You’re so boring, Brenda. Were you always this boring?”

  “Yes, in fact, I was. And I am.” I yawn and pull my hair into a ponytail. “I’m going for coffee. Want to come along?”

  “Boring, but yes and only if you promise to come shopping with me.”

  “I’ll think about it.”

  “Boring, bitch.” She sticks her tongue out at me and slams the bathroom door closed. “I’d rather be boring than have to take a pregnancy test every other week.” Okay, fine, I waited to say that until after Maya got into the shower.

  Sunday, April 17:

  I’ve made good on my promise to do nothing so I have nothing to show for it.

  Monday, April 18:

  I’ve broken one of my temp rules and made a sort of friend here at the law office. Theo sent me to the supply room for more yellow highlighters where I met Cal, who recently signed with TempOne after realizing things like rent, food and car payments have to be paid with money, not sarcastic comments. He’s funny, and definitely too cute for his own good, but I turned down his offer to hook me up with all the notepads and ball point pens I could stuff into the waistband of my skirt.

  Last thing I need is to give Theo an excuse to frisk me, though I have the feeling Cal would find it hilarious if he did. He seems like that kind of guy.

  Tuesday, April 19:

  Cal handed me a Xerox copy of his bare ass on bright pink paper. I asked him to autograph it and he did. He also wrote down his phone number—right down the middle of his crack.

  Wednesday, April 20:

  My plan to get out of having to deal with Jared and Maya two nights a week and earn money as a tutor to empty-headed Wyatt at his parents’ drool worthy home might have sort of backfired on me. I’d romanticized the whole thing, but the truth is he’s just plain lazy. Worse, he knows he can get away with it.

  As with Maya, his mom and dad will make sure he never has to worry about paying his rent and he’ll never have to forgo Starbucks because he can’t afford it. Thinking about this makes me resent my own parents who instilled in me a strong work ethic and the rapture of delayed gratification. Whatever. Once the apocalypse comes, the Mayas and Wyatts of the world will be screwed while me and my stash of canned and dehydrated foodstuff will rule what’s left of the planet.

  “So, yeah, what is it that you, like, do?” Wyatt asks not looking up from his term paper. I’ve marked it up with suggestions such as “Use complete sentences” and “You can’t start every sentence with ‘Actually’.” He steals a quick glance at me. “Are you, you know, an actress or something?”

  I let out a snort even though I do treat each temp assignment like a movie or book and I dress for them like I’m playing the starring role. “Didn’t your parents tell you?”

  “Nah, man. They hardly talk to me.” Wyatt flushes at revealing the sad truth I had already guessed. “I mean they’re, like, super busy with their careers and shit.”

  “I’m a temp. I work for an agency and they send me out to work jobs all over the place. It’s not very exciting, but it pays okay and I like it.”

  “Okay.” Wyatt tries to process this information. He shrugs and goes back to his marked up term paper. “You can go now. I won’t tell my parents you skipped out early.”

  I look at Wyatt. His eyes are clear and bright and I realize he isn’t dumb but it would be easier for him if he was. He has a free ride and he knows it. Short of murder, there’s nothing he can do that will screw it up for him. Poor kid.

  “Make those changes and you should be okay to turn it in. If you have any questions, email or text me.” I walk to the table where my envelope of money is waiting. “So I’ll see you next week. Okay?”

  “Whatever,” Wyatt says.

  “Whatever is right,” I say as I stuff the envelope of cash into my purse.

  Thursday, April 21:

  I was at the supermarket last night and saw a little girl, about four or so, sitting in a shopping cart. Usually, I ignore kids unless they're doing something really obnoxious. Then I'll give them a dirty look or egg them on, but not this kid.

  What caught my eye was her hair. She had a head full of Shirley Temple curls. How do I know about Shirley Temple? I spent the ages between three and six watching black & white movies with my grandma. She came to live with us after her divorce from her third husband and she'd do my hair up just like Shirley's.

  So tonight, after working a full day for Theo I'm putting my hair up in sponge curlers and watching Curly Top. I'd call my grandma to tell her, but she's in Vegas with her senior citizens group. Nothing, not even happy memories, comes between that woman and a blackjack table.

  Friday, April 22:

  I’m making precise lines with paper clips, sorting them by color and size. Earlier, I started a rubber band ball that’s now in my purse. You never know when you’ll have a rubber band emergency on the road or at home. When Theo strides out with his big fat briefcase, I don’t even bother sweeping the paper clips into my lap. There’s no point in undoing my efforts of the last half hour. We both know the game we’re playing and if he wants to pay me (through my agency) to participate, I’m in.

  “I see you’re keeping busy, Brenda,” he sneers, like a real one. It’s his signature look. He needs to whiten his teeth. Maybe I’ll leave an ad for whitening strips on his desk.

  “Yes. I am.” I look up at him blinking under the weight of my false eyelashes. I went all out today, my highest heels, narrowest pencil skirt and crispest white shirt. If I could have shot my face full of Botox to keep it expressionless, I would have. There’s not much I won’t do to make sure a temp assignment is a success even if it means I have to be passive aggressive about it. “Would you like me to forward your calls?”

  Theo is on the outs with both his Park Avenue wife and his Abbot Kinney girlfriend. He had me send flowers to each of them. Red roses, of course, with the same message on the card, “I’m sorry.” He’s not sorry. He’s annoyed that they’re annoyed with him. I have news for Theo: he owes the whole world a bouquet of roses.

  “No. Just take messages.” He walks away without saying goodbye or telling me whether he’ll be back or not. Being that it’s 4 PM on Friday, I doubt it.

  Not that I care (even though he is winning because I have to sit here and do nothing if I want to get paid). I start hooking the paperclips together, alternating colors, to make myself a necklace to go with my bracelet.

  Saturday, April 23:

  I had an interesting conversation with another potential renter while looking at places for Maya. This guy asked me if I knew if any hookers or drug dealers lived in the building. Told him I didn’t think so, but he could ask the property manager to make sure. They had a quick chat and he left without filling out an application. Guess the place didn’t have the kind of amenities he was in the market for.

  Sunday, April 24:

  Woke up with an intense craving for pancakes—not from a box mix or microwave. Jared came over and flipped me some. From scratch. And they were super good. Now I’m in the early stages of a pancake coma and have accepted that it will be impossible for me to do laundry. Going to curl up on my couch and let Jared rub my feet. I could get used to this boyfriend thing.

  Monday, April 25:

  Summer has booked me for a week at an office tower in Westchester, right near the airport. From the window I can see the planes land and take off, one right after another. I’ve had plenty of time to watch as all of us temps have been corralled into a conference room with no airflow and not enough chairs, waiting to find out what we’ll be doing.

  The office manager is calling names, but not alphabetically. She then disappears with that perso
n and comes back a few minutes later. The woman next to me says the longer we stay in here, the crappier the job we’ll end up with. I’m positive the office manager is playing favorites and it’s obvious I’m not one of them. Who is? The bitch with the face who gave me the smuggest look when she was called first.

  I hope I don’t have to work with or even near her.

  Tuesday, April 26:

  I’ve never been a proponent of gal-on-gal crime, but Priss (short for Priscilla whose default expression is a bitch face, hence her moniker BitchFace) is asking for a beat down. She’s doing that thing where she stops talking when I walk by and then starts up again when I’m a few steps past. Whatever. I’m here to work not turn my life into a bad Lifetime movie about sorority hazing. Or at least I thought I was until this happened:

  I was working on a project with another temp, Marci, and when I told her my name she said, “So you’re that Brenda.”

  “Yes, that’s right. I’m that Brenda. Do you have a problem with that?”

  I couldn’t help it—this Brenda was seriously annoyed even if it wasn’t directly at Marci. If she’s dumb enough to step into a pile of office politics, I’m not going to throw my coat over it so she doesn’t get her Payless shoes dirty. Hasn’t she watched any Lifetime movies?

  A few minutes later she got up, asked to be reassigned and I had to finish the project on my own, which was much more efficient anyway since Marci wasn’t exactly a big help.