by Hope Lyda
Then again, could be the flu. Even my health cycles are that of the over-seventy-five crowd.
Spending too much time with these folks is a bit like being trapped at a baby shower. You inevitably hear terror stories of physical anguish and are offered advice against your persistent yet polite wishes that they really not go there. Oh, I never thought I would have problems with [insert any private body function] either. Learn from me, deary. Eat your [insert remedy…soy, yogurt, iron supplements, etc.] now. To which you cringe and inevitably turn to the person on the other side of you, who initially looks normal, until her mouth opens and she says, Learn from me, deary. Don’t ever eat soy or yogurt or take iron supplements, etc. It is a wash every time.
After a while these crazy personal horror stories start to sink in. I imagine chills, sniffles, and aches where there is nothing more than typical working girl fatigue. But just in case I am ever on the verge of faulty [insert private body function], I had my friend Sadie come over and help me install a lazy Susan in my kitchen cupboard so I would have easy access to the latest multi-herbal-combo-infused-coated supplements. To alphabetize said medicines was completely Sadie’s doing. I am not obsessive.
But I am regular.
“Mari, you have a visitor. Front lounge area.” The loudspeaker bellows this just above reading group leader Kay William’s purple-and-yellow striped hat—a carryover from her days as an elementary school librarian. She starts with a bolt of nerves, her large hands losing their place in the book. She licks her fingers and smears coral lipstick onto the white pages to regain her spot, and the other residents give me dirty looks.
“Sorry,” I whisper under my breath and sneak out to the hallway. I am thankful to leave. Why can’t Mad Hatter choose something peppier? There are so many happy books.
I trundle down the hall listing off optimistic stories. “Wind in the Willows. Anne of Green Gables. All Creatures Great and Small. Huckleberry Finn—”
“I shot Kennedy.” Fran, a woman who laps the facility in Mickey Mouse slippers and fabricates a new history of her life daily, whispers into my ear. The smell of the peppermints she steals from my supervisor’s office wafts toward my nose.
“Just as I suspected.” I nod at her and keep walking. I turn back and see her talking into a pretend phone. She’s probably discussing her legal strategy now that her secret is known by the woman who leaves these corridors and surely tells the FBI or at least NPR about such confessions.
My smock stretches tight across my back when I reach for colorful streamers and balloons as I walk the corridor. This action allows me to cross the masquerade ball off my long list of annual activities. “I am Julie, your cruise activities director,” I say, mimicing reruns of the Love Boat to nobody. As freeing as it is to speak nonsensical, fantastical thoughts out loud, I’m still stuck on a boat that never docks in exotic ports promising parasailing, genuine handcrafted baskets, and that most requested excursion of all…love.
My sights are set on a horizon more golden than this one, indeed. I am determined to have the life I want by the time I am thirty. However, I just turned twenty-nine a month ago, and I have no plan in motion to exchange this charity job for a glamorous resort recreation director position or for attaining an enviable love life…and all the other imagined trappings of a perfect existence.
“Hey there.” I say before the person in the waiting room stands up and turns around to greet me. Answering the phone or greeting a guest does not allow for surprise. My life consists of three people with a few minor characters thrown in here and there.
“Thank goodness they found you. It takes them forever. Forever.”
A deep and full-bodied voice that should belong to a jazz singer belongs to my friend, who is five foot two and tiny and cannot carry a tune. I expected her to squeak like a mouse the first time I met her.
“You’d think they could locate an employee—” She stomps her foot without effect because she is wearing fuzzy slippers.
“Hey. Caitlin. What brings you here?” I say, encouraging her along. She goes through this spiel every time.
“I was just over at the resale shop on Seventh and, of course, thought of you. Can you believe it has been three years since we met that day you went in to look for those pants? Corduroy, were they?”
“Yes. Good memory. A resident had left his only photos of his wife in the pocket. We looked for nearly two hours that night. I still cannot believe you helped me.”
She smiles, remembering our beginnings. “Well, when I overheard your reason and the manager’s lack of compassion, I just had to. And we found them! And each other.”
“Ahhhh.” We croon this simultaneously.
I check the clock on the wall over Caitlin’s shoulder. “I’m off pretty soon; I just need to lock all the outside doors. Want to come with me?”
Always agreeable, Caitlin salutes me and then says, “I brought you a vanilla latte.”
“Mmm. You, Caitlin Ramirez, are my best friend.” My mood is altered just in the anticipation of something warm and sweet.
“I spoke to your other best friends. We have decided on Freddie’s for breakfast tomorrow. Are you on?” She drains her latte, tosses it, and pulls a file from her leopard-print purse to work on her long, bright pink nails.
“Sure, I’m on. But you mean Bible study.”
“Yeah, Bible study.” She looks up from a hangnail. “You seem down. Are you down?”
“No, not really.”
“Not really?” She hiccups as she often does when doing two things at once.
“No, just tired.” I notice Caitlin’s short, black hair is sprinkled with pink glitter.
“Just tired?”
“Could be a cold.” Why am I extending this dialogue?
“A cold?”
A conversation with Caitlin is like a monologue in the Grand Canyon.
“No. I’m fine. Glad the weekend is here.” I don’t lament out loud that my only planned activity is our breakfast gathering. Surely if I am tired of my state of being, so is my wide circle of three. Once a month we meet for what started as a Bible study. Lately we have done less delving into spiritual matters and more dissecting of life moments. I figure life moments are what lead us back to spiritual matters, so in our self-absorbed way, we are right on track.
“Yes…the weekend. I think Sadie has big news,” Caitlin offers.
“Really? What?”
“You know Sadie. Lock-lipped. Lip-locked? No, that would be kissing. Well, you know…she won’t talk. But she did allude to some guy. Which could be lip-locked, I guess.” She laughs at her joke and then sighs. “Sadie is so deserving.” Jealousy taints how much she means this. “At least we will have something to discuss this week.”
“In addition to…”
“In addition to…?”
“We will have something to discuss in addition to the book of Matthew.”
“Matthew?” She pauses, and I assume she is recalling a boyfriend from college. I can almost hear her flipping pages of her diary. She sighs ever so audibly between hiccups.
The grandfather clock next to me begins to announce quittin’ time. I was not about to stay a moment later. It is dangerous to get stuck in these hallways at night; one is likely to get talked into a round of dinnertime dominos. I made that mistake once. Okay, five times.
“Do you want to come over and heat up a pizza?”
“I have to head on to Fab to hang up some inventory, but thanks. I just wanted to honor the day we met while I was thinking about it.” She reaches around my paper cup to give me a quick hug.
“Thanks, Caitlin. This made my day. See you tomorrow?”
“Tomorrow.”
As I lock the door behind her, I think about Sadie. No, I think about levelheaded, act-together Sadie and a guy. Has she found someone?
I am probably the only one of us who could say “congratulations, it’s a boy” without a hint of envy. Four years ago I decided I would wait until just before my thirties to
date seriously. I wanted all the other things by thirty, so it would follow that a serious somebody would appear immediately after. So far, nobody has attempted to interfere with that declaration. Perhaps if I approach the “new job, new life before I am thirty” conviction with similar resolve, it will also come true.
I don’t dwell on the fact that the first commitment has been easy to fulfill because nobody asked.
Bible Study
Thanks for the ride.” I fold into my friend Angelica Ross’ baby blue BMW, catching the edge of my linen pants on the door handle.
“Did you check the bottom of your shoes? I just had the car detailed. I have to pick up a client on Monday. Some new doctor from San Francisco. First impressions are very important.”
I stifle the urge to tell her that “pick up a client” makes it sound as though she is a lady of the evening, not a pharmaceutical rep.
I open the door and tap my heels like Dorothy in The Wizard of Oz. “There’s no place like breakfast. There’s no place like breakfast.” I swing the soles of my feet in her direction and wait for permission to be her passenger.
“Good enough.” Angelica adjusts her rearview mirror to check her lipstick and adjust the blond swatch of bangs across her forehead. “You hear about Sadie?”
“How is it that everyone knows about Sadie except me? What do you know?”
“Just that she has been seen with a guy in all the best restaurants lately. You know Sadie. She doesn’t share juicy details about her personal life.”
“Unlike someone I know,” I say, laughing. Only Angelica has a love life to speak of. Actually, Angelica has a dating life. Love is not part of her current plan.
“People with broken-down heaps of scrap metal should not make fun of those with nicely maintained cars who drive said people to breakfast.”
“Guilt taken.” I see Caitlin getting off the bus just as we pull into the parking lot. So does Angelica.
“See. That could be you. Does she still not own a car?”
“She refuses. She says she doesn’t want her personal reliance on cars to add to our nation’s reliance on imported oil. Besides, she used to get parking tickets all the time because she forgot to feed the meters.”
I am not into palm readings, horoscopes, or tarot cards; they all go against my basic understanding of how God works. But I do firmly believe in the power of reading breakfast-food preferences. This, I am sure, is of God.
“I’ll have the huevos rancheros with extra salsa and sour cream, and could I also have guacamole? And breakfast potatoes with bacon…and iced tea.” Caitlin places her order first, though the waitress is looking at me. Last week Caitlin ordered blueberry pancakes with whipped cream and chocolate pudding on the side. Ever since I introduced her to Angelica and Sadie a couple years ago, her eclectic taste in clothes and food has been a source of endless entertainment for us all.
“I will have…hmmm…maybe the fruit platter? What is the soup today…it is too early for that, huh? Oh, dang…give me the Super Cheese omelet.” Ironically, Angelica was voted “most decisive” in our college marketing class and is now a pharmaceutical rep for a company that makes medication for Adult Attention-Deficit Disorder. These days she rarely sticks with anything or anyone.
She once told me that she fell into a rut. And it apparently was the worst experience of her life. I imagined her lying twisted and helpless in a large chasm…but, of course, she was really talking about the kind of rut that is my life. Predictable, boring, and not in need of a PDA or other self-organizing device because every day pretty much looks the same. Sometimes Angelica sidles up and looks at me as though I am the edge of that rut—intriguing and a bit fascinating, but if she gets too close, she might fall in.
“Granola with dry wheat toast, a sliver of skim cream cheese, and coffee with skim milk and sugar.” Sensible Sadie Verity hands her menu to our server dressed reluctantly in ’50s attire. Sadie is a classic. We are all the same age, but Sadie is the only real adult among us. Angelica and I were sure she was older than us when we met her in college at a Bible study through the campus ministry. We started going to the study because we thought we might meet decent guys. It turned out to be comprised of all women. We stayed because Sadie was an excellent leader.
We all watch her when she isn’t looking. She has the body of Alicia Keys with long legs; the affective speech of someone much older, like Maya Angelou; and the calm demeanor of a counselor. It is funny how you imagine yourself a certain way with certain people. When I stand next to Sadie, I want to tug on the sleeve of her impeccable suit and ask her to lean down so I can whisper questions into her perfect ear.
What choice should I make?
Which way should I go?
Why are you friends with me?
The waitress has made her way back to me. She tucks her blond hair with black lowlights behind her triple-pierced ear and sighs. “One egg sunny side up, a cup of oatmeal, whole grain toast, and black coffee.” I hand her the menu but she doesn’t take it.
“The Senior Sunrise Delight.” She slurs this, extreme boredom freezing the function of her tongue.
“I really wouldn’t know.” I nonchalantly examine the salt-and-pepper shakers. They are mini-replicas of Chevys and Fords from the 1950s. I’m willing her to go away.
Nope.
“Right panel. Big green letters…exactly what you ordered.” Malicious pause. “S-e-n-i-or S-u-n-r-i-s-e D-e-l-i-g-h-t.” Her fuchsia mouth outlines the words as though she were on Sesame Street.
She returns to the kitchen, where she probably makes the cooks cry.
I smile as I imagine how I’ll spend her two-dollar tip.
“Tell us. Tell us. Tell us about your boyfriend!” Caitlin bounces up and down like a child.
A child with a large basket on her head.
Caitlin is third in command at a trendy boutique, Fab, in an eclectic part of downtown where galleries and tattoo parlors share city blocks. Determined to get to the post of second in command at the store, she is always trying to initiate the next big trend. Her goal is to get one big claim to fame so her boss will have to promote her. Today’s stab at fab is a huge rimmed hat…the kind found atop bicycling women on soy sauce labels.
“But what about our spiritual dilemma of the week?” I interject, a strict traditionalist.
“This is more important. Besides, what Sadie thinks of this guy is a spiritual situation. Please, Sadie. Details?” Caitlin nods to emphasize her point and causes her basket to slip to an awkward angle.
Sadie wants to appease her friend but cannot quite get past the hat.
Nobody can.
The busboy has to push the next table over three feet to wedge by her head extension. “What is that, Caitlin?”
“It’s a non. From Vietnam. They are made of bamboo and are quite durable and exotic, don’t you think?” She touches the pinnacle of her new find.
“Anon, Anon,” I say, and only Sadie laughs at my literary joke.
“Yes. A non. The owner of Yi Li’s Tea House had one on the other day, and as I stared at it over my rice crackers and green tea, I knew it would be a hit. Not only is it a great conversation piece, it protects you from the sun in the summer and light rain in the winter.” She is a home shopping network of one.
I can barely make out Caitlin’s expression under the bamboo cone, but we all know she is serious. Sadly.
Sadie, seated next to her, can only see the large sloping side of the hat-mountain. “Well, it would certainly give one a lot of…distance in crowded situations like on the subway or…at a party…” Sadie is trying to be optimistic.
Caitlin nods under her non and adjusts the blue fabric tie beneath her chin. “The only problem is that sounds are muffled. It’s like going through a tunnel.”
The only problem?
Despite her quirky taste in fashion, Caitlin is a glass-half-full gal, God bless her. I shrug at Sadie as Angelica flips up the tip of Caitlin’s hat and gives her a thumbs-down. Angelica does not
sugarcoat anything for anyone.
“I have a spiritual dilemma that will be a nice segue into our exploration of Sadie’s love life.” Angelica stirs her coffee rapidly. Half her morning caffeine is now pooled in the saucer. She pauses to weigh her statement and makes a correction. “Actually, it is more of a moral dilemma.”
“Go for it,” I say, though I am frightened about what she might bring up. You never know with Angelica. Shock is her primary goal in any setting.
“Is it okay to dump a guy after a pretty decent first date just because he sells insurance?” She looks up and scans all of our faces for a first response, not the filtered politically correct answer we tend to present in case anyone is listening.
However, on this topic she need not worry. We all reveal our dark sides gladly.
“Yes.” Caitlin chirps innocently. “And no fair. That isn’t a dilemma; that’s a rule.”
“I hate to say it, but yes,” Sadie follows on the heels of Caitlin’s definitive approval. She looks embarrassed.
“Ouch. Way to make us start out the day shallow.” I disappoint myself, but we all have had stalker experiences with insurance salesmen in this town. At first they look dashing in their suits and manly with their briefcases and business cards, but the next thing you know they are downloading your personal address book and crashing your friends’ barbecues looking for new clients. The last straw is usually the “only because I care about you” conversation in which generic man—we call them all Brad—shares with you, over a candlelit dinner, how likely it is that you will lose a limb while feeding a parking meter or poke an eye out when baking quiche, should you ever take up baking.
I shake my head at our lack of compassion. “Okay…but that is the only reason to dump a guy after a good first date.” How do we get to a place of setting up such ridiculous standards for men? Sadly, this one rule rules out about eighty percent of the male population in Tucson. The other twenty percent are physical trainers who rent converted garage apartments from their parents. “On this note reflecting our moral descent, please save us with your news, Sadie. Tell us about a great man who breaks the mold and who, I take it, is not in the field of insurance.”
