Hip to Be Square

by Hope Lyda

  “I don’t get it,” I say as the buzz at our table and at others nearby rises to mania levels.

  Only Peyton hears me. “A flash is when an anonymous someone sends an email or text message to hundreds of people to gather. The point is to bring together a crowd to do something pointless…usually in a public place. Sometimes they have a real purpose, but usually they are sent just to see how many lemmings will follow.” He looks around and is as surprised as I am how many lemmings are in our midst.

  “We had better go if we want to find Pez dispensers in time. Good thing we are close to the courthouse.” Angus drops a fifty on the table to cover his tab and rallies the others to follow his lead.

  As badly as Angelica is feeling about taking a drink, she seems thrilled that something has detracted from me in this moment. She stands to join them. Peyton and I remain seated.

  Angelica doesn’t even ask if I am game to come along. She knows the answer and is not-so-secretly pleased, even if it means I will be left alone with the guy she likes. “So you can cab it home?” Her question is asked on her way into the throng heading for the door. I don’t bother to answer.

  At this very moment my watch alarm goes off. Though it isn’t to the tune of an unclassy dance song, Peyton assumes it is my cell phone. “Oh, no. Not you too?” He says this while watching after Angelica. I see the disappointment in his eyes.

  I turn off the alarm and let him think I am “in” enough to have received a flash TM. “I’m pretty sure that is what the delete key was meant for.” I watch him still watching the exit. The obvious yet surprising question blurts out. “Do you like Angelica?”

  Peyton’s eyes return their gaze to our table. He is sweetly shy about this confession. “I do. When she isn’t putting on her show, I sometimes think we could…get along. I know she can be hard on people and unaware of how she comes across, but I’ve seen her laugh. I’ve seen her talk with kids at the children’s hospital, you know?”

  Okay, I didn’t see this coming. Yet, I am inspired by this guy’s ability to see the real Angelica. “You don’t have to sell me, Peyton. I know that side of her too. She’s sort of going through a rough patch, but she’ll come out on the other side.”

  He nods reflectively, considering this possibility.

  “Do you think she is remotely interested in me? I hope this isn’t awkward…”

  I wave my hand. No big deal. “Not at all. I mean, not at all awkward. And absolutely I think she is interested. Even if she doesn’t know it yet.”

  Peyton laughs at this and clinks his glass against the edge of mine.

  Since my “sit across from the one you like” theory has gone up in smoke, I am tempted to find an excuse to leave and make it home in time for my show. Then it occurs to me that while the rest of my generation jumps on the group mentality bandwagon, staying in Nonconformity with Peyton and our seltzers with lime is a very mature, hip thing to do.

  Besides, my VCR is recording Castaways.

  Baby steps.

  From Outdated to Out Dating

  Torrents of raindrops do cannonball splashes on my Tucson Daily News umbrella as I maneuver around people too confused by precipitation to move forward quickly. Up ahead I see the lime neon Fab sign. It takes the pressure of my body weight to push open the grand, Gothic door. Standing barely five foot four, I have to duck to avoid cranial collision with the brilliant red paper lanterns hanging like stalactites from a black ceiling.

  When Mary Margaret, a small woman with graying temples, sees that I am just a friend of Caitlin’s and not a commission possibility, she returns to the slim leather-bound volume of vampire poetry in her hands.

  “Is Caitlin here?” I rest my hands on the counter by the old-fashioned cash register and force the woman who looks more librarian than retail aficionado to address me. She turns her face to avoid looking at me, and I notice something that changes my librarian assessment…a tattoo of a copperhead snake winds along her jawline and slithers behind her ear. I shiver.

  The red tip of her clove cigarette directs me to the back curtain. “Inventory,” she explains.

  I make my way around the circular clothing racks that are packed with delicate and mysterious and occasionally furry items. I touch each piece, enjoying various tactile sensations until I reach the back room. Stepping into the tented area, I almost step on Caitlin, who is gathering bangle bracelets from the cement floor.

  She looks up at me. Her face is innocent and open…angelic. As hard a time as we give her, she is one of the most endearing people I know. Caitlin embraces that quality which I avoid at all costs…vulnerability.

  “I’ve been such a klutz lately.” She grabs my arm and stretches it out and begins to load it with bracelets. Once I look like the tin man, she motions for me to download my booty into a wicker basket. She seems nervous.

  “Mari, I feel bad about how we ganged up on you that night. It seemed okay in the moment, but not later after I thought about it.” She touches my arm and looks directly at me. “The heart of it was right, but I realize now that you felt attacked. And I said something that probably made you feel even worse…”

  While I have tried to block out a lot of that night, I am most certain that Caitlin had not said anything too ruthless. I shake my head.

  “No. I did. I said…I said we are the same. The whole dreamer thing—”

  “There is nothing offensive about being called a dreamer, Caitlin. I didn’t—”

  “I really look up to you, Mari, and your job and the way you help people. And you would do that in any setting. My life pursuits right now are so material by comparison. I think I put you down without meaning to.”

  “That wasn’t a put-down.” I grab a halter top covered with rows of plastic streamers, the kind that flair off tricycle handlebars, and hold it up to my chest. “What do you think?” Like I said, vulnerability ain’t my thing. Caitlin smiles and accepts my plea to change topics.

  “Help me put these out? And then we’ll get started on the makeover for your date.” She emphasizes the word “date” by following it with a wide-open-mouth look of awe. “You did bring a few of your things from home, right?” She starts to roll a rack of camisoles out into the cave. I follow her and try not to focus on the fake braids she has poking out of her head. They are Pippi Longstocking tentacles angling from her jet black hair. I worry that Caitlin’s fashion inclinations might be better suited for circus tryouts than for a first date. But after her show of kindness and empathy, I shove aside my plan to beg off this experiment. If it doesn’t involve permanent dyes or surgical procedures, I should be able to work with whatever she creates. Is that what Frankenstein thought before he looked in the mirror?

  “I grabbed just a few odds and ends. I really don’t know what look to go for.” I hand her the grocery sack and my wimpy contributions. Since I had planned to back out of this, my selection effort was halfhearted.

  “How did it go last night? Angelica’s outing of you as a socialite?”

  “So everyone except me knew I was not headed to a reading group.”

  “Um, you went with Angelica.”

  “Touché.” I smile at the friend who some write off as ditzy and clueless. Yet even she understood that Angelica and reading group are not a likely match.

  “It turned out nice, actually.” I tell her of my time with Peyton and how he is one of the few guys of faith I have ever met within Angelica’s circles. She never mentioned it, but then again, she is always pretending to be something she is not, so she probably doesn’t inquire into other people’s level of belief.

  “That sounds promising,” Caitlin mumbles as she unhooks one of her pigtails from a display of Velcro shirts.

  “For Angelica. He secretly likes her but is somewhat scared of her. You know how she is.” We both say “yep, yep, yep” at the same time.

  She stops going through my bag of items and looks at my face to read my emotion. “You really don’t mind that you spent the evening hanging with a guy who like
s someone else? Could you lend me some of that self-esteem?”

  “Is that self-esteem or just me knowing my role so well? Always the friend of the love interest and never the love interest. Actually, when I first met Peyton, I was flattered by his friendly attention. Now that I have a sense of him…I like him all the more, yet I also know he is not my type.”

  “Yeah. Christian, handsome, and nice. I can see how that would get old.” She mocks me while our observer releases a big sigh. Caitlin has described a complete dolt in Mary Margaret’s opinion.

  “A guy can have all the right ingredients and still not be your favorite dish. You know what I mean?”

  “Please don’t use food metaphors. I haven’t had lunch. And yes, I know what you mean. It’s why I broke up with Micki. He was perfect in so many ways, but there was no…”

  “Wait. Isn’t that the guy who was trying to grow his fingernails to beat the Guinness record? I thought that was why you broke up with him.”

  “You’re exaggerating. He had nails so he could play his ukulele. And you know me. If it is for the sake of a person’s art, I’m all for it. But Micki’s fatal flaw was less obvious.” Her slight shoulders rise and fall with the burden of love lost. “He didn’t get me. He liked me. Enjoyed my company. Laughed at my jokes, but he never got me.”

  We both sigh at this. I figure the “he doesn’t get me” factor creates what most single women call chemistry. No matter what name you want to give it…it matters. The reverse is true as well. I experienced a few catch and release dating cycles because I was attracted to guys I didn’t understand or connect with. And when that’s the case, no matter how cute or how attentive a guy is, a self-respecting single girl who’s holding out for the real thing will always move on.

  Caitlin holds up a see-through sarong from the rack in front of my body, draping the ends over my shoulder and waist as though I am a giant paper doll. I keep my head still so that it does not shake “no, no, no” violently. I breathe a sigh of relief when she wobbles her braids side to side and moves on to another style.

  I have breathed too soon. The new concoction she has me try on is a chartreuse peasant blouse, houndstooth vest, and black miniskirt that teases the eye with a lining of purple.

  “My neighbor would love this.” I offer a positive notion and pray for her braids to signal that this selection too shall pass.

  The sound of chimes turns both our heads to face the door. A Keanu Reeves look-alike trips down the one step and falls into the warmth of Fab’s womb. Each time he gets halfway up his army boots catch on the chains that drape from the belt loops of his long shorts, and he contorts in a backbend and falls again. His fourth try is successful because Caitlin props up the human muppet until he is detangled.

  “Zane, are you okay?” She shifts his backpack to a centered position.

  “Whoa. Whoa. Thanks.” When Zane stands upright he is a good foot taller than Caitlin. He pats her on the head, an endearing gesture.

  I turn all the way around so I can take a good look at this creature. I realize he did not stumble in, but rolled in. A beat-up, sticker-covered skateboard is gripped in his gloved left hand.

  The two chat together for a while, and the register chick watches them closely. I catch her primping the gelled curls at the nape of her neck. I can tell she is willing Zane to look her way.

  But instead Caitlin turns his shoulders to square with my side of the room. First there is shock in his eyes.

  Caitlin laughs and covers her mouth with her hand. The little spots of black nail polish look like a parade of bugs across her cheek. I look down ready to say I had nothing to do with this outfit when I realize I have stepped directly behind a disrobed mannequin. I am an X-rated version of those tourist gimmicks where you poke your head through a cardboard cutout that places your face on the image of Nixon’s or Donald Duck’s body.

  Zane looks relieved that he did not just catch me in the buff.

  “That was freaky,” he says, eyes downcast.

  “Not as freaky as the real thing would have been. Believe me.” Oh, no. Did I just refer to myself in the naked person? Change the subject. “So…you are a skateboarder? Either that or you carry a very large key chain.”

  “He calls it Earth Surfin’. Isn’t that clever?” Caitlin points to one of the stickers on the board that confirms the catchphrase.

  “That is clever.” I try to figure out how old Zane is. He pulls his hair back with a rubber band, and I notice a few crow’s-feet around his eyes.

  “Sorry about my crash landing. As soon as the rain comes my wheels freeze up, and I go from thirty miles per hour to zero in two seconds flat.” He laughs a quiet chuckle that is soothing in its gentleness.

  “Did you bring the invoice?” Caitlin steps behind the counter, completely ignoring the other girl, and opens up a three-ring binder.

  “Yeah. Got it here somewhere.” Zane pats himself all over and then retrieves a thin piece of yellow paper with a dozen creases from the lowest pocket of his shorts, which graze his ankle. Does an entire segment of my generation really dress like Oompa-Loompas? Or is Zane one of a kind?

  Apparently it is the former. Caitlin explains that Earth Surfin’ is the name of Zane’s clothing line, which is starting to sell like crazy in the Southwest and California.

  “Well, what I really need to do is get online action. I spent too much time lost in literature in college. I don’t know anything about computers. But I know if I want a piece of that multibillion dollar retail pie, I need to step it up.”

  “I have just what you need,” I offer.

  Zane winks. “Do you now?”

  I tear off a corner of the invoice and use a pen with a plastic sunflower on the end to write out my suggestion. “Grease and Go. When the rain mixes with the dry dirt on the bearings, it creates clumps. This stuff dissolves it on the wheelchairs at work.”

  “Excellent. I’ll be indebted to you for life if this helps.” He waves the piece of paper at me and starts to back up. Caitlin gets the door for him while he tucks his ponytail beneath the waterproof safari hat, an item he stole from a mannequin dressed in a military uniform and a boa. “Wildly interesting outfit, by the way.”

  I look down at my clothes and wonder how to take that comment.

  “I’ll be indebted to you for life…” Caitlin repeats Zane’s words and flutters her eyes in mock flirtation once he has zoomed by the display window.

  “Oh, please. I was just educating the boy.”

  “He went to Yale.” She responds to my look of surprise. “See, appearances can be deceiving. He dropped out his senior year to start his company.”

  “Really? Hmm.” It occurs to me that if Zane judged me by my attire, he thinks I am wildly interesting. I can live with that. I give my outfit a second look.

  Mary Margaret sighs a big sigh and lights some incense in the ceramic hand that is meant to hold gum. I used to put my retainer on one just like it.

  “Now…back to it. You’ve got a date to get ready for.” Caitlin adjusts my skirt.

  Date. The word sets my nerves reeling again. My stomach flutters as though it is on its own fair ride. Back up on the little platform in front of the mirror, I spin for Caitlin.

  “Something is missing…” Placing a finger to her lips, Caitlin contemplates my urban version of Death of a Salesman.

  Praise the Lord she noticed. About five inches of fabric on the hem is missing. Style is missing. Potential to not be mocked in a nice restaurant is missing. But I keep my mouth shut and hope for the best.

  “So what is this guy like, anyway?” Caitlin’s eyes light up as she considers her many possibilities and my one.

  “I honestly don’t know much.” I think of the few emails Sadie sent me encouraging me to take the first step toward change. “Sadie says he is really into community service. Handsome. Makes a very good living as a chef. Does not reside with his mother but treats her to clever Mother’s Day dates. That is how Sadie met him.” I pause to twirl again
like a good model should. Caitlin is evaluating which bangles and bobbles might go with her creation. I close my eyes and continue to think about my first date in years. “He actually rented out the botanical gardens for his mother last year so he could take her on a walking tour that ended up in front of a special species of a rose he had named after her.”

  “Lift your feet one at a time.” Caitlin forces me to lean forward so she can apply proper footwear. To maintain balance, I grab a leopard-print lamp shade that hangs from the encompassing blackness.

  “I hope this isn’t a mistake,” I say about all of it. The date. The clothes. My attempt to reenter my generation.

  Caitlin does not take this in reference to the clothes, which to her eye could not possibly be questioned. “If Sadie says he is nice, then he is nice.” She pulls on the fabric of my skirt to see if it should be tighter. “Sadie would never set me up with one of her associates. She wouldn’t say it…but she doesn’t think I am good enough…” Caitlin pauses to rummage through my bag of items in search of something compatible…or in this case…something in total contrast to the other pieces.

  “No, that isn’t true.” I say this as halfheartedly as I mean it, so I repeat it for emphasis. “It isn’t true at all.”

  The rustling stops for a moment. “Who could blame her? The way I live and dress is considered strange by those in her circle…in my parents’ circle.”

  As she speaks, two thoughts go through my mind. First, as sad as it is that she feels this way, it is even sadder that she is probably right. Sadie does separate people into categories without meaning to. She has always considered Caitlin to be scattered and living below her own potential. By Sadie’s standards, this is unacceptable. Second, Caitlin is transforming me into the very type she says will not fit into Sadie’s circle. Am I mad? Am I determined to sabotage my first date in years?

  But the most daunting realization stabs me in the pit of my soul. If I don’t pull this off, it will not be because of what I wear. It will be because of me. Why did Sadie think I could handle going out with a guy who owns two restaurants? I make up an answer. “I’m sure she just thought that Jace and I would get along because of the community service thing. Nothing else.”