by Carr, Suzie
I backed away from the line and watched the movie hungry, stirred by another incredible dose of empowerment.
By day two, I could’ve faced a sea of buttered popcorn and not have been tempted.
I swam in self-control paradise.
The internet didn’t even tempt me. Well, at least not for the first thirty minutes of my workday. At right about the point that I typically logged on to check for an email from my mother, I started questioning things, like what if Eva had responded and waited for me to reply? I would never not respond to someone who walked by and said hi. I would never ignore someone’s smile without reciprocating. I would never in a million years wave off someone’s effort to dig deeply and understand the complexities of hating Old Bay seasoning if asked. I was not a bitch. Neither was CarefreeJanie going to be.
I logged on braving all for the sacrifice of whipped cream and clicked right over to my mentions to be the bigger person in this situation and answer the lovely girl if she had mentioned me. I hated being ignored and I refused to start playing that bitch who did it to others as some sort of payback for being wronged throughout her entire life.
So, there I went to my mentions tab. Wouldn’t you know it? I didn’t have one lousy mention from anyone, especially from Eva Handel. My heart sank. I tossed my head down on my desk and groaned. Not only was Eva just like every other unattainable person in life, but now I couldn’t even mourn this fact over a bowl of strawberry ice cream smothered in whipped cream.
By my afternoon break, anger seeped through my bloodstream. How dare she ignore my tweet? I didn’t get it. Maybe Jane Knoll would be afraid to confront her, but CarefreeJanie was no wimp. No. I created her to be equal to the likes of someone who could carry a room full of people despite wearing mismatched shoes. I created a super woman who was not only a hottie, but someone smart, witty, and someone who didn’t take anyone’s crap.
I put on my best CarefreeJanie hat and retweeted my tweet to her. If that didn’t blanket her with some guilt, what would? CarefreeJanie didn’t need selfish tweeps in her social circle. She would only accept interactive, friendly, and maybe the occasional debater to show off her challenging side. That’s right, CarefreeJanie was not only beautiful and worthy of interaction, but she would also become someone whom others would not want to miss. She’d be listed on Twitter. Listed under such categories as ‘tweeps not to miss,’ ‘twitters of influence,’ and I would never leave off from this list ‘successful writers.’
A smile stretched across my face. My head buzzed. My heart galloped. I loved being CarefreeJanie so much more than plain Jane.
I dove head first into the fun with my retweet.
Larry would be so proud of me.
# #
Within two minutes, I rechecked Twitter. I hovered over the mention button for several seconds then finally clicked it, squeezing my eyes shut, inhaling deeply. Then, shaking off my fear of not seeing her tweet, I braved all and opened my eyes to a squint. There before me, rested a tweet from Eva Handel.
My heart ballooned.
“Does it help that I adore Baltimore’s beloved colors, orange and purple?” she asked. Her picture flirted with me, beckoning me to answer right away.
A smile too big for my face blossomed. I bit down on my lower lip, easing up on its pull across my face. That didn’t help. I read her tweet five times before looking away to find Sanjeev standing behind me with a clipboard in his hand. I jumped forward in my seat.
“Sorry,” he whispered. “You looked deep in thought and I didn’t want to interrupt.”
I arranged my head in such a way that it covered my screen. “No problem. What’s up?” What’s up?
“Katie mentioned that you were interested in speaking at the next quarterly meeting. I just wanted to come by and thank you for that.”
“Did she?” Did she also tell you that she can’t spell the word ‘definitely’ or ‘separate’ and that I have to correct her each time? Hmm? Ms. Graphic Designer of the Year messed with the wrong girl. She knew I’d rather die than make a fool of myself.
He draped his arm over the clipboard. “I’ll send you the topic points to cover for the marketing division in a few days. I’ll try to make it fun.”
Fun? Fun was watching Adam Sandler in “The Water Boy.” Fun was watching Larry try to pick up a straight guy. Fun was not humiliating myself.
“Fun. Yes. Great. Uh. I should get back to work.” I managed a weak smile.
He nodded. “Right, then.” He turned and walked away, bouncing in his long stride.
Two seconds later, Doreen rounded my cubicle wall. “That bitch.”
“I know, right?” I mirrored her dropped jaw. “I’ll figure out some way to get back at her.” I winked at her and spun back around to face Eva’s tweet again. Her cute words played on my eyes. I adored how they sat next to my @CarefreeJanie Twitter handle.
I clicked the reply button and wrote, “That takes away a small bit of the sting. But I need more. What else can you offer?”
I sent it off and a giddy rush swam through my veins. I just flirted with a beautiful girl.
Not a blink later, Twitter informed me that Eva Handel was now following me.
My breath hitched.
I leapt up from my chair and hurried off down the aisle, not knowing what else to do with this flurry of excitement bubbling over in me. I passed the executive offices where men and women stressed over their laptops about things they deemed important but really, in the grand scheme of what just happened, paled in comparison.
I weaved around a group of gossiping women who always stopped talking whenever I reached their no fly zone. They pointed their heavily mascaraed eyes at me, shifted in their high heels and swiped lip gloss from the corners of their lips with the tip of their fake nails. As usual, they stopped whispering when I weaved and I didn’t bother to apologize this time. I just kept striding ahead powered by a dizzy gale. I headed straight for the back door where I’d be free to release some of this crazy joy on the unsuspecting flowers, trees, birds and green grass of the office park. A man riding a lawn mower stopped and waited for me to walk past him. I waved back at him this time.
I walked with a new spring in my step. The warm air swaddled me. The green grass, as deep and thick as carpet, swayed with the gentle breeze. Birds chirped. Cicadas hummed. Puffy clouds floated against a gentle blue sky. The sun shimmered like crystals on the tiny ripples in the duck pond. I inhaled the sweet honeysuckle scent and savored the moment. The world flowered into a livelier place. For once, I didn’t want to stick my head in the duck pond for the rest of eternity.
# #
When I arrived back at my desk, Doreen lunged at me. “Katie came by asking where you were.” She rolled her eyes.
“What did she want?”
“To torment you for sure.”
I loved Doreen. I loved that Katie annoyed her just as much as she annoyed me.
Katie and I toyed with each other, always trying to one-up the other. Call it my post-bully revenge. She tossed out the first punch, and I followed suit because I knew she could handle it. She hated that Sanjeev appreciated my knack for improving his writing. Doreen, of course, would argue his appreciation for me had little to do with words and more to do with his crush on me. He invited me to luncheons and to work on special projects because I, unlike everyone else at Martin’s, didn’t yack on and on. One day, Doreen would come to understand that good looking, highly-educated men from India did not come to the United States to date shy, reclusive women like me who lugged around years of baggage too ugly to open. Until she understood this, I just let her ramble on about crushes, potential marriage proposals and romantic getaways on the company dollar.
# #
Turned out Katie had swung by my desk to give me a friendly heads-up on a major project coming down the pipeline. Friendly, my ass. Anyway, apparently, the new events manager, as Katie still referred to her, needed a high-profile presentation that she could submit to the executive leadership t
eam so they could better understand her services and the benefits she brought to the table.
“I’m happy to help,” I said meaning it for the first time ever.
She clicked her tongue. “Yeah, I bet you are.”
My body fired off its alarm. “What is that supposed to mean?”
“You’re redder than a tomato.” She poked me with her sneaky eyes.
“Just send over the stuff when you get it, and I’ll work on it.” I turned my back on her, pissed that she won that hand.
Katie and I worked together more often than I’d like. We sparred, and this, more often than not, resulted in brilliant outcomes. In our attempts to outshine each other, we ironically illuminated the entire company.
Katie loved her job. It defined her. She probably dreamt about it all night long. She was always showing up at my cubicle with her ‘ideas’ to turn one of my paragraphs into something more readable. As a graphic designer, she constantly changed my headlines around to suit her own designing needs, and then took full credit for that by failing to tell me. I’d discover the new headline weeks later when browsing an online ad or reading a newspaper.
She also claimed to be a computer whiz. She studied computer programming in college and decided to become a graphic designer instead because “her heart sang” whenever she indulged in creating a flyer or eye-catching advertisement. She talked about this to whoever would listen. I could be pouring a cup of coffee, taking a pee, washing my lunch dishes, thumbing through the file cabinets in the aisle and have to hear her tell this tale to newbies.
Even though she loved designing, she bragged about her computer hacking courses and how she never failed to break into a system and get that perfect grade for the class. I didn’t buy it. How could someone so genius about computer hacking not find work in some cybersecurity job that paid double what she earned as a graphic designer?
Blah. Blah. Blah. I couldn’t stand her. She couldn’t stand me.
Of course, we didn’t always hate each other.
She actually really liked me when she first started. She would ask to tag along on lunch strolls, and I’d look at her like she had ten heads. No one ever wanted to stroll with me for lunch. She came along a few times and drove me nuts with her constant need to talk. So, I excused myself from that ridiculous duty by lying about a sprained ankle I suffered from tripping down my condo staircase.
She even sent me a get well card with my favorite dog on the cover, a white boxer.
Well, that came down from my cubicle immediately following the day of one of our company happy hours. I invited Larry to tag along because I hated to walk into a room and not have someone to turn to and talk to. I did that once and every eye in the room branded me when I stood like a fool fiddling with my pocketbook strap and shifting from one foot to the other one too many times.
So, Katie showed up with her husband, this tall, dark haired man who dressed better than most red carpet stars. He wore an earring in his ear, a gorgeous watch on his wrist and smelled rich and woodsy. Well, place Larry in the same room as someone of this caliber and his eyes would be flashing, nose would be sniffing, and feet would be walking to get closer. And, did they ever. Larry stuck to this guy like mosquitos on a halogen light. Katie and I had been chatting it up by the tortilla chips laughing over something Sanjeev had said in one of our weekly meetings when she looked over at her husband and gasped.
Larry had been gazing into her husband’s eyes like a goofball and sliding his thumb down his cheek. Her husband didn’t seem to mind. A wide grin sat on his face and he tilted his head as he cued into Larry’s charm. I left Katie with a handful of tortillas and pounced up to Larry. That’s when all shit hit the fan.
I told Larry to go over to Katie and keep her company while I asked her husband a few questions. The guy checked me out from head toe. He told me I was beautiful, then insisted on buying me a drink. To keep Larry at bay, I walked over to the bar with him. I looked back on Larry and Katie, and she stared at me, ignoring Larry.
Her husband placed a hand on the small of my back and ushered me along to a private corner of the bar where he flagged down a bartender who looked to be no more than eighteen with spikey hair, a nose ring and a waist smaller than most ten-year-olds. He shot us a smile. “What can I get for you two lovebirds?”
I gulped. Her husband caught me as I pushed back against the bar to flee. He rolled me up into his arms and I fell against his chest. He whispered into my ear. “Relax, beautiful. I’ve got you.” Then, he kissed my cheek, resting his lips on my skin. Too shocked to move, I stood plastered against his command.
Katie charged towards us. “He’s my husband. You do realize that, right?”
I jumped out of her husband’s stronghold.
An amused smile sat on his face as if he enjoyed hurting his wife like this.
“It’s not what it looks like,” I said, clamoring for her understanding, one girl to another.
“Girls like you can’t be trusted.” She just shook her head, crossed her arms and viewed me as the most disgusting girl to ever walk the face of the Earth.
“Girls like me?”
“You prance around this world like you’re a gift to men, flinging your hair over your shoulders and batting your long eyelashes. You do the same thing with Sanjeev.”
“What?” The defenses rose. The claws sprung. The little hairs on the back of my neck stood tall ready to launch a full scale attack should one be necessary. “I’m not interested in your husband or Sanjeev.” I said this with perhaps a tad bit too much sarcasm. Or any other man for that matter. I’m a lesbian trapped behind lips that never kissed. I’m a ragdoll who has been pelted, kicked, punched, and taunted. I do not prance or bat my eyelashes unless someone is chasing me with one foot ready to kick me or an eyelash is scratching my cornea. The arguments circled my brain, twisting up into knots too bulky to undo. Perhaps I should’ve kept my mouth shut, but what flew out next sealed my fate for a future at Martin Sporting Goods that would test my resilience. “Besides, I think hubby prefers Larry over me.”
She lunged forward and that’s when I bolted. Larry and I ran from that building as if it were about to explode.
Two years had passed since then. The animosity swelled out of control. We hid it well from Sanjeev and our colleagues, but put us alone in a room and the daggers flew, the capes rose, the toying unfurled with reckless abandon.
# #
After eating lunch outside with Doreen amongst pretty butterflies and rays of sunshine, I returned to my cubicle and clicked onto Twitter, excited to see Eva’s response. To my delight, a new tweet sat for me. My heart zoomed.
“Oh, sorry, I’m afraid orange and purple are all I’ve got to offer you,” she wrote.
I stared frozen and stung at her closed-ended comment. It left no room for further banter. She cut me off just as quickly as she turned me on. It hurt more than a rock to the head.
Hope of a beautiful afternoon faded in a storm of dread as tears gathered up inside, threatening to overpower me. Just once, I wanted someone of value to pay attention to me.
I hated my life.
A new pity party welled up inside.
Not here. Not now.
I just wanted to be home, alone in my living room sobbing to a sad song.
I gathered my paperwork into a manageable pile, shoved it all into my book bag, and snuck out. The bitter salt of my tears burned the back of my throat as I forced them back until I cleared the building. By the time I climbed into my car, the flow erupted into a torrential downpour the likes of which I hadn’t dealt with since my cat, Oliver, died two years before.
I sat in my car and pounded the steering wheel with my fists. I hated myself for being so sensitive, so easily unglued and manipulated by other people’s actions and words.
I experienced this level of sting only once before when I was twelve and told my friend Barbara her eyes were pretty. We were washing my dad’s Ford Mustang in my front driveway. She wore my favorite pair of bl
ue jean cut-off shorts with a white tank top. The sun blazed above us, freckles dotted her pale skin and she looked up at me at one point, cupping her hand over her eyes for shade and asked me to pass the bucket of soap. Her blue eyes sparkled like gems, and I just blurted out the compliment. She arched her eye at me and backed away like I’d just told her I carried the small pox disease and could infect her in an instant with just a breath. I stumbled back on my words, not sure why I would’ve said them in the first place, and told her what I really meant to say was that my mother thought she had pretty eyes. She shook her head and told me she needed to get home. She left me standing there with half a sudsy car to still hose down. I could’ve run after her to clear the weirdness, but I just stood there with a leaky hose dangling from my numb arms and watched her jog down the sidewalk back to her house.
Two days later, we met up again at school and she paraded through the hallway with me like nothing had ever happened. She even slung one of her toned arms around my shoulder and laughed with me about how Rhonda Williams wobbled down the hall like a penguin with two left feet. I laughed like this was the funniest thing in the world, ignoring that inner beating in my brain that told me to shut the hell up.
I spent the rest of the school year laughing with her and her friends at Rhonda and other kids who weren’t perfect. I wanted to fit in. I wanted Barbara to like me as much as I liked her. My ticket on her train was laughter. My gang of friends laughed, so I laughed and watched in horror as the kids we laughed at turned red and blotchy or worse cried because of us. If I didn’t join in and laugh at nerds with glasses too big for their faces and pants too short to hide their ankles, or kids who were chubby and snorted when they laughed, or who were unfortunate enough to have a head full of frizzy hair or faces brimming with zits, then I feared Barbara would turn and look at me with that same look of disgust she did that day in the driveway.
She was my world, and I needed to prove my place, despite wanting to throw up every time my words or actions caused someone to cry.