Getting the Important Things Right

by Padgett Gerler

  And he was sobbing, “I’m so sorry, so, so sorry. I don’t know what came over me, Baby Girl. I was so horrible. But I was so scared. So much happened so fast. All of a sudden I had the responsibility of a wife and a home. On top of that, I would be starting dental school in a week. And then I saw you laughing and dancing with all of your friends. You looked so happy with them, happier than you have ever looked with me. But when I saw you dancing with your old boyfriend, I just lost it. I was so afraid I was going to lose you just when I had found you. Oh, Babe, please forgive me. I promise it will never happen again. I spent yesterday sitting in the back of the library, crying. I was so scared. Oh, please, Baby Girl, don’t ever leave me.”

  As he cried, I put my arms around him and assured him that he was the only one and I would love him, and only him, until the end of time. And I assured him that I would never again give him reason to doubt my love.

  Twenty-eight

  And we never mentioned it again. I had become adept at sweeping unspeakables under the rug, and that’s exactly where Garth’s despicable behavior went. Just thirty hours into our marriage, and already my threadbare, hand-me-down rug had a lump in it.

  Once I had promised never again to do whatever it was that I had done to make him behave so terribly, Garth dried his eyes and asked, “Want some pancakes?”

  “Pancakes?”

  “Sure. I’m hungry as hell.”

  “Well, okay.”

  He kissed me on the forehead and said, “Run shower and dress, and we’ll go over to Breakfast Hut and get some pancakes and sausage.”

  Huh? I was still confused about the past thirty hours. So I wasn’t going to question pancakes. I showered and dressed, and Garth was jangling the car keys when I returned to the combo room. He was all smiles and jokes and kisses and hand holding, so I felt I just had to move forward, believing that his wedding-night behavior was an isolated incident and that it really would never happen again.

  We went to Breakfast Hut, a favorite hang-out for college students. We had the place all to ourselves, though, since the University’s spring semester had ended and summer school would not begin until the following week. We sat on the same side of the booth, and Garth put his arm around me and held my hand, fingering my wedding band.

  “Mrs. Garth Brooks. I like the sound of that, Baby Girl.”

  “So do I.”

  “Do you really?”

  “Of course I do. I wouldn’t have said ‘yes’ to your proposal if I hadn’t wanted to be Mrs. Garth Brooks.”

  “Well, you better like it cause I gotcha now,” and he caught me in a bear hug and nuzzled my neck.

  We ate pancakes and sausage until we had to loosen our belts, and then we laughed all the way home about the waitress’s eyebrows. I can’t remember what was so funny about them, but everything is hysterical when you’re happy—and relieved.

  When we got back to our apartment from Breakfast Hut, we finally had that wedding night I had seen in the movies, read about in books. And, by the way, I don’t think it was Garth’s first time. It was everything I’d hoped it would be: the whispers, the caresses, the tenderness, the patience. We spent the rest of the day in bed, and by the time we finally emerged from the bedroom, we were ravenous.

  “Chicken! We need chicken!”

  To this day I can’t hear the word chicken without laughing at the memory of Garth yelling, “Chicken! We need chicken!”

  And, boy, did we have chicken! Garth jumped into his clothes, ran out to the car, and was gone before I even thought about joining him. In fifteen minutes he was back with enough chicken, potato salad, baked beans, and biscuits for the entire apartment building. We sat on the sofa under the ratty quilt, watching Garth’s old 15” black and white TV, eating right out of the take-out cartons.

  I will cherish that day forever. It was the most beautiful, carefree day in my life with Garth.

  Twenty-nine

  I picked up a box of Count Chocula while we were grocery shopping, and Garth hugged me and said, “You’re so cute, but you’re not a little girl anymore. That sugary cereal isn’t good for you. You have to start acting like an adult, taking care of your health.”

  And, just like that, he took the Count Chocula out of my hand, placed it back on the shelf, and exchanged it for a box of corn flakes. I knew he was right, but I really didn’t care for corn flakes. I liked Count Chocula and Lucky Charms. I didn’t like the way the corn flakes got soggy in milk, and I preferred my milk pink or chocolate colored when I got to the bottom of the bowl.

  But there we were, eating our soggy corn flakes and reading the newspaper when Garth said, “Don’t you think it’s time you looked for a job, Baby Girl?”

  When Garth and I began talking about marriage, we had agreed—well, I think Garth decided—that I would get a job and support us while he was in dental school. Once he had finished his studies and had a job, I’d quit work and return to school to finish my degree.

  “But I really don’t know how to do anything. I’ve never had a job.”

  “Well, Baby Girl, everyone has to start somewhere. Surely you have skills of some sort. How about office work? You can type and answer a phone, can’t you?

  “Yeah, I guess so.”

  “There you go.”

  And it was decided. I would be our sole support—for a while. We had a running joke that I would be Garth’s meal ticket and that he’d be a kept man.

  When we married, our parents gave us checks, seed money to get us started. It would pay the rent, buy some groceries, keep the car running for a few months. But our seed money was running out. My days of sleeping late, watching soap operas, and lounging by the University pool were about to come to an end. It was time for me to be our sole support—for a while.

  Garth pulled the classified section from the newspaper and handed it to me. I went straight to the clerical/office listings and began searching. I took a pencil from Garth’s pencil cup on the desk/dining table combo and began circling all of the ads that had the words type or telephone in them. I skipped over all of those that contained the words bookkeeping or shorthand. When I got to the bottom of the page, I saw that I had six circles. A good start.

  I had no idea what time offices opened, but nine o’clock sounded reasonable. So at nine o’clock, as soon as Garth left for class, I began making calls to set up interviews for the following day. I made my first call to the law firm of Smith, Smith, Williams, Byrd and Needham. They were looking for a typist for their typing pool. Requirement: basic typing skills. It sounded like the job was made just for me. The nasal voice that answered the phone at Smith, Smith, Williams, Byrd and Needham asked if I could be at the office in an hour. It would be a squeeze, but I was sure I could make it.

  There was time for deodorant but not a shower. That would have to do. My hair wasn’t flipping properly, but a quick brush, a little tease, and a hair band made it presentable. I spent a little extra time brushing and flossing my pearly whites since my smile was my greatest asset. I added some mascara, blush, and lip gloss and headed for the closet to dress.

  Ma’am had bought me a navy blue suit for my going-away outfit, but since Garth and I hadn’t gone anywhere, the suit was still hanging in its garment bag with the tags attached. I unzipped the bag, and realizing I didn’t own a pair of scissors, gave the tags a swift yank. I jumped into the suit, paired it with a white blouse, and stepped into my navy blue flats. I didn’t have time for stockings. My legs were tanned from my days at the pool, so I hoped no one would notice that they were bare and unshaven. I ran for the door, grabbing my purse and keys on the way, and headed for the car. I was grateful that Garth was within walking distance of his classes and had left the car for me.

  Smith, Smith, Williams, Byrd and Needham occupied all fourteen floors of a high rise building on Walnut Street. I found a parking lot about a block from the building, parked the car, jumped out, and started running. I had just three minutes to make my appointment. I reached the lobby just as the cour
thouse clock was striking ten.

  The lobby was an enormous room, soaring several stories. The walls were paneled in mahogany, and the floor was a speckled brown marble—loud marble. As I ran across the floor, my heels made a loud clack, clack, clack sound that echoed and bounced from wall to wall. The woman sitting behind the lone desk in the huge lobby looked up from her magazine and glared at me over the top of her glasses. I slowed my pace and tiptoed the rest of the way.

  When I reached the glaring woman’s desk—her name plate read Mrs. Peebles—I said, “I’m Lydia Albemarle—I mean, Lydia Brooks—and I’m here for a job interview.”

  With a very bored look Mrs. Peebles said, “Take that elevator to the tenth floor. When you exit, take a left. Turn right at the second hall. When the hall dead-ends, turn right. Human Resources will be the fifth door on your right.”

  And she went back to reading her magazine before I could say, “Would you please repeat that?”

  But I remembered elevator and tenth floor, and I figured I could wing it once I got to floor ten.

  When the elevator stopped at ten and the doors opened, I stepped out and up to my ankles in plush cream-colored carpet. I could see my face in the shiny, mahogany wall opposite the elevator door. The hallway smelled like lemon furniture polish. I imagined a crew coming in every night to polish the walls.

  I was thinking, “Turn right, no, left, five doors, dead end, holy shit,” when a girl about my age walked by.

  “Please point me in the direction of Human Resources. I’m lost.”

  She laughed and said, “Don’t worry. Everybody gets lost looking for HR on her first day at Smith, Smith, Williams, Byrd and Needham. I’m headed that way. Just follow me.” Then she stuck out her hand and said, “I’m Becky.”

  I introduced myself and thought, “This is great. I’ve already made my first friend.”

  Little did I know that I would be separated from Becky by nine floors and that I would never lay eyes on her again.

  When we reached HR (Already I was talking in office code.), Becky wished me luck, and I stepped into the office. There I found a dozen young women, all about my age, all wearing navy suits, seated in chairs lining the walls. When I entered, they all turned their attention to me, gave a half smile, and returned their gazes to nothingness. I took a seat and joined them in their gazing.

  About fifteen minutes passed before a woman entered from an interior door. She was wearing a black suit and heels, and she had eyeglasses hanging from a chain around her neck. She ordered us to follow her, so we lined up single-file and marched down a narrow corridor to a windowless room with rows of tables and chairs. On the tables in front of each chair was a stack of papers. The lady with the eyeglasses on a chain—she hadn’t told us her name—said to take a seat and complete the application for employment and, once completed, return to the front office and take a seat. I answered all of my questions and stood to leave. I noticed that all of the other applicants were still poring over their forms, so I decided to sit back down and look over the pages once more, just to make sure I hadn’t missed anything. Once I was sure I had filled in all the blanks, I stood, gathered my papers, and walked out of the room. And still the others kept working.

  When I returned to the front office, the lady with the glasses came out and said, “That was quick.”

  Well, it wasn’t the SAT. I didn’t have to ponder long over my name, address, phone number, marital status. I had pretty much committed all that stuff to memory.

  Once she had glanced over my application to make sure I hadn’t left a box blank, she said, “Well, let’s get you over to the typing room so you can take a little typing test.”

  When we reached the typing room where tests were already in progress and the clack of the machines was deafening, I was delighted to see that I would be taking my test on an IBM Selectric identical to the one I had used in my high school typing class. The lady with the glasses—still no introduction after all the time we had spent together—turned me over to a squat woman wearing a suit and white tennis shoes. She informed me that she would be administering my typing test.

  With no introduction either, she instructed me to sit in front of a typewriter and then said, “You will be typing the text on the stand to your right. You will begin when I say ‘Go’, you will type for five minutes, and you will stop when I say ‘Stop’. Ready? Go!”

  And I typed like the wind for five minutes until I heard, “Stop!”

  She collected my paper, ordered me to stay seated, and retreated to another room. Soon she returned and asked me to follow her. She took me to yet another office—this one empty, except for a desk and two chairs—and I took a seat. After another wait, a woman entered the office, extended her hand, and actually introduced herself. She took the remaining chair behind the desk.

  Mrs. Reynolds said, “Mrs. Brooks, you are an excellent typist. You typed eighty-five words per minute with absolutely no mistakes. That’s practically unheard of. Congratulations! We feel that you would be an asset to Smith, Smith, Williams, Byrd and Needham, and we would like to offer you a job in our typing pool. It would be an entry-level position, of course, paying minimum wage; however, the benefits are excellent, and there is room for advancement.

  I knew better than to tell Mrs. Reynolds that I had no intention of advancing at Smith, Smith, Williams, Byrd and Needham and that this job was temporary, a means to an end. Instead, I thanked her, told her how excited I was about coming to work at Smith, Smith, Williams, Byrd and Needham and asked her when she would like for me to begin.

  She said, “How about yesterday?”, and we both laughed at her lame joke.

  I asked if the following morning would be soon enough. She assured me it would be and told me to report back to Human Resources when I arrived the next day.

  “Uh oh,” I thought. “I hope I run into Becky again.”

  Mrs. Reynolds walked me to the elevator and shook my hand just before the doors closed on us. I rode the elevator to the ground floor. I looked at my watch as I tiptoed across the echoing lobby and discovered that it was two o’clock. I had been at Smith, Smith, Williams, Byrd and Needham for four hours. No wonder I was tired and very, very hungry.

  When I reached the street, I was blinded by the sunlight. I hadn’t seen a window in four hours. I shielded my eyes with my hand and looked up and down the bustling street. I saw a hotdog vendor to my right and decided to splurge on a hotdog with mustard and onions. While the vendor was fixing my lunch, I noticed a big cooler with bottled RC Colas submerged in ice. It was a hot July day, and an RC sounded like just what I needed. Once I had paid the vendor, I wandered over to the small park adjacent to the office building and took a seat on a bench. I balanced my RC between my knees and peeled the mustard-soaked waxed paper from my hotdog.

  As I ate my lunch, I stared up and up at the building where I would be working for the next four-plus years. I had just had my first interview in my life, and I had just been offered my first job in my life. I was feeling pretty damn good about myself. I was feeling confident. I was feeling like a grown-up. And I wanted to tell somebody.

  I polished off the remainder of my hotdog and licked the mustard from my fingers. I skipped happily to the car and headed toward my parents’ house. The Colonel would still be on campus, but Ma’am would be at home. When I arrived, I opened the door, yoo-hooed, and walked on in. When Ma’am heard my voice, she came out of the kitchen with a glass of something in her hand.

  She said, “Well, don’t you look lovely in your navy suit. When I saw it, I just knew it was you, Dear.”

  “Ma’am, you’re looking at a working woman. I just got my first job!”

  She moved closer—though not close enough for physical contact—raised her fist in the air and said, “That’s my girl!”

  And then she added, “I hope you didn’t go for your interview reeking of onions, Dear.”

  That was such a Ma’am thing to say. I laughed and assured her that the onions had come after the in
terview, not before. She looked relieved. When I realized that all I was going to get out of my mother was a “that’s my girl,” I told her I was going to go tell Percy.

  She said, “You do that, Dear. He’ll be so proud.”

  Ten minutes later I was pulling into the lot of the garage. When I got out of the car and started walking toward the repair shop, Percy came sauntering out, wiping his greasy hands on a rag.

  “Whooeeee! Ain’t you looking just like a big old fancy lady person!”

  When I reached him and put my arms around his neck to give him a hug, he said, “God, those onions smell good; you been eatin’ hotdogs!”

  How could he possibly be Ma’am’s child?

  I said, “You’re looking at a bona fide working girl.”

  And he picked me up, twirled me around, and gave me another “Whoooeeee!”

  We walked out behind the garage, sat on the bench, and I told him every detail about my day, right down to the mahogany walls.

  He said, “Sis, I didn’t doubt for a minute that you’d get any job you wanted, but I’m just so proud of you. And you should be real proud of yourself.”

  And I was. I had done something I had never done before, and I had succeeded on my first try.

  I looked at my watch and found that I had talked until suppertime. Garth would be home from class. I needed to get home. I hugged Percy goodbye and got in the car.

  When I got home, Garth was sitting at the desk/dinner table combo with his nose in a book.

  He did not look up when he said, “Where have you been?”

  I joked, “I’ve been getting a job so you can be a kept man.”

  “Why didn’t you leave me a note?”

  “Well, I had exactly one hour from telephone call to interview, and I just didn’t have time to leave a note.”

  “You should have taken the time. That was most inconsiderate of you. I was very worried,” he said angrily.