He sent a half smile in my direction before he rounded the cubicle wall into his office. I heard the paper bag thunk down onto his desk.
“I know you’re not opening that bag anywhere near the computer.”
“Yours or mine?”
You know, it’s pretty disgusting to have to clean a keyboard. If people ever bothered to do it themselves, then I could almost guarantee they’d never eat hunched over their computer again.
If you really want to gross yourself out, take a computer mouse, the old kind with a tracking ball, open up the bottom and tap the ball into your hand. Yeah. That’s what I’m talking about.
“Hey, your good luck wish worked. I found a house.”
“Where?”
“Manitou Springs.”
Luck or misfortune? Whatever it was, he had chosen my town to live in: Manitou Springs. With a population of 4500, we were practically neighbors.
“You can’t live in Manitou Springs!” In thinking about Joe, not that I had done it very often, I had pegged him as a Gleneagle or Black Forest kind of guy. Gleneagle, one of the more prestigious and pricey neighborhoods north of Colorado Springs, seemed just his style. I would have guessed he’d have bought into one of the proliferating townhome projects that kept sliding down the hill, ever-closer to the interstate.
I heard his fingers pause on his keyboard. They began typing again. “Why not?”
Because it’s my town! “Because.”
“You’re not my mother, so ‘because I said so’ is not an acceptable answer.”
“You’re not the type.”
“What? I’m not tall, dark, and handsome? No, wait. I am.”
“Manitou is eclectic. Artsy. It’s a very tight-knit community.” And I don’t want to have to worry I’ll run into you every time I turn a corner.
“Then I’ll just have to put on my beret and set up an easel in Memorial Park. Think I should buy a pipe too?”
“Not that kind of artsy. Hippie artsy.”
I heard his chair wheels cross the plastic floor mat and then squeak across the carpet. Joe stuck his head around the wall. “You’re talking tie-dye and Birkenstocks, not smoking jackets and Pavarotti?”
“Exactly. People who enjoy coffin races and public pajama parties and host festivals for professional bubble blowers. You don’t want to hang out with people like that.”
“Maybe I do…and maybe I don’t. But I have to do something with myself for the next two years until I can get back on flight status. And the house needs a lot of work. Don’t worry. I won’t crash your little party.”
Don’t worry? “But there’s all the New Age people, and crystal shops, and metaphysical bookstores. You don’t seem like you’re into that sort of thing.”
He looked at me, the twinkle absent from his eyes. “Listen, if I have to be here, then at least I can try to have some fun. Besides, in Manitou, I can stroll through the middle of town, which from my place I can actually walk to, and get a latte, buy a dulcimer, or talk to my neighborhood shaman. What could be better than that?”
“That’s it? That’s your reason?”
He smiled. The dimples flared. “And I like to hike.”
Okay. I could buy that. Divide was just up the road, and from there you could tramp, snowshoe, or cross-country ski in Mueller State Park.
His eyes were scanning my face. “So, am I in?”
“In what?”
“Your little club. Can I join the Residents of Manitou Springs, or is there some kind of probationary period?”
“You’re in. Just stop by Hazel’s Crystal Shop to pick up your broom. For ten bucks extra, you can get the wizard hat and cape set.”
“What is it with you guys, always trying to make another buck? I had to pay through the nose for the house, and then I found out ghosts weren’t even included.”
“They’re a dime a dozen in Manitou. In fact, here’s how you can pay off your mortgage. Just start advertising yourself as the only house in Manitou without a ghost. You’ll make a fortune.”
He winked at me and then rolled back into his cubicle. “Thanks for the tip.”
I worked through the morning in vague discomfort. I was sharing my office with Joe. Did I have to share my town with him too? Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad. Maybe I wouldn’t run into him. Maybe I could wear headphones at work and dark sunglasses when I was at home. And maybe if I closed my eyes and moved into a bubble, I could pretend he didn’t exist.
As I was thinking all these thoughts, I had slouched down in my chair, rested my head on the back, and closed my eyes.
When I opened them, Joe was grinning down at me. “Time for lunch.”
“I brought mine.”
“So take it home at the end of the day and have it for dinner.”
“Do you ever take no for an answer?”
“No. And I have to go to the uniform store, so we’ll go to Burger King.”
I just sat there staring up at him. I tried to figure out some way to relieve him of the idea that he was my personal social director. “Just because we share an office doesn’t mean we have to do everything together.”
“Do you want to eat lunch or don’t you?”
“Ye—”
“Then let’s go.” He walked to the wall, slapping his flight cap against his thigh, looking as if there were no time to waste.
How do you tell someone you don’t want to be their friend? The longer I looked at him, the more I realized it wasn’t worth the effort. Once school started, he’d be much too busy to go out to lunch all the time. And then I could finally finish off my bowl of hummus and container of carrots.
We walked at a fast clip through Fairchild Hall and then rode the elevator down to the parking lot below.
He unzipped a pocket on his flight suit to fish out a set of keys. As he hit a button, a car ahead of us beeped to life.
No, not a car. An SUV.
I almost turned around and headed back toward the elevator.
I have this thing about people who drive vehicles that are bigger than they need to be. I really wanted to say something, but I kept the words stuffed in my chest and decided to spill it all out onto my blog later. I would never say anything to Joe himself. Or to the dozens of other people I know who drive SUVs. I try to hate the SUV and love the SUV owner. Everyone who moves to Colorado from out of state thinks they need some kind of Driving Machine to make it through the winter. Two words: Subaru and Saab. There are safer, more efficient ways to achieve the same result. And they don’t involve squandering gas or terrorizing the local population.
At least the SUV was clean. Spotless.
He drove out of the parking lot and then navigated his way onto Academy Drive. We got an up close look at the steep Flat Iron, a barren inverted-V rock formation in the hills. Trails had been etched into the earth by the clambering feet of generations of cadets. At the moment, government-issue sheets had been twisted around the rocks to form “06,” a reminder left by the class that had graduated the month before. I had no doubt that by August it would read “10,” courtesy of the entering class of freshmen.
We twisted and turned, following the topography of the foothills. Black-eyed Susans were growing wild along the roadway. Out in the air in front of us, parachutists made colorful bubbles in the summer sky.
A car rounded the corner in the opposite direction and flashed his lights at us.
I touched Joe’s arm. “That’s the Academy signal for—”
“Deer. I know.” He stepped on the brake as we turned the corner. And there, in the grasses along the road, were a doe and her fawn. The fawn was grazing, balanced on slender legs. In a maternal gesture of sacrifice, the doe placed herself between the road and her baby, unwilling to let danger approach the fawn unless it touched her first. We saw her head rise. She stared at us, ears tipped in our direction.
Joe stepped on the gas after we had passed them. “I had a roommate once who rode a deer.”
“How do you ride a deer?”
“He just jumped on the back of a deer?”
“Basically. He tried to hold on, arms wrapped around its neck, but the deer bucked him off and kicked him in the head. Broke his jaw.”
At the bottom of the hill, Joe turned left. He gunned the motor to get his SUV up the hill.
“There’s usually a cop around here somewhere.”
He lifted his foot from the accelerator and we lurched back into gear.
We crested the hill in-between the commissary grocery store and the Base Exchange department store, drove past, and then went in the far entrance of the Community Center. We patrolled the parking lot looking for an empty space and did a U-turn as the road bent around by the library.
“You’re not going to find anything. We might as well take one back by the road.”
“Something will open up.”
Joe closed the loop we’d made around the parking lot and started another. And as he came even with the first breezeway entrance into the quadrangle of buildings, a car backed out right in front of us. He grinned at me.
I scowled at him.
“You want to stay here? I’ll leave the AC on.”
“I’ll come with you.” No need to waste the gas. We were experiencing one of Colorado’s scorching summer heat waves. I didn’t think I’d last in the car for five minutes, even with the air conditioner on. And I’d never been in the uniform store before. In fact, I’d never even been to the Community Center before. The base was full of services for the military and their dependents: the commissary, the BX, the gas station, the recreation center with ski rentals and discount tickets to places like Elitch’s up in Denver and the Disney theme parks. But for civilians, there was nothing. Next to nothing.
We were allowed to use the base gym.
We turned left from the breezeway and walked up a short flight of steps. Joe held the door to the store open for me. Then he made a beeline toward the right wall, leaving me to wander.
I’m not sure what I expected in a uniform store, but this wasn’t it. There were military books. Calendars. There were racks filled with blue uniforms: baby blue shirts, dark blue pants and jackets. There were Air Force Academy souvenirs. There was a section in the back for shoes: lace-up oxfords, low conservative heels, flats, and combat boots. There were purses and attache cases. There were three or four aisles of shelves holding nothing but clothing: undershirts, socks, gloves, stocking caps, battle dress uniform pants, and camouflage blouses (even for the guys). There were toiletry kits and shirt garters. I picked up a package of the garters, interested to know how they worked, how they attached themselves to both your socks and the hem of your shirt. That’s where Joe found me.
“Do you actually wear these?”
“When I wear blues.”
I started laughing. Tried to picture him. But something happened when I mentally unzipped his flight suit and left him standing there in his underwear. I stopped laughing.
“Are you okay?”
“What? Oh. Yes. I just…I mean…they don’t bother you? To wear them?”
He plucked the package from my hands and set it on top of the small box he was already carrying. “No more than it would bother me to keep tucking my shirt in all the time. Ready?” Joe walked to the cash register, flashed his ID, and scanned the front of the Air Force Times while the sale was rung up. He’d gotten new shoulder boards for his formal uniform, his mess dress. Dark blue with an oak leaf and two stripes, embellished with silver braid and embroidery.
He tucked the bag under his arm and was out the door before I could catch up. “I hate having to buy these things. I’ll probably use them twice before I retire. And they were thirty-five dollars.”
“But you’re a pilot. You’re supposed to be rich.”
“Tell my bank account. And it’s not about the money; it’s about the principle. If they’re going to require me to wear a uniform like this, that has to be changed every time I pin on a new rank, then at least it ought to be affordable. I’ve probably spent a hundred and fifty dollars on shoulder boards alone. And five hundred on the uniform.”
“Versus the flight suit…?”
“Which is issued.”
“Well, that’s tough.”
He laughed as he beeped the SUV doors open. Then he cut in front of me to open my door.
We retraced our route and turned this time between the commissary and the BX. Tucked beside the commissary was a Burger King.
And as always, during the lunch hour, it was packed. We waited in line for 20 minutes and then waited another 15 for our food. You’d think with so many uniformed personnel bunched up, staring at the counter, waiting for food, the staff would move a little faster. Especially when a pair of military cops with guns gets thrown into the mix.
They never do.
Finally, we slouched into a booth, sitting opposite each other. Joe swiveled, resting a knee on the bench and leaning up against the wall.
I hooked my finger around an onion ring and slipped it into my mouth.
Hot! I grabbed my Coke and took a swallow.
“You seem a little touchy about the ghost and goblin thing.”
I shook the rest of the onion rings onto the paper tray liner to cool. “I’m not. Everyone else seems to be.”
“Everyone else who?”
“All the Christians in town.”
“So you’re not one?”
“Christian? I am. But it doesn’t mean I have to be afraid of people who aren’t. People are people. Just because they don’t believe the same things I do doesn’t mean they’re not worth knowing. Or living next to. Where are you living, anyway?”
His eyes changed hues. Seemed to lighten. He named a street which was just one street up and three blocks over from me. “We could carpool.”
Yes, I’m wash-and-wear. Yes, I’m a zealous recycler and very big into reducing my impact on the environment, but I just couldn’t bring myself to say yes. “No.”
“We could meet on Saturday mornings downtown for breakfast.”
“No.”
“Or lunch.”
“You mean like a standing date?”
“Yeah.”
“No. I don’t do dates.” Something in his eyes made me want to take my words back. Maybe he didn’t know anyone in town yet. “I also help Grandmother at the shop on Saturdays.”
“Which one?”
There was no point in lying. Even if I told him Antique Bazaar or Canterbury Gifts, he’d still be able to figure it out. All he’d have to say is, “But Jackie told me her grandmother…” and he’d probably be escorted straight to the shop. “Alpen Ski.”
“For cross-country skiing, right?”
Nordic, cross-country, XC, there wasn’t any difference. I nodded. “Only for cross-country.”
“Great! That’s what I want to do this winter. Get a pair of cross-country skis and head to Mueller.”
“Why don’t you try snowshoeing? No lessons required; just strap them on and go. You’ll have the trails all to yourself.” Grandmother didn’t sell snowshoes.
“I want something that will keep me in shape. You ski?”
“Not really. Not since I was in junior high. I used to ski with Grandmother.”
“You liked it?”
“Yes.” Grandmother and I skied at odd hours. If we got to Mueller by 5:30 AM, we could put in two good hours before we had to pack up and head home so she could open the shop. In the dead of winter, we could ski at least an hour before sunrise. It was magical, sliding through silent snow-shrouded forests, watching the darkness retreat until it was banished by the sun. I loved how blue puddles of night lay abandoned in the ridges of snow. How a handful of stars fought off the morning, glimmering in the lightening sky.
If the moon was full, or close to it, we would also ski at night. I always imagined myself as Lucy, walking through Narnia’s
frozen world with Mr. Tumnus by my side. Night skiing was extra exciting because it was illicit; I knew if I had been home, I would already have been in bed. I loved the clear moon-glazed nights. But sometimes we would have a full moon during the crossing of weather systems, when thin strands of clouds were being pulled across the moon. On those nights I always skied looking over my shoulder. Shadows flitted, and the darkness of the forest seemed to pulse.
“Want to go?”
“Where?”
“Skiing. This winter.”
“I don’t even know where my skis are anymore.”
“Buy new ones. Maybe your grandmother would give you a discount.”
I bit into the last onion ring. It had already gone soggy. “I’m not a very good teacher.”
“Who says I need lessons?”
“Have you ever cross-countried before?”
“No, but I used to downhill all the time.”
“Then you need lessons.”
“If I take lessons, then will you ski with me?”
“I’m not the only person in town who skis.”
Joe’s hamburger had already disappeared. He chugged the last of his Coke and then pulled his chin into his neck to hide a burp. “That’s true.” He winked. “Maybe I should ask your grandmother.”
THE CUBICLE NEXT DOOR BLOG
SUVs
John Smith wouldn’t be so bad, except that he drives an SUV. A Socially Unsustainable Vehicle.
Why do people need so much space? Why don’t they learn how to pack lighter? And why do they need to sit so high above the ground? It still doesn’t allow them to see over an 18-wheeler! I bought the smallest car I could find, and I bought it used. Great gas mileage. And when it finally falls apart, I’ll buy an electric car. Which creates its own set of conundrums because my city uses environmentally unfriendly ways to produce electricity.
But that’s not what I was blogging about.
I hate SUVs. Their owners can’t even reach the roof to wash them. They take up extra space in parking lots, they require so much gas they require me to pay more for my gas, and on top of that, they’re trying to kill me! My little car doesn’t stand a chance in a face-off against an SUV. It’s the equivalent of modern day jousting. Or boxing without separating the athletes into weight classes.
The Cubicle Next Door Page 3