by Hope Lyda
“Sorry. I kept trying to find a way to leave so I could get to you,” he says without an ounce of judgment.
“Me too,” I say. But as I wipe away the definitely real mustard and the possibly imagined problems with a swipe of my hand, I am judging myself.
In Print
Are you interested?” my friend and former neighbor Yvette Patterson whispers her proposal for the second time through the phone. “The Tucson Talent Night will benefit the local animal shelter. Come on. Do it for Elmo.”
I pet my cat. “No fair. Elmo has a home.” I pause, but I know this is no argument. “Beau might not be able to. He’s super busy these days.”
“I know it’s hard to plan months ahead, but the advance ticket sales help us plan the budget for the shelter.” Yvette’s laryngitis seems to clear. “It also helps support the Veterinarians for Octogenarians program, which provides discounted vet care to the pets of the elderly.”
I roll my eyes and roll over in submission. “Okay. That got me.”
We hang up. I regret any more commitments, but I realized halfway through the conversation that Yvette could have guilted me into helping her. After all, last year she and then-boyfriend, now-hubby Zane came to the rescue for my big fashion show fund-raiser. They handled all the Internet promotions and sales and made the show an international success. How can I not support their cause of the year?
A knock at the door reminds me what I am doing today. Caitlin has asked me to go to the library once again to research the how-to’s for a business start-up. I’m starting to wonder if she will become one of those people who forever researches an idea but never has the courage to act on it.
I open the door to find my friend, who looks as though her clothes have been dipped in red Jell-O. My tortured expression asks the questions going through my head.
“It’s a new, nearly breathable plastic. Isn’t this incredible? Feel this.” She holds out a gelatinized arm.
“I’m scared.” I tease my friend and avoid touching her new creation.
“It will be all the rage in my new shop. You know, I still need a name. What do you think of Caitlin’s Closet?” She sweeps her hands across the air above like a Midwest girl just off the bus in Los Angeles.
I duplicate her movement. “Kinda cutesy.”
Her smile fades. “Really? It seemed clever, but probably only because I was watching the late night shows and eating a bag of nacho cheese tortilla chips. I never think straight after bad jokes and junk food.”
I gather my notebook and shove it inside a soft leather briefcase alongside my recently purchased, lightweight laptop. “A name will come to you. First we need to establish a business plan and a marketing plan. If you are going to get noticed by either a bank or outside investors, you must look like you mean business.”
“This isn’t my strong suit. I just want to make clothes and get people to think outside the boxed shoulders. You know?”
“Bus or heap?”
“Heap.”
“Your heap or mine?”
“Yours. I had to bus here.”
We walk out the door simultaneously like a staged Abbot-and-Costello moment.
“Well, this is a fine mess,” I say.
We enter the library and I breathe in the scent of books, paper, and coffee. The coffee cart is just past the entrance, followed by a small cafe and vending machines. Libraries sure have changed since my childhood. I recall being forced to stand in a corner between a large fern and a wastebasket because I would not spit out my gumball. Now they practically have full-service restaurants. Coffee cups and ceramic plates holding pastries are carried everywhere, from fiction to biography to periodicals.
Normally, I am a traditionalist. But joining the comfort of food and the comfort of books is a wonderful exception to make. I place an order for lemon pie for Caitlin, and I wait at the end of the granite counter.
I have sent her ahead to the business section because it takes the girl twenty minutes to get settled. She brings colored pencils, rulers, fountain pens, and several styles of paper products. The aesthetic value of her collection is considerable. The productivity value of her ritual is zilch. She procrastinates with flair, I’ll give her that.
I am licking whipped cream off of my finger at the condiment bar when a woman approaches who looks familiar. I cannot place her until she pours skim milk into a big ceramic cup.
It is Cruella the Gruel Slogger, my little pet name for our usual waitress at Freddies—back when the place was clear of many paying customers. I stare at my pie until I can think of her name. Name. It’s a real name. Aha. “Samantha!” I say, delighted with my memory recall.
She spills some milk onto the blue saucer and looks up with a start. “Yes?”
“Mari.” I say, and then realize this probably means little to her. “Senior Sunrise Surprise breakfast.”
Samantha puts her cup down and surprises me by walking over and offering a handshake. “Of course. This is out of context.”
“Exactly. It wasn’t until I saw you pour the milk that I figured out who you were. How are you? Are you still at Freddies? We usually go on weekdays now, if we go.”
She pulls her hair back, and with a few flicks of her wrist ends up with a nice updo. “I put in a few hours a week just to help them fill the schedule. But I am interviewing for jobs—which feels like a full-time job.”
“That’s right. You were finishing your master’s degree in psychology.”
“Very good. Well, behavioral sciences, but basically the same.”
“What kind of job does someone do with that?”
“Most of my peers are using it for marketing and advertising jobs.”
“Makes sense.”
“It does. I just want something a bit more serious. My wish list includes mostly research institutes that focus on trends and behaviors of people in relation to social issues. I find that fascinating.”
“Is that what your thesis was on?”
She walks back to get her coffee and sighs. “No. My advisor was a celebrity in our department—full of himself and his ideas. Sadly, I went with his suggestion.”
“What was that?” I am most curious because last year Cruella…Samantha had told me she used some of the regulars at Freddies for her case study, and I was one of them.
“Consumer Choices: Limited by Life Perspective. You were one of my primary case studies for my subset group. Did you know that?”
I take a bite of pie and focus on the word “limited.” “You mentioned I might be a part of your research, but I was scared to ask for details.” I laugh, but she nods. “Should I be worried about what you figured out about me while I sat there enjoying my eggs and toast?”
Now she laughs to reassure me. “No. Not at all. Actually, the library houses published papers and thesis projects from the University of Arizona. Do you want to go take a look?”
“It’s here?” How many times have I walked by an examination of my life? She starts to head to the far corner of the main floor. I follow, mesmerized by this news. “For the whole city to check out and read?” I ask, worry setting in.
“Not to burst your image of the master thesis as a source of entertainment, but the only people reading these are the students who wrote them and students doing research.”
We walk among the ceiling-high metal shelves until Samantha stops abruptly in front of her shelf. “Grab that stool, would you?”
I follow her instruction, and she steps up to retrieve the bound thesis. She hands it to me casually.
“You should be so proud. You are in the library. Incredible,” I say while skimming the table of contents and looking for my name. “How amazing to have accomplished something like the degree, the thesis, and…”
“You’re number twelve.”
She does know me. I quickly thumb through to the subset research study evaluation. Right away words catch my eye because they catch my heart as well:
Subject 12 is unlike the other subjects in that she
seems to be aware of repetition in her consumption choices and life habits and seems to express regret, anger, and hostility about this understanding. Noted in the early section on change and routine, this subject remains unique because she seems to desire change, whereas subjects 1–5, 9, and 14–18 did not indicate tension with their routine. On several occasions 12 expressed mention of a life’s “rut” and seemed bothered by this self-exposed truth. Twelve’s efforts to make changes seemed based on societal pressure that was internalized rather than a true desire to be different. My conclusion about the above subject is that she desires to know herself—her instincts as well as know what the best option is in all situations. She desires truth, but she bases her definition of it on the cultural standard and not on self and self-understanding. I attribute this to a lack of belief in her place and purpose outside of societal norms and expectations. This comes from research conversations listed in Appendix C. Please reference.
I take another bite of pie and swallow with some difficulty.
“I haven’t read it in a while. I hope it isn’t too offensive. And you have to know, this kind of study and assessment is more my advisor’s style, not my own. I was winging it, basically.”
I let out a big sigh that sends dust particles from other thesis projects flying. “Well, you did a good job for winging it. The whole desire for truth and looking for it in society’s expectations—that’s…that’s pretty darn accurate.”
“You’ve changed a lot, though. I can see it.” She hesitates and examines my face. “A slice of life study does not allow for examination of changes over time. This is one small picture, a moment.” She is using her education to calm her subject down. Samantha uses a gentle, yet firm tone.
I let my life examiner believe this, but I know better. I flip through to appendix C and note the date of the conversation she references. “I had better get the last piece of this dessert up to my friend or she will never forgive me. Thanks for showing me this, Samantha. You really are good.”
She blushes. “Thanks.”
I sense she knows I am bothered by the profile.
As I make my way to the business section upstairs, my eyes glaze over and the muted library sounds become even less distinguishable. However, my mind is noisy. It is shouting phrases like “You’re frozen. You have the same problem that you did two years ago. You thought you had grown.”
I look down at my What Would Old Mari Do bracelet, a gift from Caitlin last year to remind me of old behaviors.
Old Mari would believe those things my mind is screaming at me. Old Mari would wonder if she would ever change. But new Mari…new Mari wants more out of her life than disappointment and a “lack of faith.” She wants to embrace her purpose, even if it isn’t what people expect of her or what she expects of herself. She wants to listen for God’s leading…
“You took so dang long,” Caitlin scolds, staring at the measly portion I have handed her. “This is one pathetic slice,” she says, stuffing the sliver into her mouth eagerly.
“It will get better,” I promise myself.
Choices
Do not make eye contact,” I mumble out of the side of my mouth in the direction of Angelica.
Her blond head immediately turns in the forbidden direction of the man in a tuxedo just a few tables over from us at Chez DiDi’s. “Why? You don’t want a coffee refill?”
“He ain’t waiting; he’s our magician,” I sing-talk.
She looks again, this time with her brows half raised. “A what?”
“Magician. It’s sort of their thing here. They have had a magician harassing patrons every Friday night for the past fifteen years.”
Angelica yawns. “I wondered what magicians outside of Vegas did for gigs. What are you ordering?”
“Salmon, I think. With lemon garlic sauce. You?”
“I just want dessert.”
“Since when did you stop eating for twenty?”
Mean look.
“Sorry. That came out wrong.”
“There was a right way for that statement to leave your lips?”
“Point.”
“You are correct, though. I’m troubled.” Her eyes catch mine to keep me from commenting.
“Go on,” I say politely.
“I’ve been in a Bible study at church for the past six months. And it has been really good for me during my…” she pauses. I assume it is to find the right word to describe her break from dating.
“Sabbatical?” I motion for the waiter while the magician has his back turned.
“Yes, that’s it. The study, it has been really good. Very disciplined but good. They asked me to lead a spin-off group.”
The waiter arrives and stands at attention. “Cheese plate and garden salad, please. Paulie?” I question his name tag. “With crackers,” I add, unable to help myself.
“What happened to the salmon with lemon garlic sauce?” Angelica eyes me.
I shrug. “The waiter is waiting.”
“He’s good at it,” Angelica looks at her patient, silent DiDi’s representative. “I will have the steak and red potatoes and mixed greens.”
“What happened to just dessert?”
“Medium well. The steak, that is.” Angelica adds.
“Yes, I got that.” Paulie marches off.
“He ain’t no dumb waiter.” I fake-chuckle for my friend who is troubled.
“Enough about Paulie. This possible authority role just doesn’t feel right. If I lead the group, I become the nurturer instead of the nurturee. I might not be ready for that.”
“Have you said yes?”
“Not yet. I have to tell the coordinator tomorrow.”
“Have you considered saying no?”
“I hate to disappoint this woman. She’s been a big help to me while I’ve been trying to get my act together.”
Dilemmas like this did not exist for Angelica a mere year ago. She never worried about what others thought or expected. “I like this side of you.”
“You have been really supportive of my decision to abandon an incredibly successful social life. Now we have switched places,” Angelica points out.
“It is my pleasure to reverse roles with you. However, I went from no dating to dating one guy full-time. So, I never had what you had…the speed dating thing. The different guy every week for a rotation of lunches, dinners, and dancing. Your roster of men waiting to escort you to a business function. Your…”
Angelica holds up her manicured red nails and places one to her lips because my lips are too far away.
“How is Peyton?” I drive right over her intended speed bump on memory lane.
“So, what should I do?” Angelica tries to ignore my comment, but her red face is far from ignorable.
“Maybe this opportunity would take you to the next level, but I don’t know the answer. I do think six months of avoiding Peyton is enough time. Couldn’t you end your fast of men, or at least of one man?”
Angelica sighs and twirls the ends of her perfect hair. She is avoiding eye contact with me and by doing so makes eye contact with the magician.
“Now you’ve done it. He’s coming this way. Act like we are deep in conversation.” I speak in hushed spy tones.
“We are.”
“I mean deep in deep conversation. Cry.”
Angelica is not at all fazed by this command. She obliges with short, mousy sobs that slowly evolve into howls.
“Ladies. One of my favorite tricks is to turn tears into a smile.” Elusive Lyle wants to earn his tips tonight.
Angelica stops midcry and rolls her eyes.
“Pick a card, any card.” Lyle fans his deck.
“Don’t let your ability to choose be restricted by your life perspective. Believe me, I know this,” I whisper.
Angelica looks at me with a “you’re weird” glance, takes a deep breath, and with impressive confidence, makes her decision.
Falling
How do I turn this thing?” I screech down the bullet
in board-lined south hallway of Golden Horizons while standing on a motorized creation with smooth wheels. Smooth except when they hit the seam lines in linoleum or discarded pencils.
“You don’t want to turn. Keep hauling forward,” Beau hollers, safely hidden behind file cabinets.
In a moment of insanity, involving a chocolate bribe, I offered to be a guinea pig for this latest project, “Moving Toward New Mobility,” but only because I thought it would turn Beau’s attention back to me.
“Watch out!” I shout, but it is too late. I have collided with the library cart. Beau rushes to save a copy of Anna Karenina from landing in the fountain. I, on the other hand, am allowed to fall flat on my face.
“Ouch. Ouch.” I moan extra long for effect.
“You leaned too far forward while accelerating,” Beau explains as he places Tolstoy back on the cart.
I wanted a rush of sympathy, not an explanation for my predicament. His lack of caring sends a power surge through my veins. “Thanks so much,” I say sarcastically and add this to the ever-expanding file of Beau’s faux pas and wipe away imagined dust from my sore behind.
It is then that he sees injury beyond my pride.
“Your elbow…it’s bleeding. Oh, Mari. Are you okay?”
Finally. Proper attention. “I’ll be all right. It’s nothing.” I morph into a good sport now that Beau has shown he cares.
“Let’s get that taken care of. Come on.” He grabs my hand and takes me to the staff room, where a first aid kit hangs on the wall. I never even knew the kit existed until Beau got this grant. My knees, toes, fingers, and head have all been tended to from this white box with the red cross on it. I have tested circular wheel chairs, aerodynamic walkers, and even luxury scooters.