Life, Libby, and the Pursuit of Happiness

by Hope Lyda

  “And…”

  “Stop resorting to the expensive psychiatrist response. Or what I affectionately call ‘a dialogue with Mother.’ So that is it. That is enough information for now. Besides, it is almost time for the Dick Van Dyke Show. I’m still getting my neighbor’s cable for some reason.”

  “Can’t we watch something intended for our generation?”

  “I love old television shows on cable. They’re timeless. Please tell me you plan to stay over tonight?”

  “I plan to stay over tonight.” Ariel reeled in her long slender legs and hugged them momentarily before lying on the floor straight out, like a child preparing to do snow angels. Then she started snoring.

  I tossed the afghan on her and put a sweatshirt under her head. I read my aunt’s email one more time and tried to focus on the positive aspect of the last twenty-four hours. Aunt Maddie would call this heartache “growing pains.” And I could almost hear her throaty Lauren Bacall-ish voice telling me that everything was going to be okay. “Life always hurts when it’s about to become something more.” This imagined conversation made me feel better.

  I didn’t make it till the Dick Van Dyke Show. But I did dream that Cecilia and Angus tried to strangle me with an afghan, and Albert strummed his guitar in the background while Dick Van Dyke, Mary Tyler Moore, and Elvis crooned, “Don’t fence me in….”

  Dressed in my favorite black linen pantsuit, I devoured scrambled eggs with Tabasco as my “meet the new boss” breakfast on Friday. Protein firepower.

  In past years I downed a shot of Nyquil fifteen minutes before a review session to calm my nerves, but ended up drooling and unable to accurately write down Cecilia’s bizarre comments. Accuracy would be vital for either a harassment lawsuit or a tell-all memoir. But that didn’t matter now. I ran out of Nyquil, and I got demoted. Saved by bad luck all around.

  My foot up the corporate ladder had turned to a shove down the “thanks for playing” slide. My only hope was to dictate my role in this new work relationship. I would not be seduced by anyone’s casting couch invitation for an empty-headed gofer. I wouldn’t be intimidated by Mave, Cecilia, and most definitely not by Blaine.

  I created even bigger hair with extra-hold spray, I tightened my bra strap by an extra notch for lift and hold, and I forced high heels onto my wide feet accustomed to the roaming luxury of flats. Even though this revved-up version of me seemed entirely right for the aforementioned couch on the way to the aforementioned role…it was my attempt to be larger than life. The look had to be very, very intentional.

  As I stepped over Ariel’s crumpled body on my floor she awakened with a snort. “What’s wrong? What? This bed hurts.” She propped herself up on her elbows.

  “You slept on my floor last night. I’m heading into work early. I left some coffee in the pot for you.”

  “Holy cow, it’s you.” She shook her head to catch up with the moment. “You look like you just stepped out of Working Girl, Libby. Pre-corporate makeover, in case you thought that was a compliment. All you need are tennis shoes.” Sitting up and instantly perky, she said, “Don’t you try for a good first impression when meeting a new boss?”

  “What are you saying, exactly?”

  “What exactly are you overcompensating for?”

  I pointed to the coffeepot one more time and headed for the door. Without turning around I yelled, “I’m being intentional.”

  Sure, my efforts could be misconstrued as overcompensating for a lack of confidence, yet it was the opposite. I had confidence. Confidence that I would fail miserably when in the presence of strong personalities. And this was sure to be such a gathering. I could hold my own with intelligent, on task, focused people. I fancied I was one of them. But when my opposition included beings who transformed into super antiheroes with underworld powers too horrible to imagine, I became the damsel in distress without a caped savior in sight.

  It never failed in these scenarios. The “others” plotted morale ruin via the exchange of disturbing tirades and opinions warped by too many “I love myself” weekend encounters, while my mind filled with sarcastic comebacks. But my lips stayed tightly pressed, refusing to voice my views. I was silent except in important, personal matters, like placing crystals on guitar straps.

  The 7:00 AM bus placed me at the office nice and early. Maybe if I took my time getting my coffee, organizing my cubicle, and practicing my breathing, I would come across as sharp and centered. But I wasn’t really sure how to prepare for a meeting in which I would be discussed in third person.

  In the light of early morning, my clean, fresh-start cubicle was almost pleasant. A new beginning was a new beginning, right? I didn’t need to keep harping on the fact that I was moving backward. I didn’t even let myself get upset when I walked by my former small, dark office and saw several members of the janitorial staff scrubbing it down like a scene from Silkwood.

  That could have been offensive.

  But in this moment of possibility I felt great. I think a new beginning gives off a certain exciting energy. And this beginning read like more.

  I was so busy fantasizing about what my new life might look like that I barely noticed the other employees filing into their assigned stalls. Marsha Whitefield peered over the cubicle wall. She was now one very thin half-wall away. Lord, help me. We were of…the same status.

  Ouch.

  So what if at one silly point in time my path intersected with Marsha’s. I’d be moving on. “Hey, Marsha.” I squinted up at her. The fluorescent lights were atrocious. I’d used a desk lamp back when I had an…ah, well.

  “Welcome. Hope you like the neighborhood. It’s not really so bad. Rachel and I have a pretty good time here on death row.”

  Well, that was kinda funny. Rachel was on the other side of me. I knew she was smart and sarcastic. Maybe this would be fun. I’d been secluded in my…you know what…and said I liked it that way, but this was starting to feel fine.

  “Morning, all.” Cecilia’s falsetto cheer rang out in the hallway. Her office was the length of three cubicles. Thank goodness her windows ended at Rachel’s space. It was dangerous to be in her line of vision when her eyes began to roam anxiously, ready to hone in on someone to torture, humiliate, or toy with while her nails dried.

  Surprisingly I felt my face blush as Cecilia glanced my direction on her way to greet Mave at the front desk. She looked startled to see me in a cubicle, and then an “ah…yes” purr escaped her throat. “Meet us in the conference room in an hour, Libby.”

  My reaction sickened me. It was as if I were embarrassed by my demotion. As if I had let her down.

  I finished straightening my few items and practiced reaching for the intercom—a feature and action that came with assistantdom. It reminded me of playing library with my childhood friend Kim…calling one another with her little brother’s Fisher Price phone and marking the inside pages of books with my parents’ inked address stamps and commenting, “This one is due in two weeks. You may return it during library hours or use our outside box after hours.” Then we happened to do this with actual library books of my mother’s.

  As Mother wrote a check to purchase the $200 worth of books she was referencing to teach Psych 420 “Psychosis and You,” we sat with our backs straight, our feet dangling over the crimson red, cobalt blue, and yellow gold Turkish rug in our family study. She tapped her foot and kept shaking her head with disappointment as she gave a one-hour lecture on respecting the property of others and about how as women (we were eight) we should aspire to owning libraries or to creating scientific data and great literature to fill them…we did not have to assume the role of a mere librarian.

  I had nodded, understanding my mother was a snob. Or at best, misinformed.

  She concluded her sermon and the silence filled us with hope that we were about to be freed. Grinning, she scribbled out IOUs on our behalf. We each owed her $100 before we reached age twelve. That was the most time she could give us. My practical young mind noted that
this was the most time Mother had given me in weeks. Her going rate for interaction with a daughter was apparently $100 an hour. For months after, Kim and I played office instead of library—we were corporate executives discussing plots to take over each other’s cosmetic empires (nanny Charlotte watched daytime soaps). We’d close our scenarios by exchanging IOUs and saying, “Due at the end of the month! That’s all the time I can give you.” We laughed hysterically.

  The walk down Mommy Dearest lane made my left eye twitch. I massaged the outer corner gently. It was then that the intercom came to life with an unnatural buzz. I reached for the button and used my best corporate executive voice to communicate with Philip, the receptionist. “Yes?”

  “Libby, there’s a delivery here for you, sent over via messenger.” His elf-like voice sounded as though it traveled via tin-can-on-a-string technology.

  “Something for Blaine already? Guess it had to start sometime.” I would trot right on over there. I would walk the corridor of assistant-like duties. So it began.

  “Uh, no. It’s for you actually.”

  I walked down the hallway and turned left into the alcove. Philip sat at attention on a bar stool on the other side of the reception desk, his birdish appearance making his perch all the more comical. He jutted his headset-covered chin forward with each new call. I cocked my head sideways to take in this strange creature for a moment.

  It was then that I saw Cecilia from the corner of my eye. She was laughing—mouth wide open. A hearty horsy laugh—the kind that accidentally comes out when one is in the presence of a handsome man who cripples one’s composure.

  Cecilia and Mave were a giggling, matronly pair of bookends wedging in a wondrous display of Armani-covered shoulders. Crisp white cuffs appeared as a tan hand smoothed black, slightly curly hair. A gesture, I noted, done seemingly out of discomfort rather than vanity. The elevator opened and they stepped in and turned around. Just as I was about to see his face, Mavis stepped in front of Mr. X and pushed the button for the twentieth floor, the top of the building and the last of the five floors controlled by Reed and Dunson. The door closed and my mouth opened.

  “Who…who exactly…”

  “Blaine…”

  “Geez, where?” I ducked slightly and stepped to the side looking down the hall.

  “That was Mr. Slater going up to the conference room. They asked me to remind you to join them in about 50 minutes,” he said. And then he added, “Nicely put together.”

  “You can say that again.” I was thinking about how a broad-shouldered man seemed so secure, so solid, when I noticed Philip’s look of disgust. He was commenting on the package. Was it obvious that I hadn’t been?

  “Er…I mean, indeed it is.” I looked down at the little box wrapped with yellow and pink paper and tied with spring green ribbon. A piece of parchment paper was scrolled up and looped through the bow. I unfolded the tiny sheet and was jolted a bit by the handwriting I knew so well. You were right. But so was I…the blue matches your eyes. Good luck with the job. —A. Lying in tissue were the crystals Angus had purchased at the market. He had affixed earring loops to the hooks. They really were beautiful. Little prisms of color shot across the wall and ceiling as I lifted them to eye level.

  For the second time this morning my face blushed out of shame. My boyfriend sends me a gift, and I’d been caught pondering another man, and not just any man, but the one who’d be my boss, the one who’d never know that I was a bright, promising executive-in-training with a future. Clients had raved about my job performance, my instinct, my creativity. But rumors of my past would not fall upon his perfect ears. This man would only know me as the assistant with a sharp tongue and a chip on her shoulder.

  And the man who sent me this gift would never know my future. Angus and I had reached a fork in the rocky road of dating. The arrow toward dissolution flashed in neon.

  I returned to my desk, pinned the crystal earrings to my bulletin board as a substitute for the happy photos, and wrote a goal on my calendar: “Libby accepts her new position with grace and shines as a stellar assistant.” My mother would wish herself dead and then turn in her grave if she knew how low my goals could go.

  Seven

  Philip tweeted into the intercom. “They want you upstairs.”

  Amazing-suit man wanted me.

  “Could you inform them that I’m on my way, Philip?” I was already stepping into a role. My mental pendulum swung from paranoid flunky to arrogant sophisticate.

  “They didn’t request a summary report of your activity, as fascinating as it is.” he responded, so very aware of my demotional status.

  As I swung by the main desk and awaited the elevator I casually sauntered over to his laminate receptionist bar. “Philip, the only reason I wanted you to call them again was so you could show how efficient you are. I’m headed up there as part of the In-House Efficiency Task Force, and there are five more positions to be…well, taken care of. But who knows? Some of the remaining employees might decide to step down on their own. There might not even be a need for force…er…task force.” I whipped around as the ding of the elevator marked my words.

  Stepping into the elevator, reliving that dreadful day and the subsequent in-elevator revelation just a mere week ago, I focused my mind on my personal mission to be the real me. I had to go into this potentially threatening meeting with a mental list of what I wanted to get out of it. And I had four floors to figure it out.

  More. I thought of the key word and saw it pop over my head like a Sesame Street lesson. But what does More look like? I quickly pulled a photo of Aunt Maddie out of my day planner. She was smiling—glowing, really—beneath a baseball cap and held a young boy on her slim hip as her other hand rested on the shoulder of the boy’s mother. They stood in front of a makeshift medical clinic. On the back she’d written, “I can’t believe God gave me a second chance to live such a life. My love to you, dear Libby.”

  There was real joy in this image. How many photos were taken every day where forced smiles feigned joy for a captured moment?

  Captured. That is how I felt. But how does one break free from captivity? Whatever happened in this meeting, I needed to resist rocking the boat. Until I figured out an alternative plan, this job was my lifeline. Sure, there were plenty of other PR agencies in Seattle, but there were now more than fifteen very qualified PR people from Reed and Dunson out hitting the pavement. The idea of searching for a job instead of searching for my purpose seemed not only daunting but counterproductive.

  “More. More. More.” I sang as the elevator door opened and my eyes linked with those of Blaine.

  “I’m afraid you’ve run out of floors.” He reached to block the elevator doors from shutting in on me, as I had not moved a muscle. His sudden movement scared me and I nearly fell off of my high heels.

  He pulled back, startled. The doors closed. I couldn’t recall the steps involved to open elevator doors. I started to go back down.

  God, help me. Really. This is not a great start.

  This time the doors opened to Philip. And he looked embarrassed. “I just called to say you were on your way like you requested. Cecilia said…to send you back up.”

  My smile was meek. I looked like a buffoon, and in front of Philip. “Dang elevator!” To emphasize my nonpoint, I hit the steel doors with my flat hand. When one is in the midst of extreme humility, it is best to pass blame to inanimate objects.

  Philip returned the meek smile. He looked scared of me, but no longer because of my charade of power, but because of my display of abnormal behavior. He pushed the up button for me and waved. “B-bye” he faltered, flapping to the moron.

  I waited. Flustered.

  Ding.

  Blaine appeared once again before my very eyes. He sort of crouched down low and leaned slightly away from me, like a fireman coaxing a frightened woolly ram from a rocky, dangerous cliff. I had seen this on Real Animal Rescues. I stepped forward on shaky legs. I could be heading into the slaughterh
ouse at this point, but at my pathetic level of function, I went ahead and followed my Armani-caped savior.

  “Libby, I hope we didn’t inconvenience you,” Cecilia said snidely.

  I decided not to comment. My eyes scanned for strategic seating. If I sat by Cecilia, she could dig her nails into my arm and say things like, “Be a doll and get me some more coffee.” I headed for the seat by Blaine. He stood to pull a chair out for me.

  I didn’t know where it came from, but a lie emerged from my mouth. “I returned to Philip’s desk because I left my pen downstairs. You know, Cecilia, this pen you gave me when I made assistant account executive is still my favorite after all these years.”

  The comment worked. Cecilia had no recollection of not giving me the pen, so she looked at me fondly and glowed with false admission of a sweet gesture. And in a quick comment, I’d made it clear to Blaine that I wasn’t a secretary. From the corner of my eye, I saw him nodding respectfully. Was he holding back a smile?

  I kept my glance on him too long and Cecilia noticed. “Stick with us, Libby. You don’t want Mave to rethink her decision to keep you on board, do you?”

  Blaine sat up and looked startled by such a comment, causing Cecilia to rescind her meanness. “I meant that I don’t want Mave to rethink it. I believe you are a fine choice to serve under Blaine. I’m glad we kept you.”

  If she was waiting for a thank-you from me, it wasn’t happenin’.

  Mave opened a folder loudly to command our wandering attention. “Shall we?”

  “Yes, Mave. Please. Please.” Cecilia motioned her approval with her coffee cup saluted toward the professionally acceptable hit woman.

  “Libby, your new position as assistant to the account executive vice president will be considerably different than your previous position. You had a lot of autonomy before. More than your post should have allowed for.” Mave offered up a bit of a reprimand to Cecilia, who was staring at Blaine unabashedly.

  “In short, your freedoms will be reduced, but your job expectations and requirements will increase. You might hear the word ‘assistant’ and think it is below your level, when in fact it will be more work and more accountability without many of the perks you enjoyed in the past.”