Wait For Me Jack

by Addison Jones

  Jacko re-enters his new office, a little sweaty and a little drunk. He glances around the room, notes the young blonde woman with her back to him, filing manila folders in the old grey cabinet. Doesn’t think much, except I hope she won’t report me being late. He sets to his task, which on this first day, is the job of reviewing last season’s catalogue, looking up the sales figures for each product, and making notes on possible ways to improve the copy on the slow sellers. Now he comes to think of it, this job isn’t that different from being a psychologist. If he’s good enough, he’ll be able to intuit what makes people buy, and tap into those secret fears and desires. Milk them without them feeling a thing. He is a genius, after all, and this job is way below his capabilities. He’ll knock their socks off, all those red-nosed oily-haired bosses.

  Mr Tidmarsh comes round after lunch. Introduces himself to Jacko. Slaps him on the back, asks him how he’s coping.

  ‘Great to have you on board, soldier!’

  Jacko bets he always gives the ex-service men the backslap, never the other men.

  Then he says: ‘You’ve met Billie, yeah? No?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Billie, come shake hands with Jack MacAlister,’ he shouts across the room to her. ‘Fresh out of college. First day copywriting. The new boy, eh, Jack?’

  Another backslap, followed by an arm punch. Jacko flinches a little. His dad was Jack; he is not, and never will be, his dad. He is way more than Jack, Goddammit. At least another syllable. But the correction can wait till Monday.

  ‘Find a nice place to eat lunch, Jack?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  And finally, over comes Billie from her desk, and she says: ‘Hey.’

  ‘Hi,’ says Jacko.

  They don’t shake hands. Hardly look at each other. Both look, instead, at Mr Tidmarsh.

  ‘Billie, make Jack a coffee, will you honey?’

  ‘Oh, I don’t want a coffee. Thanks anyway,’ says Jacko.

  ‘I don’t mind,’ says Billie coldly.

  ‘Okay then,’ he says. If she’s not going to even smile, then she can damn well make him a cup of coffee. ‘Black, with sugar.’

  There’s a line at the coffee maker and Mr Tidmarsh is gone when she gets back with Jacko’s coffee.

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘Okay.’

  She returns to her desk slowly, with a wiggle in her walk he decides is for his benefit. He looks at her the way he looks at almost every girl. Checks her out. Just the right height. Small hands and feet, medium tits, darling legs with sweet knees peeking out when she sits. Interesting eyebrows. He didn’t know eyebrows could be sexy. And hair, swear to God, just like Marilyn Monroe. That same butter yellow, that same way of falling over half her face. Her voice too, little-girl whispery. Then he goes about his business again. Arranges the pencils neatly, the pad with the lists of products. His ashtray, his Zippo lighter. He lights up a Viceroy and goes back to the minuscule photographs of the products in the catalogue. It’s a huge volume with thin pages, like a phone book – as he flicks through he sees artificial legs, toilet seats, shower curtains, hula hoops. He tries to visualise them individually, be interested in them. Think of ways they could sound more enticing. It’s hard because forcing himself to care is exhausting. Caring eventually trickles in, but then, ironically, for the sweet kneed Billie he pretends it’s old hat. He yawns loudly and stretches between bouts of concentration, and of course, this results in genuine boredom again.

  He’s young and single; there’s a girl with sexy eyebrows on the other side of the room. Caring about petroleum products would be unnatural. He makes a list of questions he needs to ask someone, which soon dwindles into a to-do list, then some sketches of the desk he wants to build this weekend, and finally, in the margin, a doodle of Lizbeth’s breasts. They are anatomically accurate, though based on imagination only. She’d always teased him, then giggled like mad when he started unbuttoning or unzipping. Strangely this never made him fall out of love. Or perhaps, not so strangely. Bared breasts might have killed it. Anyway, Lizbeth is over. Though suddenly, now, sitting in his new office, he doesn’t believe it will ever be over. Even if he never sees her again.

  There sits Jacko, feeling a bit old at twenty-four, in a cloud of his own smoke, his mouth dry and his energy wilting. Life is not turning out the way he’d anticipated.

  Billie’s considered and dismissed half a dozen boys she knows, and she’s still typing. Clickety clack, clickety clack. None of them will do for a serious boyfriend, much less a husband. How about that new boy, Jack MacAlister? Cocky, that’s for sure. Actually, he reminds her a little of James Dean. Dangerous, even though he looks about twelve. Had she smelled beer? Bit daring, drinking at lunch on the first day of work. And no real smile for her. Just a smug look that said: Oh yeah, I know. You want me.

  Not likely, thinks Billie Mae Molinelli. She’s never had to chase a boy, there’s always been a line of them just waiting for a chance with her. But he has nice eyes, blue and smart, and the cutest cowlicks. One on the crown of his head and one just above his forehead. (Not dark with cheap oil, thank goodness. Oily hair is what valley boys have.) She can’t remember why, but Billie has always had a soft spot for boys with unruly hair. And is Jack’s V-neck cashmere? It looks so soft hanging over the back of his chair, and as yellow as…well, as the Butterfinger sitting inside her bag right now. Gee whiz, she’s hungry.

  The rest of the afternoon passes, with Billie typing and Jacko scribbling. Suddenly, it’s five o’clock.

  ‘Okay?’ Mr Tidmarsh asks Jacko, on his way out. ‘See you Monday?’

  ‘Yup. Monday.’

  Jacko pulls on his V-neck. He’s never seen the point in keeping good clothes for special occasions. His dad did that, and see where it got him. A life in slob clothes, and a brand-new suit for the coffin Billie finishes her typing, loops her sweater around her shoulders, and puts on some lipstick. She squints at herself in her compact, as if she’s alone.

  ‘Bye,’ she says nonchalantly to Jacko, and sails past his desk.

  ‘Bye.’ He clicks his new briefcase shut carefully, as if there’s something important inside, and follows her down the stairs to the street into the February sun. A wall of light and cool air. She stands on the sidewalk outside, putting a cigarette in her mouth. Without saying anything, as if they’ve known each other for years, Jacko pulls out his Zippo and flicks it under her cigarette. She smiles her thanks, and inhales. They are almost the same height, so their faces are near. They don’t look at each other. She begins to walk away, giving him a little wave. He lights his own cigarette, heads in the other direction, then quickly swivels and follows her. He has to walk fast. When he is a little ahead, he turns to face her and walking backwards says:

  ‘Hey, what you doing for dinner? You like Chinese?’

  Billie doesn’t stop walking, just half smiles, pityingly. He’s spunky, have to give him that. Poor guy. Dumped last week, she bets. He reads her look, almost says: Hey, just kidding. Instead says:

  ‘Could have a few drinks first. It’s early. We could go to North Beach. Vesuvio. There’s always some good music on Friday nights. Some great sax player’s been there every Friday this month.’

  ‘Oh, no thanks. I’m meeting someone.’

  Something alerts him to something unpleasantly familiar. What is it? Her vowels? Her way of walking, slightly flat-footed? But she’s wearing very classy shoes, and she’s not wearing her hair in bangs. He notices things like this. No, she’s not a bit like the farm girls he grew up with in Sonoma. There is nothing wrong with this girl.

  ‘You got a date?’

  ‘Yeah!’ She laughs a little. Of course a date!

  So he smiles crookedly, hoping his smile hints at a wealth of untold jokes. Jokes she’ll never hear now, the stupid girl. He boldly gives her the once over and says:

  ‘Well, have fun then!’

  He turns on his heels and leaves her in his wake. As he strides down Market Street the sun is glinting off the s
idewalk, even the bubble gum glows. The whole place is exploding in light. Billie’s hair, glinting gold. Goddammit! If he was in private, he would hit himself hard. Damn, damn, damn. Nothing like starting a weekend by making a fool of himself. He takes a deep breath and expels the humiliation. He’s Jacko MacAlister, Goddammit. No girl is going to ruin his Friday night.

  Billie, meanwhile, strides along a few more seconds, oblivious to everything but the loveliness of the evening, the prospect of her date later, the compliment of that new boy asking her out. Then she glances up to see him about to disappear round the corner of Pine Street, into the shadow of the Bank of America building. Lean, neat, an easy athletic gait, arms swinging like a man undefeated. Into the shadows he goes, and his shoulders are half gone, and his torso and legs too. A beat of a second more, and he will not be visible.

  ‘Hey!’ she shouts, but he is too far to hear her.

  Then she begins to run because something inside is lurching towards him, as if the sight of him is something she cannot live without. No idea why, or what she’ll say to him if she catches him. And when she opens her mouth to shout to him again, he turns around with a look of pure smart-ass delight.

  ‘Wait up! Wait for me, Jack!’

  Afterword

  First off, let me confess to an obsession with marriage, and in particular the marriages of my parent’s generation. Those post-war weddings, with all their American Dream optimism and frugality and grand plans. The class shifting, the reinventions! The way wives and husbands coped with finding the person they’d married wasn’t remotely related to the stranger they’d begged to marry them. And what’s more, how many of them stuck to their vows anyway. Of course, my parents figure in this obsession. It has been pure indulgence, thinking about them. It’s felt wickedly fun; at other times, guiltily exploitative. What business is it of mine, why they stuck together, how they managed not to kill each other? Part of my motivation was to honour their tenacity, to pay tribute to their particular way of travelling six decades together. And to tell the truth, or at least one or two truths, not necessarily about their marriage, but about marriage in general. I have picked over but not always used the bare bones of their lives – for instance, it is true that their venetian blinds did not work for eighteen years, but the fictional Jack has dalliances, whereas my father, George only had infatuations. George loved his dogs, and Jack hates them. And my mother, Barbara, was not crippled from a road accident like the fictional Milly, but by early onset multiple sclerosis. Jack is a failed publisher; George was a successful economist. My parents never lost a child, unlike their counterparts, and they didn’t separate, or inherit two children from a runaway aunt, or a love child from an ill-advised affair. But they did raise children, who gave them a great deal of worry.

  There is a curious alchemy that happens when a writer begins with something true and then adds something untrue. With each invention, the characters of Milly and Jack became more their own selves and less my parents, until they stood completely apart – individuals in their own right. I have imagined what happened, how my parents felt during certain crises, but at times I have also simply fabricated events and emotions, not to mention landing an extra three kids on their doorstep. So, this is neither entirely memoir nor fiction, but a story of how a marriage like theirs may have panned out, over sixty years.

  Finding love was never their problem; making love last even when it felt like hatred – now, that was the challenge. With great gratitude and respect, therefore, I raise my virtual glass of cold champagne: To my parents, George and Barbara, aka Mickey and Bobbie! And to their holding on to each other through some pretty rough terrain.