by Theresa Alan
A job. Finally. Maybe it wasn’t ideal, but I’d get some good experience for my résumé. At least my new life was no longer on hold. This was it. Real life.
I called Mom and Dad and left a message. I called Avery at work and got her voice mail. I couldn’t tell Greg till he got home from school that night. I had to share the news with someone. I called Jen at her office.
“This is Jen Olsen,” she answered.
“I got the job at McKenna!”
“Great! Is it salaried?”
“Yep.” Uh-oh.
“Can I ask how much it pays?”
Shit. I should have known. I didn’t want to tell her. She made $38,000 a year plus bonuses, which amounted to another few thousand.
“About forty thousand.” If you factored in health and other benefits, that was close enough.
“Wow, that’s a lot better than teaching! When do you start?”
“Monday.”
“Let’s get together to celebrate, and you can give me the details.”
“Yeah, I’d like that.”
“I’m really happy for you,” she said.
“Thanks.”
“I should get back to work.”
“Sure. Talk to you this weekend.”
“Later.”
Saturday night Jen took me to a sports bar. It was the kind of place she loved and I hated. All the guys there wore turtle necks, J. Crew flannel shirts, and clean baseball caps on top of their neat, short hair, and the women looked like they tried much too hard to look casually pretty. I’d asked Avery if she could come, but she was going to a play in Denver with some friends. I was disappointed she couldn’t make it. Jen could always keep the conversation going with fluffy anecdotes and amusing observations, but I liked the occasional intelligent exchange mixed in with tales of Jen’s sexual escapades.
We got there early, about nine, so there were still a couple of booths open.
“I’m having such a bad hair day,” Jen said.
I cringed inwardly but gave her a little smile and nod. Jen’s hair looked stunning as usual. Her long hair was, as always, curled in gentle waves like a model’s hair in a shampoo advertisement.
“I just got my hair cut and it’s in that awkward first week of a haircut stage, you know?” Jen said. “It’s so unfair. Your hair is awkward for the first two weeks of a haircut, it looks okay for about two weeks, and then it looks shaggy and in need of another haircut!”
“It’s practically tragic.”
“Not tragic. Just annoying. I tried a new hairdresser. I don’t know if I’ll go back to her. I mean she was nice and stuff? But she had dyed her hair black, and she had like an inch of light brown roots. You know I have such issues with roots. It’s like, my god, look in the mirror.”
“Mmm.”
“So, how’s the wedding coming?”
I shrugged.
“You don’t want to go there, huh? I understand. You need to think about something else tonight.”
We sat in silence for several moments. Jen let out a dramatic yawn. “Oh my god, I’m so tired. Last night Dave went out to the strip club with his buddies and he came to my place in the middle of the night all drunk and horny and stuff and he woke me up to have sex and I could not fall back to sleep for the longest time. He was going on and on about how sexy one of the dancers was, and I was like, I do not need to hear this.”
“Dave? I thought you two had broken up?”
“We are broken up. I did not mean to let him in last night, but he’d already woken me up so I figured, why not shag? Neither of us are in serious relationships, so what’s the harm?”
I nodded as if she made sense.
“So. McKenna Marketing.” Jen held her glass of beer aloft. “I’m not sure if I should say congratulations or condolences. Regardless, to being employed.”
“To being employed.” We clinked our beers together. I wished I could toast with unrestrained joy that wasn’t mixed with apprehension, so I tried to push my doubts to the back of my mind and focus on the beer.
“So, tell me the deep dark secrets of McKenna Marketing,” I said.
“McKenna has got the usual bullshit,” she began. “You’ll be working for Eleanore who, as you know, is quite a character. I don’t know Eleanore very well, but at least she’s not Sharon, my satanic boss. Honestly, they’ve been hiring so many people there lately, it’s crazy. I can’t keep track of all the new faces. We’re staffing up so we can handle the Expert Appliance account. It’s a really big account for us.”
“How long is the project going to last?”
“At least several months.”
“What happens when the project is over? I mean, won’t there be too many people?”
“Well, the idea is that we’ll be so successful we’ll be able to get a ton of new projects and keep busy.”
“What if we don’t do a good job with Expert?”
“Well, there’ll probably be some layoffs.”
“Oh great, and I’ll have to go through the job hunt all over again.”
“Are you kidding? We should be able to get some pretty decent severance packages. It’ll be great. I’ll give you the following tip: create a filter for Lydia’s e-mails. She was the pregnant nurse at Avery’s party? She forwards the most unfunny e-mails you will ever waste your time on. I have my Lydia e-mails filtered directly into their own folder so that when I’m unbelievably bored and I have nothing better to do, I can go through them.”
“Filter?” I asked.
“I’ll show you how to filter e-mails. Or I can have Tom, the love of my life, show you.”
“Love of your life? What happened to Dave?”
“Dave was a tricycle. Tom is L-O-V-E in more of a Harley Davidson motorcycle sort of way.”
“Tom is cute. So you two are like a thing now?”
“Well, he hasn’t called. He’s just sort of friendly to me at the office. He said his ex cheated on him and he’s kind of wary of women right now, but I can wait till he’s ready. Well, I mean, I’ll covertly help things along. I may date other guys, and if they happen to send me flowers at the office, well, I can’t help that, and if they don’t, well, I can help that, too. I’ll just send them to myself and make him die of jealousy.”
“Clever.”
Soon I was on the lovely precipice between buzzed and drunk, a beautiful place in which life didn’t feel quite so stressful and scary, but I wasn’t yet feeling ashamed of myself, when two fraternity types asked if they could sit with us. Jen smiled and graciously slid down the booth. The GQ-looking guy sat down beside her. I moved over, too; I had no choice. The skinny one sat down on the very edge of the booth, as far away from me as possible.
“This place is kind of weak,” Mr. GQ said.
“No cigars,” Skinny Boy said.
“I really want a big old stogy tonight,” Mr. GQ said. “You like cigars?”
“Sure, every now and then. Not too often,” Jen said. What? Jen? Smoke a cigar? This from someone who said kissing a smoker was like cleaning a toilet bowl with your tongue?
“Have you ever been to Enotekas?” GQ asked.
“Oh, my god, that rabidly yuppie place?” I said. The three of them looked at me as though I had suggested we remove our genitals with a penknife.
“I like that place, ” Jen said, which was news to me because when we’d gone there together, I thought we’d agreed it was overpriced and pretentious.
“That place has pretty good cigars. You can’t smoke them too often,” GQ said. “Your taste buds get kind of screwy for a few days.”
“Exactly,” cooed Jen. “Food tastes a little different for a couple days afterward. But every now and then it’s okay.”
“Where are you two from originally?” GQ again.
“Minnesota. Just outside Minneapolis. I came out here for school and Margarette followed me.”
“Actually, I followed my fiancé.”
“Me and Randy grew up right here in Denver,” GQ said.
“It looks like our friends finally got here,” GQ said, looking toward the door. “It was great talking to you. I’ll see you around.”
GQ and Skinny Boy gave us overly enthusiastic politician handshakes and bolted away.
Jen deflated. “They were nice, huh?”
“I guess.”
“Ooh, he’s cute,” she said, wasting no time. Jen looked at the world like Arnold Schwarzenegger’s Terminator, who could scan a room and immediately compute all important data. For Jen, the data she calculated included the presence or absence of wedding rings, approximate income brackets, age, and attractiveness.
She pointed to a guy in a crew cut and army fatigue pants standing at the bar right behind us. Normally I didn’t go for military types, but the white T-shirt he wore stretched across a broad, well-defined chest, and his Matt Damonish smile made me forgive the crew cut.
“Not bad,” I agreed.
“I’ll go get us some more beer,” she said, emptying the remains of the pitcher into our glasses and bringing the pitcher up to the bar. She stood beside army boy and pretended to seek out the bartender’s attention. It would’ve taken the bartender half an hour to notice me, but he noticed Jen in moments. “Flat Tire,” she said. Then, turning to army boy, “Oh my god, where are your legs? I can’t see your legs! They blend right into the surroundings!”
He laughed but said nothing.
“You in the army or something?” she asked.
“Used to be.”
“Did they make you wear those pants at all times?”
“Nah.” Not the best conversationalist, but his smile put me in a forgiving mood. Wow, Jen was good. Army boy was buying the pitcher of beer for her.
“Well, thank you . . . do you have a name or should I just call you G.I. Joe?”
“I’m Bill.”
“I’m Jen. Catch you later, Bill. Thanks again for the beer.”
Seconds later, Bill and his scrawny friend followed her to our table. “Mind if we sit down?”
“Please,” Jen said. Gorgeous Bill slid in next to her, and, story of my life, I got the weaselly sidekick leftovers. “This is my older sister Rette. She looks like a mild-mannered English teacher, but beneath the calm exterior lies a party animal. I know. We went to college together.”
“Oh please. Was I the one who suggested we drive to Chicago to see the transvestite strippers?” I teased. “Was it my idea to steal the keg and throw a party in the dorm lounge, breaking every possible university rule in one night? Was it my idea to steal the plant from, god, what was the name of that bar?”
“Ha! Oh, my god, I forgot about the plant. I needed one for my apartment, right?” she explained to Bill and Scrawny Sidekick. “But I couldn’t afford it. So we were at this bar that had all these hanging plants everywhere. It was a dark, small bar, right? Not many people were there. We spent half the night plotting how to sneak out a plant past the bartender and the bouncer. Finally I unhooked it. I covered it with my coat and was like ten feet from the door when the bouncer was like, ‘Um, what have you got there?’ ”
“Jen dropped the plant right there. Dirt flew everywhere . She just bolted. It was hilarious.” I laughed at the memory. Jen really was the funnest, craziest person I knew.
“You ever do anything really wild?” Jen asked Bill.
Bill paused for a moment. “I killed a man once when I was stationed in Germany. I was guarding camp, you know, and he snuck over the fence. I just came up behind him and twisted his neck like you do to chickens.” He illustrated the action with his hands. He grunted in mock effort, his teeth bared menacingly. When he was finished, he smiled with pride. “So that was pretty wild,” he said.
Jen and I looked at each other for a long moment. “Wow, I really have to use the bathroom,” I said. “Jen?”
“Yeah. Me, too. Excuse us for just a second, boys.”
Jen and I raced to the bathroom. As soon as the door closed behind us, we doubled over with laughter. It was the kind of laughter that, spurred by a little alcohol, built on itself, spiraling exponentially until we were howling uncontrollably. “Oh my god, can I pick the winners or what? Shit! What a psycho!” she laughed.
After several minutes, our laughter died down. I wiped the tears from beneath my eyes. “How are we going to sneak out of here without them seeing us?”
“It’s a big bar. We’ll just hang out by the dance floor. Too bad we lost all that beer though.”
“At least it was free.” I sighed and helped Jen up. We peeked out the door. Bill the assassin and his Scrawny Sidekick were hidden from view. We snuck out to the other side of the bar where the dance floor was and stood at the edge of the floor, weaving to the music without being fully committed to all-out dancing.
A gorgeous guy came up to me. He had blue eyes, tousled hair, and a sexy grin. Was he not aware that Jen was far prettier than I? Why was he looking at me?
“Hello,” he said.
“Hi.”
“I’m Mark.”
“I’m Rette.”
“Would you dance with me, Red?”
“Rette. Rette,” I said. “It’s short for Margarette.” I’d had this conversation many times before. “Sure. I love to dance. That’d be fun.” I left Jen standing there, stunned and more than a little irritated. I didn’t feel bad leaving her. She’d done it to me a zillion times before.
Mark was a good dancer. It had been a long time since I’d danced with a guy since Greg didn’t like to dance.
Mark’s cologne was wonderful. I wished Greg would wear cologne. I’d told him countless times about the erotic effect it had on me, but, despite my pleas, he refused.
Mark danced close to me, sometimes touching me. Briefly, I imagined what it would be like to kiss Mark. It had been more than two years since I’d kissed anyone but Greg, and I couldn’t remember what it was like to be kissed by someone else. I suspected that Mark would be a damn good kisser. Not that Greg was a bad kisser. I was perfectly content to kiss only Greg for the rest of my life. Sure, sometimes he lost control of his saliva and my mouth was deluged by a wad of phlegmy liquid, and occasionally I wished he would vary his gentle kisses with stronger, more passionate ones, but he was a caring lover and I was content. Still, there was no harm in closing my eyes, relaxing, and imagining what Mark’s lips would feel like.
Mark and I danced for three songs before Jen came up to me and said it was getting late and we should be going.
“It was nice dancing with you,” I told him.
He gave a nod and grinned. I felt his eyes follow me as Jen and I made our way through the crowd.
“Do you think he didn’t notice your engagement ring?” Jen snapped the moment we got into the parking lot. “He was just after cheap sex. How could you let yourself be used like that?”
“Cheap sex? Are you on drugs? He just wanted to dance.”
“You’re practically a married woman,” she hissed, unlocking the passenger side door and marching to the driver’s side, her high-heeled boots clicking sharply against the pavement.
“Christ, Jen, I didn’t even touch him. We were just dancing.”
Jen snapped her seat belt into place.
“You’re sleeping at my house. You’ve had far too much to drink to drive home,” she said.
“Oh, so this is interesting, you and I split a pitcher, thereby each consuming the same amount of beer.”
“Beer affects you differently.”
Whatfuckingever. I weighed more than she did and I had danced most of the buzz off.
Needless to say I drove home the moment we got to her place where I’d left my car. I was extra careful driving home. I didn’t want to get into a car accident and prove Jen right.
AVERY
Ben, Entertainer of Anorexics
Ben actually called the day after the party. He asked if I’d be up for going bowling that night. For about three seconds I considered being coy and saying I was busy
, but then realized that would be stupid.
“Sure. Sounds like fun.” That’s when I remembered I didn’t like bowling, and it actually didn’t sound like fun at all. Oh well, if there was a date number two, I would plan that one.
As I got ready, I had the odd feeling I was cheating on Art. Which of course was ridiculous, since we’d never even met. I didn’t know if I should write to him about the date tomorrow. I would see how it went and then decide. If it seemed like this might go somewhere, I’d let him know.
When Ben got to my place, he asked me where the best place to bowl around here was, and I admitted I didn’t know, I didn’t bowl much. I told him that I hadn’t bowled in years, as a matter of fact, so he’d have to just be patient with me.
He wasn’t. I had always been a terrible bowler, and it wasn’t a deficiency I was at all concerned about. Ben, however, tutored me throughout the endless two rounds. “Keep your arm straight. Don’t forget to follow through. Stay focused.”
“So, Lydia tells me you work at a hospital,” I said between rounds. “What do you do there?” Part of me wanted to bonk him over the head with my bowling ball, part of me hoped he was a surgeon who would ask me to marry him. Maybe I’d been hanging around Jen too much.
Ben worked with anorexics and bulimics in the eating disorders unit. In between barking bowling tips, he entertained me with stories of women puking in purses, garbage cans, and toilets, women whose organs could barely function, women who had false teeth by the age of twenty-two from the acids of their vomit eating away at their teeth.
After the second round, I suggested we forget the bowling and focus on the beer. We went to the bar where the stools and booths were made out of squeaky red plastic and the “decoration” was a spattering of neon beer advertisements.