Jennifer Johnson Is Sick of Being Single

by Heather McElhatton

  I dig out my cell phone and dial 9-1-1, keeping my thumb poised over the Send button as I roll the window down a crack. “I’m sorry?” I say in my best I’m-so-sorry-you’re-so-stupid-and-even-sorrier-I-have-to-deal-with-you voice.

  “Offee up?” he repeats and grabs at something on the top of my car. Next he’s holding my snow-encrusted smiley face coffee cup, which has apparently ridden all the way to work on the roof. He mumbles something incomprehensible. Who wears a ski mask downtown?

  “Just put it on the ground,” I say, “just put it there.”

  “Mmmph?” he holds out the cup.

  “I’m not opening the door,” I put my lips up against the crack. “Put the cup down and go kidnap and rape someone else.”

  I’m being sarcastic, but I’m not. I heard about this girl that got kidnapped by some kid and he kept her in his soundproof tree house. She eventually fell in love with him and they got married when he turned sixteen. She was thirty-five. They had the whole story and a wedding photo spread in People magazine.

  The doofy parking lot guy blinks once and then sets the coffee cup down on the ground. He turns around and starts walking for the building. “Hey!” I call after him, “can you move it back a little? It’s too close to the door!”

  He ignores me and keeps walking, his big, red sausage arms pumping back and forth as he marches for the Keller’s employee doors.

  The nerve of some people.

  I re-do my makeup in the rearview mirror even though I’m already late. Keller’s has an employee pep rally every Monday in the lobby. Everybody stands around in their heavy winter coats holding complimentary Styrofoam cups of coffee while Ed, the store president, tells us what a great job we’re doing and how we could maybe do it a bit better. Then he leads us in prayer because Keller’s isn’t just a struggling midrange midwestern department store, it’s a struggling midrange midwestern department store that loves Jesus.

  This doesn’t amount to much, except our paychecks have an IN HIS NAME! watermark in the background. We have to listen to the occasional pep-rally prayer, and if you have a problem at work, your department leader will sometimes just tell you to pray about it. Oh, and there’s a Jesus fish glued to the Xerox machine.

  I run for the building, the cold air like quick slaps on my face. Inside I hop from one foot to the other trying to warm up while repeatedly pushing the elevator button, trying to make it hurry. It’s okay if I’m a little late for the pep rally. I can usually sneak in without anyone noticing, but when the elevator doors finally open, who’s standing inside but the doofy-looking parking lot guy? I catch the door with my elbow and glare at him. “What’s wrong with you?”

  “Meef?” he says. He still has the damn ski mask on. He looks around bewildered, as though I may be talking to some other idiot in the elevator.

  “Don’t you know anything?” I ask. “Do you watch the news?”

  He shrugs.

  “You’re a big guy lurking around the parking lot and now you’re waiting alone in the elevator with a rapist bank robber ski mask on?”

  He just stands there like a big, dumb confused Baby Huey.

  The elevator door starts to bang against my elbow. “You should never speak to women in parking lots unless you know them and you should already know that. Why don’t you know that?”

  He shrugs.

  “Women are very nervous in parking lots and in elevators. It’s hard enough to avoid actual creeps without regular guys acting like creeps. And I’m not saying you’re not a creep, because I have no idea, maybe you are.”

  He pauses. “Welf, I’m not,” he says.

  “Well, that’s not really for you to decide. Is it.”

  What a moron.

  He looks at his watch, which is buried between his glove and sleeve. “I’m vate,” he says.

  “You’re what?”

  He taps his watch. “I’m vate.”

  “You’re late? Well, I’d hate to make you late.” I get on the elevator. “Besides, I have pepper spray.” I put my hand menacingly in my purse, grabbing a firm hold of what I think is a small yellow tube of Burt’s Bees shimmer lip gloss. I have no idea where my pepper spray is. I think it’s at home under the sink.

  “Soffy,” he says.

  “Great. You’re sorry. Take the ski mask off then. You look like some pervert who likes to watch women buying pantyhose. Now I said ‘pantyhose’. My day is ruined. Happy?”

  He blinks and then, with great effort, lifts his giant, red sausage arms and pulls his ski mask off. His hair stands on end and he smoothes it down with an open palm. “Already off on the wrong foot,” he smiles, looking down.

  My eyes fly wide open and I quickly look at the toes of my boots. My cheeks burn with embarrassment.

  He’s gorgeous.

  I clear my throat and take another quick peek. He’s North Woods, chiseled-jaw, George Clooney–playing–Paul Bunyan stunning.

  I swallow hard.

  Time becomes animated. Open to suggestion. I have so many mercury-fast feelings, thoughts, memories, and new future plans packed into the next few moments that if I had to guess, even though the standard morning elevator ride is about thirty seconds, I would say that day the three-floor ride took about half an hour.

  I remember the sensation of velocity and something shifts inside me, almost uncomfortably, like when you’re standing in the middle of a frozen lake and you hear a crack deep below the surface. Your heart jumps because you know you may fall through.

  “Yes,” I say loudly.

  He looks at me. “What?”

  “No, sorry,” I say. “Nothing. I’m being silly!”

  He looks at me.

  The doors finally open onto the wide white marble lobby and the smell of roses and perfume pours over us. A prerecorded voice says: “You are now on the main floor.”

  We both get off the elevator. I want to say something to him, but I feel weird. Faint or feverish or like I just had a shot of Tabasco sauce. My throat is scratchy. He marches forward and I drift alongside him toward the other end of the lobby where the pep rally has already begun. Employees are gathered around the grand marble staircase, listening to our store president, Ed Keller, who stands halfway up the staircase in his smart black suit. Next to him is his wife, the dreaded Mrs. Keller, who is dry and gray as a dead tooth. She hardly ever comes to the store and I vaguely wonder why she’s here.

  Ed squints over the crowd in my general direction. “I think that’s him!” he says and the group all turns around. “He’s always late, but never for dinner!”

  I have no idea who everybody’s looking at.

  I stop at the edge of the gathering and am suddenly thwapped in the face by a big, red parka arm because the parking lot guy is taking his coat off.

  “Hold this?” the parking lot guy asks and shoves his hot red parka into my arms.

  Ed is extending his hand as the parking lot guy makes his way through the crowd. “May I introduce Mr. Bradford Keller!” Ed says, his voice booming across the floor. “My son and future president of Keller’s Department Store Incorporated!”

  The parking lot guy dashes up the stairs.

  Bradford Keller? The parking lot guy is…Bradford Keller?

  “Hey, guys,” he says, waving at all my Keller’s co-workers. Ed tells him he has to speak louder. “Hey, guys!” Brad shouts and everyone says “Hey” back. My heart hiccups and sputters, like some ancient rusty machine.

  Brad starts awkwardly giving a prepared speech. He says something about being glad he’s back in Minnesota and how he’s looking forward to blah blah blah…. I’m not listening. I’d love to, but I think I’m having an aneurism. There’s a buzzing sound in my ears and my arms are cold.

  Christopher sidles up to me. He works in visual display, dressing the mannequins and floofing the store windows. He’s excellent at what he does and I live in fear that a bigger department store will hire him away. We’ve known each other since high school and he’s probably the only reason
they didn’t find me hanging from the aluminum bleachers on the football field. The secret to surviving a religious high school, or any war zone for that matter, is to find your people. Even if it’s only one people. One is enough. If you can find one person in the crowd who’s like you, then you can survive almost anything. I met Christopher in art class when he made a Pop candy-colored painting of Shaun Cassidy, encrusted on the edges with mirror chips. Right then I knew I had found my people.

  “What’s going on?” he whispers hotly. “Why did you walk in with Brad Keller?”

  I stare vacantly.

  When I snap out of my fog, Ed is patting Brad on the back and there is a smattering of clapping from the weary audience. Ed reminds us there are free employee flu shots today on the mezzanine level, and then he leads us in a short group prayer. I lower my head and close my eyes.

  “A-men!” Ed says.

  “A-men!” we all say back, except Christopher who says, “Gay men!”

  I look up and Brad is gone, lost in the crowd. Everyone starts shuffling toward the elevators and Christopher sprints off to some meeting.

  Mrs. Keller breezes up to me with a saccharine smile and says, “Is that my son’s jacket? He always gets some poor girl to take care of his things.”

  I nod but forget to let go of the coat. She has such a mean face.

  Her eyes sharpen as she tugs. “Can I please have it?”

  “What? Sorry!” I release my death-grip on Brad’s jacket.

  “No problem!” she chirps and gives me a painful little grin as she whisks the red parka away. Something in me panics—I may never see it again.

  Upstairs I sit at my chair and stare at my blank computer screen. I can’t believe I didn’t know that was Ed Keller’s son. Why would a guy like that want me anyway? He’s handsome, rich, and well-connected. What am I? I’m a low-ranking copywriter in the marketing department of his dad’s department store and my skills include writing in-store signage like CHECK OUT OUR NEW LOOK! And coming up with fairly compelling reasons to buy cardigans and sofas.

  I do have strong points. I, and I alone, am responsible for last year’s runaway best-selling boot sale: RE-BOOT! Also, I suggested we change the KIDS department to be the K!DS department, which won me a xeroxed copy of the employee-of-the-month thank-you letter from our store president, Brad’s dad, and two Cinnabon coupons.

  Ted bounds into my cubicle. “Did I ever tell you that you’re the most beautiful woman in the world?” he asks. I ignore him and turn my computer on. Ted’s always saying slightly retarded things he thinks are funny. He professes his love for me on a daily basis, which is ridiculous. Ted in love with anyone is ridiculous. He’s the nicest, sweetest little guy you’ll ever meet and he treats me like a queen bee, but he’s short and has crew-cut red hair and basically looks like a maltreated redheaded wood elf.

  “Well, you are the most beautiful woman ever,” he says and sets a Starbucks on my desk. “Skim latte with nutmeg.”

  “Thanks.” I take a careful sip.

  “Get any sleep last night?” he asks.

  I scroll over my loaded e-mail in-box. How can I already be behind when I just got to work? “Some,” I say, “eventually.”

  “Good. Lunesta?”

  “I took two Benadryl, drank a glass of red wine, and watched the Home Shopping Network until I passed out.”

  “That would do it.”

  “I still didn’t get to sleep until about two in the morning. I saw an ad for an FLDS dress and I went online and bought one.”

  “An FLD what?”

  “Fundamentalist Mormon dress. You know those weird dresses Mormon women wear? High collars and poofy shoulders? They look like Little House on the Prairie dresses, but without buttons.”

  Ted makes a face. “Why would you want one of those?”

  “They sell them to raise money for their compound or whatever.”

  “But why do you want one?”

  “I don’t know, I thought maybe I would start talking to the Mormon girl who sold it to me and we would strike up an online friendship that would end up in a high-risk escape plan where I pick her and her sister-wives up on the Utah border or something. Also I can wear it next Halloween.”

  He stares at me and rests his chin on my vertical filing cabinet.

  “You are so sexy,” he says. “I think I might die.”

  “Did you do Supersaver?”

  “Yep,” he says. “Done.”

  “Thank God. I hate Supersaver.”

  “I know.” He smiles. “I’m the best! Do you want to sing the Ted song?”

  “No, I do not want to sing the Ted song.”

  “Oh come on! It’s easy. I sing a line and then you just sing out Ted!”

  “I’m aware of the lyric structure.”

  “Who’s your favorite guy?” he sings.

  “Ted,” I say grimly.

  “Who’s the funniest one you know?”

  “Ted,” I sigh.

  “Who’s the most handsome man who also does extra work on weekends just to make your life a little easier on Monday mornings?”

  “Ted. Ted who needs to get out of my cubicle.”

  He bows, pivots on his foot, and leaves, but keeps singing. I can hear him bellowing the Ted song as he lopes down the hallway. I gotta admit it, he’s pretty funny. If only he didn’t look like a woodland elf. The idea of having sex with him seems like it would require a small green condom.

  I return to the computer and open my daily e-mail from my mother, who likes to send cleaning tips, smug aphorisms, dating advice, prayer requests, and cute photographs of poodles wearing top hats and/or pictures of her only grandniece, Abbygael, who is ten months old and acts like she might have autism, even though everyone swears she doesn’t.

  “ISN’T SHE AMAZING?” my mother writes.

  I stare at Abbygael’s bulbous forehead. There is something definitely wrong with that kid. I think my cousins are beginning to suspect a problem, too, because they’re starting to dress her in a lot of sunhats, bonnets, and single lace ribbons, which bisect her cranium and look more like a surgeon’s cutting line than hip baby fashion.

  I e-mail Mom back.

  She’s so cute! I wonder if that tremendous head growth means she’s going to be a superstar in math! Wouldn’t it be awesome to have a state champion mathlete in the family? Like a girl-scientist who discovers a new way to animate life or something?

  Mother is not amused.

  “Your cousin is a child of God,” she fires back, “not a Frankenbaby.” Then she says I should come to church more often and learn a little humility, which is a good point. If there is in fact a single male deity in charge of this barn dance, and a confirmed bachelor at that, then we really ought to try and get on his good side, especially if we’re going to hatch female family members who need to wear safety helmets to butter toast.

  I check my online dating account. I’m signed up on ExplodingHearts.com, which is supposed to match you with people better than you could match yourself, because you fill out a quiz that asks if you prefer walks on the beach or cozy candlelit dinners and whether or not you kiss on the first date. When I filled out my profile I briefly considered just saying everything I know guys want to hear, that I’m a size zero and I like to barbecue steaks in a thong and sometimes I have secret lipstick-lesbian fantasies where I get into a pillow fight with my supermodel girlfriend and then we decide to have sex. But instead I opted to tell the truth, just to minimize the disappointment factor, if nothing else. I listed my real age, my real weight, and my real hobbies, which include watching Golden Girls reruns while eating Taco Bell. Might as well cop to it now.

  Today I have eight new e-mails, indicated by eight little red hearts that sprout wings and vibrate. Once you’ve opened an e-mail, the wings disappear. I read through these messages and my enthusiasm turns from curiosity to something resembling that feeling you get when you turn on a light and a creature with a billion legs scurries up the wall.

  T
he first message is from a soy farmer in Ohio. I don’t know what soy is.

  Hey Good Lookin!

  Whatcha been cookin? No seriously, I’ve gotten real used to cooking for myself. I don’t expect a gal to cook for me or clean or even come home every night! Ha ha ha! That’s a joke I used to tell my wife. She’s gone. Write me back!

  —Harry

  The second message is from a Russian man who lives in Chicago and wants an “efficient woman” to help him run his security business. Plus she should cook.

  Privet milaya moya!

  I am of to your love. It is of a preposterous thing. Please to meet me in small dress of the sexy and know that I am of a marrying way.

  —Vasya

  The third and fourth messages seem so similar, I suspect they are the result of an Exploding Hearts “first-e-mail” tutorial. Like fill-in-the-blank Mad Libs for guys too stupid to write something of their own.

  Hi there Jen!

  Are you tired of the same old boring guys? Do you want a meaningful relationship? Well look no further! That’s what I want! I am a successful, educated professional who exactly matches the description of what you’re looking for! Please contact me at your earliest convenience, so we can see if our hearts are meant to explode together!

  —UNEVERKNOWRITE?

  The second one says:

  Hi there sexy!

  Are you tired of the same old boring guys? Do you want a good time? Well look no further! That’s what I want! I am a business student who exactly matches the description of what you’re looking for! Please contact me at your earliest convenience, so we can see if our hearts are meant to explode together!

  —The14U!

  What’s the point of telling someone “about yourself” anyway? Nobody tells the truth. Everything means something else. I’ve learned what a few things really mean the hard way and I’ve started my own dating profile–to-English translation phrasebook.

  HANDY AROUND THE HOUSE

  He will not call a plumber under any circumstances. Ever.

  GOOD WITH MONEY

  He’s a cheap bastard and will make you go Dutch. Forever.