by Erynn Mangum
It would be a welcome relief from writing all these checks.
Unless my name is in the “To” line, I’m not that fond of check writing.
Sure enough, ten minutes later, after Candace has gone back down the hall, Mark comes out of his office, walks over to my desk, and looks around at the stuff on it. “What are you up to, Paige?”
Mark, in general, is a very good boss. He does his work; I do mine. He doesn’t look over my shoulder, and he doesn’t call me on the weekends. I feel like we have a good working relationship, and if all I wanted out of life was to be a secretary, I think we could probably work together for the next twenty years without any problems.
“Bills,” I say, trying to keep the moaning out of my voice. I am semisuccessful.
He grins at me. “Want to take a break?”
“What do you want this week?” I reach for a Post-it note.
“How about the double cheeseburger and a Diet Coke? With tots, of course. And get something for yourself.” He lays a ten and a five on the desk, and I look up at him, shaking my head.
“It’s fine, Mark, I brought my own lunch.”
He shrugs. “You’ve been running to Sonic for me for the last … how long have you worked here?”
I smile.
“Get yourself lunch. Sheesh. It’s the absolute least I can do.”
Sometimes I think Mark picks up on my I’m-not-exactly-content-being-a-secretary vibe.
Thus the raise. And the free lunch.
My bagged salad can definitely wait. There is not much better or worse for you in life than a Sonic cheeseburger, tots, and a cherry limeade.
There’s no sense in asking Peggy or Candace if they want anything because both of them always say no.
Peggy just waves her hand at me when I stick my head through her door. “Begone, temptress, I’m saving myself for Christmas pecan pie.”
“But Peggy, Christmas is like seven months away.”
“When you are old and gain weight just by looking at a picture in a magazine, you can come talk to me about all the buts.”
I smirk. “The butts?”
“Go.” She points to the hallway.
Candace just sighs at her carrot sticks and then hands me a couple of dollars and asks for a Diet Coke. “Just a small one.”
There is doubt ringing in her tone, so I know if I don’t bring back at least a large, she’ll be moping around here the rest of the afternoon.
I drive to Sonic and there’s a line all the way around the building. I’m craning my head out the window, trying to see if they’re offering free fries or something and that’s why everyone has suddenly decided to risk coronary heart disease today.
I can’t see anything so I just sit back in my seat and yawn, preparing myself for a long wait.
I pop open the console beside my seat, looking for the tin of mints I keep in the car, and that’s when I see it.
My old planner.
I think I shoved it in here a while back when I finally stopped overscheduling myself and I could actually remember more of what I was supposed to do every week.
I pull it out and flip through it, sort of missing the feeling of it in my hands. It is really cute. I covered it in denim and added all kinds of fun appliqués to it, back when my sewing machine was new and I was experimenting.
I flip over to this week, the end of May, and there isn’t anything written there since it’s been several weeks since I scheduled anything.
Come to think of it, I have a couple of things I could write in here. I mean, it wasn’t the planner that everyone was so upset about. It was that I barely had time to eat.
I find a pen in my purse and write down Saturday’s end-of-the-year barbecue with the youth group. All that means is small groups are over for the summer. It has nothing to do with the activities of the youth group. If anything, Rick stays busier than ever during the summer.
Sunday, I am teaching the two-year-olds again. So I write that down.
Tonight I’m meeting with Nichole. She’s been sick the last couple of times we were supposed to meet, something about allergies leading to bronchitis or something that just sounds miserable during the spring when everyone is supposed to finally be well again.
Tomorrow night I’m going to the baseball game with Tyler. He said he might ask Rick and Natalie if they want to come and bring Claire.
Yet more time for Rick to keep trying to convince me to come work at the church on yet another day when he could very easily win the argument after a day consisting of nothing but paperwork.
I am making a difference in people’s lives, but it is the people at the power company for paying our bill and not making them come down to our office and shut off our power.
I guess in that sense, I am making a difference in Mark, Peggy, and Candace’s lives too.
“Welcome to Sonic.” The voice on the other end of the speaker sounds about as content with his job as I am with mine, and I realize things could be worse.
At least I don’t leave my job and smell like work the whole rest of the evening. People working here must hate the smell of tater tots.
What a terrible life.
Could you file a workman’s comp claim for altered smell enjoyment?
“Hello?” the voice says.
“Oh, sorry.” I tell him my order and then wait to get to the window, then hand over Mark’s and Candace’s cash to a kid who doesn’t look like he should be old enough to have a job.
“Here’s your change. Let me get your drinks,” he says in a monotone.
This guy is too young to be so depressed.
“Long day?” I ask him when he hands me my cardboard drink carrier, full of three huge cups.
He just sighs. “The three cars before you all yelled at me that I wasn’t going fast enough and that’s why there is this huge wait. When really, it’s that our grill randomly shuts off for no reason and wasn’t working for about ten minutes.”
He must see the scared look cross my face as thoughts of death by salmonella found in a cheeseburger start cycling through my head because he starts talking faster. “But don’t worry, we got it fixed and everything is cooking all the way through again.”
“That’s good. Sorry about the yelling.”
He shrugs.
“So do you still like the smell of tots?” I ask him out of curiosity when he hands me the grease-stained paper sack with our food it.
“Not at all.”
“Sorry about that.”
“It comes with the job. Have a good day.”
“You too.”
I drive back to work, loving the smell of grease in my car right now, but when I walk back out to my car to leave tonight, the smell will make me want to puke and then wash out the pores on my face.
There’s something about consuming a lot of oil that never sounds like such a good idea after you’ve already done it.
I park in front of the agency, carry the bag and drinks inside, disperse them around the office, and then go sit at my desk and stare at the online banking system yet again while I eat my tater tots.
The afternoon passes very slowly. I sit there in my chair, writing checks and answering the phone, thinking about how I am twenty-three years old and most likely developing the secretary spread as it relates to my lower half.
This is not good.
I always have these thoughts after an unhealthy lunch.
At four thirty, my phone buzzes with a text message. I glance over at it while pulling out a calculator.
HEY PAIGE. I STARTED RUNNING ANOTHER FEVER TODAY. WENT TO THE DOCTOR AND THE BRONCHITIS IS STILL THERE, SO THEY ARE GIVING ME A STEROID SHOT NOW. NOT GOING TO MAKE IT TO COFFEE TONIGHT AGAIN.
Poor Nichole.
I write her back quickly. Mark doesn’t care about cell phone use at the office as long as it’s not constant or in front of clients. At this moment, there’s no one in the front room except me.
SO BUMMED TO HEAR THAT! PRAYING YOU FEEL BETTER SOON!!
I leave the office right at five, not wanting to see another decimal point for as long as I live or at least until tomorrow morning at nine o’clock.
I call Layla as I climb into my car. A wave of stale tater-tot smell runs for freedom when I open the door.
“Nichole is still sick and I need something healthy for dinner,” I tell her when she answers. “I’m going to that new salad-bar place.”
“You know, they say that the average salad in one of those self-serve places contains over two thousand calories,” she says.
“Who is they?”
“I don’t know. They. The invisible people who tell us poor ignorants how to live.”
“They can’t be right this time, Layla. A salad should be like twelve calories.”
“It should be but I guess it’s not. Something about the calories in the dressing. I think they were advertising for oil and vinegar instead.”
Ick. The thought of more oil is turning my stomach, particularly since I am now sitting in the grease-soaked air of my car.
“Well. Surely there are other options.”
“Don’t call me Shirley. And I assume you are asking me to dinner,” she says.
“Well, you know what they say about assuming,” I tell her, clicking my seat belt.
“No, Paige. What do they say?”
I look out the windshield, bite my lip, and then shake my head. “That you, uh … shouldn’t do it.”
“Well, that’s a great saying.” I can hear the grin in her voice. “All right. Peter is watching Thursday night football anyway. Did you know it’s on like nine nights a week now?”
Layla is fairly decent at math so I figure she’s just making a point. Either that or I need to tell her that someday and one day are not part of the calendar week.
In my opinion, Sleeping Beauty should have been singing, “In April, when spring is here.”
Or was that Snow White?
Either way, it’s beside the point.
“I’m heading there now,” I tell her.
“I’ll get my shoes back on. See you soon.”
Ten minutes later, I’m loading a water-spotted plate onto a plastic tray and standing behind two people who are picking through every bowl of lettuce on the counter, while I listen as Layla tells me about her day.
“So, then, I called the caterer I really liked and of course she’s booked until July six years from now or something insane like that and I was like, well, why did you have me taste your food in the first place if you knew I wasn’t going to be able to use you for my wedding? And the lady’s all, people have changed their wedding dates for me, missy, and I was like, yeah, that’s not going to be me, ma’am.” She sighs and dumps a tongs full of romaine lettuce on her plate. “Is it just me or is that just ridiculous?”
I honestly got lost somewhere around the fourth comma, so I just nod. “Yep. Ridiculous.” Plus, I’m distracted by these people in front of me, who are now picking through all the cherry tomatoes looking for ones with absolutely no yellow on them.
If only I’d made that one yellow light, I could have beaten these people in line.
Should’ve gone with the V-6 instead of the V-4 like my dad recommended when I was shopping for my Camry.
“I know, right?” Layla picks her commentary right back up. “And then I called the church because we decided to just do the ceremony there, and I talked to Geraldine and of course they need our deposit like yesterday because apparently every other couple in our church who is currently engaged wants our weekend too and I’m like, look, Geraldine, I am at work right now and you’ll be gone when I get off and you won’t be there before I have to be at work tomorrow, so other than tossing my check into the offering plate and marking it save the date, I have no idea what to do. What do you think, Paige?”
Here’s what I want to say: “Come on, people, it’s a tiny bit of yellow and it’s fine like that and it still tastes like a tomato!”
Here’s what I do say: “That is an annoying problem, Layla.”
She just sighs and dumps a spoonful of cold peas on her lettuce, which I think is pretty nasty.
Peas should be hot.
My two cents.
“I’ll just have to skip my lunch tomorrow and run it over to Geraldine then,” she says. “I had no idea October was going to be such a popular time to get married. What happened to the good old days when everyone got married in June?”
I shrug. “I like the idea of a fall wedding.”
“Oh, me too!” Layla is suddenly all smiles and wistfulness and she sighs all dewy eyed. “Won’t it be the most beautiful wedding in the world?”
“I think Kate Middleton beat you to that one, Layla. Sorry.”
She shrugs. “Okay, other than that one.”
I grin.
We finally finish piling our plates full of salad toppings and I put the low-fat raspberry vinaigrette on my salad to compensate for the Sonic today.
We pay and find a booth in the back.
“So, wedding plans aren’t coming as expected, huh?” I honestly haven’t talked to her that much about the wedding, which is weird considering I’m the maid of honor. I think since I helped so much with her parents’ anniversary party, Layla is very sensitive about not having me do work now.
Which is thoughtful but still weird. I am the maid of honor. I should be involved in the wedding.
I bite my lip thinking of Preslee and her question again.
“Eh.” Layla shrugs, putting a big forkful of salad in her mouth. “It’s all right. Engagement sucks,” she says, after she finishes chewing. “Pardon my French.”
“I don’t think that’s a bad word, Layla.”
“My mother definitely washed my mouth out with soap at least once for saying that word. Anyway. I don’t want to talk about it anymore. It just stresses me out. And who really needs embossed napkins, huh?”
Apparently, this is a question that needs an answer because she’s looking at me expectantly. “I don’t know,” I say. “People who don’t remember what wedding they are at?”
“I mean, I don’t necessarily like the idea of people rubbing their frosting-covered faces or blowing their noses into mine and Peter’s names.” She stabs a cherry tomato in her frustration and it shoots off the table, skids across the floor, and winds up under a toddler’s high chair. The toddler just blinks at us.
“Well. That was lucky,” I tell her.
“No more wedding talk. I’m tired of being engaged. You talk.”
I shrug. “What do you want me to talk about?”
“I don’t know. Tyler. Luke. Preslee. Your potential new job.” She points her fork at my head. “You can start with telling me how you curled your hair today.”
“Same as I always do. I left the ends out of the curling iron though. I was going for the beachy look.” I rub my hair. “It looks okay?”
“I’m doing my hair like that tomorrow.”
It’s a high compliment if style-savvy Layla wants to copy something I did on my person. Apartment décor is a different story. Layla doesn’t believe in putting work into a temporary dwelling.
Meanwhile I have four different front door wreaths for the four different seasons, pictures up all over the walls, and I even talked my apartment manager into letting me paint one of the walls in my living room a chocolate brown, as long as I repaint it white before I move.
I’ve been there five years though. I think they’re just happy I’m still buying into the illusion that an apartment is the lifestyle I want for myself, when really, I’m just not brave enough to buy an actual house by myself.
Being a single woman is hard.
Layla is looking at me, crunching her lettuce. “Well?”
“Hypothetically, if you weren’t getting married, do you think we could live together?”
She chews her salad, motioning with her fork at me. “I can honestly say I ne
ver thought I would get propositioned at Fresh Choice from you, Paige Alder.”
“Come on.” I roll my eyes. “You know what I meant.”
“Like roommates? I don’t know. For how long?”
“I don’t know. What if we moved in together back when we first moved here for college?”
Layla purses her lips. “Mm. No. No, I don’t think that would have been a good idea.”
“How come?”
“You would kill me.” She stabs another piece of lettuce. She chews it while she talks. “I would wake up in the morning and find you’d poisoned my cereal with a bottle of iocaine powder or something.”
“I don’t think living with you would make me stoop to murder.”
“You can say that because you’ve never lived with me.”
“Do I need to warn Peter?”
She waves her fork. “Oh, I have. I have so many times that I think he’s a little scared he’s going to be living in that So I Married An Axe Murderer movie.”
“I never saw that.”
“Dude. It’s terrible.”
I sigh. “Please don’t start saying that.”
“Saying what? Dude?”
“Yes. Every single person in the youth group uses it like every other word. It makes me crazy.” I roll my eyes. “Even Tyler says it.”
“There was a nice little segue.” Layla grins. “How are things going with him?”
I shrug. “Fine.”
“Fine.” Layla just looks at me and frowns. “Fine?”
“Sure.”
“Fine is how you describe the weather or a dog or even a TV show that’s just so-so. Fine is not how you should describe your boyfriend.”
I shrug again. “We’ve never officially said anything about making it official.”
“What?”
“I wouldn’t say he’s my boyfriend.”
“What would you say then?”
“I don’t know.” I think about it, staring at the ceiling tiles. “I’m seeing him.”
“Like dead people?”
I give her a look worthy of that comment.
“No, like we see each other. Sometimes he comes over and we get dinner and watch a movie or, I don’t know … he just hasn’t ever clarified what we are doing.”
“And you haven’t asked?”