Borrow-A-Bridesmaid

by Anne Wagener

  After a few seconds and more horn blares from the Hummer, it’s clear I’m not going to make the gas station. The next pull-off is a large strip mall to my right. I think I can make it if I don’t get smushed.

  When I glance in the rearview, the Hummer’s grille is right on Wulfie’s bumper, and I catch a quick flash of the driver’s downturned mouth, which is most certainly shouting obscenities. I’m shaking head to toe from the abject intimidation. I raise my hands in a gesture that is supposed to convey that I no longer have control over my vehicle. That the Road Warrior has stopped fighting. The driver responds with a one-fingered gesture of his own.

  I make it to the shopping center and roll to a stop, my car diagonal across two parking spaces in the far corner of the lot. The Hummer continues blaring as he blows past. The window is rolled down to expose the gesture, in case I missed it the first time. What I didn’t catch the first time is that it’s a female driver, a whip of blond hair blowing through the open window. The back window rolls down as well, and several blond spawn echo the mother’s gesture.

  As if on cue, a rumble of thunder shakes Wulfie, the sky opens up, and it begins to pour.

  Fifteen

  Wulfie is dead.

  No lights on the dashboard. No response to my key turning in the ignition. Nada.

  I put up the tarp and wait a few minutes, praying fervently to several different gods, kissing the dashboard and flattering Wulfie, and try again. Still nothing. Raindrops explode against the windshield. The storm is so violent, I can hardly see a foot in front of me. Only the red brake lights on Route 7 and the nearby neon lights from the strip mall are visible.

  After calling a tow company, I wait for the rain to let up enough to dash into a Starbucks. I dry myself off in the bathroom and order a black coffee with a gift card from Lin.

  Curled up in a comfy chair in the corner and watching the rain, I wonder how I’m going to pay for this latest repair, however much it might be. I pull my phone back out and text Alex. Think I’m ready to take you up on that job offer.

  I hit “send,” but before I snap the phone closed, it begins to ring. The name on the display almost makes me drop my coffee.

  Charlie Bell.

  A little elfin urge plays at the control panel in the back of my mind, flipping various switches, reattaching wires, lighting up the subpanel of memory. The message delivered to my conscious mind by the brain elf is: Answer it.

  Still sore from the emotional crash landing following Charlie’s departure, I consider the brain elf’s imperative. I banished Charlie to some cramped office in the back hallway of my memories, but as much as I’ve been distracted by Kalil and new bride clients, Charlie’s presence there is persistent. He’s vivid, the gold-flecked eyes radiant among the grayscale memories. I haven’t forgotten the way he made me feel. My nerve endings haven’t forgotten, either: The appearance of his name on my cell phone makes them brush against each other longingly in sea-coral slow-motion waves.

  I hit the answer button before the call can go to voicemail. My stomach tangos with my small intestine as I bring the phone to my ear. “Hi, Charlie.”

  “Hey there. Nice to hear your voice.”

  Even though I’m sitting, the warmth in his tone makes my knees wobble. “Yours, too. I got your e-mail—sorry I haven’t had a chance to write back yet. How are things? Still . . . messy?”

  He hesitates, and at first I’m not sure he heard me. “Yeah,” he says at last. “Understatement of the century.” The warmth is still there, but it sounds diluted.

  “Oh. I’m sorry.” He doesn’t offer any clarification. “Do you want to talk about it?”

  “I do—but I don’t. I mean, I called because I didn’t want you to think my leaving had anything to do with you. When you didn’t answer my e-mail . . .” Another pause, and an espresso machine screams in the background.

  “Making coffee?” I ask.

  “I’m at work.”

  “You rebel, you!” I dispel an image of Sal waggling a long finger and saying, “No personal calls during work time!”

  “Yeah, well, it’s a slow day. I was making notes for a new project, and I literally couldn’t wait any longer to know: Did you read my screenplay?”

  “Heck yeah, I did.”

  “Yeah?” Now his voice is full of vulnerable joy, like a kid who’s been given an unexpected treat.

  The urge to hold him is so strong I feel like I might explode. I wrap my arms around myself instead, tucking the phone between my cheek and shoulder and gazing out at the gathering puddles. “Of course I read it! Charlie, it’s brilliant.”

  To my surprise, he doesn’t respond.

  “Charlie? Do you have a customer?” I ask, eyes closed. Has he disappeared again? “Wish you could make me something. I’m stranded at Starbucks, too. Killing time.”

  “Sorry about that,” he says, sounding a bit strange. “So what’s going on? Why are you killing time?”

  “Well, I quit the airport last week, my car just died, and I almost got flattened by a Hummer. Now I’m stranded at Starbucks. It’s all very dramatic, really. Hopefully your day’s going better than mine.”

  He sighs. “I’m not sure about that.”

  I raise my eyebrows, waiting for him to explain the reason for his sudden disappearance. But the banter between us has reached an easy equilibrium, and I don’t dare disturb it. Not yet. It’s good enough for now to have his voice in my ear. “Well, let’s see. Is your store . . .” I survey the shop, which is nearly empty. “Deserted?”

  “Yup.”

  “Rainy?”

  “Yup.”

  “An old woman with an umbrella staring at you?”

  “Yup.”

  “No way.” I laugh. The old woman frowns at me, and my cheeks grow hot. Sorry, I mouth at her. She looks away, clutching her purse closer to her chest.

  “No, seriously.” He lowers his voice. “There’s an old woman in here right now who ordered two extra espresso shots in her coffee. I’m worried she might have a tachycardia episode.”

  “The excitement of baristary is unbearable, isn’t it?”

  I can almost hear him smile. He says, “You bet. But hey, lay it on me. Your feedback.” The tenor of his voice has notes of cautious intimacy, notes of hopeful curiosity.

  I take a sip of coffee. “It’s brilliant. The whole concept is brilliant. An elevator romance. Dare I say that it really—lifted me up?”

  “Jeez. But please, continue praising my work. In a corny manner, if you must.”

  “You’d think having such a limited setting wouldn’t work, but it does. I have to say.” I bite my lip, deciding how forward to be. “My favorite part was when they finally kissed. I mean, wow.”

  “You’re making me blush.”

  “Well, you know what they say.”

  “No, what do they say?”

  “Letting someone read your work is like letting them see you in your gym shorts. And you look good in your gym shorts. Really good.” Now I’m blushing.

  “Whatever.” He tries to sound nonchalant, but I sense his excitement.

  “I’m being honest. The way you painted Elena’s feelings felt real to me—how she feels insecure even though she’s in a position of power, how conflicted she is over the relationship with John. It’s so unique for a man to be able to write women characters like that.”

  “Thanks. I have to say, after I sent that, I couldn’t focus on anything. I kept picturing you reading it and—I didn’t know what you’d think. I really can’t thank you enough for being my beta reader. And for looking at my skinny-ass chicken legs while I stood before you in my gym shorts. Speaking of which, your gym shorts are—I mean, I read your stories.”

  “And?”

  “They were weird. They were wonderful. Reading them helped me get through the past few weeks.” I’m about to a
sk a gently probing question when he continues, “I think Melting Girl could be a mascot for our generation. But tell me, would you consider making your pen name Mary Alberton?”

  “I wish you were here,” I say, impetuous, grasping my cup a little too tightly.

  “Me, too. I’d rather be stranded there with you than stuck behind this counter. I’m working a double, which means I’m here till closing. My coworker Nick’s out back smoking pot, so he isn’t going to be much help. And our umbrella-clad friend may very well be here till closing. She’s already been here three hours, and she looks like she’ll be pulling an all-nighter with her book, Nearly Impossible Sudoku.”

  “Good luck.”

  “Hey, before we get too off-topic, have you filled up your notebook yet?”

  “Oh.” I fidget with my now-empty cup. “Almost.” Before I can stop myself, it all spills out about the City Paper article and accompanying job opportunity. Even though I’m worried that just by talking about it, I’ll jinx it.

  “You have to do it—you have to submit an article,” he says. “I can guarantee you’ll be the only recent grad who’s a hired bridesmaid. And now, having read your writing, I know you’re going to blow them away with hurricane-force winds of awesomeness. Oh, man. Send it to me when you’re done, yeah? I can’t wait to see what you come up with. You’d be perfect for the City Paper.”

  My heart races. “Thanks for the vote of confidence.”

  “I’m stuffing the ballot box.” He pauses. “I’m glad they seem to get how tough it is right now. I keep thinking about all that knowledge we accumulate in college and how quickly it dissipates after graduation, working these mindless jobs.”

  “Me, too. A lot, actually.”

  “I dunno, you ever think about doing some sort of clever and hilarious piece that points out the alarming and sudden juxtaposition between all the academic mumbo-jumbo and the real world? One day you’re using words like—well, like ‘juxtaposition,’ and the next you’re learning a whole new vocabulary for whatever inane field you’ve chosen. My new vocab palette includes macchiato, ristretto, crema.”

  I laugh and give him the executive summary of my bridal gown adventure. “You ever heard of organza?”

  “Nope. But that’s exactly what I mean. Hey, I stole your idea. I started learning a new word a day.”

  “Don’t leave me in suspense! What’s it today?”

  “Drumroll, please! Bumfuzzle.”

  “That’s not a real word.”

  “Is too! To perplex or fluster.”

  A blast of static comes through Charlie’s end of the line. I frown. “What’s going on over there?”

  “Sorry, just flipped the radio station. Nick left on some weird ambient stoner shit. The last song that came on consisted of five minutes of bullfrog croaking, with a few piano notes in the background.”

  As soon as he switches to a new station, I hear Scott’s voice singing, loud and unmistakable. “Sorry,” Charlie says, fumbling to change stations again.

  “Wait.” I smile. “That’s the one Gaussian Pyramids song I can stand.”

  “What? Really? This one?”

  “Yeah, turn it up.”

  “You’re shitting me. Tell me you’re shitting me.”

  He pauses, then complies. Much as I’ve tried to hate all of Scott’s songs, this one just cracks me up. Scott went through a phase where he tried to make indie-disco fusion happen. His signature song from this era, entitled “B-Side Boogie,” is the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard, but I can’t hate it. It’s catchy as hell. And one of Lin’s finest works of art was inspired by this very song. It’s a meme that superimposes Scott’s face over John Travolta’s in a classic still frame from Saturday Night Fever. The frame where John Travolta has his hip jutted out to the side; one defiant finger points at the sky, waiting to conduct a strike of disco lightning. Lin transformed Scott’s signature boat shoes into platform boat shoes. Whenever I look at that meme, I’m pretty sure our breakup was worth it.

  Charlie and I listen as the song builds toward its kitschy chorus.

  Picturing the meme, a few song lyrics escape from my lips before I realize what I’m doing. “I’m a dance floor, baby! Duh duh duh dance on me!”

  On Charlie’s end of the line, I hear a cough that might be a laugh in disguise.

  “You know you want to sing with me. My favorite part’s coming up,” I say.

  “No way.” He laughs. “I don’t want to distract my lone customer from her Sudoku solving. I might bumfuzzle her.”

  “Duh duh duh dance on me!” I sing in reply. Charlie doesn’t take the bait. “Hey! Don’t leave me hanging. The disco beat is calling. Surrender to its power.”

  The song is headed toward the fast-as-disco-lightning bridge section. There’s a rustle as Charlie turns up the volume. “I can’t believe you’re making me do this.”

  “Girl, put on your dancing shoes,” I sing.

  “Before I get the disco blues!” Charlie finally jumps in, half-laughing, half-singing.

  “Damn you really got the moves—”

  “And I am gonna need you to—”

  “Duh duh duh dance!” we sing together. “Duh duh duh damn, girl! Duh duh duh dance! Duh duh duh dance on meeeee!”

  The old woman is staring at me, clutching her bag and scooting closer to the door, the tip of her umbrella pointed at me like a gun.

  The song gets louder, segueing into an instrumental section. I bolt out of my seat, setting aside my coffee cup to free my hands for some disco moves.

  “I’m Tony Manero-ing the crap out of this dance solo,” I shout into the phone so Charlie can hear me over the music.

  “Backing you up on the funk bass,” he shouts back.

  As the song wraps up, Charlie turns the volume down, and I fall back on the chair, laughing. “Oh my God. I can’t believe they’re playing that on the radio. The last time I heard that song was sophomore year at a dive bar. I never thought I’d hear it sober.”

  “I think the dance floor metaphor is apt. Scott seems pretty effing two dimensional as far as I can tell.” I describe Lin’s Saturday Night Fever meme. “You better e-mail that to me,” Charlie says.

  Once our laughter dies down, a silence settles in. “So, speaking of the past,” he says finally, “I owe you an explanation. There’s actually something I’ve been meaning to tell you.”

  “Sure, anything.”

  He clears his throat and pauses.

  “You still there?” I ask hopefully. On his end of the line, a blur of indistinct voices comes through over the sound of the radio.

  “Yeah, but—I got some caffeine-starved teenagers looming.”

  “Okay. Yeah, I think I might get myself kicked out into the rain if I’m not careful.” Two angsty baristas glare at me from behind the bar. My singing has drowned out the emo music playing over the shop speakers. One of them, a girl wearing so much eyeliner it looks like she has two black eyes, turns with a huff back to the espresso machine.

  “Listen, let’s talk more soon, yeah?” Charlie is saying.

  “Definitely.”

  “Good luck with the car situation. I’ll be thinking about you, and wishing we could sing more disco together, as I wonder why the flipping feck the register is short five bucks.”

  “I hate that.”

  I can hear him smile again. “Bye.”

  As I watch the rain ripple across the parking lot, I lean against the window and sigh. My gut is full of coffee and mixed feelings. Charlie was warm, then distant, then warm again. The brain elf turns on a warning light, but I ignore it. I imagine myself bursting through the doors of Charlie’s Starbucks, leaping over the counter, and tackling him to the floor in a caffeinated affection bomb. But before I can get too deep into my daydreaming, my phone buzzes again. It’s Alex.

  You start tomorrow.
8 a.m. sharp.

  Sixteen

  You could slice an apple on this guy’s jawline. He’s wearing a dark suit and standing in front of a gray cube that looks like all the other gray cubes stretching in either direction.

  “So,” he says. “All you have to do is scan these.” He sets a banker box on the floor and steps back. “Save each file individually in the archive folder on the network drive. And figure out some kind of naming convention that makes sense. Got it?” He checks his watch, probably running late for some super-important accountant meeting.

  “Sure.” My eyes dart reflexively to his left hand, where a gold ring glares back at me. I swallow. He’s already walking away, eyes on his watch again.

  I bend over and open the box, which is crammed with files. I sigh, reaching for the first set of papers. As I pull them out, more papers collapse in. I mark my spot with a hot pink Post-it note, one of the few accessories adorning my naked gray cube.

  Just like at the airport, the thought returns: Twelve years of schooling, four years of college, and a bachelor’s degree later, this is what I’m doing. I jot that on a Post-it and stuff it in my pocket to add to the City Paper article. I close my eyes and try to think positively. Let’s see: No one is running by screaming and knocking books to the floor while scouring the shelves for a lost passport that might have gotten wedged somewhere in “Romance A–N.” There’s no drone of “twenty thousand free miles and a bonus gift.” The office is in Fairfax, a ten-minute drive that doesn’t even require getting on the Beltway.

  It’s a respectable establishment, really. Inspirational posters line the walls: People climbing mountains. People kayaking. People rappelling down jagged cliffs. These are messages that you will achieve your goals. I feel so grown-up!