Everyone Remain Calm

by Megan Stielstra

  So it began.

  Penny and Henry wrote every day. Theirs were long, soul-searching letters. Henry asked for forgiveness: I’m making good in the eyes of society, babe, he wrote, but what am I in your eyes? Penny wept over his words. When she found out what he was asking forgiveness for, she used it as yet another piece of evidence that they were destined. Henry in prison for grand theft auto? A coincidence? I think not! Penny was smart enough not to laugh in the face of fate, and this—this—was fate. She was in love and you could see it. She had that glow that they talk about, lit up like a saint as she walked, and since her car had been impounded, she walked everywhere. With the walking came the weight loss, and with the weight loss came the new clothes, and the confidence, the love of life, of her fellow man, of herself, and everything was wonderful and beautiful and perfect.

  Except for one thing: she wasn’t Michelle, but she could’ve managed to ignore that fact if it hadn’t’ve been for this one: Henry wanted to see her. He wrote it at the end of every letter.

  Eventually there were more letters than there were excuses.

  The visit room was crowded with couples and families reuniting. In the middle of all of them, Penny sat alone at a metal table, staring at her hands in her lap and waiting. She had on a new dress from Marshall Field’s. Size eight. She’d gotten a makeover that same morning at the Mac counter, and there was perfume, too—Dior—and a manicure. She figured the only way to kill Henry’s shock at her not being Michelle was to be better than Michelle, so there she was—better—the best. She had never looked so good. Amazing, what love will do to a girl: you start to see yourself the way he sees you, and Henry, Henry loved her.

  Didn’t he?

  A couple of guys had just walked into the visit room, all wearing denim and looking around for their mothers/girlfriends/wives/children. Was he there? Penny inhaled sharply and looked back at her hands. She shouldn’t be here, shouldn’t have signed Michelle’s name on the prison visitor log, shouldn’t have pretended to be someone she wasn’t. This was a horrible, horrible mistake, she thought, and started to stand up.

  That was when she felt it.

  The look. That at-you, in-you, through-you look. Penny lifted her head slowly and—there. He was leaning against the wall at the far end of the room and everyone else suddenly vanished. He was big and burly and beautiful, and their eyes locked, and she knew it was him.

  “Hey,” came a voice at her elbow. She glanced up quickly and saw a wispy little guy wearing the same denim shirt. “Hello,” she said, being polite, and then turned back to Henry, her hair spinning almost slow motion, like a shampoo commercial.

  “Okay if I sit here?” the little guy asked, indicating the empty chairs at the table. “I’m waiting for my girlfriend.”

  “Whatever,” said Penny, not really listening, too involved in this first seduction. Henry’s eyes were all over her body, traveling up her feet, legs, stomach, chest, neck, mouth and back on down, a wave of warmth. She was acutely aware of heaving. She hadn’t ever heaved before.

  “She must be running late,” said the little guy, sitting down across from her. “Her car got impounded.”

  “Oh,” said Penny. Every second Henry didn’t touch her was agony and the anticipation mounted, but something about drawing this moment out was strangely intoxicating—

  “She’ll be here, though,” said the little guy. His face was a bit pockmarked.

  “Uh-huh,” Penny said, completely oblivious to everything but Henry. She wanted him to grab her, maybe a little too rough, but how rough was too rough when—

  “I’m kind of nervous. I haven’t seen her in a really long time,” the little guy was going on. Penny turned to face him and shot him a very calculated look, the same one you give to the guy who won’t stop talking when you’re trying to read. Then back to Henry, back to heaving.

  “Are you waiting for someone?” asked the little guy.

  “Yes,” she said. I’m waiting for that hunkrock beefcake leaning against the wall, and I’m going to go over there and climb him like a tree.

  “That’s good,” said the little guy. “I mean, it’s so nice that you came. We get to wondering in here. Like with Michelle—that’s my girlfriend—it sucked for a while ’cause I—”

  For a single moment, all motion stopped, like the pause button on her life had been hit. Penny found herself being pulled by two very strong opposite forces. She turned and looked at the little guy. Then she turned and looked at the beefcake. Back and forth, back and forth, and then time started again.

  “—didn’t know if she still loved me, you know?” Henry was saying. “So be sure to tell him,” he finished, and smiled a big, toothy grin.

  Penny smiled back. “I will,” she said, and then she leaned across the table and took Henry’s hands between hers. “Thank you,” she said, and stood up. She walked out of the room, feeling both men’s eyes at her back. Then she retraced her steps to the bus stop and sat, waiting.

  Waiting to drive off to the next thing.

  04| Times Are Tough All Over

  Paulie hangs out in the parking lot at Target, waiting for the mothers. The newer the better. They’re easy to spot: hair a mess, eyes hazy from lack of sleep, shopping carts stuffed with diapers and formula that they leave outside the car as they pack their babies into car seats. That’s when Paul makes his move—grab the cart and run. Not like she’s going to catch him, right? You can’t leave your kid behind. Paul knows this. He’s got a kid at home, too.

  Bernadette attends house meetings for Organizing for America. She’s never voted in her life and doesn’t plan to start, but they’ve always got snacks. When no one’s looking, she pockets the leftover mini sandwiches; saves five bucks the next day at the cafeteria. One time, she got away with six sandwiches—six times five bucks is a lot of money. You can do a lot with that kind of money.

  Jean can’t afford the movies. Three kids at $12 a ticket? Plus popcorn? Forget it. So what she does is pop some Orville Redenbacher in the microwave, load everybody in the car, and drive to stuff that’s cool: a lightning storm over Lake Michigan, or that house on Humboldt Boulevard with the crazy Christmas lights. They sit there, in the dark, passing the popcorn, watching.

  Rebecca’s husband travels a lot, so she got a cat. It looked like the one eating from crystal goblets on TV commercials: long, silky orange hair. Within the week, there was long, silky orange hair all over Rebecca’s white formal living room; white carpet, white chaise, white marble, white drapes, white throws. Rebecca considered redoing the living room again, something that wouldn’t show the hair. Something orangeish. What are they calling orange these days? Sienna? She even went through the Rolodex and found her designer’s cell number: it would be fun; it would kill time; fill up the hours passing so long, so slow, molasses through a sieve. In the end, she decided against it. Another room design wasn’t practical, not in today’s economy. She put the cat in the carrier, drove to Animal Cruelty, and asked if she could trade it for a white one.

  After Andy’s dad got laid off from GM, Andy went to the Hyundai lot in the middle of the night. So, okay: he’d had a few. Fine: more than a few. He’d fucked up the ACTs, his dad was on the couch, what else you going to do? “All the shiny fucking new Jap cars in their perfect fucking rows.” He flipped open his Zippo and leaned over the gas tank. “Fucking Hyundai. Fuckers.” It made sense at the time.

  What Lou does is this: after the customer gives him the credit card receipt, he adds an extra number to the tip. Like, if they left five bucks, he puts a one in front of the five and gets paid out fifteen. See? A 3 in front of a 9 is 39, and 39 bucks is half his gas bill. Half his gas bill on one table. Nobody’s come after him yet, so he’s getting greedy; last night he added a one in front of the twelve. Hundred and twelve bucks. Hundred and twelve. Shit. It’s almost worth getting caught.

  Delia took off her clothes. She’d said she�
��d never do that.

  All these kids graduating from college. There aren’t any jobs. So they go for more college—things’ll turn around by the time they finish the second time.

  Marcus heard a story about a guy who made money on the internet. Six figures in the first year! He didn’t know much about computers, but it would be easy to figure out, right? Anybody can build a website. There were all those free tutorials! Free eBooks! Free webinars! Free once you signed up for a monthly subscription! Free with your credit card number! Free with your email address! FREE! EVERYTHING’S FREE!

  Abby’s dad slammed the door so hard the hinges cracked and her mom yelled those words at his disappearing back. Then her mom leaned on the counter and cried. Then she remembered Abby was there and gave her a hug. “You have to kiss lots of frogs before you find your prince,” she said into Abby’s hair. She’d said that a lot, so today, wearing her astronaut costume, Abby went to the creek behind the house with a bucket. She caught seventeen frogs, the highest number she could count, and then sat on the back porch kissing them. The first few were slimy and gross, but, after a while, their skin dried out in the bucket and it felt like eating sand.

  What can you sell? Look around your living room—do you really need all that stuff? Books, CDs, DVDs; the shelves from IKEA; that coffee table from your grandmother; the plants—plants are expensive, somebody’ll buy the plants; those are nice fixtures, too; you’d be amazed at what pipes cost; even the nails are worth something these days. Everybody needs nails.

  Deb sold blood. Frank sold sperm. Betty sold jewelry. Wally sold his hair. Kristine sold her eggs. She was an excellent candidate, they told her at the clinic—white, blonde, with a graduate degree. She could charge top dollar.

  Alex sold urine. It was a niche market. He had a cushy, door-to-door job with a health insurance company: he’d go to the homes of potential clients, give them a special plastic cup, and wait while they peed. While he waited, he’d look at their stuff: their books, their art, their music. If they took a while—sometimes people take a while—he’d go through their drawers. One time, he found the glass pipe, the old olive jar packed with pot. On the table was a half-drunk gallon of cranberry juice—Slick, Alex thought. No way was this guy’s pee clean, no way would the insurance company sign him, and when the guy came out of the bathroom, Alex made him an offer. He had a case full of urine. He had a daughter in private school.

  When we were kids, we collected empty pop cans out of the trash and returned them at ten cents per; fifty cans’d fill your gas tank. We’re grown-ups now, and we still collect those pop cans. Takes a lot more of them, though.

  It wasn’t Tim’s fault. First he had the flu. Then, the bookstore sold out of the textbook. Then his friend moved to Florida so he had to help—Tim explained all this to his physics professor. He’d done the homework! He knew the material! He had to pass the class, he just had to, any more withdrawals and they’d kick him out of the dorm—just one more extension—and the day that rolled around—you won’t fuckin’ believe it—his hard drive exploded! It just, like, exploded! What was he supposed to do? He couldn’t fail this class, not again, so what he did was call the college’s main line. He told them he’d seen a bomb. He got the idea from some Denzel Washington movie: everybody evacuates, classes are canceled, and he gets one more week. He just needs one more week. Except on the phone? They asked who was calling. Tim panicked. He used the name of some visiting lecturer he’d seen in the school paper. Some Muslim guy. Everybody gets all worked up about the Muslims, I mean, he doesn’t, Tim doesn’t, Tim is fine with the Muslims, he’s not like that—but what else was he supposed to do?

  First the husband lost his job. Then the wife. They put their condo on the market, but nobody’s buying, nobody’s buying, nobody’s buying. Even now, as you read this, nobody’s buying.

  On People.com, there’s an actress who had to sell one of her houses ’cause she couldn’t afford three separate mortgages. Times are tough all over.

  Rent, groceries, gas, childcare, bills. Which don’t you pay?

  First, ice the bruise to reduce swelling. You can hold a bag of frozen vegetables over the eye: peas, beans, or carrots. Next, a yellow-green shade of eye shadow. Green offsets the red; yellow hides the blue. Apply from the center out. Let it dry—you might need another application. Next, foundation the same tone as your skin. Finally, setting powder. Joanne practiced in the bathroom mirror. She’d been planning on leaving him, but yesterday she got a pink slip. So.

  There’s this self-help doctor who suggests we all go on news fasts: no reading about the world in order to improve our worldview. Is this the dumbest thing we could ever do, or the smartest?

  Lisa is having a hard time concentrating in yoga class. She’ll be doing her breathing, doing her Pigeon, her Warrior III, and her Upward Facing Dog, and then her mind will wander to all the things she’s taking a yoga class not to think about. To help, her instructor gave her a mantra: netti netti netti. It means not that. When bad thoughts come to her, she’s supposed to think netti netti netti; not that, not that, please not that.

  What to do with the frustration? Where do we put it? Some go to therapy, some drink, some bitch about politics, some yell at NFL refs, some make art, some pray, some volunteer, some enlist, some plant a garden, some have another baby, some play video games, some take seminars, some sleep too much or not at all, some eat too much or not at all, some count to ten. Nine. Eight. Seven. Six. Five. Four. Three. Two. One.

  Nick drives a Chicago Transit Authority bus, and every time he sees somebody running from the other side of the street, waving their arms yelling wait wait wait! he hits the brakes and sits there ’til they arrive. Sometimes, people already on the bus get pissed. They have places to be, they’re running late, another bus’ll be here in a sec! But Nick just sits there. There are so many things in his life he can’t control; but this? Waiting for that guy or girl or kid or whoever running down the street?—that’s all him. That’s something he can do, one little thing in the middle of a shitstorm and goddammit, he’ll wait. He’ll wait all goddamn day.

  05| Professional Development

  You must live in the present, launch yourself on every wave, find your eternity in each moment.

  —Henry David Thoreau

  He lay sprawled, too wicked to move, spewed up like a broken spider-crab on the tarry shingle of morning. The light did him harm, but not as much as looking at things did; he resolved, having done it once, never to move his eyeballs again. A dusty thudding in his head made the scene before him beat like a pulse. His mouth had been used as a latrine by some small creature of the night, and then as its mausoleum. During the night, too, he’d somehow been on a cross-country run and then been expertly beaten up by secret police. He felt bad.

  —Kingsley Amis

  Every year I attend the national AWP conference. AWP stands for Associated Writing Programs, an umbrella organization for writers, teachers, and publishers across the country. For five days everyone comes together for scholarly presentations and panel discussions with such titles as “Judy Blume: The Challenges and Pleasures of Writing About Teenage Girls” or “To Censor or Not to Censor: The F-word in the Classroom.” So, picture it: a couple thousand writers taking over convention centers in Kentucky, Baltimore, Chicago, and—this particular year—New Orleans.

  I flew in late Tuesday night and took a cab to my hotel. It was in the French Quarter, which, for me, was a dream; someplace you read about in an eighteenth-century novel; the Spanish architecture, the elaborate iron balconies, the colored walls and hanging vines and lights and music and laughing, smiling people. So many happy people—it couldn’t possibly be real.

  I was sharing a room with my colleague, Abe, who’d arrived a day earlier. Abe taught Service-learning classes, believed fundamentally that good teachers can change the world, and wore very tight jeans. “Hurry up,” he said. He was in front of the mirror, fixing the
barely perceptible Mohawk in his perfect hair. “We’re going to the Dragon’s Den, and after that—”

  “It’s nearly midnight,” I told him, sitting down with the AWP schedule. Just out of grad school, it was my first year teaching and my first time at the conference. I had a lot to learn and more to prove. “We’ve got to be up at seven for ‘Non-Gender Specific Pronouns in Erotic Poetry.’”

  Abe turned and looked at me. “We’re in New Orleans,” he said.

  “We’re at AWP,” I corrected. “Remember? Professional development?”

  “But you don’t even write poetry! Let alone erotic poetry, I mean, when was the last time you even got laid?”

  Okay, so I work a lot.

  I know that everybody works a lot, but I work a lot in the way that my therapist calls an “avoidance mechanism.” As in, I’m fairly screwed-up but I don’t have the time to do anything about said screwed-upedness because I’m too busy at work. “Nothing a little fun won’t cure!” Dan says—Dan is the guy I have dinner with occasionally but it won’t go any further ’cause I’m too busy at work—and I say, “Fun isn’t part of my five-year plan.”

  Abe sat on the edge of my bed with a very serious face. The kind of face one might wear during an intervention. Me, I don’t drink much. Half a glass of wine and I’m out to lunch. “Megan,” he said. “You need to have some fun.”

  “Abe,” I said. “I need to go to bed.”

  I attended seven panels Day One of AWP: eight to ten, ten to eleven-thirty, noon to one-thirty, one-thirty to three, three to five, five to seven, and seven-thirty to nine.