BreakupBabe

by Rebecca Agiewich

  “Well, then,” he said, holding up his beer, “here’s to your writing.” It reminded me of our toast months ago, in Hattie’s Hat, which was the first time I’d turned him down for meaningless sex. We’d toasted to friendship then, and, amazingly, we seemed to have become good friends.

  “By the way,” said Sexy Boy, “am I in your book?”

  “Maybe.” He most definitely was in my book but I wasn’t going to stoke his ego just then by telling him that.

  “Really? Well, if I am, could you could make my character into a race-car driver?”

  So, for a full two weeks, it felt as if my life was actually on track, making progress on all fronts, and, especially, making good choices about men! Was it possible I’d actually learned a few things since The Great Unpleasantness, that I was now emerging from the deep emotional trough I’d been swimming in to become a high-functioning human being again, that all the therapy—blogging and otherwise—that I’d been going through these last few months had actually yielded results?

  No, it wasn’t possible, though you couldn’t blame a girl for thinking it was! Just how impossible it was didn’t become clear to me until March 13, however.

  The day the cash register in the Empire cafeteria broke.

  Chapter Thirty

  I looked out the window of the Globe at the blinding sunshine and wanted to cry. But here I was at my favorite breakfast spot on a sunny Tuesday morning, eating vegan biscuits and gravy, when I would normally have been in a windowless conference room discussing, ad nauseum, the use of “byte” (lowercase b) versus “Byte” (capital B).

  Monday, March 17, 2003

  10:03 AM Breakup Babe

  So I got fired three days ago for dumping soup on my ex-boyfriend’s head.

  How’s that for a conversation starter?

  This sounded so ludicrous, I had to chuckle. My mood improved for one fraction of a second, then reverted to glum. Around me, art school hipsters with hangovers and green hair gathered in big groups. Perhaps it had been a mistake to come to the Globe alone. But this was my favorite breakfast place in all of Seattle, and their biscuits and gravy were the food I most craved in times of stress!

  I looked back at the laptop that sat open on the table in front of me. I wanted, more than anything, to finish the chapter that was due in my writing class in three days, but I was undeniably blocked right now. I still had at least two more scenes to write for that chapter, but I’d been staring at it, paralyzed, for the last hour.

  So I’d given in to the temptation to write my blog. After all, I was understandably traumatized by losing my job in such an unceremonious manner. Anyone would be! Perhaps once I got the whole sad story of the soup incident out, I would feel better. Thus cleansed, I would be able to move on to the more important things in life, such as finishing this chapter and turning it into a best-selling book that would then be made into a hit movie starring Johnny Depp and Jake Gyllenhaal! Propelled by this thought, I took a sip of my ultrastrong Globe coffee and kept typing.

  Now, just for the record, the soup wasn’t hot and he suffered no permanent damage. Loser will survive to impregnate women (alas).

  Before you let out your collective gasp, wait! There is more you don’t know. I didn’t get fired solely for the soup incident. (A hush falls over the crowd.) Here is the thing I’ve been keeping from you, my dear readers, for the last month: I was already in trouble at work. Because of the blog.

  (Crowd rumbles in surprise.)

  Yes, Breakup Babe was ferreted out by the enemy! Loser and Loserette discovered it and turned me in to HR. A series of horrible meetings ensued, one in which I had to face the two of them across a table, only to have Loser swear, in cold blood, that every single thing I’d written about them was a lie.

  Okay, okay, quiet down people. I’m not done here!

  Instead of kicking me to the curb, my generous employer gave me a written warning: Don’t blog about them anymore, missy, and don’t blog at work.

  Fine, I could handle that! Thank you, O Mighty Empire Corp., for letting me keep my job! I tried to straighten up, take my job more seriously. I did in fact stop writing at work and, as I’m sure you noticed, Loser and Loserette have not made an appearance here in quite some time. But all the while anger toward Loser seethed beneath the surface. So when I saw him in the cafeteria two weeks later, I should have worn a sign that said “Contents Under Pressure—Do Not Shake!”

  I was standing in the lunch line when I saw him, surrounded, as usual, by fat, balding developers with tie-dyed T-shirts hanging over their fried-food-fed paunches, purchasing their lunches of hamburgers, fries, and chocolate cake. I, on the other hand, had a salad and a cup of low-fat tomato soup.

  My mind was on a comment I’d gotten from my writing teacher on my last assignment. “Parts of this are very funny,” he’d written. “But the tone is uneven. Try to get it all to snap.”

  This little bit of criticism destroyed the warm glow that had remained after the triumphal reading of my scene to the class. It wasn’t a fatal criticism by any means, but I couldn’t help but be discouraged. It made me tired to think of how much work I had to do. If I couldn’t even make half a chapter “snap,” how could I make a whole book do it?

  As the long line inched forward, I happened to glance up at the salad bar and there he was. Spooning up a heaping helping of blue cheese dressing and looking the same as he always did: black T-shirt, khaki pants.

  All thoughts of my writing class dropped away. My stomach tightened. I started to tremble.

  I looked away quickly when I saw him. Stared off into the middle distance, heart pounding. I was shocked at how angry I felt. I’d been furious at the HR meeting when he called me a liar, but I’d expressed my anger at the time by oh-so-maturely yelling “F*ck you, Loser!” then bursting into tears.

  The line inched forward. What the hell was taking so long? I craned to see around the people in front of me. The woman at the register shook her head. A manager looked at the register with her. People in line shifted their weight around. Rolled their eyes at one another.

  I looked at Loser again. He was now getting a piece of pizza. Sh*t! I turned to face in the other direction. I tried to envision a soothing, meditative scene. My “peaceful place.” A high Sierra meadow with a babbling brook and butterflies flitting about.

  Instead, I visualized me, in a Lara Croft–style black leather outfit, deadly weapon in hand. I would point it at Loser, while the computer geeks around me drooled at my outfit and the sleek, high-tech gun. “Drop the pizza and get the f*ck out,” I’d say. “And don’t ever, EVER come where I can see you again.” The cafeteria would erupt in cheers.

  Then he did it. He got in line. I watched him with my peripheral vision. Two seconds after getting in line he saw me for the first time. Flinched. I could see the flight impulse grip him. Then he stood his ground, pretending, as I was, that nothing was awry.

  Well, okay, then! All I had to do was stand in this line with him for another five million hours or so! At least there were four people separating us. I turned to face forward. Stared at the bowl cut of the guy in front of me, which dipped down in back to the middle of his fuzzy neck. Go to the peaceful place! The peaceful place!

  “I don’t know what’s wrong with it!” The high, excited voice of the cashier pierced my attempt at meditation. I peered around the guy with the bowl cut for a glimpse. The manager, a tall, balding guy with white hair at his temples, stood with his hands on his hips, looking sternly at the cashier, a short, stout Mexican woman. She, in turn, glared at the cash register.

  “Jesus,” muttered someone behind me. “Let’s get out of here and go to Azteca or something.”

  Then, before I knew it, the four people behind me in line had disappeared. The only thing separating me from Loser was a few feet of air. I realized all of this without even turning around. I felt the whoosh of their disappearance and the electric hesitation of Loser. He either had to move up or get booted out of line by the unruly
mob of hungry Empire workers now lining up behind him.

  I clenched my institutional gray tray so hard that my knuckles turned white. My food trembled a little, the tomato soup sloshing gently in its white Styrofoam container. Though I couldn’t see him, I could feel him behind me. He moved up ever so slightly. My back felt as if it were on fire. My head throbbed.

  Then, miracle of miracles, the line started to move! As if to make up for lost time, the cashier whipped people through. Thirty seconds later, I was at the register. It would be only another minute before I could get out of this cafeteria and away from him. I held my breath as the cashier rang me up.

  I sprang away toward the counter that held the jars of plastic eating utensils. Quickly I grabbed a fork and a spoon, then rushed toward the cooler for a drink.

  Why I did that, I do not know. The exact same drink cooler stood in the kitchen of my building. There was not anything better or different in this cooler. It was habit pure and simple. If I’d fled directly to my office after getting my utensils, everything might be different now.

  But I didn’t. I charged toward the drink cooler and ran smack into Loser, who was making a beeline for the utensils from the cash register. Rather, the edge of my gray tray ran into his side.

  “Ow!” he said, before fully realizing it was me. I knew it couldn’t have hurt that much, but Loser always was one to exaggerate his aches and pains. A mere sniffle would keep him in bed for an entire weekend, where he would moan about how sick he was.

  “Sorry,” I muttered, reflexive politeness taking over. Then it sunk in. For both of us. Me jamming him in the side with a gray tray was the first physical contact we’d had in seven months. It had felt good, I realized. Suddenly I wanted to do it again. Harder.

  For a moment, the rest of the cafeteria fell away. We stood trapped in our own little bubble and stared at each other. Three years earlier, when I’d been a temp and he my cute, across-the-hall coworker, we’d eaten at many an Empire cafeteria together. It seemed like a different life altogether now. Those had been such fun days before we ever started dating. We’d roam the Empire hallways together, all sparkle and sexual tension. No one had come close to making me feel that way again. And no one had ever hurt me the way he’d hurt me.

  Now, as I faced him, I felt nothing but anger. We would never be “friends.” There was nothing left of our relationship but a bloody stain on Empire’s walls. If I said anything to him now, I’d just start yelling and screaming and never stop. So I started to move past him, when he said, quietly, but not quietly enough, “Bitch.”

  I froze. “What did you say?”

  He had already started to walk away and didn’t respond.

  “What did you say?” I said more loudly. A couple people glanced at me. I could see Loser stop, momentarily, as if deciding whether to face me, but then he kept walking toward the utensils.

  Then a wave of emotion swamped me. How dare he call me a bitch? How dare he ignore me, the sniveling little no-balls, lying, cheating, scumbag bastard? That was it. He was going to get what he deserved. Instead of becoming hysterical, however, I became calm. Focused. Furious.

  I followed him to the utensil bar. Everything in me was tightly wound but I didn’t shake. I had to be precise. At first, he didn’t notice me. I watched him get a fork. A knife. Some napkins. I moved in right behind him. I had never been stealthy but the skill descended upon me in my moment of need. I reached for my cup of soup.

  When he turned back toward me, I did it. I was so focused that I seemed to move in slow motion. Lara Croft, paid assassin. I locked the target in my sights.

  “You think I’m a bitch?” I said, and my voice rung out crystal clear, as I positioned my hand over his head. “Well, I guess I am!” Then I turned the soup cup upside down, dumping its contents over him.

  I felt euphoric as I relived this scene. Of course, I had just finished my second cup of ultrastrong Globe coffee. As I glanced around the place, I didn’t feel like such a loser anymore. Could these art school poseurs tell how tough I was just from looking at me? Doubtful. I smirked.

  In a corner booth, a white guy with many dreadlocks cozied up to his girlfriend, who had black hair with magenta tips and a dog collar tattooed around her neck. Every two minutes or so, they would kiss and whisper to each other in a smiley sort of way. Even the sight of this lovey-dovey couple didn’t bother me right now. No doubt they both smelled horrible. Plus, one day, their love, too, would be a distant memory, drowned in tomato soup. I laughed to myself. I was so clever.

  “Oh my God,” he screeched. “You f*cking bitch!” People were staring. Tittering. I proceeded to move calmly toward the exit as he yelled behind me. “You’re not going to get away with this!”

  He was right about that much. Twelve hours later, I no longer had a job.

  But at least I have my dignity, and that’s all that matters, right?

  Did I have my dignity, I wondered? A clichéd phrase appeared unbidden in my head: cutting off your nose to spite your face. It was the phrase my mother had used when I told her what had happened. She hadn’t seemed the least bit proud or impressed by my behavior. Oh, I knew I hadn’t acted in the most mature manner, but couldn’t she give me any credit for standing up for myself? No. All she did was hurl clichés at me and tell me I needed to grow up.

  My friends had been slightly better. At least some of them had laughed. Said “good-for-you!”-type things. “This will be great for the book!” said GalPal #1, whose general tactic when something bad happened was to tell me how great it would be for the book. GalPal #2, who laughed in a very long and satisfying way when I told her the story, asked in a worried tone, “Are you doing all right with your medications?”

  That was, I had to admit, a very good question. The last few days had been tough. I’d been vacillating between anxiety-tinged excitement and a deepening sense of despair. Just as I seemed to be doing again today.

  Crap.

  I looked longingly over at the coffee urn, wondering if another cup would help. I was approaching the down slope from the first two, and if the last few days were any indication, I would hurtle downward quickly. No. A third cup would only make things worse. I hurried to finish writing my blog before my high crashed completely.

  I guess dignity is not all that matters. A person needs to eat. And a person needs to write. If I can keep doing both of those things, I’ll be okay.

  Unemployment benefits will cover the first for now. But I’m a little worried about #2. Since my termination, I’ve made no progress on my book. This wouldn’t be such a problem except that the first chapter of my book is due tomorrow in that writing class I paid five hundred dollars for, and it’s only three-quarters done!

  I’m starting to fear that perhaps General Celexa has abandoned me in my time of need. How else to explain the way my demons have wrested control of my brain and I can no longer concentrate on creating Great Art?

  I snuck another glance at the couple in the booth. Now that they had their food, Rasta Man no longer had his arm around Dog-Collar Girl but they were sitting smashed up as close to each other as they could possibly get. Even while they ate, they kept giving each other pecks on the cheek.

  God, people, give it a break!

  I took another sip of my coffee, now cold. Not long now before the daily meltdown. I typed even faster.

  I start out every day intending to write. I go to the coffee shop. Pull out my laptop. I look at that three-quarters of a chapter I’ve written and prepare to power through the rest. I can do it, I tell myself in my brief, caffeine-induced moments of hope. I can write this. I was doing so well! Then the demons swoop in and start their chatter.

  Anxiety: Your book sucks. Your teacher said the tone was “uneven.” Why are you even bothering?

  Loneliness: You’re going to spend the whole day alone, writing this uneven schlock? That sounds pretty damn lonely. Go have lunch with one of your friends instead.

  Boredom: Look at that beautiful day out there. You
could be out cross-country skiing or biking! Why would you sit inside and write uneven crap anyway? This is boring.

  Loneliness: Her job was boring, too, but at least there were other people around!

  Anxiety: You need another job ASAP! Now that you’ve gotten used to new clothes and designer cocktails, you can’t live on unemployment!

  Loneliness: Yeah, and that’s a long time that you have to spend alone, and you know how, when you’re alone too much, you get sad, and when you’re sad you can’t write. A boyfriend would sure help, but you’re about as good at keeping one of those as you are at holding down a job!

  Boredom: Jesus, we are all so screwed. Let’s go for a bike ride.

  Anxiety: No, we need to look for a job!

  Loneliness: Don’t you have any unemployed friends who can hang out with us today?

  These demons have been dogging me ever since The Great Unpleasantness began. But General C. has always been there to knock their heads together and drag them out screaming. So what I want to know is this—where the hell did he go? Doesn’t he know my writing career is at stake?

  Meanwhile, another day looms ahead of me. My computer sits in front of me. I’m going to get some writing done, I swear to God I am. I am a Writer, therefore I write. I am a Writer, therefore I…

  Ugh. I don’t even know anymore. I’m probably just a big fat loser who can’t keep a job or a man. I’ll spend my days loveless and jobless until I move into a nursing home where no one will visit me and my only form of entertainment will be to torture the poor old men by yelling, “I was a hottie once! I could have been a famous writer! Wanna get married?”

  E-mail Breakup Babe | Comments 4

  Even poking fun at myself did not do the trick. The tears dripped down my face as I wrote this last line. I quickly pushed my sunglasses onto my face. Then I turned my computer off. Maybe if I went to Victrola, I could get some work done. Clearly this place was not doing it for me today. I looked at my watch. Only 9:45 A.M. My God was time passing slowly.