“Have a good break,” I replied, and I hugged him, taking in the sweet smell of his skin for what I was sure would be the last time.
He hugged me back, and whispered into my hair, “We’ll still talk, Lucy.”
I nodded my head as I pulled away from him, but I figured this was goodbye. My summer was to be spent interning at a mayor’s office in Iowa, where it would be my job to help develop a citywide recycling initiative. That was too important of a job to be distracted by a long-distance relationship. I reasoned that if I weren't contacting him, he wouldn’t be contacting me either.
But Bryce called and wrote, and when I came back to campus this fall, he was waiting at my door to help me move back in. So yeah, this September I lost my virginity to the one guy who sounded credible when he said he’d do anything for me. I suppose Jack would have eventually made a similar claim, but we’re better off as friends.
And even though Bryce isn’t like Jack, and we can’t talk for hours and hours about nothing, it felt right. Being with Bryce, listening to Enya, feeling the scratchy Mexican blanket against the bare skin of my back, inhaling the smell of the pine candles and his shampoo, it all made me feel as if I had reached some important rite of passage.
Now, months later, both Clinton and Bryce are still in my life. It’s election eve and my blue formica kitchen table is littered with Clinton/Gore fliers. I signed up to do a lit drop tonight, and it’s time to get organized. First I need to call the person who’s supposed to accompany me, and make sure we’re good to go.
It takes me a minute or two to find it in my book bag, amidst all the notebooks, floppy discs, and library books, but I locate his number and I’m literally reaching for the phone to call when it rings beneath my outstretched hand. I don’t want to pick up on the first ring, so I leave my arm suspended over the phone, count to ten, and then pick it up.
“Hello?”
“Hey, Lucy.”
A male voice greets me, but it’s the one I already know, intimately. I sit at the kitchen table, which is as far as the phone cord will stretch.
“What’s up, Bryce?”
“You stopping by later?”
By “later” I know he means any time after 10, and by “stopping by” I know he means coming over to go to bed. Not that we don’t occasionally have more formal dates, but sometimes it just makes sense to cut to the chase. For instance, last week I asked him what he thought about the civil war in Somalia, and if he thinks the U.S. should intervene. Instead of answering, he just grabbed me and we started making out. And I get it; he’s a twenty-one-year-old guy. His instincts are probably way more natural than mine. But what I can’t figure out is this: are we beyond having conversations, or are we incapable of it? If it’s the latter, perhaps I need to break up with him.
“I can’t. I told you, I’m doing the lit drop, remember?”
“Oh. What about after?”
“We don’t start until midnight. I won’t be done until at least two.”
“Stop by. I’ll be awake. And if I’m not, you can wake me up.”
His voice grows low and smooth as he says that, and I’m reminded that his eyes aren’t the only part of him I am drawn to.
“I’ll try.”
I can hear him smile over the phone; his smiles are often paired with a deep and tiny little grunt. “Good. See you later, then.”
“Maybe, Bryce. I said I’d try. It depends on how long it takes, and on how tired I am.”
“Right,” he says, his voice still like warm caramel. “Good luck. Go get us a new president.”
“That’s the idea. I should go though, I have a ton of…”
“…things to do.” He finishes my sentence for me, a habit of his I make a concerted effort to find charming rather than annoying.
“Bye, Bryce.”
Last spring I wouldn’t have ever dreamed that I’d have so many doubts. However, I’m graduating in seven months, and it’s approaching the time to make some big-girl decisions. Should I be with a guy who I have nothing in common with? Does it make it worth it if, sometimes, he brings me the same type of joy I get hearing an ice cream truck’s music, as it barrels down the street on a peaceful summer evening? Still, I have to admit that being with Bryce is more like eating a cookie—still sweet, but not nearly as special.
And sometimes, I have more important things to do.
After we hang up, I call the number of the guy—Frank is his name—who I’m supposed to be doing the lit drop with tonight, and get his answering machine. The recording says, “Hey! We’re not here right now, so leave a message.”
I do as directed, and tell Frank when and where to meet me. Then I open up a bag of Dunkaroos and settle into my public policy homework, which is a reading about the issues that come up when analyzing non-experimental social science data, and the tools necessary for empirical research. Normally I’d find it interesting, but today it’s difficult to focus.
Why?
That’s easy; Bill Clinton is going to win. The lit drop I’m going on tonight is merely to remind people to vote, and Bryce was joking when he made that crack about getting us a new president. He knows as well as I do that the wheels are in motion, and everything I do or don’t do is inconsequential. A new era is about to dawn, and I just want to feel like I’m part of it.
I wasn’t always so confident. Several months ago George Bush had an extremely high approval rating, and Ross Perot had dropped out of the race. Then Bush betrayed his lips and the country when he broke his “No New Taxes” promise, and Perot reentered the race while accusing the press of sabotaging his daughter’s wedding. Meanwhile, Clinton played his saxophone on The Arsenio Hall Show and dubbed himself the comeback kid.
It’s like the stars were aligned. This time, my guy is going to win, and the victory will be sweet.
After I’ve eaten my last chocolate kangaroo cookie dunked in white icing, I finish my reading and write some notes. I get up and move into the living room, where I do calf stretches against the edge of our futon couch. I’m debating turning on the television, but those Clinton/Gore “Get out and Vote” fliers aren’t going to organize themselves. Then my roommate, Sharon, walks through the front door.
Sharon was my best friend in high school, but as she’s a year older than me, I was left adrift in a sea of angst when she graduated while I had to stay and complete my senior year. She’s making it up to me now that she’s finished with college. She moved to Minneapolis this fall for an entry-level job at a bank, and we’re sharing an apartment close to campus.
“Hey, you,” she says, bringing the autumn day inside with her. I can smell the cool, fresh air bouncing off her jacket as she takes it off, and her cheeks are red from the wind.
She looks around, comes into the living room, and collapses into our papasan chair. “Why do we have a bunch of Clinton/Gore fliers on our table?”
“I’m doing a lit drop later.”
“Of course you are,” she says with a sigh. “What time do you have to leave for it?”
“Late. Why?”
Sharon doesn’t acknowledge my question. “And are you going over to Bryce’s afterwards?”
“Maybe, I don’t know.”
She just shakes her head. “I’m going to take a shower.” With that, she gets up and goes to the bathroom. I’m left trying to interpret her disdain. Is she mad about Bryce or the fliers?
Lately Sharon and I have experienced some bumps in the road. It all started when she confessed to me she had become a Republican.
“What?” I had yelled.
“Don’t overreact, Lucy. It’s not like I’ve sold my soul to the devil.” We were at a bar popular with the college crowd, sitting at a sticky table, eating free popcorn and drinking cheap beer. She had come straight from work, wearing business attire, which made her the only one in the room not dressed in grungy flannel and ripped jeans.
“But, why?” She may as well be my sister, but hearing she was planning to vote for Bush was like all of a sudden being told t
hat I’m adopted.
“Because, I believe in state’s rights, and I don’t like the Democrats’ way of wanting to fund everything. It’s just not practical.”
I licked the salt from my lips and took a swig of my Leinenkugel. I needed to be careful before I spoke, and not say something I couldn’t take back.
“Sharon, you have to admit that Bush is weak on the economy.”
“No I don’t. And Clinton wants to take from the rich and give to the poor. That’s not how a capitalistic society ought to work.”
“Clinton wants to create jobs so poor people can contribute to society and pay their own way. That’s exactly how a capitalistic society should work.”
Sharon scowls and chews her popcorn before she answers. “But how does he want to create jobs? By taxing the rich! If rich people are doing well, they’ll create jobs because they can, not because they have to.”
I knew this line of reasoning. I’ve debated many a Republican over the past four years in my poli-sci classes, and I’ve never changed a single one of their minds. So yes, I could have told her that funding education and giving tax breaks to single mothers and small businesses is not stealing from the rich, but I didn’t. I couldn’t keep a level head, not with Sharon.
“But…” I said, trying to form words, “Bush is evil.”
Sharon wasn’t offended the way I would be if she had said the same about Clinton. Instead she laughed. “Give me a break, Lucy. Bush isn’t the one who cheated on his wife.”
“That’s not the issue,” I said, all huffed up.
“They’re both politicians,” she answered, keeping her voice level. “Neither of them is completely bad or completely good. So can’t we just agree to disagree?”
I nodded my head, because really, what choice did I have? Sharon is my best friend; I couldn’t turn away from her over this.
But it’s been hard to ignore the tension that has come between us.
At around midnight I set out to meet the enigmatic Frank, to do our lit drop. The campaign office is adamant about young female college students not walking the neighborhoods alone, especially at night. I can see their point, but since I haven’t even talked to this Frank guy, I have my doubts about whether he’ll show up.
I’m waiting at our designated meeting corner, and I’m debating with myself over whether I should find a pay phone and call Bryce. If I promised to come over afterwards, he’d probably do the lit drop with me. Then a shadowy figure approaches.
From underneath a hood it addresses me, like Darth Vader only friendlier. And in a much higher pitched voice. “Lucy?”
“Sharon? What are you doing here?”
She lowers her hood, and steps in close to me. “Frank returned your call, and said he couldn’t make it. I didn’t want you walking the streets alone, so I asked him where you were supposed to meet.” She shrugs her shoulders. “Here I am.”
“Oh…”
“That’s okay, right?” She looks at me with expectation, almost like she’s challenging me to say no. But I could never say no to Sharon.
“Of course it’s okay.” I give her my most genuine, forced smile. I hand her a big stack of the fliers, and explain the route and what we’re supposed to do. “Let’s go,” I say.
We set off. The early November evening is cool and damp leaves line the sidewalks. I’m wearing my hunter’s mittens that I bought at Ragstock; they have a flap you can pull down, which reveals a partially gloved hand. They’re very practical for ease of use, but they don’t keep my hands super warm. It rained a sleety sort of rain earlier today, and my hands and the fliers are soon as cold and damp as the leaves underneath my feet.
Sharon remains quiet, but I try and make conversation, nonetheless. “I bet you weren’t expecting to be doing this tonight, huh?”
She lets out a little huff. “I was planning to be home and in bed. I have an early morning meeting tomorrow.”
“Oh.” I can see Sharon’s profile in the dark well enough to notice her lips are pressed together and her jaw is clenched. “I… I appreciate you coming out, but you didn’t have to.”
She spins on her heel and faces me. “Obviously I did. You would have walked alone if I hadn’t, and that’s totally not safe. It’s like my role in life, to protect you.”
“I don’t know what to say to that.” Actually, there are a lot of things I could say, but I’m afraid to open that can of worms.
“Well, I’m still voting for Bush.”
“Fine!” I grab the fliers from her. “If that’s your attitude, you should go. I can take care of myself.”
She grabs the fliers back. “And let you get assaulted on the street, no thank you.”
“I was going to call Bryce.”
She laughs. “Your knight in shining armor? I’m sure he’d turn off Ren and Stimpy and rush right down.”
I look at her, so composed and better than me. It’s always been that way. “Why are you being so mean?”
She sighs and shakes her head. “I’m not trying to be mean. I’m trying to look out for you. Honestly.”
“I never asked you to.”
She shrugs her shoulders in a sad little way. “But I can’t help it.”
I shiver. The wind is starting to cut right through me. And I had been looking forward to doing this. “Let’s just get this done.” I extend my hand with her fliers, and she takes them back.
We start walking. I stick a flier underneath the windshield wiper of a car, and Sharon walks up to a doorstep and attaches one of the rolled-up fliers to the door handle by looping a rubber band around handle and flier both.
Then she walks back towards me, and we continue this routine for several blocks. We talk about nothing.
It’s Sharon who breaks the silence. “Maybe it would help if I could understand why this is so important to you.”
I think for a moment. I can’t always explain it to myself, let alone to her. “I like to believe in the good in people. All the things he wants to do, like funding education and giving everyone an equal opportunity, it makes me hopeful.”
“So it’s not the economy, Stupid?” Sharon laughs at her own joke and tosses her hair back.
“Nice,” I say, in reference to her take on Clinton’s unofficial campaign slogan.
“Do you think he’ll actually keep his promises?” She asks this without attitude, but as a simple question.
“I hope so.”
We keep walking. After a moment Sharon says, “I have ideals too, you know. I believe in self-enterprise. I’ve worked for everything I have, and that’s been good for me.”
“Okay…”
“And I’m not evil, just because I happen to be a Republican.”
I put my last flier underneath the windshield of a Subaru. My fingers feel like they’ll never thaw. “I know. Sorry if I made you feel that way. And thank you, for tonight.”
Sharon acts as if she hasn’t heard me, and moves up to a house and secures her last flier to the door handle. I notice how graceful she is, which contradicts her height and frame, both being on the large size. I’ve always envied her confident way of moving and talking, as if there’s never any doubt that the world will embrace her.
She meets me back down on the sidewalk. “I suppose I’m a little jealous.”
“Of what?”
“I like banking,” she says. “But I don’t love it. I’ve never had anything I love as much as you love this.”
I smile and she smiles back. We call a silent truce.
“Speaking of love, isn’t Bryce waiting for you?”
“Yeah.” I hate to leave her, to leave this moment.
“So you should go. It’s late, and I really should get home and go to sleep.”
I reach out and grab her in a hug. She hugs me back, and we walk back to our cars.
Later I’m lying beside Bryce as he gently snores; the cold of the evening was forgotten after the warmth of the covers and Bryce’s arms erased it from my consciousness. But sleep remains
elusive. I get up and move into the living room, where I find a brown blanket knitted by Bryce’s grandmother and wrap it around me. I turn on CNN. Clinton is waving at the camera, and then they cut to a commercial.
On it, a cheesy song about “nothing getting to you” and “being fresh and full of life” plays. Meanwhile, a pretty blonde wearing heels walks down the street. A businessman is sitting at an outdoor café, checking her out, when all of a sudden, her heel breaks. Does she freak out? No, she just pops a Mentos into her mouth. Then she snaps the heels off both her shoes so they become ballet flats. The businessman is impressed. She continues walking, feeling confident and sexy. No doubt she has great breath too.
I wish real life was that easy. If I could figure out all my problems by popping a Mentos into my mouth, I’d buy a ton.
My mind wanders to tonight’s excursion with Sharon, and her underhanded insults of my boyfriend. If I wasn’t so happy that the tension between Sharon and me has now dissipated, I’d take issue with what she said. But as it is, I merely sit and stew.
Should I break up with Bryce?
He’s good to me. Almost exactly four years ago I was sure I would never trust any man enough to feel safe, and now here I am, confident that Bryce will never hurt me.
When CNN returns, they’ve switched to financial news. A chirpy blonde reporter who I don’t recognize states that the Dow jumped thirty-six points today. She attributes the gain to people's confidence from weekend polls, projecting a Clinton victory.
More good news, but it’s like mumbling heard from another room. I can scarcely attach meaning to any of it. What is wrong with me?
I wrap the blanket more tightly around myself, and shiver although I’m perfectly warm. What if Bush wins after all? There have been upsets before. Maybe this is all just too good to be true, and my bubble will pop tomorrow evening when the returns are reported.
Or, what if Clinton wins, and I wake up the next day, just as flawed and confused as I’ve always been? Either way, I’ll still have a relationship that I don’t know what to do with.
With a sigh I settle into the couch, laying my head against the pillow, trying to get comfortable. I channel surf for a while, and find reruns of The Fresh Prince of Bel Air. I watch for a few minutes, but it does nothing to calm my nerves or lull me to sleep, so I return to CNN. After a while even they aren’t reporting anything other than recycled news stories I’ve already seen.
November Surprise Page 4