November Surprise

by Laurel Osterkamp

  At some point my eyelids grow heavy, and I’m sort of conscious of the fact that I’m pressing the off-switch on the television, and rolling over to sleep on the couch, which is where Bryce finds me when he gets up the next morning.

  His stirring around in the kitchen wakes me, and I sit up and stretch while he makes his morning coffee. When I wander towards him he raises an eyebrow at me.

  “Was it something I said?”

  “No.” I arch my neck and roll my shoulders, trying to relax a knot of tension that formed over night. “I just couldn’t sleep.”

  “Was I snoring again?”

  I shake my head no and hop up to sit on the kitchen counter, so now I’m looking down at him. “Well, yeah, you sort of were. But that wasn’t it. I just couldn’t get comfortable. My mind kept racing.”

  Bryce shrugs his shoulders, and that signals the end of the conversation, or at least that he’s satisfied with my answer. Adrian, his roommate and my classmate, emerges from his room and joins us in the kitchen. He gives me a one-eyed squint.

  “Are you voting before or after class?” he asks.

  “Neither. I volunteered to work the polls from five to nine, so I’m going to get there early and vote right before my shift.”

  He nods his head. “And the party?”

  Adrian is referring to the “victory” party all the College Democrats were invited to, at least all the ones who volunteered for the campaign. All the local Democrats who are running for office this year, whether for state representative, U.S Congress, or mayor, are putting it on jointly.

  “I’m going after the polls close. You?”

  “Yeah.” Adrian scratches his head and looks toward Bryce. “Coffee ready?”

  “Almost,” Bryce answers.

  Adrian sighs and walks toward the bathroom, scratching his butt as he goes. With nothing but his boxers on, his beer belly hanging out and his hair sticking out in tufts, he makes quite the sight. We watch him go, and when the door is closed safely behind him, Bryce laughs and shakes his head.

  “Dude says he wants to be a politician. He’s going to need to work on his image.”

  “Or just personal polish in general.”

  Bryce laughs in agreement, and now I peer at him through discerning eyes. He has a lean, muscular frame and his features are as even as if one side of his face was the mirror image of itself. He’s undeniably beautiful, even before his daily shower or first cup of coffee.

  And that makes my stomach turn again, just like it did last night when I couldn’t sleep.

  “Bryce,” I say. “Have you thought much about what you want…”

  “…to do after graduation?” He finishes my sentence for me and gives me an “are you an alien” sort of look, communicating both disbelief and indignation that I would ask such a thing.

  “Did sleeping under my grandmother’s blanket make you turn into her?”

  I laugh, and try to sound nonchalant. “No. I was just wondering if you have a plan.”

  He reaches for a mug and pours himself some coffee, then returns the pot to the brewer without offering me any. “My plan is to play it by ear. Literally. I want to see if I can make it musically.”

  I shift my weight on the counter. “But how…”

  “…am I going to make money?” He takes his first sip and swallows. “Lucy, haven’t we had this conversation already?”

  I don’t respond. He steps in closer to me. “I’m pretty sure we’ve been over this before. Now, can you chill out? It’s too early in the morning to be stressing.”

  I’m actually sure we haven’t had this conversation, which must mean he’s had it before, with someone else, possibly a past girlfriend. But I’m not up for picking a fight.

  “Sorry,” I say, and I brush a lock of his hair off his forehead. He kisses me. It’s the kind of kiss that could lead to more, but I’m not in the mood for that.

  I gently push him away and hop down from the counter. “I have to go,” I say. “Today’s a big day, and I need to go get ready.”

  Bryce shrugs his shoulders again, clearly not upset by my hasty departure. “I’ll catch up with you later.”

  “Yup,” I say. I go back into his bedroom, find my jeans and pull them on, and then I fish a scrunchy from my pocket and tie back my unruly mane of hair into a messy bun. On my way out of the apartment I call to Bryce, “Don’t forget to vote!”

  “Yeah, yeah,” he says.

  The day crawls by.

  The truth is, there isn’t that much to do except wait. I go to my morning class, and afterwards I return to my apartment and take a nap. In the afternoon I watch more CNN, but there isn’t much they can say yet.

  Before my evening shift of working the polls, I call Bryce. He’s not home, so the best I can do is leave a message.

  “Hey, it’s me. You should come vote while I’m working. Then you could stick around and go with me to the victory party. So… hopefully I’ll see you. Okay. Bye.” Suddenly I’m worried that I sound needy, which is strange, because it’s the opposite of how I feel. Oh well. You can’t undo voice mail.

  Later, Sharon comes in while I’m working, and as I check off her name and hand her the ballot, I do so with flourish, using both hands, acting as if I’m bestowing her something.

  She smirks.

  “Are you sure you want to give this to me?”

  “No, but legally I have to.” I smile and she disappears into a voting booth. Moments later, on her way out, she approaches me again. She nods towards the other volunteers, who are mostly women in their eighties.

  “Are any of them going to the party with you tonight?”

  “Definitely. They can hit on all the college guys. It will be like a reverse Woody Allen/Soon-Yi type of deal.”

  “Nice.” Sharon looks me up and down, inspecting my outfit. “And is that what you’re going to wear?”

  I have on my floral mini-dress with leggings and Doc Martens. “What’s wrong with it?” I ask.

  “Nothing,” Sharon says with a straight face. “But don’t expect to pick anyone up tonight, because they…” Sharon nods back towards the eightyish volunteers, “…are all dressed more sexily than you.”

  I wad up a piece of scrap paper and throw it at her. “Very funny. I’m not looking to pick anyone up, anyway. I have a boyfriend, remember?”

  The mere thought of Bryce brings back all my anxiety. My face must betray my emotions, because I don’t have to say anything more. “What’s wrong?” Sharon asks.

  “Bryce hasn’t shown up yet,” I tell her. “And I’m not sure I care.”

  She pats me on the shoulder. “Don’t let him ruin this for you, whether he shows up or not. Deal with it tomorrow. Okay?”

  Her face is so sweet and sincere, and I am reminded of how she is always taking care of me. It’s probably time that I start taking care of myself.

  A latecomer voter is walking up to me; Sharon will have to step aside. Partly to end the conversation, and partly because I mean it, I say, “Thanks Sharon. I promise I’ll deal with it tomorrow.”

  Finally, just as the polls are about to close, I grab my own ballot and go behind the curtain to the voting booth.

  It’s my first time voting for president.

  One of my first memories of watching television was back in November 1976. I was five years old, and a man with a huge, toothy grin was waving at an audience. I asked my mom, “Why is that man so happy?”

  “He was just elected president,” she said. “Wouldn’t you be happy too?”

  Of course, the man in question was Jimmy Carter, and we all know how that turned out. At the time, I didn’t really understand what being president meant, but I figured it must be something wonderful. From then on, whenever my parents talked politics, which was quite often, I paid attention. And now, finally, I get to vote for president. My senses feel heightened; the buzz from the radiator sounds very loud, and the dark blue ink against the white ballot presents a vivid contrast.

  My che
st is thumping as I fill in the circles for Clinton/Gore. Wow. It’s like I’m losing my virginity all over again. Voting for senator and governor two years ago was like going to third base, and now I’m losing my civic virginity, by voting for Bill Clinton. After I fill in the circles for the other Democrats running for office that year, I exit and hand in my ballot. Then I help shut things down, and grab a ride from a College Democrat coworker to the victory party.

  It’s not until I’m at the party, mingling with other College Democrats and talking with puffed up candidates that I let it sink in: Bryce never came by to vote.

  I bet he didn’t vote at all.

  I consider finding a payphone, calling him, imploring him to come join me at the party. But a fleeting moment of desire to do so gives way to the knowledge that if I did, the evening would feel forced. I wouldn’t be taking care of myself and I would be taking care of him, and I’d waste my time trying to entertain rather than simply having fun.

  My indecision is settled by a collective whoop from the crowd. I glance up at the television screen above me. Dan Rather is saying that CBS news has now projected Bill Clinton as the winner of the 1992 election.

  There’s a band in the room, and they break into “Happy Days are Here Again.” I smile and clap, feeling the infectious joy of the crowd. Then Adrian comes up to me.

  “Well, we did it. I’m sure it was the effort of the Minnesota College Democrats that put Clinton over the edge.” Adrian laughs at his own joke, and we embrace in a friendly hug. When we pull apart, he scans the room. “Where’s your boyfriend?”

  “I was wondering if you knew. He never showed up while I was working the polls.”

  Adrian shakes his head. “I’ve never understood people who don’t care enough to vote.”

  “Well…” I stammer, “We don’t know he didn’t vote. Maybe he did earlier in the day.”

  Adrian places his warm palm on my shoulder. “Lucy, he was never going to vote. Trust me on that.”

  Sharon voted for Bush, which I can’t agree with. However, I can at least respect it. But Bryce just didn’t vote at all? There’s nothing respectable about that, and I can’t stay with someone I don’t respect.

  Adrian squeezes my shoulder before he releases it. My face must have fallen, because he says, “Hey, cheer up! This is a great night, and it’s going to be an awesome four years.”

  Adrian is right, yet they also won’t be without conflicts or compromise. I’ll experience that first hand tomorrow, when I break up with Bryce.

  But for now I just smile, and say, “Right.”

  We toast, to Clinton’s victory, and to the promise of years to come.

  Chapter 5. September 1995

  Monty and I have been dancing together all evening. The slow songs are the best, but we also do the Macarena and even the Chicken Dance. I can’t stop laughing the entire time I’m quacking my hands.

  Jack and his new wife, Petra, have fed each other cake. Petra has thrown her bouquet, and all the toasts have been given. The night is winding down, and Monty leads me off the dance floor.

  “I’m really glad neither of us had dates,” he says.

  “Yeah, me too.” My heart beats just a little bit faster than normal.

  “And I’m sorry about earlier. Hitting on you like that. It was clumsy. Will you forgive me?” His face is flushed and his tie is loosened. I’m sure I’ve noticed before how good-looking he is, but this is the first time I’ve let myself appreciate it.

  “There’s nothing to forgive.” I look around, make sure nobody is watching, and then I stand on my tiptoes and plant a kiss on his cheek. When he doesn’t flinch or pull away, I give him the barest whisper of a kiss on the lips.

  It’s all the encouragement he needs.

  With a conspiratorial smile, he takes my hand and leads me outside the reception hall. I follow willingly.

  When we get to a dark, hidden spot, he wraps his arms around my waist and kisses me deeply. I can feel it everywhere, my entire body is tingling, my knees are weak, and I’m sure that at any moment, my heart will explode.

  I don’t want him to stop. But he does.

  “Where are you staying tonight?” he asks.

  “I was going to drive back to my parents’ house.”

  “Hmm…” he leans in and kisses me some more. I press up against him like I can’t get close enough. He tilts his head back ever so slightly, so he can talk. “That’s a long drive. Do you want to stay with me, instead?”

  “You have a hotel room?”

  “It’s close to the airport,” he whispers. “I fly back to New York really early tomorrow.” Then he baby-kisses my eyes, nose, and chin.

  I don’t answer immediately. I’m trying to steady my breathing. “So you can make a clean get away?”

  “It’s not like that.” he smiles. “And you haven’t even said yes, yet.”

  But he knows I’m going to. “You can’t ever tell Jack,” I say.

  “He just got married, Lucy. Do you really think he’ll care?”

  I rub my hands down his back and across the taut muscles in his arms. “I never had sex with him, and we dated for months. If he finds out you and I had a one night stand…”

  Monty cuts me off with another kiss. “I promise I’ll never tell him,” he murmurs, between kisses.

  We make out a few seconds more, but our kissing is interrupted when I’m consumed with a fit of giggles.

  “What’s so funny?” Monty asks.

  I shake my head. “Sorry. It just occurred to me. I’m about to do it with the homecoming king.”

  Monty chuckles. “Does that turn you on?”

  “Yeah,” I admit. “Kind of. Is that okay?”

  He kisses my neck. I tilt my head back and sigh in pleasure.

  “Are you kidding?” His lips are a mere centimeter from my skin as he mumbles, and his arms tighten around me even more. “If I had known, I would have worn my crown.”

  Now we’re both laughing.

  “You know this isn’t the sort of thing I usually do…”

  He raises his face so he’s looking me in the eye. “I know,” he says, and he smiles. Crinkles form around his green eyes, and I feel a moment of panic. There’s no way I’m casual enough to be with him for just one night.

  “Let’s make it special, okay?” He reaches down and clasps my hand, and I let him lead me somewhere, again. This time, I follow him to the parking lot. Tonight, I’d follow him anywhere.

  Chapter 6. 1996: Clinton vs. Dole

  It's 4:00 on a Friday afternoon, and I’m the only one left in the office. It’s not much of an office really, just a ranch-style building, built in the 1970s and never intended for use beyond the millennium. It’s cold in the winter and unbearable in the summer, and the tan carpeting, tan walls, and tan office furniture torment me in my dreams. Still, the Southern Minneapolis Neighborhood Association has become my second home, and right now I’m home alone.

  I walk by Sue Ellen’s desk, and see her message light flashing. What the hell? I think to myself. She’d do it to me.

  I take a seat in her office chair, and pick up the receiver of her phone. Her voicemail, amazingly enough, has no security code. If you’re the type of person who deletes other people’s messages, you would think you’d create a security code for yourself. But no.

  I’m expecting to hear a work message, something that once deleted, would make her seem irresponsible for not having heard it herself. Instead there’s a deep male voice. I cross my legs and twist my hair as I listen.

  Hi. I know I was supposed to call you back a while ago. I just didn’t have the courage to tell you how sorry I am. Even now I don’t know if you’ll be happy to hear from me. I’m only calling you at work because it’s harder for you to screen your calls. But if I don’t hear back from you, I’ll understand, and I won’t call again. Just know that I love you, and despite what you might think, I want to be with you.

  Suddenly it all makes sense. Sue Ellen’s recent mood swin
gs have more to do with a bad breakup than with me. If I was a better friend and co-worker I would have asked her the right questions and discovered the truth. If I was a better person I would feel bad for her, and I’d forgive her for all the crappy stuff she’s done to me.

  However, I’m actually remarkably flawed. So when the robotic voice mail voice gives me my options, (press seven to delete; press eight to archive; press nine to mark as unread) I press seven. Then I pack up my belongings, lock up the office, and drive away in my car. My hands are shaking and I clutch the steering wheel tightly. God. I’m no better than an IRA member: destructive and anonymous. Sure, nobody was killed in the Manchester bombing, but irreparable harm was done. How can I justify my act of phone terrorism?

  Later I’m sitting at Liquor Lyle’s, an uptown Minneapolis bar, trying to enjoy happy hour. It’s still early evening on Friday, the day after Halloween. I’m in a large room filled with small tables. Looking around, it's clear the Goth movement has taken off; there are a lot of girls wearing tight black, corset-type dresses, along with huge platform shoes and maroon or even black lipstick. I feel tame in comparison, wearing little makeup, and simple, wide-legged jeans and a cropped jersey top.

  A song by Dave Matthews is playing, and I hate to say it but I’m already getting tired of hearing his music. Surely he’ll peak soon.

  I sigh. Jack is late meeting me, and I glance at my watch even though I know what time it is. Jack is almost never late for things. In the seven or so years that we’ve been friends, I’ve been kept waiting for him once, maybe twice.

  I roll my head around, trying to relieve the tension in my neck and shoulders, but nothing pops or cracks the way I was hoping it would. My body feels bloated, like my self-doubt indulged in too large a lunch.

  Finally I see him, tall, blonde and skinny, wearing jeans and a blue short-sleeved shirt over a grey long-sleeved one. He makes his way towards the table where I’ve been sitting for the last twenty-five minutes, and he gives me a sheepish grin.