November Surprise

by Laurel Osterkamp

  “I got lost,” he says, and he sits down across from me.

  “Why didn’t you call?”

  “Not everyone has a cell phone, Lucy.”

  “I thought you did.”

  “Nope. Just Petra.”

  Petra is Jack’s wife, but she’s back home in Iowa. Jack is here researching restaurants, because he wants to open one of his own in Des Moines.

  Jack looks around, assessing the room. For a moment I think he’s going to say something disparaging about my choice of bars, and I’m preparing my response of how Liquor Lyle’s is the hip place right now, and if he wasn’t from a backward place like Des Moines he would get that. But he starts in on a different subject.

  “Minneapolis is crazy with all these one way streets,” he says. “And they all have one and a half lanes. You barely have room to pass someone, so you get stuck behind a bus or someone making a left turn, and it takes you twenty minutes to make it half a mile down the street, then you forget where you were supposed to turn…”

  “Uh huh,” I murmur. Defending the traffic in Minneapolis is about as interesting as waiting for him to arrive was.

  “How are you, Lucy?”

  I had been looking down at some initials carved in the table. But at Jack’s question my head snaps up. He is one of those friends I can instantly pick up with from where we last left off. Time doesn’t go by with him; we’ll always be eighteen, and it will always be just the other day that we were hanging out. Such a question should be unnecessary.

  He sees what must be the shocked look on my face and responds.

  “I only ask because you look a little tense.”

  “I do?”

  “Yeah, like you could use a shoulder rub, or something.”

  Any other guy and I would take that as a come on. But Jack is completely devoted to Petra, and he and I are so platonic it’s hard to remember a time that we kissed on the lips. He’s like my brother. A brother I keep secrets from.

  There’s what I did this evening, before coming here – I can never tell Jack because he’s way too good to do such a thing. But there’s another secret too, the one I’ve kept for over a year, involving a crush and a hookup with his older brother, Monty. I couldn’t resist his charms, and I don’t regret our night together. I never told Jack; it would just be a weird and awkward sort of confession to make.

  But keeping secrets from Jack feels about as natural as Dolly the sheep, and like her, the secrets seem to clone themselves and multiply.

  I roll my shoulders and stretch my neck again. This time there’s a tiny little pop, but it’s not nearly satisfying enough. “Work has been stressful,” I tell him. Maybe I can sort of confess to what is going on. “One of my coworkers is crazy. I’m worried that if I turn my back on her, she’ll come up from behind and stab me.”

  Jack scrunches his face and resists laughing. He’d better not laugh. “Why?” he asks.

  “Like I said, she’s crazy. She wants to turn everything into a competition.”

  A line forms at Jack’s temple, reflecting his effort to take what I’ve just said seriously. I get why this might be funny; my short stature, skinny frame and baby face cause me to be mistaken for a sixteen-year-old all the time, and my personality is closer to Tori Spelling’s on 90210 than it is to Heather Locklear’s on Melrose Place. It must be hard to imagine me in a catfight with anyone.

  To his credit, Jack keeps a straight face. “It must be tough, working in the cut-throat field of community organization.”

  “Ha, ha. Smart aleck.”

  Jack has heard many a story about how I work for the neighborhood revitalization program here in Minneapolis. My responsibilities mostly include organizing afterschool programs and youth events. It’s not exactly Wall Street, or for that matter, politics. But that doesn’t mean it can’t be tense.

  “Sorry.” Jack momentarily places his hand on top of mine. “Tell me what’s going on.”

  I pause before I jump in. How much can I say without saying too much? “Okay. When I first started working with Sue Ellen I thought we got along, but then I realized too late she took my sarcastic jokes personally. So I stopped being sarcastic around her.”

  The waiter stops by our table and I pause my story while Jack orders his first beer and I order my second.

  “So what went wrong?” he asks as soon as the waiter walks away.

  “I don’t know. She just hates me. Last month when it was my turn to bring the office donuts and I brought bagels instead, she was mumbling under her breath all morning about how much she was looking forward to a bear claw.”

  “Is Sue Ellen from the South?”

  “What? Why?”

  Jack cocks his head and shrugs his shoulders. “Her name, her fondness for donuts. She just seems southern. Is she a member of the NRA? Maybe you shouldn’t be messing with her.” He grins and his face opens up in such an endearing way that it’s impossible not to smile back.

  “I suppose she does seem kind of red-state,” I say. “But I really don’t know where she’s from.”

  Jack reprimands me with his eyes. “There’s your first mistake. You should always take the trouble to get to know your colleagues. Think of it as extending family values into the work arena.”

  I ignore his attempt at humor. “Okay, so the following Monday we had a staff meeting, and my boss Naomi praised me for the battle of the bands event I organized in Kenwood Park, and she also criticized Sue Ellen for missing a deadline, and Sue Ellen’s eyes got all squinty and she looked like she was going to cry. Ever since then my office supplies have mysteriously disappeared from my desk, and some of my phone messages have been deleted without my knowledge, and I’ve heard from Jane, our secretary, that Sue Ellen’s been bad-mouthing me.”

  Jack’s mouth sets in a straight line, and he breathes in and out through his nose. I can tell he’s taking a moment before he says anything; I know the look, and he knows to be careful.

  “Lucy,” he finally says. “That doesn’t sound great, but, well… it’s not exactly on the level of boiling bunnies, now is it?”

  “If you were there you’d get it,” I tell him. “This is making me dread going to work everyday. I have no idea what to do about it.”

  “Have you tried confronting her?”

  “You don’t confront crazy people.”

  “But sometimes it’s necessary.”

  Sometimes, but not always. And this afternoon I had my chance to get back at Sue Ellen without risking a confrontation. Now, as I’m sitting here looking into Jack’s kind eyes, I’m starting to really regret it. But if I tell him, he’ll tell me to do the right thing and give her the message. His reproof would be gentle and he’d be right. Which is why I chicken out and change the subject.

  “Have you been following the campaign?”

  Our beers arrive and Jack and I both take swigs. “No,” he responds. “There’s nothing to follow. Clinton’s obviously going to win. The whole thing has been pretty boring and I’ll be happy when it’s over.”

  “Yeah…” I don’t even have the drive to argue the point. Truth is, he’s right. Sometimes victory is not so sweet. I guess when something comes too easily its value is diminished, like a fat-free muffin that doesn’t taste as good as it looks. But I can still revel in the victory a little bit. If we were in Mrs. Fischer’s civics class right now, there’s no way I’d resist the opportunity to rub it in Reggie’s face.

  “It wasn’t always obvious,” I tell Jack. “Two years ago Newt Gingrich was gloating over how the Republicans won control of the House and Senate, and pundits were predicting that Clinton would have a hard time this fall.”

  “Yeah, but after the government shutdown things changed.”

  I shrug my shoulders at Jack’s comment.

  “And Dole?” Jack asks. “How could the Republicans not pick a better candidate than Bob Dole? It was over the day he fell off the stage.” Jack is referring to an incident at a campaign event when Bob Dole stepped off the stage an
d fell, which made him look old and weak. The Clinton camp must have been gleeful; their main strategy was to make Clinton seem young and virile, and in contrast turn Dole’s advanced age into an issue. Turns out they didn’t have to try too hard.

  “I suppose you’re right.” I twirl my beer bottle against the table and suppress a sigh.

  “That’s it?” Jack studies my face. “Why aren’t you happier?”

  “I should be,” I respond. “My candidate is about to win, and I’m spending the evening with you. Why am I in such a funk?”

  Jack raises his eyebrows in answer to my question – as if to say, “I don’t know.”

  “I think you need a change of scenery,” Jack says. “Let’s go do something fun.”

  “Like what?”

  He drums his fingers against his chin in thought. There is so much to do in Minneapolis; we have a great music scene. I’m about to suggest going to First Avenue or The Fine Line, because both of them are sure to have someone good playing. But Jack has his own ideas.

  “How about roller skating?”

  I laugh. Jack is such a geek, but that’s his charm.

  “Are you sure you wouldn’t rather play putt-putt?”

  He shakes his head. “It’s too cold out for that, but roller skating is indoors.”

  “Then what are we waiting for?” I get up to go, and then quickly sit back down. “Wait. I forgot. I left my rainbow suspenders at home, and I lost my pompom ponytail holder.”

  He leans back in mock offense. “Look who thinks she’s so cool. Wow, Lucy, when did you develop such an attitude? No wonder Sue Ellen hates you.”

  At the mention of Sue Ellen my stomach does a flip-flop, but this time it’s easier to push my anxiety aside. My best buddy is here, and I’m not going to worry and ruin my good time.

  Jack and I leave the bar and drive to the Roller Gardens, where we quickly notice that everyone else over the age of fourteen is there because they’re chaperoning a child. So we pretend we’re there with our fictional nephew, Elton, who is so embarrassed by our goofy skating that he is hiding out in the snack bar. We skate around in circles, and I tease Jack for being able to sing along to The Spice Girls “Wannabe.” Every so often, when we pass the section of the rink that’s adjacent to the snack bar, Jack or I will yell out, “How you doing, Elton?” or, “Elton, when are you going to skate with us?” This makes us laugh even harder than we do when we compete hardcore to win the “YMCA” contest, or when we fall on our butts while showing off our backwards-skating skills.

  By the end of the evening I feel lighter and the world reminds me of the way it was during the summer of 1989, when Jack and I were inseparable, and I wanted to stop time because I knew nothing would ever feel that simple and easy again.

  After skating we’re both starving, so we go get dinner at Famous Dave’s BBQ, which is actually part of Jack’s work trip. We feast on ribs and Jack memorizes the menu and tries to guess at the recipes. When we return to my apartment, I’m making up the couch with blankets and pillows, and there’s a knock at my door. It’s Sharon.

  My friendship with her has survived graduation, jobs, various boyfriends, and disagreements over political philosophy. She’s still the closest thing I’ll ever have to a big sister, and it’s not that unusual for her to drop by close to midnight, completely unannounced.

  “I didn’t wake you, did I?”

  “Nope. Jack’s here.”

  She comes in. “Jack! Oh my God! I finally get to meet Jack.”

  Jack is using my home computer, trying out my new version of AOL, but at the mention of his name he turns around with a smile. Sharon walks up to the makeshift desk where he’s sitting, between the kitchen and living room, and offers him her outstretched hand.

  “I’m Sharon,” she says, “Lucy’s other best friend.”

  He shakes her hand and nods. “Ah, yes. I’ve heard a lot about you. I’m glad we finally get to meet.”

  “Likewise!” Sharon turns away from him and strolls into my kitchen. She instantly finds what she was looking for and returns to the living room with a bottle of wine, three glasses, and a corkscrew.

  “No, really…” I say. “Make yourself at home.”

  Sharon shoots me a cross-eyed look in response to my sarcasm, sets her stash down on my 1980s thrift-store coffee table, and tries to open the bottle of wine. After she inserts the corkscrew in at a severe angle, she stops and looks up.

  “Uhhgg! Why did you have to get the corkscrew kind?”

  “It was a gift,” I say. “Why do you think it’s been sitting around, unopened for so long?”

  “You two are pathetic,” says Jack. He walks towards us, grabs the bottle and pries the corkscrew out, inserts it correctly, and manages to expunge the cork from the bottle in one fluid motion. Sharon looks at Jack like he just solved an episode of Unsolved Mysteries. Jack pours each of us a glass, and we sit on the floor, with its light blue scratchy carpet beneath us.

  “So you’re in town to research restaurants? That must be tough.” Sharon takes a swig of her wine and tosses her hair back so it’s no longer resting on her shoulders.

  “It’s not like I have a boss who’s paying for the trip, though,” says Jack. “Some friends and I are looking into opening a restaurant. They wanted me to see what was doing well here, you know, just to get some ideas.”

  Sharon scrunches up her face in thought. “But you’re going to open it in Iowa, right?” She stresses each syllable of I-o-wa as she says it, infusing the state’s name with attitude.

  “Don’t say Iowa like it’s a dirty word,” Jack responds. “Some of us actually like it there.”

  It’s funny that Jack and Sharon are only just meeting now. Even though the three of us went to the same high school, it was a large high school, and Sharon was two years ahead of Jack. Their paths just never crossed. She did know Monty, but the two of them weren’t good friends despite having graduated the same year.

  Sharon laughs. “I always thought people only stayed in Iowa because they have to.”

  Jack doesn’t take offense. “That’s what Monty thinks too.”

  My pulse quickens at the mention of his name. “How is Monty?” I ask.

  Sharon, who knows about my secret liaison with Jack’s older brother, gives me a sideways stare.

  “Well, he’s not coming home for Thanksgiving,” Jack says. “I guess he has some new girlfriend, and he’s visiting her family instead. My mom is really bummed, because it’s been over a year since he’s been home.”

  I want to drill Jack about this new girlfriend. But to do so could cause suspicion, like I’m Richard Nixon asking how a tape recorder works. So I suppress a sigh, and say, “That’s too bad. We’ll still get to hang out, though.”

  Sharon, who is enjoying her wine and the drama that has nothing to do with her, nods her head emphatically. “Yes. The two of you will have a good time without Monty. I wish I could be there, but alas, I have to stay and work.”

  My butt is starting to ache a little from sitting on the floor, so I shift and stretch, while trying to think of a way to change the subject. I glance over at Sharon; she looks awfully pleased with herself.

  “You haven’t told us what you’re doing here,” I say. “What were you doing earlier?”

  Sharon’s shoulders sag and she broadly exhales. “Just going out with work people. Friday night happy hour and all.”

  Shouldn’t that make her happy? I should ask her what is up. But my week is catching up with me, and the prospect of my head against a pillow is extremely appealing.

  Yet Sharon is making herself comfortable. She stretches out her legs, flips off her platform shoes, and smoothes out her black denim pants. “Lucy doesn’t understand how political the workplace can be, because she’s only ever dealt in the non-profit world.” She addresses her comment to Jack, talking to him like they’re the only two people in a very small room.

  “Actually,” says Jack, “it sounds like Lucy’s work place is very pol
itical. Isn’t it, Lucy?”

  Sharon looks at me. “Oh yeah? What’s going on?”

  Jack swirls his glass, as if he’s taking part in a pretentious wine tasting, rather than drinking a cheap Merlot. Sharon swigs the rest of the wine in her glass and pours herself some more. They’re both waiting for me to talk.

  “Actually, I’m pretty tired,” I say. “I think I’m ready to call it a night.”

  “Go ahead,” says Sharon. “I’ll keep Jack company.”

  I lean my back against the tip of the couch and rest my eyes. Sharon starts drilling Jack about restaurants, focusing all her attention on him, making him feel like the most important thing in her world. Whatever. If it makes them happy, what’s the harm?

  Eventually I go to bed, leaving the two of them to enjoy their conversation. Several hours later I get up to use the bathroom. They are still talking, and it’s Jack who is driving the conversation.

  “Sometimes I wonder if I did the right thing, marrying Petra,” I hear him say. My mouth goes dry and I tiptoe to the edge of the living room, where the lights have been dimmed and the empty bottle of wine is lying horizontally on the table.

  “Don’t you love her?’ Sharon asks. I peek around the corner and see that she and Jack are sitting so close, their eyelashes are at risk of becoming entangled.

  “I do,” he says. “But I think maybe she’s cheating on me.”

  I’m Jack’s best friend, and he’s never said anything like this to me. I’m instantly flooded with jealousy, even though I realize that’s not the right emotion to be feeling. If your best friend is admitting heartache to another best friend do you:

  a.) wonder what you can do to help

  b.) forfeit your eavesdropping post and respect their privacy, or

  c.) dissolve into a puddle of tears because his confession makes you feel left out.

  I don’t dissolve into anything, but I don’t choose options “a” or “b” either.

  “Hey guys! I’m surprised you’re still up!”

  They jump up in shock, startled by the sound of my voice.