Hip to Be Square

by Hope Lyda

  Sadie doesn’t look as if she is sure she is ready to tell us. Can we handle an adult conversation? “Well…I can say that lately a gentleman has been calling on me.”

  “Calling on you?” Angelica says. “Like a telemarketer?”

  “I’m dating, okay? I’m dating a guy.”

  “Oh, you are so lucky, Sadie. Of course you found a guy. What guy wouldn’t want to date you? You are so…perfect. We are all confused, but you have your act together.” Caitlin has a tendency to turn a compliment into a platform for self-deprecation.

  “Hey, speak for yourself,” Angelica says as the waitress arrives with food. But we all know it is true. How is it that women of the same age and basic beliefs can be on such different ends of the “act together” spectrum?

  The waitress hands me a black-and-pink deco plate and a coupon good for a senior’s discount at a local movie theater. “Special promotion for a special order,” she says with a side of sarcasm.

  I smile again. I guess she will get a tip after all. I tuck the coupon under the plastic map of Route 66 that serves as my place mat.

  “The one dating gets to pray,” says Angelica. She does this to avoid our usual system of taking turns. It’s her turn. Angelica doesn’t like public displays of faith.

  Caitlin takes her hat off and reveals her matted-down, short, supposed-to-be-spiky hair. Sadie offers a blessing.

  Between bites of her sensible meal, she shares a few details. The gentleman, Carson, is a new donor to the Tucson Botanical Society, for which Sadie is the development director. He is sponsoring the creation of a new fountain and night garden designed to showcase a community telescope.

  “He is so romantic,” Caitlin whispers to her caloric breakfast.

  “He also is…well, a bit…”

  “Portly?” Angelica says randomly.

  “No,” Sadie sighs. “He is a bit older.”

  “What is a bit?” I bring my index finger and thumb close together measuring a small portion along the continuum line of time and age.

  Sadie’s downward glance isn’t shame. It is a “they won’t understand” glance.

  “Wait. I love The Price Is Right. That game where you have to guess which of the two prices is the right one.” Caitlin claps her hands with glee.

  We don’t know what to do with this stroll down latchkey child entertainment lane.

  “We can each guess how old he is,” she continues with a big smile.

  “Leave me out of this home version,” I say and look at Sadie pleadingly.

  “Okay. Sixteen years. For pete’s sake, sixteen years.” Sadie sits up straight with no apologies. “He knows what he wants out of life and he is…a real man. Not a boy pretending.” She peers across the table to squelch anything Angelica might want to add about “real men.”

  Not that there’s anything wrong with that. But I wasn’t expecting that much of a difference. However, Sadie is beyond men our age.

  “Wow—” Angelica starts to share her opinion, but I cut her off at the pass.

  “A toast to real men.” I motion with my coffee cup and the others follow my lead. Sadie’s relieved look tells me the discussion is over. Possibly forever.

  Snide waitress refills my cup while I am toasting the only stable man of America. “Free refills with the senior breakfast,” she says, so pleased with herself.

  I may be the butt of her joke, but I just got me a free cup o’ joe. I smile sweetly at her. Toothy and one moment away from a “har har har” sound.

  We all make plans to meet up separately and together in the near future. The sun shines on us as our designer shades slide down our foreheads to settle on our noses at the same time. Well, mine clunk. I lost my Ralph Lauren’s and resorted to borrowing a pair of the large black optometrist glasses on hand at Golden Horizons for folks with dilated pupils or light sensitivity.

  “Next month we will really discuss Matthew.” I offer this up as if I don’t say it every month.

  They nod seriously as if they don’t nod seriously every month.

  As we are about to part, each to her own weekend errands, the busboy with red cheeks and an apron that wraps him like a burrito comes running out after Caitlin. His steps are short from the tightness of the fabric, so his walk is a little bit Geisha—an even funnier visual comparison considering he is waving her non in the air.

  “Lady! You forgot your cornucopia.”

  Strange Girl

  My neighbor from the basement is standing in front of the apartment complex. It looks as though she is waiting for a bus. I wave rather than point out we are not on a bus route.

  She absently turns her wrist to check her watch. She seems to notice not that it is almost 10:00 P.M. and long past bus route hours (if that mattered), but that the face is dirty. She wipes it across her monogrammed terry cloth shirt that has elbow patches. A bright yellow Y against the lavender background tells the world as much as she is willing to share of herself.

  I understand her without knowing more than the Y. I personally wear a straight, noncommittal smile as my bit of sharable self. And though I don’t wait for buses that do not come, I am not above waiting for new versions of my life.

  My landlord, Monty, had mentioned Y when she moved in last year. I was jealous when I discovered that she works from home…until I found out her home was the nasty basement space. Not really an apartment. And not really a basement. More like a lower-level supply closet.

  Monty had tried to unload it on me several years ago, but I had Sadie with me. As he opened the door and years of must and dust invaded our breath, Sadie just laughed and laughed. Soon it was way too uncomfortable for Monty to do anything other than pretend he had been kidding about renting a broom closet for seven hundred a month. Sadie’s perfect response saved me from the dungeon. But now Y has to live there.

  We had one exchange when she first moved in. An elderly man in a plaid shirt and black slacks carried boxes bearing the Tom’s Ketchup logo and containing mysterious contents. By the stagger of the man, those boxes were heavy. I remember watching Y’s face closely as she watched the man. There was not any appreciation or gratitude in her expression, only worry. Somehow I guessed he was her father, though he was considerably older than one would figure her father to be. As she watched his progression to and fro across the concrete courtyard, her straight lips and stitched brows said it all. She seemed anxious for him to be gone.

  I had introduced myself on my way to my car. She seemed uncomfortable. She spread her arms wide and said in a mournful monotone, “Home sweet home.”

  “I hope you like it here. The location is great.” I stopped before opening my car door. “I’m Mari…15C.”

  And right then, before she could speak her name in return, her father yelled it from the lifeless dwelling. She grimaced and shrugged. “That’s me…and that’s mine.” I knew she was claiming the dungeon and not the man who was breathing hard in the doorway. I heard her name, I saw the Y on her chest, and yet it did not sink in. Maybe because I was focused on a way to save her from living in that room.

  Tonight, a year later, we still do not exchange more than glances. And I have yet to recall her name. A habit I hate about myself.

  As I continue on my way to the store, my mind stays fixed on the Y, and all I can think of as my feet move forward is the rest of the Mickey Mouse song, “because we like you.”

  Hindsight

  I stroll toward the Grocery Bag just four blocks from my place. It’s a perfect winter Tucson evening with the haze of desert sage. Nothing bad could happen on a night like this. After my nightmares of being eaten by coyotes or javelinas subsided, I have always felt an incredible sense of security here where the saguaro cacti, tall and strong against the night sky, seem to stand guard while I go about my business.

  I enter the “Bag” and casually nod at the guys on duty. My many food obsessions over the years (salt-and-vinegar chips, taffy, cookie dough, and cheese-in-a-can, etc.) have enabled me to make friends with the youn
g men assigned the late-night post.

  The cliché about men looking good in uniforms holds true even for minimum wage occupations. These boys, even the awkward ones, are handsome. White shirts with wrinkles circling the underarms and at the elbows show signs of admirable labor and repetitive tasks. Drooping ties that are probably pulled from couches, car seats, and overflowing sock drawers just minutes before clocking in give the guys the appearance of bedraggled stockbrokers.

  They smile as I enter their world, and a few nod a greeting before continuing their conversations about college life…football games, girls, and cars. Once again, a feeling of security comes over me. My limited life has its benefits, I think.

  Lost in the variety of choices on the shelves, I take comfort in knowing that I have nowhere else to go tonight; this is my outing before I face limited television options and resort to another viewing of a Cary or Hugh Grant DVD. The aisle with towers of stacked tuna cans is my final destination. Anything else I find between here and there is a bonus.

  “Hey, Mari.” A male voice I should recognize catches up with me in my fog.

  I look down to see if I’m presentable. The boys of the Bag don’t count; they accept my late-night self. My quick downward glance reveals a stain-free T-shirt, loose-fit jeans, and bright green velvet Chanel loafers. Presentable enough.

  I turn around to find Chad Warner, the physical therapist who works at Golden Horizons three days a week. We call him Nomad Chad and are jealous of his flexible schedule and his white teeth.

  “Oh, hey.” My hand goes up to my hair for a nervous run through. My turquoise ring gets caught in a tangle, and for a moment I panic. Luckily he looks down to fix a twisted wheel on his cart, and I have a chance to free myself from a humiliating pose.

  My hand is detangled but still poised in the air as he approaches me…so I wave. Big.

  Given the three feet of distance between us, this looks a little close to crazy. He turns to see if there is someone an appropriate distance away to receive such an exuberant gesture.

  No. I’m just weird.

  “So, is this your turf?” He seems only slightly thrown by my behavior.

  “Yep. I live just down the street. How about you?”

  “For a while. Rooming with a buddy right now. They hiked my rent, and now I need to find something that accommodates a nomad’s income.” He winks but it doesn’t seem slimy, only friendly.

  “I figured in this town you made a good living. Lots of hips need adjusting.”

  “Speaking of which…” he pauses to crack his knuckles and his look becomes serious.

  I start to run my fingers through my hair again but catch myself. Oh, please don’t be asking me out. Please don’t say something that will make me blush. I just want to grocery shop in peace.

  He continues, his manner professional. “Well, when I first noticed you, I didn’t realize it was you exactly. And I kinda have a habit of assessing people’s walks. I know, a bit weird, right? But it keeps me on my toes professionally.”

  Oh, great. The man watched me walk my tour of aisles. There is nothing worse than having someone watch you walk except having them do it without you knowing. And then reporting on it.

  I’m what? A specimen? A case study?

  “Oh.” My eyes don’t want to connect with his, so I look beyond. I notice Chef Jace’s canned spaghetti sauce is on sale…two for a dollar. French bread pizza sounds really good about now.

  “And I noticed that you…well, you shuffle.”

  I could add toppings like cheese and pineapple. My mind catches up to what he just said. “I shuffle?” I raise my voice because I am appalled, not because I want further explanation.

  “Your left hip drags, and so the right side seems to follow. I call it an old man’s shuffle. This case would be an old—”

  “I get it.” My tone reflects my state of perturbedness. I realize the guy is just being professional. It isn’t his fault. He wouldn’t know that I am on a personal roll of humiliation. That every corner I turn leads to someone happy to point out that I have an elderly person’s tendencies.

  “Your sacrum might be tight.”

  “Oh, you know what?” I laugh with a wild lilt to make up for my tight sacrum and uptight tone. “It’s my shoes. These things are a size too big, but I love them because they are…” I am about to say “old,” but I catch myself. “Uh, because they were a gift. I think my sacrum is fine. It is so nice of you to notice, though.” I say this as if he mentioned the delightful way my hair flipped up in the back. I want to end this encounter and go hate my television options.

  He nods. “Okay. Well, if you do ever need an adjustment, I can schedule you on one of my Golden Horizon stops.”

  One of my men in uniform comes up to rescue me and breaks up this awkward moment.

  “Ms. Hamilton?”

  “Yes?” I raise my eyebrows out of curiosity, but I am thankful for the interruption. Chad starts to move his cart forward and waves a little “catch ya later” wave. But not before he hears the innocent words of the grocer boy.

  “Carl wanted me to tell you we got that extra large tube of scent-free Muscle Heat in yesterday. Do you want me to get it for you?”

  I shout, “Oh, great! Millie has been asking for this every day at Golden Horizons. Thank you. Millie thanks you.” The grocer boy responds exactly as Chad had just moments before. He turns around to see who I must be calling to at this decibel.

  Dang. This all happens because I broke a very important rule…never, ever buy personal hygiene or health care products at the place where they know you by name.

  I spend forty-five minutes roaming a store with five aisles because I don’t want to run into Chad at the checkout. If the twenty-year-old manager is not talking to his girlfriend but is actually watching the store monitors, he would see me turning corners again and again, craning my neck forward to be sure Chad is not in sight.

  In the monitor of my mind’s eye, I resemble the scary lady who wears a tutu over her denim jumper and shouts at children, cats, rocks, and meter maids down by the University of Arizona.

  How did this happen?

  I walk home not noticing the brilliant sky. Evidently something bad can happen to a girl on a night like this. Even the thought of a large tuna fish sandwich on toasted sourdough does not help.

  I can only focus on how my left hip seems to drag my leg along the sidewalk.

  Alien Messages

  Wednesday:

  Beep.

  “Um, yeah. I couldn’t find long-stemmed lilies, but I hope you like the flowers. Oh, this is Ken. Screen name the Whiz. I love the movie Citizen Kane. Anyway, I hope you aren’t allergic to rosebuds. Ha, ha. I will be in touch. Um…bye.”

  Beep.

  Thursday:

  Beep.

  “Sal here. I’ve got bundles of lavender with your name on ’em. Thought it would remind you of France. Hopefully it reminds you of me too. Sal. Screen name SensationSal. You won’t forget that one, I’ll bet.”

  Loud laughter followed by the sound of dropping the phone.

  “Sorry. Sorry. You there? [more loud, nervous laughter] Well, that is stupid…this is a machine. Of course you aren’t there. Hey, think of me.”

  Beep.

  I have a rash of strange phone messages from men who seem to think they know me. Sal’s message conjures up images of an open madras shirt, dark chest hair, and long silver rope chains that tangle up in that chest hair.

  I try to recall if I signed up for any vacation giveaways or enter-to-win contests that would have placed my name and number on any unfortunate sales lists. Only one comes to mind. In a hurry last month I did sign up to win a brand-new hybrid convertible.

  I just know that these disturbing calls from overzealous males are warding off good, life-changing calls…like the one that offers me a brilliantly fancy new job in a lush resort or that shiny, environment-friendly car.

  To Be Made Worthy

  A frantic Golden Horizons volunteer w
earing a wedding-mint-green frock comes rushing up to our main station. “I have a report! An attempted suicide…I don’t know…” Her frizzy hair is Medusa-like and her blue eyes are tiny in the white of shock.

  My coworkers spring into action. Lysa picks up the phone to dial 911 and has a thin leg up, ready to jump over the counter. Chad stands between the volunteer and us. First response man. “Who? Who?” He wildly reaches for her lapel like a detective asking for a rookie cop’s badge number. It takes him a moment to read the tag. I watch him sound it out in his head before speaking the odd name. “Petulia. Who? Where?”

  “Miss Tess…she is threatening suicide.”

  I laugh. I played the lead in this scene five years ago. My coworkers pause to look at me as though I am the wicked witch of the west.

  “Let me guess…she threatened to take herself to the pearly gates if you refused to slip her a Gibson drink and sneak her out at midnight.”

  “Yes!” Petulia is incredulous.

  My peers are in awe.

  “Pearly Gates.” I pause to savor the power of the moment. “It’s a retirement home on Fifth and Martin.” It takes a moment for this to sink in. When it does, Petulia’s face melts with relief. Her pale skin reddens with embarrassment.

  “She does this to all the new staff people.” I turn to Lysa and motion for her to put the phone down. “Although Petulia here might need that ambulance.”

  They laugh heartily and I stand front and center willing to take any affirmation I can get these days.