by Hope Lyda
“What size or color would you like?” I soften a bit and step up to a customer service role.
Hands leave slender hips and hesitatingly motion the general size requirements for a bouquet. “Any color,” she mumbles, and then she adds, “but purple is nice.”
“Coming right up.” I smile and push the door shut, realize this doesn’t look right, and open it again, ever so slightly. “I have to close this…my cat…had a terrible accident before. Outside. Be back…” I leave her to imagine the horrors my cat has endured beyond the parking lot after dusk.
My assortment of vases is dusty but large and varied. I select a clear one with thin marbleized strands of blue and purple streaming throughout it. It reminds me of my plastic lab partner in freshman anatomy class.
“Thanks,” she says, looking at it as if I have handed her a treasure. Treasure. My mind returns to the climactic ending taking place just a few feet away from me.
I look over my shoulder again and say loudly, “Be right there.” My smile concludes our encounter and Y looks at me with a bit of concern. I try not to blink a lot because that would be a clear indication that I know that she knows that I am certifiably insane. I watch, with dry eyes, as she leaves my stoop. I want to make sure she doesn’t glance into my front window. As soon as she disappears around the corner by the laundry room, I rush back to my sofa just in time to see the final vote. Sandy is not voted off. Nor is Paul. But the former Miss Tulsa with sizable talents is forced to pack her bags and return home to her duplex and pet poodle.
I sit there rubbing Elmo’s belly, wishing I had someone to share this extreme television moment with. Regret covers me as I wave a high five to nobody. I should have asked Y her name. I should have swallowed my pride and told my imaginary company to leave and invited Y to stay.
Sunday Morning
I try to wiggle my feet fully into my brown leather loafers just outside of the large wooden doors of Eastside Christian Church. Before stepping into the foyer, I pop a breath mint into my mouth. Love thy neighbor.
Clive, the Elton John look-alike organist, is well into a song. His patchwork coat displays the gold-and-purple tones of a painter’s color wheel. As the words of a favorite hymn calm my nerves, I am thankful I resisted the urge to sleep in today.
Congregants file into the same seats every Sunday. When Caitlin was first exploring Christianity, she attended with me for a few months before settling on the Episcopalian church. After an upbringing geared toward psychology rather than theology, she immediately spotted the church-perch syndrome. She interpreted this as too complacent and too inflexible, traits already assigned to churchgoers, fair or not.
I agreed at first, eager to have her opinion validated in a new setting. But soon I noticed the behavior in other settings. People gravitate toward a placement that is familiar to them. In the boardroom, on the transit bus, and even in public bathrooms—three stalls in to the left for me, personally. When I pointed this out to Caitlin, she agreed. “It is kinda like when I put on my rings. I start with my belly button ring and only then can I put on my finger rings. Maybe there is an order to most of what we do.” I think I had spun this into yet another reason to believe in God. It was a time in my life when witnessing took on the feel of cattle roping.
Running late means you run the risk of losing your preferred seat to a newcomer or someone shaking up their personal perspective. Such is the case today. A young couple sits, holding hands, in my favorite spot in my favorite pew. It’s the only survivor from the original sanctuary that burned down in the early ’40s. The wood is worn smooth from worshipers placing their hands on the side rest for support to stand, to sing, to pray. But it is the view which sold me on my piece of pew property. As I look toward the front of the sanctuary from this angle, the pulpit is placed squarely between a stained-glass image of the Garden of Gethsemane and one of a bright light shining from an empty tomb. Even before I recognized the symbolism of this spot, I must have intuitively realized that my life is stalled in the middle of these biblical moments. I’m waiting and wanting to move closer to a life resurrection but feel caught up in my time of doubt and fear. Even with faith, it can be difficult to fully, wholeheartedly believe divine hands transform human lives.
Stumbling along with my shoe still caught on my heel and no time to pray for a different seat, I slide into my backup. The spot is always available. It took some time, but I figured out why nobody fills this space.
Her name is Rose Waverly.
Her white hair is held in perfect formation with delicate, gem-lined bobby pins; she is refined and royal in appearance. Her suits are impeccable and expensive. Always there is a nice piece of jewelry that looks made to match her designer suit. Her bracelet is loaded with silver icons from enviable, foreign travels, yet her subtle power is so strong that her jewelry does not clink and jingle during the service. It merely speaks in whispers of her charmed life.
I am her antithesis with my plain light denim skirt—one Angelica actually has begged me to burn—and a short-sleeve blouse. Minimalist. The small turquoise-and-silver earrings that should float on air as I walk sound a bit more like wind chimes in between the hymns and prayer silences. Now, if I had any remnants of confidence and emotional security, clothing would not matter; however, I have been prodded, chided, and tagged by my peers as a twentysomething washout. The last thing I need is to disappoint a woman I barely know.
I paste on a smile when the pastor introduces the time to greet one another. I’m waiting. Watching the coiffed hair. The shiny nails. I see her finish chatting with another fine woman to her right. Then her shoulder drops a bit and she is about to pivot and greet her fellow worshiper to the left.
Turn. Her smile is broad and filled with beautiful teeth that would be the envy of all the residents at Golden Horizons.
“Hello, Mari.” She flaunts those teeth and a bit of the emerald brooch at her neck. She fingers it lightly to showcase it.
“Hello, Mrs. Waverly.” I start to scan the crowd for someone else to greet.
She doesn’t read the cue. “And where is your husband today?”
Not again.
“I’m single.” This is as rote as the AA introduction. My name is Mari, I am single. Under my breath I add, “Just like last week.”
“That’s a shame. A girl your age…not married.” She scans my clothing and finds several reasons for the sad state of singledom that I am in.
I notice it is never a shame because I am so sweet or a good woman of faith or because I am pretty in certain low-light situations. My status is clearly a shame because of my age and apparently because of Mrs. Waverly’s limited expectations for the single girl standing in front of her with a pasted-on smile.
And it is a shame every Sunday.
At first I chalked it up to bad memory. But I know the flow of conversation when talking to a person with dementia, early Alzheimer’s, or selective memory. To be honest, I think Rose is a bit mean. It sounds ghastly to consider that an older woman could be intentionally not nice, yet we are surrounded by personalities every day that relish situations that make others squirm.
Angelica comes to mind.
Do we really think that young taunters become delightful once they are subjected to Medicare, Social Security, and a culture geared toward youth and beauty?
Rose’s chagrin leads to a tsk-tsk movement of her head and a slight clucking of her tongue. Meanwhile, my eyes dart about nervously, my cheeks redden with frustration, and my tongue confesses that I am, this Sunday and every Sunday, single.
Finding Excuses
The workstation I share with several other employees takes me back to dorm life. I have the equivalent of the narrow twin bed and the courtside patio—an old metal typewriter desk with a limited view of the paling stucco maintenance building.
To break out of this adult version of a limited life, I look at the stack of calendars given to me from industry reps. Tropical locations, pristine waterfalls, and private beaches beckon me beyond my private pri
son. My favorite calendar is the one featuring women and men in wheelchairs living out their days in exuberant, fulfilling ways. They are lucky people who travel the globe by the seat of their pants.
I play “Which one is me?” a game which evolved from my belief that within any group of people or selection of possibilities, there is always one person who is like me or at least like a part of me. I always seek this person out at social gatherings, grocery stores, matinee crowds, or in photos of strangers that hang in museums or rest on the nightstands of the residents. It can take a while, recognizing oneself when out of context, but eventually I always see me.
In this instance I have my identity narrowed down to two choices. Am I the politically minded sightseer twirling in front of the Washington Monument sporting a stylish haircut and Donna Karan from head to toe? Or am I the carefree, “I’ve never been more daring” woman who spins her chair perilously close to the edge of a designer pool in Scottsdale while sipping raspberry lemonade?
I am about to ask my supervisor, Rae Vandersleski, which she would cast as me, but I catch myself when I see her mood. The woman has mighty moods. She storms by me and is not in the mood for such stupid talk. In other words, I decide to keep this job one more stinkin’ day.
“Good morning, Rae,” I say to Rae o’ Sunshine.
“Yes, isn’t it.” She looks over to be sure I am doing something productive, and by now I am feigning such. Rae has not figured out that “Good morning” is not actually an assessment of the day thus far…it is a greeting. One to be reciprocated.
If it were an assessment of the day thus far, I would have to alter it slightly and say, “A bit like eating soap, Rae.” Yes…yes, it is.
The end of January means you can loosen the cinched belt of unreal resolutions and go back to breathing properly. This freedom allows me to return to my gluttonous ways. I am hungry for old favorites…like imagining I am a person in a calendar. Or avoiding the reworking of my résumé, which is pulled up on the screen.
“What’s a highly marketable way to say I am depressed and moody…oh, and sick of work that requires effort?” I ask Lysa, our latest in a succession of file clerks. Rae’s assumption that everyone is either incompetent or aspiring to be incompetent usually has new employees job hunting by lunch. But Lysa, who is in her last year of nursing school, seems to be quite intelligent and patient.
She looks up from a file and gives this some thought. After just a few months of employment she is completely used to my out-of-the-blue questions. “Type this…” She gives me advance warning and I poise my fingers over the keys as she continues. “As a passionate and reflective person, I am in pursuit of a career that matches my desire to work efficiently, creatively, and within a team environment.”
“Oh, I like it. Team means others can pick up my slack when I am too tired.” I type madly, suddenly inspired to turn all my faults into exceptional qualities. After I run out of ideas, I turn to Frank, our custodian. “You know, I told myself I would get out of here last year.”
“That is dangerous thinking. You might want to turn that idea into something positive as well. Something like…if this is my last year here, what would I want to accomplish?” He is filling out a report as to why the Sunset Canyon wing is closed off.
“Too positive. Baby steps.” I look at his form upside down and read aloud as he writes. “Reason for limiting access to portion of building: wet floors from leaky pipe.” That is his way of covering for resident Perry, who insists on taking his fish in their bowls for morning walks.
“You’re a good man, Frank.” I smile at one of the most caring people here at Golden Horizons. Frank is my adopted grandpa. I haven’t told him in case he would decline the honor.
I save my résumé for another day and face the empty calendar awaiting notations that represent a life lived. I consider borrowing some appointments from Angelica’s crowded social planner.
This reminds me…
I write down “Dreaded golf tournament” in next week’s expanse of unused life. I put a smiley face next to this entry, just to bug myself. I have been around Angelica’s coworkers. This will not be fun by any stretch of the handicap.
“What can I break to get out of golf?”
“Your clubs,” deadpans Lysa.
I am very impressed to find that she can keep her sense of humor while handling the projects she is assigned. The state just issued a new series of codes related to residents’ follow-up care and treatment. Her fingers are covered with an assortment of neon stickers representing physical therapy (red), psychiatric counseling (blue), speech therapy (yellow), and a kaleidoscope of other services. Right now she looks ready to self-prescribe a blue sticker.
“Wouldn’t the rotator cuff do it?” I’m desperate. I keep tracing over the word “golf” on my calendar square.
Forward…Golf.
Backward…Flog.
How appropriate.
Chad walks by, and though I am still horrified by our grocery store encounter, I have to work through the awkwardness. “Hey…you.” I toss a bean bag paperweight at his back.
I find that juvenile tactics learned on playgrounds still work amazingly well in the adult world.
“Mari. You’re losing your beans. Ha.” He return volleys the plaid fabric bag along with annoying third-grade humor. I’d mock him, but I started it.
“What can I break that will let me get out of playing golf with a friend.” I rotate my arm to give him a clue to the answer so obvious that even I, a non-golfing, non-physical therapist, know it.
“Your word, apparently.” He chuckles and starts to high-five Lysa until he sees that she is Edward Stickerhands. “Actually, the problem we discussed a while back could affect your swing,” says Mr. Back to Business.
Yes, I will be sure to call Angelica and tell her I have the shuffle of an old man.
I hold up my hand. “That will be all.”
Fore Eyes
Top of the morning to ya,” I say with my best Irish accent to the small-stature man in the kilt before me. He stands boldly, the breeze whipping about his tartan (and quite spartan) plaid skirt. He was offering me a metal basket of golf balls, but now the offer is revoked. He turns and walks toward the clubhouse and, my guess, another highball before high noon.
“Why would you say something like that?” Angelica, who will say anything to anyone at anytime, is appalled by my behavior here at the Oasis Golf Course.
“I know…I spoke Irish to the little Scottie-man. It was the first thing that came to my mind.”
And I thought it would get rid of him.
“That little Scottie-man happens to be my regional supervisor. I was going to try to get us on his team, but I can kiss that goodbye.”
I am even more thankful for my haphazard remark.
She doesn’t want to let go of the argument. “He is wearing a kilt for a reason…” She does a top to bottom survey of my wrinkled pink polo shirt and too-big khakis held up by an old man’s belt. Subconsciously she assures herself that she is not me. Her hands smooth the fabric of her pristine Anne Klein taupe slacks and her dainty knit sweater tank. I sense she wants to ask what my excuse is for my clothing choices.
But I really am perfectly dressed for the part. When Angelica invites one of us to her events, it is not usually to introduce us around or to have a good time in our presence. It is to make herself feel good by comparison.
Her eyes meet mine and she knows I know. I almost detect a nod above her strand of pearls.
I put on my dilated-pupils glasses—I really meant to get some normal ones for this—and prepare to have my rut pointed out in many different ways over the next few hours.
“Why are we in teams? Is this like a sponsored fund-raiser or a…what? Why are all these people here?” I always like to have a reason for enduring pain and humiliation. I am hoping for a children’s charity or Save the Wild Canyon Horses. Something redeeming.
Angelica shrugs her defined shoulders. “It is a morale boost
er for employees. You know how hard I work…we all work. It is a thank-you.” She settles on this last version as a nice compromise between something that benefits needy people or animals and something that is an extravagant pat on the back.
As we get our own baskets of golf balls she notices my face guard. “No. No. Not those glasses.” Her cheeks turn red and the muscles beneath her rose-tinted Gucci lenses are twitching. She must be rethinking her strategy of bringing me here. The flip side of hanging out with an undesirable is that one is seen hanging out with an undesirable. “I brought you here to help you to get you within normal distance range to your own peers. You are so…” She is speechless. There are no words in her social, contemporary, and very with-it vocabulary to label exactly what I am.
I remove the glasses and drape them on the neckline of my shirt. She winces at this barely better offer on my part.
I shut up at this point and practice my swing. I do more chucking in the general vicinity of the ball. My metal basket is still full when Angelica has depleted hers. Without a word she sets off to find us a beneficial duo to latch on to for the tournament so this whole day is not a wash for her.
After sending a few more errant balls toward the clubhouse, I take a break from the heat and head under the covered observation area. I hear Angelica’s voice off in the distance. “You’re kidding. You are such a kidder. Don’t even say that.” I don’t have to look to know she is surrounded by good-looking men and flipping her hair frequently in place of authentic dialogue.
“What am I doing here?” I ask my friend Empty Chair and slide an ashtray to the other side of the wobbly wrought-iron table.
“If you are like everyone else, you are here to network, schmooze, drink, and get a promotion, if you are lucky enough to get your supervisor to drink even more than you.” I turn to face the face of the voice. It is oval, beautiful, and comes with a set of the most amazing green eyes.