Following My Toes (5 page)

Keep in mind, I grew up in a town where the population is under 4,000, and
Sorel
boots are the footwear of choice, even at the fanciest restaurants. (Well, the one fancy restaurant, Splashing Rock Restaurant—where the elk steak is superb.) When I moved to
Duluth
I was overwhelmed, and
Duluth
is a third the size of
Minneapolis
alone. But if you take
Minneapolis
and combine it with
St. Paul
(which is just over the river from
Minneapolis
) and all of the suburbs, that’s at least a million people. There are a lot of options in a town of a mil-lion, and options were one thing I needed a lot of.

“Why do you have grease on your shoulder?” Carolyn asked as we walked.

I looked down, and lo and behold, there was a brown stain on my green Gap t-shirt. Oops.

“My car broke down,” I explained. “And the mechanic was kind of a jerk.”

“Then why did you let him get close enough to touch your shoulder?”

“I don’t know. He was a cute, touchy-feely sort of jerk.”

Carolyn shook her head. “I hate these new age car mechanics. What ever happened to the good old days, when they’d simply stare at your breasts, talk to you like you’re five, and rob you blind?”

Carolyn led me to this Italian restaurant called Figlios. It had huge brick ovens behind a glass wall, where the chefs in poofy white hats and aprons prepared the food. It also had a bar away from the dining area that looked out onto the street. Carolyn told me that the bar is always hopping in the evening, especially on weekends. However, since it was late afternoon on a Monday, things were rather slow.

“Two please,” Carolyn told the hostess. “We’d like to sit outside if possible.”

We were seated at a table where we could watch all the Uptowners walk by. This included professionals, grungy youth, same-sex couples holding hands, and all sorts of individuals with various hair colors and body piercings. Our table may as well have been for three: Carolyn, me, and my culture shock. Uninvited as she was, she was nevertheless a welcome friend, as I was too accustomed to the industrial-city-full-of-old-people feel of
Duluth
. Carolyn ordered us a bottle of wine and some appetizers. Soon we were sitting back, dipping bread in olive oil, and discussing life’s problems in a way that’s only possible if you are slightly drunk in the middle of Monday afternoon.

“So how are you and Charles? Are you two going to get married soon?”

A cloud passed over Carolyn’s pretty face. For a moment I regretted asking such a blunt question. But the unspoken agreement in our friendship has always been we can say anything to each other

“I don’t know,” she said. “He wants to get married.” Charles and Carolyn met around three years ago and have lived together for the last two. They’ve always seemed like an undoubtedly happy couple.

“Really? Did he like, propose?”

“No, not exactly.”

“What do you mean? Either he did or he didn’t. You can’t sort of propose.”

“If you’re Charles you can.” Carolyn put down her drink, and leaned forward to explain. “You see, we were at his mom’s for dinner one night. She had made his favorite, meatloaf and garlic mashed potatoes. You know I hate that sort of food. But I ate it, because I didn’t want to be rude. Well, afterwards we’re driving home, and I said something about how I felt ill after eating that stuff. He got all offended, thinking that I was insulting his mother’s cooking. I’m like ‘Charles, I have nothing against your mom or her cooking. I just hate meatloaf and mashed potatoes. They’re mushy, and you know how I can’t stand mushy food.’ We’ve been together for nearly three years. You would think he would get that.”

I looked at Carolyn as she took a bite of pasta. “What about what you’re eating now? Isn’t that mushy?”

“No!! Pasta is not mushy, it’s soft, but it still has texture. There’s a huge difference. Mashed potatoes and meatloaf lack texture.”

“Sort of like my hair.”

“No, not like your hair. Your hair is great. All those natural highlights, I wish mine was like that.”

Carolyn was being nice. She has great hair. It is thick, straight, and long. And in addition, it’s blond, real blond, which complements her rosy-tan complexion perfectly. Combine that with her effusive smile and dark brown eyes, and she could easily be a model. But Carolyn aspires to be a serious actress. She’s actually said she wishes she wasn’t so good looking, because it’s hard to get directors to take her seriously. I only wish I had her problems.

“Anyway,” she said. “So Charles is like, ‘Carolyn, once we’re mar-ried, you’re going to have to learn to actually cook that food, so you may as well learn to like it now.’ And I’m like, ‘You’re joking, right?’ not even paying attention to the married thing, but only thinking about the cooking stuff. Because Charles has never expected me to cook him anything. But he gets all huffy. ‘Why would I joke about getting married? We’ve been together for a long time. Why is getting married such a funny idea?’ I’m like, ‘It isn’t.’ And that was all we said. We got home, he turned on the television, and I went to bed. Then he didn’t come to bed until several hours later. We haven’t talked about it since.”

“How long ago was that?”

“A couple of weeks.”

“Well, maybe you should bring it up again. What’s the worst that could happen? Charles is a great guy, and the two of you have such a wonderful relationship.”

“You don’t get it,” said Carolyn. “Not everything with us is as great as it seems.”

“Don’t you want to get married?”

Carolyn shrugged her shoulders, and took a gulp of wine. “Sure, someday. But now? I don’t know. I mean, I love Charles. But I’ve loved myself longer, you know?”

I laughed, and Carolyn smiled. She fingered the rim of her glass and continued. “No, but seriously. I feel like it’s a choice. Like if I marry him, that’s it. I will never be a serious actress, and that’s all I’ve ever wanted, for as long as I can remember. I’ve already sacrificed so much, just by staying here. If I’m ever going to leave for
New York
or LA, I have to do it soon. Otherwise...” she didn’t finish, but her thoughts remained out there, like an imminent rainstorm. I could almost smell the dankness in the air.

“You would leave Charles?” I said in almost a whisper, not want-ing to sound judgmental.

“Maybe. I don’t know, it’s just...He’ll never leave here. His band is here, and his family, who he’s very close to. I can understand, but at the same time, I sort of resent him for it, even if it isn’t his fault. And I don’t want to resent him.”

I didn’t know what to say so I tried to lighten the mood. “Who says it isn’t his fault? I’ve come to the conclusion that all relationship problems are caused by men. They don’t know how to communicate, and they forget all the important stuff.”

“Like what?”

“Like, it’s not okay to bone your girlfriend’s best friend. Stuff like that.”

Carolyn forced a smile. “I thought I was your best friend.”

“Well, you certainly are now. You’ve been promoted.”

“Thanks,” she said. “I’m honored.”

At that moment Charles showed up. He was still in his work clothes, a white shirt and black pants, so he looked like he could have been one of the wait staff at the restaurant where we were. He almost looked too clean cut to be in a successful rock band, except for the way he wove his blond curls into dreadlocks. He sat down next to Carolyn and, putting his arm around her, gave her an adoring look. Together, they could have been Barbie and Ken, only with more depth, and no doubts about Ken’s sexuality. “Hey.” he said.

“Hi!” she exclaimed back, her face relaxing into a delighted smile, and with it all of her reservations seemed to have disappeared. Charles turned to me.

“So you made it.”

“Yup, she did.” said Carolyn. She gently poked him in the stomach, and then began to tickle him. “You owe me fifteen bucks.”

Charles laughed. “How about I pick up the bill?”

* * *

I am psychic in a fairly normal way. In fact my ability is the most common one to have, which is precognition. That’s the ability to know about something before it happens. And, the most widespread way to experience it is through dreams. It can also happen through waking visions, auditory hallucinations, flashing thoughts, or a sense of knowing. I’ve only ever had the dreams and the sense of knowing, except for once when I was sure that I saw a cloud formation that looked like a heart, and later that day I had chest pains.

I used to have my premonitory dreams several times a month. Of course, they didn’t all come true. But you see, precognition is the ability to sense how things could be. Nothing is fixed, my visions are meant merely to offer up something that might happen. So I’m never going to be one hundred percent accurate.

But once I got down to the cities my abilities all but vanished. It wasn’t a matter of whether or not my premonitions were accurate; they simply didn’t exist at all, save for two exceptions. I’ll get to the second one later, but the first one happened during my first night at Carolyn’s.

I was having a fitful night sleeping on the futon. Although they were whispering, I was sure Charles and Carolyn were fi ghting on the other side of their bedroom door, although I could not hear what about. I kept drifting off to sleep and waking again, but I swear their fight lasted more than a couple of hours. After three or four cycles of this, I woke up, but I was no longer in Charles and Carolyn’s living room. I was on the couch in the lounge of my parents’ bed and breakfast. And I felt very good, like I was about to melt into a perfect pool of birthday cake, silk pajamas, and hugs.

Then I noticed all of the stuffed dead animals that surrounded me. They were as creepy as ever, staring at me with their claws and teeth bared; they appeared truculent and ready for battle in an “I’m stuffed and dead” sort of way. But I wasn’t scared, because I sensed a presence in the room, a good presence keeping me warm and safe. Then the presence got up and left me, and I thought, “I have to reach Carolyn!” Then I woke up and realized the whole thing had actually been a dream.

The next morning I got up before Charles and Carolyn, so I had made some coffee by the time Carolyn emerged from the bedroom in her white kimono, man’s undershirt and boxers. Although she was clearly attempting to wear a brave face, the fight had taken its toll. Her eyes were puffy and her expression grim. I was tempted to ask what was up, but I figured she would feel self-conscious if she knew I heard them last night.

“Hey,” she said, walking to meet me in the small kitchen. “Thanks for making coffee. How did you sleep?”

“I slept fine,” I told her, pouring a cup and handing it to her. “And I made a decision. I want to stay in
Minneapolis
.”

Instantly a smile broke onto Carolyn’s face, and I was rewarded by my news cheering her up. “Oh, Faith! That’s great. I think you’re making the right the decision.”

In case you’re confused, my decision to move had nothing to do with my dream. I had simply come to the conclusion there was no way I could stay in
Duluth
. I do have a way of just knowing things, and having been in
Minneapolis
for less than twenty-four hours I already felt like my life was back on track.

“Me too,” I told her. “But there is one thing. I still need to go up north in July to help my parents with the stuffing convention.” That decision was based on my dream.

“Okay,” said Carolyn. “That’s no big deal.”

“Yeah, but you need to come with me.”

After breakfast I called my landlord in
Duluth
and the principal of my school to let them know of my decision. I also called my parents to fill them in. All in all I think they took the news fairly well, especially after I told them Carolyn and I would work for free for the entire weekend of the stuffing convention.

Of all my friends, Carolyn is the only person who actually believes in my psychic abilities. So when I told her that it was very important that we go, she bought it. I didn’t mention the part in my dream when I sensed I needed to save her from dead animals; it didn’t seem necessary. I only described how good I felt in the first part of the dream, and how I had an awareness of urgency to get to her. I felt sure if I could only reach her, then good things would happen to us both. She said, “If it’s that important to you, I’ll go.” I wish everyone were as agreeable as Carolyn.

Anyway, that day she was off from work. Since I still didn’t have my car, she drove me around so I could do some apartment hunting, as well as check out some potential jobs. It’s all well and good to decide rather impulsively to move to a
new city
and start a new life, but doing so makes the need for a job and place to live immediately important.

Our first stop was a little office called “Roommate Referrals.” There I paid a small fee, and filled out a questionnaire about whom I was and what my living habits and preferences were. You know, things like whether or not I’m a smoker, and if I like to stay up late and party, or if I prefer peace, quiet, and the like. I was also supposed to answer questions about whom I wouldn’t want to live with, i.e., do I have any prejudices. I tried to be as open-minded as possible. I said that I was willing to live with the opposite sex, with any given ethnic minority, and alternative life styles weren’t a problem. The only place I drew the line was with transvestites. I couldn’t stand the idea of a guy roommate looking better in a skirt than I do.

Before I left, the lady entered my questionnaire into the computer, and it spit out a list of people who were both looking for roommates and would supposedly be compatible with me. She also said my number would be handed out to people until I told her I found a place and they closed my file. I vowed to call all the people on the list later that day.

Then Carolyn drove me to the
Minneapolis
School District
main office, the bureaucratic heart and soul of the dozens of schools throughout the city. Once there, we were told that the list of current job openings was on the second fl oor. Carolyn reached the list first, which was hanging from the wall in a similar fashion to how a phone book in a booth is hung. She started looking for me.

“Hmm,” she said, as she rifled through. “There are a lot of openings in English as a second language. Can you do that?”

“No. You need a whole separate license for that. Look under ‘L’ for ‘Language Arts.’”

Carolyn skipped through several pages of the list. “Language Arts. Oh! Here’s one. At
Olson
Middle School
.”

“Is that it? One job opening in Language Arts for the entire district?” The
Minneapolis
district has six large high schools, and many more middle schools. I was expecting at least a few jobs open in my area.

“Yeah, unless it would be listed as something else?”

“No,” I said. “That’s what it would be listed as. No, wait, did you look under the section called ‘useless degrees’? Maybe there’s something there?”

Carolyn smiled, refusing to feel sorry for me. “Do you want to apply for the one that’s open?”

“I don’t know. It’s middle school. I’m not experienced in teaching that. Do you know anything about the school?”

“Well, no, but it is on the north side of town.”

“Meaning what?” I enquired.

“Nothing. I’m sure it’s fine.”

Carolyn is a terrible liar. “What?” I demanded.

She sighed. “It’s just that the northern side of
Minneapolis
is known for being kind of seedy. You know, like there’s a problem with gangs and poverty, that sort of thing. But I’m sure it’s all blown out of proportion.”

“Great,” I said. “So the only job open is teaching 13 year old gang members. Every educator’s dream.”

Carolyn said, “Then don’t apply. There are all the suburban districts, and
St. Paul
, and private schools. You’ll find something.”

“No,” I said. “If jobs are scarce in this district, then I bet they’re scarce all over. I might as well cover my bases where I can.” I marched over to a secretary. She was sitting in a cubicle covered with pictures of koala bears and Ricky Martin. Her sweatshirt, which I expect she bought before she gained those holiday pounds, read “Proud Parent of CSU Student.” Maybe her son picked it for her. I’m assuming it was her son; a daughter probably would have gotten the size right.

“Excuse me, I would like to apply for a teaching position.” I was oozing professionalism, but the woman did not smile.

Instead she sighed, reached under her desk, and brought up a heavy stack of papers. In a voice that had clearly uttered these words thousands of times already she told me, “You need to fill out the background check form first, and submit that on your way out.” She pointed to the blue sheets of paper that she was holding. “Then you need to get in this form by the end of the week. Make sure you supply a detailed description of all your work experience, and accurate names and phone numbers of previous employers. We also need three letters of recommendation, which should have been written no more than a year ago. Submit those with your application, an official copy of your college transcripts, a current teaching license, and your essay.”

“My essay?” I asked.

She pulled out a form from the bottom of the stack.

“You need to write a 1000-word essay about your goals as a teacher, and your personal educational philosophy. Make sure to describe any powerful influences you may have had from within the profession, and you may also want to mention victories you have had as a teacher.”

I swallowed, and ignored that I was breaking out in a nervous sweat. “And after I submit all of this, do I get an interview with the principal?”

She laughed. “After you submit these forms, if they meet with our approval, you will be called in for an interview with our district hiring supervisors. They will ask you basic questions regarding your educational experience and practices. If you pass this initial interview, then you will be admitted into the
Minneapolis
school district hiring pool.”

“What does that mean?”

She sighed again, and continued on as if she was speaking to a small and stupid child. “It means that if, after all the displaced teachers who already work within the district have bid for positions, there are still openings in your area of license, that principals will have access to your application, and can call you in for an interview if they so desire.”

“Okay, so before I spend hours on my application, let’s make sure I get this. There is one job open in language arts, and that job is only open if there aren’t any other language arts teachers already in the district who want it?”

“That’s correct,” she said. “And to be honest, the chances of that are slim. We’ve had a lot of budget cuts this year, so a lot of our good teachers were laid off.”

“Thanks for your help,” I said. I walked off, leaving the thick stack of applications still on her desk.

“It’s hopeless,” I told Carolyn once we were down in the car. “Reality is setting in. I’m going to lose the deposit on my apartment in Duluth since I’m not giving them adequate notice, I’m going to have to live with a stranger down here, my job prospects are poor; I mean, remind me again of why I’m doing this?”

“Because,” said Carolyn, “you need to do this for yourself. You’ll regret it someday if you don’t.”

I was sure she was right, but I made no reply. After a moment, she said, “Don’t worry. I’ll help you. Things will work out, you’ll see.”

“Thanks, Carolyn.”

“Anytime.” Although I did not say it aloud, I wondered why it was so important to Carolyn that I move down here. She had Charles, and I’d always had the impression that she had a wide circle of friends whom she knew from work and the theater. Why did she need me?

We drove back to her place to grab something to eat, and found a message on her answering machine. Carolyn pressed play and a deep voice projected itself.

“Hello, this message is for Faith. This is your condescending and lewd mechanic Ethan, from Honest Abe’s Garage. I took a look at your car, and you were a little low on oil, and, oh, your rear-sway bar is about to snap. We definitely don’t want that to happen. But I would (pause) love to give you a brand new rear-sway, which should cost around two hundred bucks. Otherwise, though, I would say that you’re in (pause) really good condition. But I don’t want to mess with your parts without your consent, so, uh, call me back and let me know what you need. However, I went ahead and (pause) replenished your oil. That’s on me. Anyway, give me a call. So yeah, it’s Ethan, 555-6721. Talk to you later, Faith.”

Was he laughing with me or laughing at me? I couldn’t tell.

“Oh my God, that’s your mechanic?” Carolyn had made her way toward the kitchen, which meant she was still close enough to have been able to hear the entire message. “What’s with the sexy flirty voice?”

“You think his voice is sexy?”

“Yeah! You don’t?”

“I think it’s kind of sleazy. Did you hear him talk about replenishing my oil and messing with my parts? Don’t you think he sounds a little depraved?”

Carolyn laughed as she reached into the fridge. “Oh Faith, lighten up! He was only joking.” She pulled out bread, celery and mayo. I knew without asking that she was making tuna, so I grabbed the can

from her pantry, and she handed me the can-opener.

“How do you know?” I asked. “Maybe he’s really like that.”

“Like what? He was talking about your car.”

“Carolyn, you heard the message. It was clearly sexual.”

“So what if it was?”

“Well, how do I know he isn’t like that with all of his female customers?”

“You don’t. But who cares if he is? I mean, didn’t you say he was cute?”

“Yeah. He’s kind of cute. I guess.”

“Is he or isn’t he?”

“He is. If you like his type, yeah.”

“What’s his type?” Carolyn asked, as she finished chopping the celery. I handed her the bowl with the tuna so she could add the celery and the mayo.

I went to pour us some iced tea as she put together our sandwiches. “Wavy dark hair, olive skin, green eyes...”

She cut me off. “And his body?”

“Pretty good. He’s not very tall, but you can tell he works out.” Against my better judgment I decided to include this next piece of information. “He looked good in the coveralls he was wearing. Especially his butt.”

“Does he have mechanic biceps?”

“Yeah, he does.”

“So who cares if he picks up on other women!” she cried. “You’re not looking for another serious relationship, you’re looking for a rebound fling! Go there, have sex with him in the garage! Get oil all over yourself, and run your hands all over his muscles and through his wavy dark hair! It will do you good. Hell, I’d go and do it for you if I could. But as it is, I’ll have to live vicariously through you. Just make sure he wears a condom.”

“Right, I’ll keep that in mind.” Thing was, if I could wiggle my nose and turn myself into a brash and brave person (like Carolyn), I would have already been having burning, blistering garage sex with Ethan. But I was still myself, and I didn’t have the power or the temerity to change. So I felt more like an uptight English teacher than a wild seductress as I picked up the phone, and I vowed simply to talk in a reasonable way about my car.

“Honest Abe’s.” Ethan had answered on the first ring.

“Um, hi Ethan. This is Faith. Returning your call. You called about my rear sway bar...

“Faith! Hey, how’s it going?” He spoke like we had been friends for years. And he still used that sexy voice, but maybe that was how he naturally spoke.

“I’m fine,” I said. To be polite I added in, “How are you?”

“I’m good, thanks for asking. Hey, I want to apologize again for my attitude yesterday. My ex had stopped in not long before you got there, and I was taking my frustration out on you. Sorry about that.”

I had to ask. “Is that why you said you shouldn’t be joking about relationship problems?”

He chuckled. “Yeah. Why is it so hard to be friends with someone after the romance is over?”

I wasn’t sure if he posing a rhetorical question, or if he truly wanted my opinion. “Um... I’m the wrong person to ask.”

“Oh yeah? You aren’t still friends with the guy who dumped you?”

“No. No, I’m not.”

“Why? Is it because you’re still too hurt and angry, or do you have no interest in him as a friend? Because I don’t think we usually pick people we have a lot in common with to date. You know what I’m saying, or is that just me? Maybe I need to find a woman with whom I have more in common.”