The Cubicle Next Door (28 page)

“Well…”

“Because I signed us up for something.”

“How? I don’t remember lending you my signature.”

“Well, if you can find someone’s signature, which I did…and you put a piece of paper, like an entry form on top of it, which I did…and you hold it up against a window…”

“The last time you signed me up for something, I ended up racing down Manitou Avenue in a coffin.”

“And you had a lot of fun. Admit it.”

“Maybe. Okay. I did.”

“Very good, Jackie! Now, maybe you can say, ‘Thank you, Joe.’”

“Thank you, Joe.”

“Meet me at my place on Saturday.”

This was it. A good time to act on my resolve. To tell Joe I wasn’t going out with him anymore. I climbed up onto the desk, airplane in hand; but as soon as I saw him, my resolve crumbled as if I’d never had any to begin with. I threw it down at him. “At what time?”

“Make that Friday after work. You throw like a girl. We’ll have to practice.”

“I throw like a girl?”

“Yep.”

“Is that supposed to be some kind of an insult? Because I
am
a girl.”

“I know. But you don’t have to throw like one. I’ll teach you. Hey. Do you guys have any fruitcake?”

“Fruitcake? No. Oh no, no, no. You signed me up for the Great Fruitcake Toss, didn’t you?”

“Did I?”

“Didn’t you?”

“I did. Do you have any?”

“No.” Grandmother and I didn’t believe in fruitcake.

“Then we’ll have to rent some.”

On Friday evening I knocked on his door.

Joe answered it, wearing his ridiculous knit cap—with flaps—and holding a fruitcake. He looked cute. So cute I wanted to reach out and…hug him, kiss him, do something.

So I made myself stand there and do nothing. “I thought you were going to rent some.”

“I was. But we have to practice. Might as well do it with the real thing.” He shut the door and jogged down his front steps. Paused at the bottom. “Are you coming?”

“I’m leaving the wrapper on.”

“Fine. Great. Here.” He slapped the brick of fruitcake into my hand.

“Couldn’t you find a lightweight version?”

“Hey, at least I didn’t get the round kind with the hole in the middle. Let’s see you throw it.”

I tossed it.

Joe leaned over to pick it up. “I didn’t say ‘toss.’ I said ‘throw.’”

“It’s a
toss
, Joe. The Great Fruitcake
Toss
.”

“You’re not going to win any prizes by tossing. You’ve got to throw it. Like this.” He leaned back and then launched it into the front lawn of the neighbors, two houses down. Then he had to jog over and get it. Jog back. “Put some oomph into it this time.”

Our oomph-o-meters must have been calibrated differently, because my throw yielded only slightly better results than the toss had.

He walked two steps, picked it up and brought it back. “Okay. Don’t push the fruitcake. Try to throw it. Launch it.” He picked up my forearm with both hands. Shook it, causing my wrist to flap. “Don’t be going all limp-wristed on me. Repeat after me: I am Woman! See me throw!”

“Repeat after me: Let go of my arm, or I’m going to hit you with it.”

He dropped it. “Okay. Good. Just channel all that negative energy into the fruitcake. Ready. Throw.”

Negative energy? All my energy that evening was positive. So positively focused on Joe that I was going to have to figure out how to moderate my feelings. And fast.

I threw it.

Basically, I pretended it was Joe’s head and I flung it. Far, far away from me. It landed in the yard next door.

“I knew you could do it!”

It snowed that evening. Hard. But by morning the skies were clear, the drifts were sparkling. If tradition held, the sun would melt it and in two days the snow would be just a fond memory. Today, however, it was cold. And Converse low-tops do not a pair of boots make.

I pulled on a T-shirt and two sweaters. Who knew how long we’d be standing around Memorial Park, waiting to toss our fruitcake?

I looped the scarf around my neck for good measure. About five times. It was ten feet long. Pulled on mittens. Toggled my coat up over everything.

Joe showed up right on time. Figured. He probably couldn’t wait to start throwing fruitcake.

He held a thin square box in one hand and a fruitcake in the other.

“Ready?”

“In a minute. This is for you.” He held out the box. “Merry Christmas.”

I took it from him, sat on the stairs, took off the lid, and lifted out the present. It was an oblong scarf, at least six feet long. It was wool, of the finest weight. And it hadn’t been subjected to shrinking in any sort of dryer. It was striped in sage, burgundy, and midnight blue. The borders were decorated with a fantastical riot of paisleys.

It was the nicest thing I’d ever owned.

“I bought it at a vintage store when I was in Idaho. They said it was from India. Originally. And I thought…I mean…I know you like Indian movies…so, anyway…”

“Thank you. Very much.” I unbuttoned my coat, unwound my own scarf from my neck, and draped it around the banister. “Guess you won’t have to feel sorry for me anymore, wearing this scarf.”

I went to the mirror in the hall and put Joe’s scarf on. “Am I up to your standards now?”

“You were always up to my standards. It reminded me of you; I thought it was pretty.”

It
was
pretty. And I felt like a chameleon, changing my spots. Because even though it had come from a vintage store, it was a better kind of vintage than I had ever bought. Draped around my neck, it made me feel like a kinder, gentler sort of Jackie.

This was a whole different experience than the Christmas Ball. Then, my finery had been borrowed. No one had pretended it was anything but temporary. And I had, admittedly, looked very nice. Quite nice. Stunning, in Joe’s own words. I could be that way for one night. And it didn’t matter, because I knew in the morning I would go back to being me. The real me.

This scarf was also real. But it was not me. Definitely not the me that I am. But it did represent a me that I could be. All the time, if I cared to.

And I did. As I was looking in the mirror, I wanted that reflection to be me. All the time. My traitorous soul was doing backflips that Joe had bought me a scarf and that he seemed to want me to look nice. And the worst part was I wanted to look nice for him.

Me.

Miss Shrunken Sweater Converse.

Me.

I was not supposed to care about things like this. I was not supposed to care about Joe.

But what could I do? I couldn’t not wear it.

So I fastened my coat, shoved on my mittens, and walked with Joe down to the park.

It was strange, wearing something Joe had gotten me. It was intimate. Sort of like having him wrapped around my neck. We stood on the sidewalk, waiting for a gap in the traffic so we could cross the street. I caught a glimpse of myself in a storefront window. Caught myself liking the way the scarf looked.

We watched some preliminary events while we waited for the actual toss to begin. And all the while the scarf sat there wrapped around my neck, twisting itself into my thoughts. Warping them. Making me see myself differently. Making me think different things.

I didn’t like it.

I was living inside a vortex. Everything was spinning out of control.

By the time my turn to toss came, I think I might have actually hated Joe. Hated him for being thoughtful. And kind. And including me in all his stupid schemes. I hated him for making me laugh. For making me scream. For making me blog. But most of all, I hated him for making me care what I looked like.

I took all that negative energy and channeled it into the fruitcake. In fact, I was the fruitcake. I became the fruitcake: A vile mix of ingredients nobody ever really wanted.

When it came time to toss, I hurled. I threw it so hard I won first prize. In the women’s category.

“Fantastic! I knew you could do it!” Joe high-fived me. “You know why you won, right?”

“Because I threw it. With oomph.”

“Nope. Because all the other women threw like girls.”

Of course they did. Because they
were
girls.

And I didn’t want to be. Couldn’t be. Had no right to long for things I couldn’t have.

THE CUBICLE NEXT DOOR BLOG

Me

All I ever wanted to be was me. It’s the only thing I was ever good at. And then you came along. It’s not as if you want me to be someone else. It’s more like you want me to be…more of myself. Is that possible? It’s as if you see more in me than I do. But, the thing is, when I’m with you, I do too. But I don’t know if I want to. There are certain things I told myself I wasn’t interested in being or doing. But since there’s been you, I find I am.

Posted on January 6 in
The Cubicle Next Door | Permalink

Comments

It sounds as if you need to make a decision. Decision-making theory is a fascinating field of study. Most people satisfice when they make decision—that is, they make a decision that is “good enough.” One which will satisfy them. However, psychologists also realize that other factors come into play: conflict resolution and avoidance theory. Which brings me back to the theory of cognitive dissonance. Eventually you will have to resolve the contradictions of your perceptions of yourself.

Posted by:
NozAll | January 6 at 08:09 PM

Will somebody stick a cork in him please?

Posted by:
justluvmyjob | January 7 at 07:03 AM

Listen, if John Smith makes you unhappy, then he’s not worth it.

Posted by:
survivor | January 7 at 08:45 AM

All you ever wanted to be was you? Maybe that’s the only thing he ever wanted you to be too.

Posted by:
theshrink | January 7 at 09:16 AM

Don’t you guys get it? John Smith is making her realize how unhappy she has been, not how unhappy she is right now. He makes her happy. Or at least he has the ability to.

Posted by:
philosophie | January 7 at 09:52 AM

Twenty-Eight

T
he next week Joe was at it again. He caught me off guard as I was getting ready to go home.

“Let’s go skiing.”

“We already went skiing.”

“Downhill.”

“No.”

“Come on. We tried cross-country. Now it’s my turn.”

“We’re not taking turns. Don’t you have any other friends?”

“No. Don’t you?”

“Of course.”

“Who?”

I started naming people from my online groups. “Byteboy. CybrGrl. MuthrBrd.”

“ByteBoy? What kind of a mother would name her son ByteBoy? Is he an android or a person?”

“They’re online names. From message boards.”

“Have you ever met any of these people? In real life?”

“No.”

“But they’re your friends?”

“I talk to them every day.”

“Have you ever thought you might be screwed up?”

“Have you ever thought you might be a pain in the butt? Listen, are you trying to make me feel sorry for you? Guilt me into going skiing?”

“Yes.”

“It’s not working.”

“What if I started whining?”

“No. You’ve been monopolizing all my free time. At first, I was just trying to be nice to you. But now you’re annoying. I have things I need to do.”

“Like what?”

“Like…lots of things.”

“List five and I’ll leave you alone.”

“I am not a cruise director. I’m not responsible for you having a good time. I don’t even normally like having fun.”

“So that means you
do
have fun when you’re with me.”

“It means you’re on your own.”

That worked for a couple of days. But then he was back, hounding me, harassing me, bullying me into skiing with him. It wouldn’t have worked except I’d become addicted to him. My will was gone. Both my spirit and my flesh were weak. I began to flirt with the idea, even though I knew it could ruin my life. Forever.

And the next time he asked, I said yes.

“Great. We’ll go on Monday since it’s a holiday. I’m driving. I’ll pick you up at seven.”

I would have said something else to him, but all I saw was his back as he walked down the hall.

On Monday I woke to brilliant sunshine streaming through my windows. With any kind of luck, all the snow in the mountains would have melted. Maybe it would be too warm to ski.

I decided to call Joe. Just to check.

“Morning, Jackie.”

“How did you know it was me?”

“Who else would be calling to try to weasel out of going skiing?”

“But have you looked outside yet? The sun is shining. The snow’s probably melting. Who wants to ski in slush?”

He just laughed. “Seven o’clock. And remember to bring sunglasses.” After saying that, he hung up on me.

I jumped into the shower and nearly scrubbed all my skin off.

I was that mad.

I didn’t like the thought of downhill skiing. It just made it possible to fall faster down the side of a mountain. I didn’t like the odds of downhill skiing. Falling faster just provided more opportunities to break a bone. I didn’t even like the concept of downhill skiing. Being out in the snow sharing a private glimpse of nature with hundreds of other people I wouldn’t know.

Except for Joe.

Was it worth it? Really, truly worth it?

Maybe.

And that thought just made me more mad. What was wrong with me? Over the past six months I’d done at least a dozen things I’d never done before. At least!

I pulled on layers of clothing. Filled a backpack with waterproof outer layers, gloves, a hat. And sunglasses.

I didn’t usually wear them. I preferred to see the landscape around me in its natural colors. But for rare occasions like this one, I’d bought the biggest pair of sunglasses in the thrift store. Betty had seen them once and referred to them as “Jackie O’s.” Personally, I thought they looked more like a bug’s eyes. The important thing was they protected both of mine and kept me from squinting.