Authors: Laurel Osterkamp
I was sure the opposite would be true for Bryce.
“Take care,” he said, standing on the curb next to my
beat-up Toyota, which was packed to the gills with my college-possessions. I
was about to drive away for the summer.
“Have a good break,” I replied, and I hugged him, taking in
the sweet smell of his skin for what I was sure would be the last time.
He hugged me back, and whispered into my hair, “We’ll still
talk, Lucy.”
I nodded my head as I pulled away from him, but I figured
this was goodbye. My summer was to be spent interning at a mayor’s office in
Iowa, where it would be my job to help develop a citywide recycling initiative.
That was too important of a job to be distracted by a long-distance
relationship. I reasoned that if I weren't contacting him, he wouldn’t be
contacting me either.
But Bryce called and wrote, and when I came back to campus
this fall, he was waiting at my door to help me move back in. So yeah, this
September I lost my virginity to the one guy who sounded credible when he said
he’d do anything for me. I suppose Jack would have eventually made a similar
claim, but we’re better off as friends.
And even though Bryce isn’t like Jack, and we can’t talk for
hours and hours about nothing, it felt right. Being with Bryce, listening to
Enya, feeling the scratchy Mexican blanket against the bare skin of my back,
inhaling the smell of the pine candles and his shampoo, it all made me feel as
if I had reached some important rite of passage.
Now, months later, both Clinton and Bryce are still in my
life. It’s election eve and my blue formica kitchen table is littered with
Clinton/Gore fliers. I signed up to do a lit drop tonight, and it’s time to get
organized. First I need to call the person who’s supposed to accompany me, and
make sure we’re good to go.
It takes me a minute or two to find it in my book bag,
amidst all the notebooks, floppy discs, and library books, but I locate his
number and I’m literally reaching for the phone to call when it rings beneath
my outstretched hand. I don’t want to pick up on the first ring, so I leave my
arm suspended over the phone, count to ten, and then pick it up.
“Hello?”
“Hey, Lucy.”
A male voice greets me, but it’s the one I already know,
intimately. I sit at the kitchen table, which is as far as the phone cord will
stretch.
“What’s up, Bryce?”
“You stopping by later?”
By “later” I know he means any time after 10, and by
“stopping by” I know he means coming over to go to bed. Not that we don’t
occasionally have more formal dates, but sometimes it just makes sense to cut
to the chase. For instance, last week I asked him what he thought about the
civil war in Somalia, and if he thinks the U.S. should intervene. Instead of
answering, he just grabbed me and we started making out. And I get it; he’s a twenty-one-year-old
guy. His instincts are probably way more natural than mine. But what I can’t
figure out is this: are we beyond having conversations, or are we incapable of
it? If it’s the latter, perhaps I need to break up with him.
“I can’t. I told you, I’m doing the lit drop, remember?”
“Oh. What about after?”
“We don’t start until midnight. I won’t be done until at
least two.”
“Stop by. I’ll be awake. And if I’m not, you can wake me
up.”
His voice grows low and smooth as he says that, and I’m
reminded that his eyes aren’t the only part of him I am drawn to.
“I’ll try.”
I can hear him smile over the phone; his smiles are often
paired with a deep and tiny little grunt. “Good. See you later, then.”
“Maybe, Bryce. I said I’d try. It depends on how long it takes,
and on how tired I am.”
“Right,” he says, his voice still like warm caramel. “Good
luck. Go get us a new president.”
“That’s the idea. I should go though, I have a ton of…”
“…things to do.” He finishes my sentence for me, a habit of
his I make a concerted effort to find charming rather than annoying.
“Bye, Bryce.”
Last spring I wouldn’t have ever dreamed that I’d have so
many doubts. However, I’m graduating in seven months, and it’s approaching the
time to make some big-girl decisions. Should I be with a guy who I have nothing
in common with? Does it make it worth it if, sometimes, he brings me the same
type of joy I get hearing an ice cream truck’s music, as it barrels down the
street on a peaceful summer evening? Still, I have to admit that being with
Bryce is more like eating a cookie—still sweet, but not nearly as
special.
And sometimes, I have more important things to do.
After we hang up, I call the number of the guy—Frank
is his name—who I’m supposed to be doing the lit drop with tonight, and
get his answering machine. The recording says, “Hey! We’re not here right now,
so leave a message.”
I do as directed, and tell Frank when and where to meet me.
Then I open up a bag of Dunkaroos and settle into my public policy homework,
which is a reading about the issues that come up when analyzing
non-experimental social science data, and the tools necessary for empirical
research. Normally I’d find it interesting, but today it’s difficult to focus.
Why?
That’s easy; Bill Clinton is going to win. The lit drop I’m
going on tonight is merely to remind people to vote, and Bryce was joking when
he made that crack about getting us a new president. He knows as well as I do
that the wheels are in motion, and everything I do or don’t do is
inconsequential. A new era is about to dawn, and I just want to feel like I’m
part of it.
I wasn’t always so confident. Several months ago George Bush
had an extremely high approval rating, and Ross Perot had dropped out of the
race. Then Bush betrayed his lips and the country when he broke his “No New
Taxes” promise, and Perot reentered the race while accusing the press of
sabotaging his daughter’s wedding. Meanwhile, Clinton played his saxophone on
The Arsenio Hall Show
and dubbed himself
the comeback kid.
It’s like the stars were aligned. This time, my guy is going
to win, and the victory will be sweet.
After I’ve eaten my last chocolate kangaroo cookie dunked in
white icing, I finish my reading and write some notes. I get up and move into
the living room, where I do calf stretches against the edge of our futon couch.
I’m debating turning on the television, but those Clinton/Gore “Get out and
Vote” fliers aren’t going to organize themselves. Then my roommate, Sharon,
walks through the front door.
Sharon was my best friend in high school, but as she’s a
year older than me, I was left adrift in a sea of angst when she graduated
while I had to stay and complete my senior year. She’s making it up to me now
that she’s finished with college. She moved to Minneapolis this fall for an entry-level
job at a bank, and we’re sharing an apartment close to campus.
“Hey, you,” she says, bringing the autumn day inside with
her. I can smell the cool, fresh air bouncing off her jacket as she takes it
off, and her cheeks are red from the wind.
She looks around, comes into the living room, and collapses
into our papasan chair. “Why do we have a bunch of Clinton/Gore fliers on our
table?”
“I’m doing a lit drop later.”
“Of course you are,” she says with a sigh. “What time do you
have to leave for it?”
“Late. Why?”
Sharon doesn’t acknowledge my question. “And are you going
over to Bryce’s afterwards?”
“Maybe, I don’t know.”
She just shakes her head. “I’m going to take a shower.” With
that, she gets up and goes to the bathroom. I’m left trying to interpret her
disdain. Is she mad about Bryce or the fliers?
Lately Sharon and I have experienced some bumps in the road.
It all started when she confessed to me she had become a Republican.
“What?” I had yelled.
“Don’t overreact, Lucy. It’s not like I’ve sold my soul to
the devil.” We were at a bar popular with the college crowd, sitting at a
sticky table, eating free popcorn and drinking cheap beer. She had come
straight from work, wearing business attire, which made her the only one in the
room not dressed in grungy flannel and ripped jeans.
“But, why?” She may as well be my sister, but hearing she
was planning to vote for Bush was like all of a sudden being told that I’m
adopted.
“Because, I believe in state’s rights, and I don’t like the
Democrats’ way of wanting to fund everything. It’s just not practical.”
I licked the salt from my lips and took a swig of my Leinenkugel.
I needed to be careful before I spoke, and not say something I couldn’t take
back.
“Sharon, you have to admit that Bush is weak on the
economy.”
“No I don’t. And Clinton wants to take from the rich and
give to the poor. That’s not how a capitalistic society ought to work.”
“Clinton wants to create jobs so poor people can contribute
to society and pay their own way. That’s exactly how a capitalistic society
should work.”
Sharon scowls and chews her popcorn before she answers. “But
how
does he want to create jobs? By
taxing the rich! If rich people are doing well, they’ll create jobs because
they can, not because they have to.”
I knew this line of reasoning. I’ve debated many a
Republican over the past four years in my poli-sci classes, and I’ve never
changed a single one of their minds. So yes, I could have told her that funding
education and giving tax breaks to single mothers and small businesses is not
stealing from the rich, but I didn’t. I couldn’t keep a level head, not with
Sharon.
“But…” I said, trying to form words, “Bush is
evil
.”
Sharon wasn’t offended the way I would be if she had said
the same about Clinton. Instead she laughed. “Give me a break, Lucy. Bush isn’t
the one who cheated on his wife.”
“That’s not the issue,” I said, all huffed up.
“They’re both politicians,” she answered, keeping her voice
level. “Neither of them is completely bad or completely good. So can’t we just
agree to disagree?”
I nodded my head, because really, what choice did I have?
Sharon is my best friend; I couldn’t turn away from her over this.
But it’s been hard to ignore
the tension that has come between us.
At around midnight I set out to meet the enigmatic Frank, to
do our lit drop. The campaign office is adamant about young female college
students not walking the neighborhoods alone, especially at night. I can see
their point, but since I haven’t even talked to this Frank guy, I have my
doubts about whether he’ll show up.
I’m waiting at our designated meeting corner, and I’m
debating with myself over whether I should find a pay phone and call Bryce. If
I promised to come over afterwards, he’d probably do the lit drop with me. Then
a shadowy figure approaches.
From underneath a hood it addresses me, like Darth Vader
only friendlier. And in a much higher pitched voice. “Lucy?”
“Sharon? What are you doing here?”
She lowers her hood, and steps in close to me. “Frank
returned your call, and said he couldn’t make it. I didn’t want you walking the
streets alone, so I asked him where you were supposed to meet.” She shrugs her
shoulders. “Here I am.”
“Oh…”
“That’s okay, right?” She looks at me with expectation,
almost like she’s challenging me to say no. But I could never say no to Sharon.
“Of course it’s okay.” I give her my most genuine, forced
smile. I hand her a big stack of the fliers, and explain the route and what
we’re supposed to do. “Let’s go,” I say.
We set off. The early November evening is cool and damp
leaves line the sidewalks. I’m wearing my hunter’s mittens that I bought at
Ragstock
; they have a flap you can pull
down, which reveals a partially gloved hand. They’re very practical for ease of
use, but they don’t keep my hands super warm. It rained a sleety sort of rain
earlier today, and my hands and the fliers are soon as cold and damp as the
leaves underneath my feet.
Sharon remains quiet, but I try and make conversation,
nonetheless. “I bet you weren’t expecting to be doing this tonight, huh?”
She lets out a little huff. “I was planning to be home and
in bed. I have an early morning meeting tomorrow.”
“Oh.” I can see Sharon’s profile in the dark well enough to
notice her lips are pressed together and her jaw is clenched. “I… I appreciate
you coming out, but you didn’t have to.”
She spins on her heel and faces me. “Obviously I did. You
would have walked alone if I hadn’t, and that’s totally not safe. It’s like my
role in life, to protect you.”
“I don’t know what to say to that.” Actually, there are a
lot of things I could say, but I’m afraid to open that can of worms.
“Well, I’m still voting for Bush.”
“Fine!” I grab the fliers from her. “If that’s your
attitude, you should go. I can take care of myself.”
She grabs the fliers back. “And let you get assaulted on the
street, no thank you.”
“I was going to call Bryce.”
She laughs. “Your knight in shining armor? I’m sure he’d
turn off
Ren and Stimpy
and rush
right down.”
I look at her, so composed and better than me. It’s always
been that way. “Why are you being so mean?”
She sighs and shakes her head. “I’m not trying to be mean.
I’m trying to look out for you. Honestly.”
“I never asked you to.”
She shrugs her shoulders in a sad little way. “But I can’t
help it.”
I shiver. The wind is starting to cut right through me. And
I had been looking forward to doing this. “Let’s just get this done.” I extend
my hand with her fliers, and she takes them back.
We start walking. I stick a flier underneath the windshield
wiper of a car, and Sharon walks up to a doorstep and attaches one of the
rolled-up fliers to the door handle by looping a rubber band around handle and
flier both.