Authors: Laurel Osterkamp
Jack reprimands me with his eyes. “There’s your first
mistake. You should always take the trouble to get to know your colleagues.
Think of it as extending family values into the work arena.”
I ignore his attempt at humor. “Okay, so the following
Monday we had a staff meeting, and my boss Naomi praised me for the battle of
the bands event I organized in Kenwood Park, and she also criticized Sue Ellen
for missing a deadline, and Sue Ellen’s eyes got all squinty and she looked
like she was going to cry. Ever since then my office supplies have mysteriously
disappeared from my desk, and some of my phone messages have been deleted
without my knowledge, and I’ve heard from Jane, our secretary, that Sue Ellen’s
been bad-mouthing me.”
Jack’s mouth sets in a straight line, and he breathes in and
out through his nose. I can tell he’s taking a moment before he says anything;
I know the look, and he knows to be careful.
“Lucy,” he finally says. “That doesn’t sound great, but,
well… it’s not exactly on the level of boiling bunnies, now is it?”
“If you were there you’d get it,” I tell him. “This is
making me dread going to work everyday. I have no idea what to do about it.”
“Have you tried confronting her?”
“You don’t confront crazy people.”
“But sometimes it’s necessary.”
Sometimes, but not always. And this afternoon I had my
chance to get back at Sue Ellen without risking a confrontation. Now, as I’m
sitting here looking into Jack’s kind eyes, I’m starting to really regret it.
But if I tell him, he’ll tell me to do the right thing and give her the
message. His reproof would be gentle and he’d be right. Which is why I chicken
out and change the subject.
“Have you been following the campaign?”
Our beers arrive and Jack and I both take swigs. “No,” he
responds. “There’s nothing to follow. Clinton’s obviously going to win. The
whole thing has been pretty boring and I’ll be happy when it’s over.”
“Yeah…” I don’t even have the drive to argue the point.
Truth is, he’s right. Sometimes victory is not so sweet. I guess when something
comes too easily its value is diminished, like a fat-free muffin that doesn’t
taste as good as it looks. But I can still revel in the victory a little bit.
If we were in Mrs. Fischer’s civics class right now, there’s no way I’d resist
the opportunity to rub it in Reggie’s face.
“It wasn’t always obvious,” I tell Jack. “Two years ago Newt
Gingrich was gloating over how the Republicans won control of the House and
Senate, and pundits were predicting that Clinton would have a hard time this
fall.”
“Yeah, but after the government shutdown things changed.”
I shrug my shoulders at Jack’s comment.
“And Dole?” Jack asks. “How could the Republicans not pick a
better candidate than Bob Dole? It was over the day he fell off the stage.”
Jack is referring to an incident at a campaign event when Bob Dole stepped off
the stage and fell, which made him look old and weak. The Clinton camp must
have been gleeful; their main strategy was to make Clinton seem young and
virile, and in contrast turn Dole’s advanced age into an issue. Turns out they
didn’t have to try too hard.
“I suppose you’re right.” I twirl my beer bottle against the
table and suppress a sigh.
“That’s it?” Jack studies my face. “Why aren’t you happier?”
“I should be,” I respond. “My candidate is about to win, and
I’m spending the evening with you. Why am I in such a funk?”
Jack raises his eyebrows in answer to my question – as
if to say, “I don’t know.”
“I think you need a change of scenery,” Jack says. “Let’s go
do something fun.”
“Like what?”
He drums his fingers against his chin in thought. There is
so much to do in Minneapolis; we have a great music scene. I’m about to suggest
going to First Avenue or The Fine Line, because both of them are sure to have
someone good playing. But Jack has his own ideas.
“How about roller skating?”
I laugh. Jack is such a geek, but that’s his charm.
“Are you sure you wouldn’t rather play putt-putt?”
He shakes his head. “It’s too cold out for that, but roller
skating is indoors.”
“Then what are we waiting for?” I get up to go, and then
quickly sit back down. “Wait. I forgot. I left my rainbow suspenders at home,
and I lost my pompom ponytail holder.”
He leans back in mock offense. “Look who thinks she’s so
cool. Wow, Lucy, when did you develop such an attitude? No wonder Sue Ellen
hates you.”
At the mention of Sue Ellen my
stomach does a flip-flop, but this time it’s easier to push my anxiety aside.
My best buddy is here, and I’m not going to worry and ruin my good time.
Jack and I leave the bar and drive to the Roller Gardens,
where we quickly notice that everyone else over the age of fourteen is there
because they’re chaperoning a child. So we pretend we’re there with our fictional
nephew, Elton, who is so embarrassed by our goofy skating that he is hiding out
in the snack bar. We skate around in circles, and I tease Jack for being able
to sing along to The Spice Girls “Wannabe.” Every so often, when we pass the
section of the rink that’s adjacent to the snack bar, Jack or I will yell out,
“How you doing, Elton?” or, “Elton, when are you going to skate with us?” This
makes us laugh even harder than we do when we compete hardcore to win the
“YMCA” contest, or when we fall on our butts while showing off our backwards-skating
skills.
By the end of the evening I
feel lighter and the world reminds me of the way it was during the summer of
1989, when Jack and I were inseparable, and I wanted to stop time because I
knew nothing would ever feel that simple and easy again.
After skating we’re both starving, so we go get dinner at
Famous Dave’s BBQ, which is actually part of Jack’s work trip. We feast on ribs
and Jack memorizes the menu and tries to guess at the recipes. When we return
to my apartment, I’m making up the couch with blankets and pillows, and there’s
a knock at my door. It’s Sharon.
My friendship with her has survived graduation, jobs,
various boyfriends, and disagreements over political philosophy. She’s still
the closest thing I’ll ever have to a big sister, and it’s not that unusual for
her to drop by close to midnight, completely unannounced.
“I didn’t wake you, did I?”
“Nope. Jack’s here.”
She comes in. “Jack! Oh my God! I finally get to meet Jack.”
Jack is using my home computer, trying out my new version of
AOL, but at the mention of his name he turns around with a smile. Sharon walks
up to the makeshift desk where he’s sitting, between the kitchen and living
room, and offers him her outstretched hand.
“I’m Sharon,” she says, “Lucy’s other best friend.”
He shakes her hand and nods. “Ah, yes. I’ve heard a lot
about you. I’m glad we finally get to meet.”
“Likewise!” Sharon turns away from him and strolls into my
kitchen. She instantly finds what she was looking for and returns to the living
room with a bottle of wine, three glasses, and a corkscrew.
“No, really…” I say. “Make yourself at home.”
Sharon shoots me a cross-eyed look in response to my
sarcasm, sets her stash down on my 1980s thrift-store coffee table, and tries
to open the bottle of wine. After she inserts the corkscrew in at a severe
angle, she stops and looks up.
“Uhhgg! Why did you have to get the corkscrew kind?”
“It was a gift,” I say. “Why do you think it’s been sitting
around, unopened for so long?”
“You two are pathetic,” says Jack. He walks towards us,
grabs the bottle and pries the corkscrew out, inserts it correctly, and manages
to expunge the cork from the bottle in one fluid motion. Sharon looks at Jack
like he just solved an episode of
Unsolved
Mysteries
. Jack pours each of us a glass, and we sit on the floor, with its
light blue scratchy carpet beneath us.
“So you’re in town to research restaurants? That must be
tough.” Sharon takes a swig of her wine and tosses her hair back so it’s no
longer resting on her shoulders.
“It’s not like I have a boss who’s paying for the trip,
though,” says Jack. “Some friends and I are looking into opening a restaurant.
They wanted me to see what was doing well here, you know, just to get some
ideas.”
Sharon scrunches up her face in thought. “But you’re going
to open it in Iowa, right?” She stresses each syllable of I-o-wa as she says
it, infusing the state’s name with attitude.
“Don’t say
Iowa
like it’s a dirty word,” Jack responds. “Some of us actually like it there.”
It’s funny that Jack and Sharon are only just meeting now.
Even though the three of us went to the same high school, it was a large high
school, and Sharon was two years ahead of Jack. Their paths just never crossed.
She did know Monty, but the two of them weren’t good friends despite having
graduated the same year.
Sharon laughs. “I always thought people only stayed in Iowa
because they have to.”
Jack doesn’t take offense. “That’s what Monty thinks too.”
My pulse quickens at the mention of his name. “How is
Monty?” I ask.
Sharon, who knows about my secret liaison with Jack’s older
brother, gives me a sideways stare.
“Well, he’s not coming home for Thanksgiving,” Jack says. “I
guess he has some new girlfriend, and he’s visiting her family instead. My mom
is really bummed, because it’s been over a year since he’s been home.”
I want to drill Jack about this new girlfriend. But to do so
could cause suspicion, like I’m Richard Nixon asking how a tape recorder works.
So I suppress a sigh, and say, “That’s too bad. We’ll still get to hang out,
though.”
Sharon, who is enjoying her wine and the drama that has
nothing to do with her, nods her head emphatically. “Yes. The two of you will
have a good time without Monty. I wish I could be there, but alas, I have to
stay and work.”
My butt is starting to ache a little from sitting on the
floor, so I shift and stretch, while trying to think of a way to change the
subject. I glance over at Sharon; she looks awfully pleased with herself.
“You haven’t told us what you’re doing here,” I say. “What
were you doing earlier?”
Sharon’s shoulders sag and she broadly exhales. “Just going
out with work people. Friday night happy hour and all.”
Shouldn’t that make her happy? I should ask her what is up.
But my week is catching up with me, and the prospect of my head against a
pillow is extremely appealing.
Yet Sharon is making herself comfortable. She stretches out
her legs, flips off her platform shoes, and smoothes out her black denim pants.
“Lucy doesn’t understand how political the workplace can be, because she’s only
ever dealt in the non-profit world.” She addresses her comment to Jack, talking
to him like they’re the only two people in a very small room.
“Actually,” says Jack, “it sounds like Lucy’s work place is
very political. Isn’t it, Lucy?”
Sharon looks at me. “Oh yeah? What’s going on?”
Jack swirls his glass, as if he’s taking part in a
pretentious wine tasting, rather than drinking a cheap Merlot. Sharon swigs the
rest of the wine in her glass and pours herself some more. They’re both waiting
for me to talk.
“Actually, I’m pretty tired,” I say. “I think I’m ready to
call it a night.”
“Go ahead,” says Sharon. “I’ll keep Jack company.”
I lean my back against the tip of the couch and rest my
eyes. Sharon starts drilling Jack about restaurants, focusing all her attention
on him, making him feel like the most important thing in her world. Whatever.
If it makes them happy, what’s the harm?
Eventually I go to bed, leaving the two of them to enjoy
their conversation. Several hours later I get up to use the bathroom. They are
still talking, and it’s Jack who is driving the conversation.
“Sometimes I wonder if I did the right thing, marrying
Petra,” I hear him say. My mouth goes dry and I tiptoe to the edge of the
living room, where the lights have been dimmed and the empty bottle of wine is
lying horizontally on the table.
“Don’t you love her?’ Sharon asks. I peek around the corner
and see that she and Jack are sitting so close, their eyelashes are at risk of
becoming entangled.
“I do,” he says. “But I think maybe she’s cheating on me.”
I’m Jack’s best friend, and he’s never said anything like
this to me. I’m instantly flooded with jealousy, even though I realize that’s
not the right emotion to be feeling. If your best friend is admitting heartache
to another best friend do you:
a.) wonder what you can do to help
b.) forfeit your eavesdropping post and respect their
privacy, or
c.) dissolve into a puddle of tears because his confession
makes you feel left out.
I don’t dissolve into anything, but I don’t choose options “a”
or “b” either.
“Hey guys! I’m surprised you’re still up!”
They jump up in shock, startled by the sound of my voice.
“What are you talking about?”
“Nothing important,” says Jack.
I look at him and my jealousy turns to anger.
“Well, I don’t know what you were doing, but I know what it
looks like. Being so cozy on the couch, if Petra walked in right now, she would
totally get the wrong idea.”
“But she won’t walk in,” says Sharon, her voice tight and
defensive.
I glare at her. “Not the point.”
“What is the point?” Jack demands.
“The point is, getting caught
almost
doing something, makes you just as guilty as if you were
actually doing it.”
My words come out like little bullets of aggression, and
even though Jack and Sharon, in theory, have done nothing wrong, somehow the
two of them are wounded into submission. Their faces are bathed in guilt and
shame, and their mouths hang open, both of them unable to find their voice.
“Jack, think! Petra. You have a wife. You can’t do this.”