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Chapter 38/Page 2 |
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We were seventeen at most. The Brains of the operation -- highest IQ in the school, yet lacking even a wisp of street smarts had a Volkswagen Beetle that was a gas to drive. We’d get inhumanely wasted on Pabst Blue Ribbon tall boys; those appalling, yet efficient sixteen-ounce cans, and take the unsuspecting Bug joyriding in Wisconsin ice storms. Up and down a deserted Honey Creek Parkway, to Jacobus and back, sliding into donuts, testing the limits of German suspension technology. Brains’ lack of common sense sparked and fizzed every time he let one of us drive. It must have sounded like a good idea under the tall boys’ influence, but the minute one of us less inhibited drivers got behind the wheel, Brains would realize his mistake, break into a cold sweat and beg, beg, beg us to drive a little more sanely. Sorry, Charlie. Whipping that VW around icy hairpin turns in a blinding storm, four drunken teenagers stuffed into the tiny interior, screaming along at the top of their lungs to the A.M. station distorting “Radar Love” was SO MUCH FUN. Not so much fun at thirty. I chose the classified ad with the phone exchange that was closest to work -- walking distance. I chose the VW that cost even less cash than I had in my checking account. I chose a car that at age thirty was cramped, slow, and had seats that itched like hell. All those tall boys had played cruel, cruel tricks on my memory. Not going into debt on that piece of shit was the only wise choice I’d made. The little yellow Bug leaking oil under the “Reserved For” sign bearing my name gave me absolutely no sense of accomplishment. The “aha!” from putting 4 in her place never came. Especially every time she passed in her air conditioned, leather upholstered sports car with the CD changer.
•••
I began using the elevator to avoid those stairwell encounters. The New-New Girl, a fashionably punk girl with jet-black hair cut to a severe bob, warmed to my cool distance as a safety zone from the inescapable onslaught of testosterone hurled at every new receptionist. Again I found myself making easy conversation with the pretty girl whose thong everyone else was fumbling to get into. Music, food, weather, being from the Midwest -- all were acceptable topics. The subject of dating a coworker, or dating at all, was avoided like the plague. Waiting for an elevator always seemed such a waste of time and made me nervous. New-New Girl took some of the edge off.
Shortly after I booted 4 out of my parking place, animosity reached a fever pitch. Fellow employees began to take notice of the atmosphere’s reduction whenever she and I entered the same room, as it did at a birthday celebration in the commissary. I arrived late and found New-New Girl, yet to be filled in on the gossip surrounding my personal life, sharing pleasantries with none other than 4. Oh, well, there goes that one, I thought. But New-New Girl caught sight of me, immediately dropped the conversation with 4 and headed my way. Nah-nah. Across the room, D-Girl looked up from her conversation with a senior V.P. and smiled wickedly. Later that day, I rounded the corner to the elevator area and found 4 at the receptionist’s desk where New-New Girl should have been. It wouldn’t be this story if there had been anyone else in the vicinity. Nope, just her and me. She said nothing, but I wasn’t about to stand there and ignore her. “What are you doing here?” I asked. “There was no one else to relieve the new girl,” she deadpanned without looking up from her magazine. “Lucky you.” I pressed the call button. Three elevators to service five floors, and at this exact moment not one would come. Fuck you, Universe. Three full minutes passed with no elevator, no other person entering this usually hectic area of the office, and no words between us. I exhaled loudly. She glanced at me and nervously returned to her reading. A machete would have come in handy to slice through the tension. I cracked. “Is this a period of time you would describe as ‘eternity’?” Even she couldn’t hold back a laugh. My pathetic heart skipped a beat. I resisted the urge to comment further as well as the urge to run screaming down the stairs. I had too much time invested in the situation. To take flight that way would be to admit defeat. As defeated as I was, I was not about to give her that. That was the last I saw of her for a while. The time off made life around the office easier.
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