Nov. 23, 2003 - 3:02 p.m.
Dear Vincent,
Where shall I begin? With Thursday perhaps? Yes, that sounds sufficient. Thursday...hmm. It all started with a cupcake and some glass...
Thursday Evening
Picture this, two offices, adjoining. They share one wall, and a window on that wall as well as a door. Thursday evening, seven o'clock I was stationed behind a desk in the office on the right on a swivel chair. I'd agreed to answer phones for a few hours in the stead of the dance department secretary at the local health club. The phone rang once in the first hour. "Hello Athletic Club Dance Department, I'm Meghan, how can I help you?" There was a slight silence, a cough then, "Um, how long is Freddy's open?" Since Freddy's is the bar next door to the health club, I answered, "I'm sorry, you have the wrong number... Freddy's is next door. This is the health club." "Oh sorry" said the caller, "bye."
I picked up my book and read for about half an hour, and then the phone rang again. "Hello Athletic Club Dance Department, I'm Meghan, how can I help you?" "You guys have karaoke right?" the caller asked. Slightly puzzled, I answered, "Um no, this is the health club, are you looking for the number for Freddy's?" "Yeah, this isn't the number for Freddy's?" Sigh. "No, this is the health club." "Um okay, thanks." "Yeah." Ten minutes later, the phone rang again. "Hello... (see above)" I spewed. Silence, "Wait did you say health club?" said the caller. "Yes, this is the health club." Confused silence. "But I was looking for the number for Freddy's?" "Uhuh, well this isn't it. This is the health club." "That's freaky." "Nevertheless it's true" I assured the caller. "Do you know the number for Freddy's?" he asked me. "No" I said, "So unless you want to sign up for a ballet class I'm not the girl to talk to." "Okay, well thanks. I'd never sign up for a ballet class though" he said firmly "that's for girls." "Well then," I said, "Why don't you go to Freddy's and call me back after you're plastered, I bet you'd feel differently about ballet then." After that call the phone ceased to ring.
To entertain myself I began to twirl in the chair between chapters. When 8:30 hit I realized I was famished, not having eaten since lunch and lunch 7 hours passed. When I twirled the chair I could hear the liquid swash around in my stomach. As my chair coasted to a stop between chapters 7 and 8 I was left facing the window between the offices. The other office was dark, but someone had neglected to shut down the computer and the shining screen bathed the office in blue. I felt as though I was looking into an aquarium. I scooted the chair up to the window and studied the objects in the office swathed in blue light- a framed blue picture of two children, a blue plaque that read "I can please one person a day, today isn't your day, tomorrow doesn't look good either", a blue tie tip dangling from a half closed desk drawer... and as my eyes traveled to another completely bare desk, they found a blue cupcake shining temptingly in the heavenly blue light. My stomach growled appreciatively. Thus began a great inner battle.
Point: It's not sitting on anyone's desk. Probably someone left it there today and won't even miss it tomorrow if it's not there... eat it. Then, But it's not yours! Maybe someone left that there as a snack and when they come back for it, it will be gone. It's not yours! Counterpoint: But everyone has gone home for the evening... no one is coming back for it. Besides, who leaves their snack on an empty desk? Everyone knows stuff like that is fair game around here. If it were my cupcake, I'd have left it in the staff room in a bad with my name on it (my name on the bag not the cupcake.) Plus it will probably be stale by tomorrow.
Just as I had made up my mind to eat the cupcake, the first lesson I ever learned in kindergarten reared up with a vengeance. Wait, you should never eat or drink anything just lying around... you don't know what's in it. This lesson was mentally replete with the corresponding image on the film strip from kindergarten. An old woman sitting at her table with her dog injecting god knows what into a cupcake with a grandmotherly smile on her face. The next frame was her crouched behind bushes watching maliciously as a little girl picked up the cupcake from a park bench. Don't be ridiculous, I thought, and waved the image away. I got up and went towards the door between the two offices. I twisted the door knob, or tried to twist it and found it was locked.
The next half an hour was a very long one. Try as I may to ignore that cupcake, the light glistening off it's white icing knew I was there. I was only inches away from it really, and but for the glass and the locked door, it would have been mine.
Note the theme, Vincent, so close, yet so far away.
Friday Afternoon
It is now necessary Vincent, for you to hearken back to the Touch and Go Joe anecdote. Remember Joe and Sara? Well, here they are again.
Sara's birthday passed without remark because I wasn't finished knitting the scarf I was making for the occasion. You see, I had declared myself completely over the Touch and Go Joe incident. Determined to prove that all was well, I had meticulously selected the colors and yarn for the scarf. It would be soft, vivid, warm and a gift to cherish. I knitted frantically to finish in time, and didn't. I knitted until I was tense, and my fingers cramped permanently around the needles and capped it all off with fringe on the ends and finished two days late. I was pleased with the end result, though; it was everything I intended it to be and I knew just how to go about giving it to her. I wrapped it around my own neck and dropped by her work. "Hey Meg!" she greeted, "What are you doing here?" "I was running some errands and I thought I drop by," I answered nonchalantly. "That's a beautiful scarf" she said, "did you make it?" "Yes" I grinned, "and it's yours, happy birthday!" I wrapped it around her neck and her face was worth every cramp in my fingers. She hugged me enthusiastically. It was then she said, with a little bit of a wheedle in her voice, "hey meg?" (uhoh.) "Um, Joe and I are going on a date tonight and I didn't want you to hear it secondhand."
It turns out, I am not over what happened. I am just great at lying to myself. Granted, Sara and Joe had never pursued their relationship (until this point) after the oh-so-dramatic evening I recounted in the Touch and Go Joe letter. Conveniently, it was easy for me to declare myself over everything, when I could subtly forget that anything had happened, because nothing had come of it all.
Baseball in the stomach. That's the feeling. When you get a baseball in the stomach, you can't talk- you focus on beginning to breath again. Sara's news brought an onslaught of emotion so unexpected, that I couldn't speak, I could only focus on blanking my face of the resentment I knew was going to write itself there. A second too late I responded, "That's nice, you'll have fun." Turning my back, to "check the clock" I let my face melt, and added, "So is he letting you pick the restaurant?"
Friday Evening
Diane and I went to see Master and Commander. When it let out, Diane and I walked along the strip near the theater, trying to decide where to eat. For the second time in 2 days I was truly famished. I was teasing Diane mercilessly about her face during the movie. She'd been absolutely nonplussed and had dozed off sporadically. When she was awake she stared at the screen with a mixture of annoyance and drowsiness. Arms linked and laughing, the comradery had more than lightened my mood. Just then, pulling her arm out of mine, Diane stopped in the window of the restaurant we were passing and began to smile and wave. Doubling back asking, "Who is it Di?" I got to the window just as she said "It's Sara and Joe" and had already begun to wave and smile by the time I met Sara's eyes.
For the second time in 2 days I was honestly famished. For the second time that day, with a baseball in my stomach I was focusing on breathing and holding a decent expression on my face, so often the traitor of my emotion. And for the second time in 2 days, I was watching something I couldn't have through glass.
So close, yet so far away.
Saturday
I re-read your letter and responded. It was a good day for it because the rain and wind were wailing in unison outside. With a paragraph left to go, the power fled. It flickered on and off until...
Thursday
Leaving me with a tidy mess of e-mail to catch up on since I had not dared to temper with it all before power was finally restored, lest I tempt the whims of electricity to get rid of a second letter.
The Rest of the Week...
Nothing worth noting.
Closing Arguments...
1) I drink my coffee with French Vanilla Creamer. When I danced with Anne (who lives down the hill) I'd pick her up for practice in the morning and she'd bring me a mug of coffee with French Vanilla Creamer. I adapted to the taste.
2) It thrills me to be able to say, oh yeah, I remember Sketchfest.
3) I hate the phrase, "It's a matter of taste." Once at the makeup counter in the store, when I told the woman I didn't like the color lipstick she'd told me to try, she said, "Well it's really in vogue now you should but it." "No thanks," I said, "I don't like it, it makes me look dead." "Well" she added, "it's really a matter of taste" as if to imply I had none. The color was black wine I believe.
Inclusively,
Meghan
what they said - what they will say
