The Cubicle Next Door (15 page)

I saw some of the cadets break away from the cadet area and run onto the field. They dropped to the ground and started doing push-ups.

“The fourth classmen run onto the field and do push-ups every time Air Force scores. One for each point in the accumulated score.”

Heaven help them if the Academy team ever happened to run the score up.

After Air Force had scored for the third time, I saw their mascot run out onto the field with them. It was a big blue bird. He helped keep count, but didn’t do the push-ups himself. During halftime, he rode around the edge of the field in a miniature airplane.

“I’d say the most fun is being had by that bird.”

“The Bird? I guarantee it.”

The way he said it made me dig a little further. “Is that a cadet in there?”

“Yep.”

“Were you ever the cadet in there?”

“Can’t tell. Bird’s honor.”

“So you were?”

“Maybe.”

“Tell me.”

“Or maybe not.”

He was. No doubt in my mind. I could just picture him hopping all over the place, posing for pictures with little kids and mooning the opposing team like this bird had just done. It was my guess Joe had invented that particular move.

A fanfare sounded over the loudspeaker as a small group of cadets walked out onto the field. Unlike the cadets sitting in the bleachers, this group was lucky. Instead of wearing the full blue uniform, complete with hats and jackets, this bunch was wearing only polo shirts and track pants.

The announcer launched into a spiel about the group, members of the cadet Falconry Club. Apparently, the Air Force Academy had the NCAA’s only performing mascot, a falcon. Cadet volunteers. They put it through its paces, urging it to wing its way around the stadium while stalking the “prey” they were swinging around at the end of a string.

It did what it was supposed to. It caught the swinging meat and landed on the football field before being picked up by a cadet. A hood was placed over its head and it was taken away.

Poor bird.

Maybe someday it would spot a real mouse out in the parking lot and swoop out of the stadium and into freedom, only to be run over by someone’s SUV while it was trying to eat.

I’m all for the environment, but I’m also a realist.

The mood changed in a matter of seconds. Looking toward the field, I saw the teams filing back into the stadium.

A chant began from the cadet section. It sounded like…
You pay for our school! You pay for our school! You pay for our school!
I stood on tiptoe and leaned toward Joe. “You pay for our school?”

He grinned. “They do. We’re taxpayer supported, remember?”

The second part of the game went along much like the first. During a time when the players weren’t playing, music flared from the cadet band. I could hear the cadets singing.

Joe sang along too. As loud as he could. “You’ll never fly, so…”

“Um. Excuse me. What did you just say?”

“‘The Falcon Fight Song.’” He began to sing, repeating the words for me. “‘Never say die, keep flying high, for the Air Force Academy!’” He smiled. All innocence. “Go, Air Force!”

“Uh-huh.” I could almost guarantee I’d heard the word “die,” but it hadn’t been after the word “say.”

After the game, the Notre Dame side began to empty. The people around us stood but remained in the stadium, staring at the field. The Air Force football team gathered together and faced the cadet section. The subdued melody of a song drifted up from the field.

Beside me, Joe sang along.

It was a hymn to those who had made the ultimate sacrifice. People like my father. As a cadet, he must have stood in this stadium more than once, singing that very same hymn.

I wondered if he’d ever imagined people might sing it about him. Or that he would have a daughter who would listen while it was sung.

We joined the crowd leaving the stadium and walked to the car.

I tried to shrug off a mantle of thoughts better left stored away. Tried to dodge the idea that, no matter how hard I tried, I was doomed to repeat my mother’s mistakes. I could almost feel my reserve and self-control crumbling whenever I was around Joe. I was haunted by the idea that it was only a matter of time…but I couldn’t make myself stay away from him. Aside from logistics and the nonavailability of office space, I just didn’t want to.

Oh, how the mighty have fallen
.

I was used to being able to control my thoughts and my feelings. I wasn’t used to having someone pound on my heart, asking to be let in. But just because someone was knocking didn’t mean I had to answer.

I concentrated my attention instead on the traffic free-for-all taking place around me. “You might have to get out and push me to the road.”

“If I do, can I drive next time?”

“Let’s see what happens.”

We bumped through the field and reached the road 20 minutes later. We actually drove off the base an hour after the game had ended.

“So what did you think?”

“It was okay. Fun. It was fun.” I merged onto the interstate. Colorado Springs must have some rule about entrance and exit ramps being no more than 30 feet long, left over from the days when cars could only go about ten miles an hour, tops. “Did it bring back good memories?”

“Some.”

“Was it hot inside that bird suit?”

THE CUBICLE NEXT DOOR BLOG

Haunting thoughts

I am haunted, sometimes, by the thought that we are programmed to play certain roles. That we are destined to be certain kinds of people. That our parents, no matter the size of the part they played in our lives, place us on the chessboard of life in the middle of some cosmic chess game. And the only instructions we are given are “Do as I did,” or worse, “Don’t do as I have done.” Is it possible to escape ourselves? To become people entirely of our own making?

Posted on September 2 in
The Cubicle Next Door | Permalink

Comments

Maybe, if you lived in a world inhabited only by you.

Posted by:
philosophie | September 2 at 08:09 PM

Ah—the classic question of predestination v. free will!

Posted by:
NozAll | September 3 at 10:24 AM

I don’t know about escaping myself, but I’d sure like to escape the jerks around me!

Posted by:
justluvmyjob | September 3 at 01:39 PM

It doesn’t matter. You take your place on the board game of life and you just do the best you can.

Posted by:
survivor | September 3 at 04:17 PM

Fifteen

T
he following Tuesday Ms. West Point came in late in the afternoon with a cadet. A fourth classman. “Is Joe in?”

I gestured to the other side of the cubicle.

She leaned around the wall. “Cadet Prescott has some questions about the written assignment for 101. I have a meeting I need to go to…” she glanced at her watch. “Right now.”

“First, let’s have an altimeter check.”

There was a sound of swift motion. The clicking together of heels. “Sir, my altitude is 7250 feet above sea level—far, far above that of West Point or Annapolis!”

“All right. Thanks. At ease.”

Was that nice? The poor cadet! Just a pawn in the mind games between Joe and Ms. West Point.

After the cadet had left, I heard Joe climb up onto his desk.

“About Sunday…”

I started to smile and I looked up at him. “You giving up? Already?”

“No. Pick me up at the normal time.”

“I was planning on it.”

He stood there.

“Was there anything else?”

“No.”

“Is your boundless optimism fraying?”

“No.”

“Flagging?”

“No. Just because you’ve abandoned all hope doesn’t mean I have to.”

“You really don’t know anything about me.”

“I know some things.”

“You don’t know everything.”

“I know enough.”

“Enough to what?”

“Know you’re weird in a cute sort of way.”

“I am not…cute.”

He gave me a long look. “No. You’re right. You’re not.”

Funny how hearing the truth can feel like disappointment.

He flashed a grin. “You’re fascinating, mysterious, and intriguing. Cute is too benign for you.”

“You can’t just—”

“Just what?”

“Just…”

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“You know what the problem with you is?”

“Why don’t you fill me in since you know so much about me.”

“You won’t trust anybody.”

“Amazing. You’ve got me pegged. Now I feel complete. Thanks. How much do I owe you?”

“For you? Since you’re so screwed up, it’s free. You’re my gift to humanity.”

“I feel so unworthy.”

“Exactly. It goes along with the not trusting anybody.” His head disappeared and I heard him settle back into his chair.

“Jackie?”

“What?”

“I take referrals—tell all your friends.”

Sunday’s experience was a repeat of all the other churches we’d attended.

We’d been given a bulletin by a greeter who had smiled at a point somewhere above our heads, sat through another sermon with five points and two sub-points apiece. We’d taken our Visitors Forms out to the Welcome Center, which turned out to be an optimistically titled folding table laden with stacks of church events fliers.

The man beside the table took our forms, looked at them a moment, and then handed us each the ubiquitous goody bag filled with handy information on the church, their mission and vision statements, a booklet written by their pastor, and a coupon for a free espresso drink at the coffee cart in their lobby.

We thanked him and walked away.

“Do you want to?” Joe gestured toward the coffee cart with his chin.

“Not really.”

As we stood there trying to decide whether to go or stay, clutching our bags that had “Welcome” stamped across the front in large, electric red letters, not one person stopped to talk to us. Traffic flowed right around us. Our only function in the church appeared to be as a median. As a barrier separating the people who flowed around us in both directions.

“This sucks.” Joe strode toward the Welcome Center.

I had to dodge people to keep up with him. By the time I got to the table he had plunked the Welcome Bag down on top of it. “This is really nice, thanks very much, but I don’t want a mission statement, a booklet, or coffee. What I’d really like is someone to look at me and talk to me and make me feel like I’m visible.”

The man standing behind the table blinked. “What?”

Joe started to repeat himself and then stopped as he realized the man wasn’t looking at him, but beyond him, over his shoulder. We both turned at the same time to follow the man’s gaze toward a woman standing across the lobby, gesturing at her watch.

I started to smile.

Joe sent a stern look in my direction and then reached into several of the bags, removing free coffee coupons. We handed out six of them to random people on our way to the door.

“What is it about churches in this town?”

“They’re full.”

“No, they’re not.”

“Not jammed full. They just don’t need more people. They have their little groups and committees. They’ve handed out the uniforms. They’re busy. They’ve got people to talk to, plans to make, friends to eat lunch with.” What else could I say? Colorado Springs may be church-friendly, but it wasn’t people-friendly.

“There has to be at least one church…”

“You’d think.”

“How long did you look for one? When you first came back?”

“About four months.”

“A different church each Sunday?”

I nodded. “For a while. I went to a couple of them more than once.”

“And you never found one?”

“No.”

“Did you ever try to join a group? Bible study? Anything?”

“Sure. There were lots of sign-ups going on, but nothing ever seemed to get arranged. At one church I talked to a ministries coordinator. Tried to find a place to plug in.”

“What happened?”

“A circular dialogue. I kept asking where the church needed help and he kept asking what I wanted to do.”

Joe snorted. “We can’t not go to church.”

“It’s not the preferred solution, but it doesn’t make us any less Christian, does it?”

“We’ll find one.”

Life developed a predictable rhythm. Joe dodged in and out of his cubicle on M days. Stayed chained to his desk during office hours on T days. Came over to Grandmother’s for poker night on Wednesdays. On Sundays, we went to church together.

Any kind of casual observer, and all of Grandmother’s friends, had figured out by then that Joe and I were dating. In the non-dating sense of the term. Joe was smart. Smart enough to know I’d say no if he ever actually asked me out on a date. I’d told him so myself. It was on the official “Jackie doesn’t do” list. So he didn’t ask and I never had to say no. We just kept enjoying each other’s company.

Oh, the dangerous games we play with ourselves.

I never imagined that being with Joe would make me want what I’d long ago decided I could never have.

One Monday, after a long T day filled with silly questions, I heard something thunk the wall. Heard a slap as it hit Joe’s hands. Heard it thunk the wall again.

I watched the thumbtacks pop out of my apathy poster. Saw it drop to the floor. “Will you knock it off?” I scrambled under the desk to try and find the thumbtacks. Ended up planting my knee right on top of one. “Ow!” I hit my head as I tried to back out.

Thunk.

I climbed on top of my desk only to duck as a miniature basketball came flying up toward my head. It must have rebounded from the metal joint between cubicle sections because I heard Joe catch it.

“Half—no—
all
of the questions they’re asking me are things they could figure out for themselves if they’d bother to read or even listen in class.”

I tried again. Stuck my head up. Made sure he wasn’t going to throw the ball. He was turning it over between his hands, examining the seams.