The Cubicle Next Door (19 page)

What? Like those people who transmit radio signals off their dental bridges?

Posted by:
justluvmyjob | November 12 at 07:49 PM

I think smiles provide glimpses of the soul.

Posted by:
philosophie | November 12 at 08:36 PM

So what does he hum if it’s a good day? “In the Mood”?

Posted by:
theshrink | November 12 at 09:11 PM

Nineteen

T
he next week blew in with a storm, a reminder of just how close we lived to America’s endless, empty prairies. The fruited plain.

On Tuesday only essential personnel were required to report in to the Academy. After receiving the news via the department phone tree and passing the message on, I returned to bed and basked in the knowledge that I was considered nonessential. I got up about noon and then spent the rest of the day in chat rooms and on message boards.

By Tuesday evening the city had cleared the streets, leaving head-high snowbanks at the foot of everyone’s driveway. Or in our case, garage. I had just about resigned myself to the fact the snowbank wasn’t going to dissolve when the doorbell rang.

Grandmother had already settled into her chair to watch the news.

I unfolded myself from the couch and walked to the door.

I opened it to find Joe standing there with a shovel. He was wearing a striped neon green knitted hat with side flaps and a pom-pom on top.

“Nice hat.”

He smiled. “My mom made it.”

“You might want to consider finding a new mother.”

“It keeps my ears warm.”

“And probably makes four-year-olds jealous.”

“Do you want your garage shoveled out or not?”

“Who is it?” Grandmother was curious, but not curious enough to get out of her chair.

“It’s Joe.”

“Who?”

“Joe!”

“What did you say?”

Joe dimpled and came through the door. He walked into the entry so Grandmother could see him. “It’s me, Mrs. Harrison.”

“Joe! Why didn’t you say so, Jackie?”

I heard her release the lever on her chair.

“Please don’t get up. I didn’t mean to disturb you. I was wondering if you wanted me to shovel you out.”

She came up to him, eyes shining. “How thoughtful! Thank you so much. Why don’t you go out and help him, Jackie?”

“Yeah, Jackie. Why don’t you?”

That’s how I found myself out shoveling snow with Joe. He was a hard worker, I’ll give him that. Since the snowbanks were high to begin with, we were soon throwing shovelfuls onto mounds higher than our heads.

I took a break. Stood straight to stretch my back. Started shoveling again. “So what did you do today?”

“Slept in.”

“Then what?”

“Started stripping my kitchen cabinets until the fumes got to me. Went out and shoveled snow. And here I am. How about you?”

“Slept in. Played around on the Internet. Was about to come out and shovel snow. And here you were.”

Joe paused and leaned against his shovel. “I can finish up the rest of this.”

“I’m fine.”

“Really.”

“I’m…okay…really.” I wasn’t mad at him. It was just taking a while to catch my breath. I tossed a shovel full of snow up toward the snowbank to show him just how okay I was. I missed. It trickled back down.

“Drop the shovel, Jackie.” He was holding his own shovel up in front of him like a sword.

“No.” I held mine up too.

After three parries, he’d backed me up against the snowbank and wrenched the shovel from my hand. “I’m trying to be a gentleman, so just let me.”

“Okay.”

“Okay? That’s all you’re going to say?” He was looking at me suspiciously, as if he thought I might attack him at any moment.

“Okay.” I was tired. There was too much snow and the snowbanks were too high. What else could I say? He was a godsend.

He gave my shovel back. And ten minutes later, he thumped his own against the ground. The remains of the snowbank slid off onto the street. He handed me his shovel. Then he stripped off his gloves, stuffed them into his pockets, and flexed his hands several times.

“You need a ride tomorrow? Because of the snow?”

“I’m fine.”

“I know
you’re
fine. I’m talking about your car.”

“
It’s
fine.”

“Okay.” He stepped toward me and held out his hand for the shovel.

I handed it back to him, but I didn’t let it go.

“See you at work.”

“See you.”

He turned to leave.

I put a hand over his to stop him.

“Thanks for shoveling us out.”

“You’re welcome.” He reached out a hand and tucked a lock of hair behind my ear. Then he rested his warm palm against my cheek for a moment before turning around and trudging off down the street. I went back inside the house.

Grandmother called out when she heard the door shut. “Jackie? Is Joe with you?”

“No.”

“Why didn’t you invite him in?”

“He had to leave.”

“Oh. What a shame.”

“It’s no big deal. Tomorrow night is poker night.”

“Why don’t you play with us?”

“I don’t know. Maybe.”

My car
and
I made it in fine to work the next day. And the next. And the day after that: Friday.

By that time, Joe had been inspired by the white stuff. “Let’s go cross-country skiing.”

“Why?”

“Because I bought those skis and I’ve never used them.”

“When? I’m at the store on Saturdays.”

“Let’s go tonight.”

“Tonight?”

“After work. We’ll get something to eat on the way back. In Divide.”

I caught myself with my mouth flapping open and shut. Although I wanted to say no, I couldn’t think of a reason why. But did that mean I had to say yes?

“I’m done teaching by three. Can you leave a little early?”

After years and years of staying late? “Yes.”

I guess I was going.

We walked down through Fairchild Hall and then Joe gave me a ride down to the parking lot. “I’ll pick you up at four fifteen.”

“I’ll—”

“No, I’ll drive. I don’t care how many extra gallons of gas we’ll use. At least we’re guaranteed to get there and back.”

I spent the ride home trying to figure out where I’d stashed my skis. And boots. And all the other skiing paraphernalia I owned.

As soon as I parked the car in the garage, I jumped on top of the hood and stood there, peering into the rafters. I finally spied my skis and poles and pulled them down. So that was good.

Found my boots sitting in the corner. Swept the cobwebs away and knocked them on the floor to give notice to any homesteading spiders.

I ran into the house and tore through my drawers looking for my ski clothes.

Finally found them.

I pulled on my black synthetic material zip turtleneck and tights. Were they made from organic fibers? No. But would they keep me from freezing to death? Yes. If technology can improve quality of life, then I’m all for it. I threw a maroon-colored wool zipneck sweater and a navy windbreaker jacket and pants into a backpack. Rifled through a dresser drawer to find some sports socks. Grabbed a hat and gloves from the closet downstairs. Found a couple energy bars and threw them on top of the clothes. Filled a bottle with water. Grabbed another smaller bag that always held a compass, matches, thermal blanket, wax, and a cork. Got down to the road just in time for Joe.

“Are you sure you want to do this? It’s a lot harder than it looks. You can change your mind. Right now. I won’t hold it against you.”

He just laughed, took my skis and fastened them onto the rack that was perched atop his SUV. “Ready?”

I climbed into the beast and slammed the door shut. Threw my boots and backpack into the backseat. They landed next to his.

We drove out of Manitou on Highway 24. Just past town, the trees disappeared and the road started snaking through a series of canyons. When we arrived at Mueller State Park, the sun had hidden behind the trees, but it had left bands of sunset colors in its place.

At the park, we tugged our boots on and cinched them up. I rummaged through the bag and pulled out my sweater. Put it on. Zipped my jacket on over it. Pulled on my hat.

Joe got our skies down from the rack. Planted them in a nearby snow bank. I fished out my sack and took out the cork and some wax. “Could you hand me one of the skis?”

“Which?”

“Any.”

He brought a ski over to me. Reaching down to the ground, I grabbed a handful of snow. Tried to mold it into a snowball. When I opened my palms, it disintegrated. That’s how I knew I’d need a cold wax. If it had stayed together, if the snow had been wet, then I would have used a warm wax.

I leaned the ski against my body and got to work. Most people think waxing skis is complicated, but it’s really not. You just have to match the type of snow to the type of wax. The shovels and the tails are glide waxed so they won’t grip the snow. The kick zone is grip waxed so it will. And that’s all there is to it. People who make a big deal about wax use an iron to get it just right and melt the wax into the pores of the ski.

As my grandmother’s granddaughter, I think elbow grease works just as well.

For the glide wax, I rubbed the wax on and then polished it into the ski. For the grip wax, I applied a different kind of wax and then used the cork to rub it in. Repeated the process about three times to build up layers.

While I had been applying the grip wax, Joe had grabbed another ski and had put on the glide wax. He handed his ski to me when I was done with mine and I finished it off with grip wax.

We finished preparing the two remaining skis together.

I gave Joe his pair of skis and then set my own on the ground in front of me. I stepped onto one and used my pole to close the binding over my boot. Then I stepped onto the other and stamped the skis to the ground to make sure everything was fastened.

Joe did the same and looked over toward me. “Ready?”

As much as I would ever be. I slipped my backpack on and turned my skis to the forest. “Let’s go.”

There was a sort of trail that led up through the snow drifts, off into the trees. I knew from experience that once we got into the trees, the whole wilderness would open up before us. We could go wherever we wanted.

I started off at a slight jog, positioning my skis in a herringbone pattern so I wouldn’t slide backward. I made it up past the snow drifts and then turned around, panting, to wait for Joe.

He was still standing beside his SUV, looking up at me.

“Are you coming?”

“Just give me a minute. I’ve never jogged on skis before.”

“It’s easy.”

He punched his poles into the snow, started forward, made it halfway up and then stalled. “What do I do from here?”

“How are your skis positioned?”

“Exactly where I want to go. Straight toward you.”

“Then they only have two choices: sliding up or down. Put them together at the tails and pretend you’re a duck. You’ll be able to go wherever you want to.”

“Quack, quack.” In another minute, he’d made it to my side.

“You okay? Going to make it?”

“I’ll be fine. Lead on.”

I stuck a pole into the ground, shoved off, and skied through the trees. There wasn’t a sound except the swish-swishing of our skis.

And an occasional exclamation from Joe.

After about 20 minutes I slowed to a stop. I plunged my poles into the snow, unzipped my jacket, and took it off. Peeled off my sweater and stuffed it into my backpack. Put the jacket back on.

Joe did the same.

We skied on through the darkening canopy of trees. Then we broke out into a clearing.

In front of us was a road. It wasn’t plowed, but it was hard packed. A perfect surface for skating. It led toward Pikes Peak. I raised a pole and pointed in that direction. “What do you think?”

“Why not?”

I pushed my way through the hard snow that passing vehicles had thrown out toward the side of the road. Put a tentative ski on the hard surface and then pushed off with one foot. Pushed off with the other.

This was one of my favorite parts of skiing. Being able to “skate” over a hardpacked section. Working up a rhythm.

Pole. Push. Glide. Pole. Push. Glide.

Gaining momentum.

Feeling the wind buffet my cheeks.

Pole. Push. Glide.

I could see a pink sunset reflected off the snow on Pikes Peak in front of me. Imagined myself at the top. Nothing but the wind and me. Free from emotional entanglements. Free from any obligations.

Pole. Push. Glide. Pole. Push. Glide. And glide. And glide forever.

There was a rhythm to cross-country skiing I couldn’t find in my ordinary life. Here in the snow, with no one around, I knew exactly what to do. Here, I was the expert. And the trees, the snow, the sunset, and the shining moon, they all loved me. And I loved them too.

I’d stayed away from this too long.

When the road suggested a decline, I stopped. I put my hands to my knees, poles sticking out to the side behind me. Took greedy gulps of air in through my nose and released them through my mouth. Felt, rather than saw, my curling breath.

After a while, I stood up straight.

Heard Joe’s skis scrabbling along the road, his poles crunching holes in the snow.

I turned my skis to face him.

He’d figured it out and he was skating too. In fact, he skated right past me. I saw the flash of his teeth as he went by.

Turning my skis around, I put them together and bent in a classic skier’s pose. Pushed off with my poles and started down the hill.

I picked my left foot up and leaned on the right one when the road curved right. Put the left foot down and picked up the right one when it curved left. Saw Joe standing still in the middle of the road.

Plowed right into him.

I threw my arms around his waist, leaving my poles to dangle from their wrist straps.

We leaned forward and then we leaned back, trying to achieve a balance. Finally we gave it up and collapsed with Joe sitting in my lap.