Who You Know (18 page)

The dinner table was a bright medley of foods dripping with butter. Buttery rolls, mashed potatoes, corn, stuffing. I disgusted myself with how much food I was able to consume. I had an appetite that was entirely unladylike.

“This is delicious, Claire,” I said. “You're a talented cook.”

“Unfortunately, she eats too much of her work.” Ralph laughed, patting Claire's ample waistline. I felt myself falling into a dark mood. It was not the time for an emotional crash, but Greg's family was such a depressing, sad group of people.

“Was it hard to find the food? I read in the paper that there has been a grocery worker's strike in the area,” I said.

“She made it hard on herself. She drove over to the next town to buy groceries,” Ralph said.

“I want to support the workers,” she said, looking at her plate.

“Those whiners. It takes no brains and no skills to do that job, and they want thirteen dollars an hour,” Ralph said.

The thirteen-dollar-an-hour figure, I'd read in the paper that morning, was for those who had been working there for years. That still only amounted to $27,000 a year, which was not much money, especially for a mundane job where you had to stand on your feet all day, taking bullshit from cranky customers. But I said nothing. It would be an absolute waste of energy to attempt to change Ralph's mind.

Greg's dad and uncle monopolized the rest of the dinner conversation, discussing the best method of lawn fertilizer and why kids today had such poor math skills.

I looked across the table at Greg. I knew that Greg wouldn't turn out like his father, a man on the periphery of family life, a silent breadwinner, semen donor, and turkey carver. A man who never bought the Christmas presents and forgot relatives' birthdays. It was amazing that Greg had turned out so well, growing up in this cavemanish household.

It took about four hundred years, but eventually dinner was over and the guests went home. Greg and I retreated to his room and collapsed onto his tiny single bed, groaning in pain from the obscene amount of food we'd eaten. Even Greg found Thanksgiving a painfully long day, and he suggested we leave Saturday rather than Sunday. I readily agreed, but Saturday still seemed like an impossibly long time away.

“Want to go for a walk or something?” he asked.

“Yeah. I need to walk for four years straight to lose the weight I've gained this weekend.”

“Mom is a good cook, that's for sure.”

It was dark out, but the sidewalk was well lit. Greg took my hand and we walked slowly along the path through the quiet neighborhood.

We walked through a park and sat down at a picnic bench. The thick trees surrounding us made the bench feel secluded and private. We began kissing and all at once we were all over each other, kissing and groping frenziedly, and I went down on him. There are times when giving your boyfriend a blowjob makes you feel both benevolent and powerful and you really get into it, and this was one of them. Greg was moaning appreciatively, and I looked up to see his face. His eyes were closed and his head was thrown back. His excitement really turned me on.

I was watching him when suddenly something white and goopy fell on his stomach from the sky. I looked up and saw the bird that had just unloaded on Greg fly away.

Greg was unaware of the gelatinous bird excrement quivering on his belly button, so he was still moaning and groaning while I nearly choked to death from the combination of laughter and his engorged penis in my mouth.

Greg finally realized something was going on. I managed to disengage my mouth from his dick, at which time I was laughing so hard I was crying. Greg, however, didn't think the incident was very funny. “I was almost there!” he protested. For a moment he tried to finish himself off, but my convulsions of laughter did not facilitate the process, and he soon gave up.

AVERY

L
es and I half sat, half sprawled on opposite corners of the couch. I smiled, contented with too much food and wine. My mother was on the recliner across from us.

“I think this is the nicest Thanksgiving I've ever had,” I said. It had been a long but wonderful day. Les and I arrived at my mother's house around noon to help her prepare dinner. I'd never had so much fun cooking a meal. We spent the day talking and laughing and drinking spiked cider and eating fattening appetizers as we bustled about the kitchen chopping and cutting and baking and sautéing.

“No stress. No family drama. Just great food, great wine, great conversation,” I said.

“To stress-free holidays,” Les said, raising his glass in a toast.

“We're going to have enough leftovers for a month. My fridge is packed with food,” Mom said.

“I may have gotten a little carried away,” Les said. “I love to cook and I just don't do it very often. I guess it's because it seems like such a waste just to cook for one. Isn't that silly? I love to cook but won't do it just for myself.”

“I did that for a while,” I said. “Looking forward to dating so I could go to nice restaurants with someone and have someone to go to the movies with. Then I thought, this is ridiculous. I'll go to whatever movies I want to see. I'll take myself to nice restaurants. It was hard at first, but then I really started liking it. With Gideon, we'd always ‘compromise,' which meant we effectively did what he wanted. At least he liked to dance. That was one thing we agreed on. Before Gideon and I got married, it was usually impossible to get a guy on the dance floor. I went out with guys who rode motorcycles, they'd been in the Marines, they jumped out of airplanes for fun; they thought they were so brave, but they wouldn't get out on a dance floor for anything. Looking stupid was scarier to them than defying death.”

I looked into my wineglass and wondered if Art liked to dance. I wondered how his visit with his family back East was going. I wouldn't be able to hear from him until Monday.

“What kind of dancing do you like? Do you swing dance?” Les asked.

“What? Oh yeah, I love swing,” I said.

“I've always wanted to learn. I took a few lessons, but I had a different partner each time. It just seemed like I needed to learn with the same partner so she could learn my leads.”

“You're doing it again: waiting for a girlfriend to start doing the things you want to do.”

“You're right. Would you want to take lessons with me?”

“I'd love to.”

“I know a place we can go. I'll sign us up.” With that decided, there was a sudden lull in the conversation. I looked around as if to find a new topic of conversation and saw the stack of dirty dishes littering the counters in the kitchen.

“I think I'll get started on the dishes,” I said.

“Don't you dare,” Mom said. “Leave them.”

“Mom, I'm not going to leave them for you to do all by yourself.” I stood and started toward the kitchen.

“I'll help,” Mom said getting up from the couch. “Les, if you try to help, I'll beat you over the head with a dirty pot. You did most of the cooking and you're a guest to boot, so don't even think it.” Les held his hands up in surrender, saucer-eyed in mock terror of her threats.

“Anyway,” she added, “we girls need a little time for girl talk.”

Mom and I washed dishes in silence for a few minutes. Then Mom said, in a tone so quiet I could barely hear her over the running water, “I like him. He's a great catch.”

“Mom, I told you, Les and I are just friends.”

“Why? He's sweet, he's funny, he's smart.”

“He's all of those things, but it just doesn't click for us in that way. Why can't a man and a woman be friends without everyone trying to make it into something more than it is?”

“Maybe you think he's just a friend, but he adores you, it's obvious.”

“As a matter of fact, Mom, he told me he has a crush on another woman.”

“When did he tell you this?”

“A few weeks ago.”

“Well, he's over her and into you.”

“Let's drop it, okay?” I didn't want to tell her that, though I cared about Les, the last thoughts in my head when I went to sleep at night weren't of him but of a man I'd never met.

JEN

R
ette had given me the number to Greg's parents' house in case of an emergency. Having to spend an entire day with my parents certainly qualified as an emergency. While my relatives began yet another exciting round of Trivial Pursuit, I slipped into the study to make the call.

“How was your day?” I asked when Rette picked up.

“An endless nightmarish mix of dull in-laws, conversations about weather and weed removal, and interfamily fights over such riveting topics as butter versus margarine and whether kids today should be able to use calculators to do their homework. I consumed approximately four pounds of butter today. I'm afraid Greg's mother has never heard of a little thing called cholesterol. Greg's father is such a jerk. He sat on his ass in front of the TV all day while his wife ran around like a crazy person getting ready to feed seventeen people, and he was barking at her to bring him a beer. How was your day?”

“The first thing Mom said to me when she picked me up from the airport was, ‘Have you put on some weight?' Then she said, ‘You look tired. Haven't you been sleeping? ' I was like
Yeah, good to see you too
. We got home around ten in the morning and Mom started making Bloody Marys. She was like
Calories don't count on holidays!
And I was like
Yeah they do, but count me in, there's no way I'm going through the day sober.
I'd nursed a nice buzz all day, and with the help of some brandy, was still pleasantly numb.

“Mom was drinking Bloody Marys at ten in the morning? That's excessive even for her. Does she seem okay?”

“I guess.”

“How's Dad?”

“I barely spoke to him. He spent most of his day in his workshop trying to come up with his latest invention that is supposed to make us zillionaires but is really just swallowing up the last shreds of our inheritance. I talked to him for maybe ten minutes at dinner. It was like ‘Good to see you, Dad. Glad I flew out to Minnesota to visit.' I'm going out with some friends from high school tonight though. I heard from Wendy that Traci is getting married to
Larry Walker.”

“No way!”

“I know, I can't believe it. They make such a weird couple.”

“I'm so jealous. I wish I were there. I'm trapped with these horrible people for two more days.”

“You aren't getting any sympathy from me. I had to face Mom and Dad all alone because of you.”

“But they are staying at
my
house for Christmas.”

“I'm still mad at you.”

“You're right, I'm a horrible sister. Oh shit, Greg is calling me. It's my turn. We're playing charades. Can you believe it? Does it get any worse than this? I'm in a nightmare. A long, painfully real nightmare. I gotta go. I love you. Happy Thanksgiving.”

“Love you, Rette. See you Monday.”

RETTE

T
hings had been great between me and Greg over Thanksgiving, but as soon as I started back at work, things went back to the way they were.

When Greg touched me, I pushed him away. Sex was beginning to seem like such a waste of time. What have you accomplished after sex? Nothing. I'd rather get some chores taken care of or read a book. If I did get minor tremors of horniness, I didn't want to extinguish them with Greg. Sex was such a production. The Magic Wand was so much easier.

All the women's magazines talked about how important a healthy sex life was. They always offered tips about how to keep the sex hot in a long-term relationship. Why go to the effort? If I didn't spend my time having sex, I could learn photography or study a new language. Sex was always the same thing, over and over again. The whole thing was so ridiculous.

If something did arouse me, which happened less and less frequently, after a few minutes of making out with Greg, my desire would be distinguished utterly. I had never been an orgasm faker before, but lately I'd had to expedite the process; if it lasted too long, it became painful in addition to boring.

What had happened? It used to be that a mere touch or look from Greg could turn me on at any time or place. I would think about him at work and the southward migration of blood flow seemed so overwhelming I was certain everyone around me knew I was having scandalous thoughts.

Maybe I'd been on the pill too long. I'd heard some kinds of pills actually lowered a woman's sex drive. Probably that was all it was.

Of course, maybe it was something about being responsible for taking the pill every day, buying the $20 pills every month, going to the clinic to get the prescription, and injecting my body with synthetic hormones like a cow at a corporate dairy farm that had diminished my sexual appetite. Or maybe it had something to do with the fact that, after all this, I almost never came with him anymore, while he came all over the place, making me and the sheets sticky and gross.

And who do you think washed those sheets and made that bed?

I had to stop myself from thinking like this. These were the kind of thoughts that were causing friction between me and Greg. I was young, in love, about to get married; I had no reason to mope.

 

 

T
he real villain causing problems between me and Greg was the Magic Wand.

With Greg, orgasm achievement was a convoluted, time-consuming alchemy: one part concentration mixed with two parts luck sprinkled liberally with fantasy. The Magic Wand, on the other hand, with its consistent pulsations, could cause mind-blowing hoo-haas in seconds flat.

I had to face reality. The Magic Wand was destroying my relationship with Greg. I had become too reliant on it. I had to quit using it. Right away. Cold turkey.

An hour after I made this resolution, I read the word
arm,
in a magazine, and I was off, envisioning a faceless man's veiny, muscular arm pulling a faceless woman toward him for a passionate kiss, pressing himself into her . . .

Like a true ascetic, I was determined to see this fantasy out manually, but after a few minutes, I was getting nowhere, achieving nothing but a hand cramp. The Magic Wand called out to me, and, without further ado, I caved.

I could no longer deny that the Magic Wand had to be disposed of. I just couldn't resist the temptation when it was so nearby.

The question was how to properly send off such a dear friend to the grave. It had brought me nothing but pleasure, sheer delight. Its only fault was that it was so efficient, so good, it rendered men obsolete.

I couldn't give it a burial—it could be dug up some lonely Saturday night in the future. I couldn't put it to its final resting place at sea—it would be a pollution hazard and, anyway, we lived in Colorado, as land-bound a place as you're gonna find.

The garbage was the soundest method I could come up with, but that seemed so disrespectful. It didn't seem right somehow, but I couldn't think of a better plan.

Early in the morning on a Tuesday, the day our garbage was picked up, I carefully, tenderly wrapped the Magic Wand in tissue paper, then a paper bag, then a plastic bag (I did not want evidence of my mechanical debauchery in plain sight).

I brought the Magic Wand to the garbage and hid it beneath a cereal box. I considered saying a few words, something about all the good times we had together, but instead, I just turned and walked slowly back inside.

Later, when I heard the garbage trucks rumble in, I felt strangely sad.

 

 

I didn't sleep well Sunday night, and I was moving through my Monday morning at a disturbingly slow rate. I made some coffee to help spur my brain into action. Too late. When I returned from the bathroom deodorized and my hair freshly fouffy from the hair dryer, I realized I'd neglected to put the pot beneath the spout and I now had a counter full of coffee. All of the appliances on the counter were marooned in brown water, which expanded until the counter could no longer contain it and it dripped onto the floor. I grabbed every dishtowel we had and, in a valiant sweep of the towels, I managed to spray the coffee all over myself, including one of the very last clean outfits I had left.
Crap
.

When I finally managed to clean the disaster, I went to my room and spent a full five minutes staring at my closet in hopes of coming across an outfit that wouldn't make me feel like complete buffalo excrement. I put on a skirt and sweater and then began a hunt for nylons. I finally discovered a pair and struggled to get them on my right leg, then my left. Just as I was trying to maneuver them over my thighs, I heard a hideous tearing sound.
Crap
.

With my only pair of nylons torn to shreds, I resorted to an uncomfortable white shirt and blue pants that made me look like a pregnant hippopotamus.

I was twenty minutes late getting to work. I tried to sneak into my office without Eleanore seeing me. I thought I'd made it safely, but just as I was about to step into my office I heard her say, “Our department is hardly so ahead of its deadlines we can stroll in whenever we feel like it. And we're about to get hit even harder with the Expert account.”

“I . . .” I began to defend myself, but gave up. I didn't have the energy to fight.

“I think you should count on doing a lot of overtime these next several weeks.”

“Of course.” I only had a wedding to plan, a fiancé to spend time with, and thirty pounds to lose.

I turned on my computer and began sorting through the e-mail of coworkers and clients asking how the editing of such and such a report or newsletter was coming and did I remember the deadline was Wednesday?

I looked at my to-do list for the day. If I worked my ass off for ten hours and if Eleanore limited her interruptions to half her normal amount . . . I still couldn't get anywhere close to being able to meet the deadlines. Rushing didn't help. If I made a mistake, I was only causing myself more work. I was so stressed I didn't know where to begin, so I began by doing what was least important: going through my personal e-mail.

I worked at a breakneck pace all morning. At quarter to one I waddled to the breakroom, my body bloated with Thanksgiving-blubber. I sat at the table and attempted to hoist my left leg over my right, but my legs were too bulky to actually cross. I balanced my left ankle on my thigh instead. I bit into my apple and watched enviously as Avery unwrapped a sandwich that looked suspiciously like turkey.

“Is that turkey?”

“Tofurky.”

“Is it good?”

“It's great. Do you want to try it?”

“Good god, no.”

“How was your Thanksgiving?” Avery asked.

“I gained about four hundred pounds because Greg's family is so unbelievably boring that food was my only source of entertainment. How was yours?”

“It was really fun. Is that all you're eating? You want some stuffing? Some mashed potatoes? Some apple pie? I have a ton of leftovers.” Avery, that cruel, skinny temptress, took the lids off the Tupperware containers in which all sorts of sinful, fattening foods lurked. She spread the array of cellulite-inducing delights before me.

“No. Thanks. My diet officially began today. I'm ill from eating so much. How was your Thanksgiving?”

“Les from work came over to my mom's place. We made dinner and had the best time.”

“Les?”

“He works in IT.”

“Yeah, I know him. He helped me get my computer set up. He seems like a really nice guy. So are you two like a thing?”

“Oh no. I'm not attracted to him. Anyway, he has a crush on Jen.”

“Of course he does, what guy doesn't?”

“No kidding. But it's been really fun having a guy friend. We talk and talk about everything. We went hiking last Saturday, and we've talked on the phone every night for the past week for at least an hour or two. We had so much fun making dinner together Thursday. We just talked and talked; he really made me laugh. Then Friday we went out to a movie and Saturday we went to the art museum in Denver and then went out to dinner and saw a band . . .”

“Are you sure you're not dating?”

“Yes, I'm sure. That's what I'm saying. It's better than dating because there aren't any of those annoying expectations getting in the way, but we are good friends who are there for each other.”

“Speaking of . . .” I said, indicating with my eyes that Les was behind her.

He limped across the kitchen floor. “Hey,” he said.

Avery turned. “What's wrong?” she asked him.

“I worked out yesterday. My body went into shock. Most of my muscles had atrophied pretty severely and weren't at all happy about being dragged back to the land of the living. I can't tell you how excited I am to go home and soak in a bathtub full of Ben-Gay. But pretty soon my muscles will thank me for this. Or thank you I should say. You're quite a good influence on me,” he said to Avery as he pulled his lunch from the fridge.

“That's great, Les,” Avery said.

“I assume you mean that it's good that I'm working on getting in shape and not that I'm crippled with excruciating pain.”

“Right,” Avery said with a laugh.

“Well, I'll catch you two later,” Les said, taking his lunch with him back to his desk.

“You know,” Avery said quietly when she was sure he was gone. “I wish I was half as attracted to him as I was to Gideon. But you just can't force yourself to be attracted to someone. It doesn't matter anyway. He's hot for Jen. Like every other man in the world.”

 

 

F
or the rest of the week, I ate lunch at my desk, came in early and stayed late. So much for forty-hour weeks.

I quickly grew sick of cleaning up other people's mistakes. I didn't have time to fix my own. Being an editor is like being a goalie. You never get the glory of making the game-winning goal, but you get blamed for everything that gets past you. At least on the field, spectators can see the catches a goalie does make; they have no idea the spectacular saves we editors make.

I kept expecting Eleanore to come by and give me a pat on the back. Eleanore did finally stop by my office, but not for back-patting. She pointed out a few mistakes I'd made editing a sixteen-page industry newsletter so tiny and insignificant that only a particularly anal editor would notice them. I apologized and promised that things would get better. For all the hours of overtime I'd worked and all the stress and frustration, the only thing Eleanore had to say was, “Yes, I'm sure it will get better. Things can only get better.”

She never said anything good about my work, and she reveled in finding my mistakes. When she found an error of mine, she gleefully ran to report it to me.

“My dictionary says this word should have a hyphen but I see you didn't add a hyphen.” A satanic grin lurked beneath the surface of her expression. She wanted it to seem as though she were simply casually imparting information, but I could see that secretly she loved catching my mistakes.

I returned to my desk with my lunch to see a stack of reports I'd edited that Eleanore had eviscerated with a patchwork of sticky notes with bitchy comments like, “Have you ever heard of the A.P. Style Guide?” because I'd forgotten to write out the number nine. She could have just circled the numeral nine, which was the editorial mark that meant “write out.” But no, she had to write “Have you ever heard of the A.P. Style Guide?” and draw a menacing arrow to my mistake in a thick red pen that made me think of the lines surgeons draw before they cut open a patient to remove a cancerous organ.

Somehow, when she managed me by sticky note, it decimated my self-esteem even more than when she told me about my many flaws in person. Every morning when I arrived to find my errors in black and white and bleeding red pen, my self-esteem was trampled. Eleanore was constantly doing a clog dance on my ego, turning my insides into bruised mulch.