Rita

Rita was 68 years old when her husband Ed died. They’d been married fifty years.

Everyone in our neighborhood, as well as her three children, were worried about how she would manage without him. I made a casserole of macaroni, ground beef, and spaghetti sauce as my two toddlers played on the kitchen floor banging pots and pans with wooden spoons. My dish would join a smorgasbord of others on Rita’s large dining room table to feed the masses expected to congregate at her home after the funeral.

Ed had suffered from emphysema brought on by his exposure to fine particles floating in the air at the fertilizer plant where he’d worked. I was told that he had been on workman’s comp—debilitated by his affliction—for the past ten years. During his long-term disability, he developed a penchant for collecting other people’s trash, and was often heard justifying his compulsion to do so saying, “This is good stuff that people throw out. I could use this someday.” The stuff he collected included jars of nails, screws, washers, rubber bands, and paperclips; old tools—broken and discarded for good reason—pipes, scrap metal, framing wood, and bricks from tear downs; and half empty paint cans and various cleaning fluids. He even had a few old claw-foot bathtubs, several porcelain sinks, and a couple toilets he’d picked up after local contractors got started on a sub-division that took over the Tolsen farm on the east side of town. He brought home a trunk load of leftover linoleum tiles—the kind you can peel off the backs and stick into place—thinking he’d redo Rita’s kitchen floor someday.

As the junk kept coming, piling up in the basement and filing up the attic, Rita kept up her domestic duties. She cooked Ed three squares a day, using vegetables she grew each summer in her enormous garden. Rita peppered the garden with wild flowers because, “I just love the way Queen Anne’s lace looks when it blows in the wind,” she said.

During the last two months of Ed’s life, he kept mostly to the hospital bed set up for him in the downstairs parlor. Rita called the room by its old-fashioned name, making me think of my great-grandmother who also had kept a parlor. Rita dragged her canister-style Electrolux around the wood floors everyday to keep the house free of dust. Too much dust in the air could send Ed into a coughing, spluttering, full-blown asthma attack that made her want to break down and cry.

At the wintry gravesite, Rita stood flanked by her children and their spouses and their children—seven grandchildren in all. Dressed in black with a heavy veil covering her face, her posture was stoic, and I admired her courage as the casket was lowered into the ground. I walked with a few of my neighbors back to the cemetery parking lot, shivering against the chilly wind, and we called out to one another, “See you back at the house.”

My casserole was sitting in my own oven turned to the lowest setting to keep it warm. My husband had stayed home with the children so I could attend the service and funeral. They were not home when I arrived to pick up my dish, and for a moment I was struck by the silence of a house with no other occupants. I was a stranger to silence, as was Rita, who had lived with Ed’s comings and goings, putterings, constant needs for food and service, and medical needs for fifty years. How awful it would now be for Rita in that huge home all by herself. I speculated that she might sell and move to one of the newly built condos where residents had to be at least fifty years old. I wondered at the difficulty of adjusting to a routine with so much less to do. I’d read that when a spouse dies, the other often follows closely behind because of a “broken heart.” I knew Rita’s children were worried that their mother, who had been such a devoted wife—her main role throughout her life—might succumb to this kind of grief.

I walked in the back door of Rita’s home with my casserole held between two potholders, greeted people who were already in the house, and headed to the dining room. I placed my dish on the side where the main courses were, making sure my potholders protected her table from its heat, and then looked around to find Rita in order to pay my respects. The hospital bed and other medical accoutrements of Ed’s final days had been carted off the day before by Rita’s son, and her parlor was looking just as elegant as I remembered it before illness took over the space. White doilies under the lamps situated on end tables on either side of the couch softened the darkened oak veneers of the furniture. Rita sat demurely in one of the wingback chairs. She’d removed the heavy veil and I expected to see the tell tale signs of mourning on her face, but that was not the case. She conversed easily in her soft-spoken way to the groups and individuals who came by to hold her hand or give her a respectful kiss on the cheek as they offered their condolences. She graciously accepted each one before directing them to, “Get yourself a plate and have some food. There’s plenty.”

As a working mom, my life was a busy one with getting two small children up, dressed, fed, packed for day care, and off to the sitter’s each morning before then getting myself to the office. The rest of the winter passed by and though I occasionally gave a glance over Rita’s way, she seemed to be in seclusion, and I didn’t see her until the spring.

At the end of April, a large truck backed up into Rita’s driveway one Saturday morning, the driver apparently not very experienced as the grinding of the truck’s gears gave testimony. A hydraulic lift was used to lower a boxcar-size dumpster into the backyard next to her cellar doors. While my daughter played quietly in her sandbox, I bounced my fussy son on my hip as I watched Rita sign something on a clipboard before the driver hopped back in the cab of the truck and drove off. Rita stood, arms akimbo, staring at the dumpster for a moment, and then with a determined purpose in her step, walked to the cellar doors and opened them wide.

I wandered into her yard, past her freshly tilled, but still unplanted, garden just as she disappeared down the steps. “Rita?” I called into the darkness. My son began squirming in my arms clearly impatient with my curiosity. He wanted to get down and back to his own yard where he now pointed at his sister, grunting his growing displeasure. Not wanting a full-blown temper tantrum, I reluctantly retraced my steps back to our house. While he made his first attempts to kick a ball around the lawn, I watched for Rita out of the corner of my eye until I saw her emerge with a box in her arms. She unceremoniously lifted the box up over the edge of the newly installed dumpster and let it drop into the cavernous depths. The box must have been full of metal objects of some kind. Nails? Screws? Pipes? The sound they made when they hit the bottom reverberated inside the container for several seconds. Rita brushed her hands together as if to sign “that’s that” and then turned around and entered the cellar again.

I peaked at her from time to time through my kitchen window while she worked on for the next couple hours. I went through the motions of a typical Saturday at home with my children while my husband was away coaching the cycling team of the school he worked for. At one in the afternoon, I put both my children down for their naps. Satisfied that they would sleep for at least the next hour, I walked next door to check on Rita. She was sitting in her kitchen, and when she saw me approach she stepped out on her side porch to greet me. “Grab a chair,” she said as she pointed to a stack of white plastic molded chairs stored on the side of her porch. I obeyed, and took two of them out into the yard facing her small rose garden.

We sat down and listened for a moment to the cardinals and robins chirping. Finally I asked, “How are you doing?”

Rita’s look of astonishment startled me. Her eyes widened and she reared her head back slightly as she took in a deep breath. “I am,” she paused, “Fantastic.” A wide grin appeared on her face and her eyes actually twinkled. I didn’t know what to say being completely unprepared for this particular response. I marveled that so many people had speculated the worst about how Rita would fair as a widow. She looked almost joyous. “I’m cleaning out that basement,” she began. “Ed was such a pack-rat. Just got worse and worse as the years went on. That basement is just full of junk. You’ve never seen anything like it. That dumpster is the second one I’ve had. The first one was just a regular size, like the kind you see behind restaurants, but I filled that up yesterday morning before noon. They came out and picked it up in the afternoon and I paid extra to get them to bring me this larger one delivered on a Saturday.” She nodded toward the monstrosity and I turned my head to look at it. “I figure I’ll have that one filled by the end of the weekend but I can’t lift those bathtubs and toilets. My son is going to come over tomorrow after church and bring one of his friends along to help. I can’t wait to get everything cleaned out of there. I expect I’ll need another one the same size to finish up and get everything out of the attic as well.”

There was no malice in her voice, just determination, and I wondered if she might be suffering from one of those stages of grief. Perhaps denial. “But, how are you doing?” I asked again trying to put some emphasis in my voice so she would know that I was referring to her emotional state, and not to the chore she had set before herself.

“How am I doing?” she asked back as if she hadn’t quite heard me right. I nodded, a concerned look on my face. “How am I doing?” She looked around as if she was checking to make sure no one else was listening in. “I’m free,” she said opening her arms as if to embrace the world.

Copyright DJ Anderson, 2000

Mr. Reid’s Girls

We absolutely adored him. Even CiCi Howard—a paradigm of goodness—flagrantly flirted.

A master of the double entendre, Mr. Reid hilariously and inappropriately used the guise of a sotto voce to make his cleverly quick asides. And we rewarded him with blushes and giggles. He had an impishness that was endearing, and a gentle manner that made each one of us feel secure and significant. His melodiously deep baritone voice was seductive and captivating. We admired him both as our teacher, and as our friend.

Known as “Mr. Reid’s Girls,” we were the elite of the elite female members of chamber chorus at our public high school in Galveston, Texas. And though this was Bible thumping country, the intrigue and mystery of being singled out for his attention made us forget our Sunday School lessons. A Lolita would never do for Mr. Reid. His signature aphorism, “Patience is a virtue,” was key to understanding the type of girl that attracted him—one whose sense of self was still in its pupal stage.

Mr. Reid’s description—mid-40s with balding gray hair, and a distinctive paunch—belied the danger of his charisma, for it was not physicality that held us captive to his charm. Before chamber chorus practice, we girls would vie for his attention. There might be as many as four or five of us crowded around his desk joking and matching wits with him. Oh, how we all would laugh.

CiCi was the quickest to laugh at his dry sense of humor. Krys, who was often chosen to sit in the coveted passenger seat of Mr. Reid’s car while en route to off-campus performances, was best known for a facial expression that clearly indicated a failure to grasp the joke’s meaning. But Mr. Reid’s flash of a smile turned the light of dawning on so that she, too, would laugh. And though I usually started laughing right behind CiCi, it often wasn’t until much later that I actually perceived the meaning. I just couldn’t . . . wouldn’t let Mr. Reid know I was so dull.

Because CiCi and I were the only two girls who not only were in chamber chorus, but were also involved in the spring musicals (both junior and senior year), our exposure to Mr. Reid as musical director was greater than the others. There may have been the smallest feeling of competition between us, though I was barely aware of it. I do, however, remember feeling something close to triumph when I earned the distinction of an invitation to his home for lunch.

For our lunch date, he fixed Campbell’s Tomato Soup and grilled cheese sandwiches. Mother always made the soup with water, but Mr. Reid made it with milk. It was comfort food, and I thought I had never had such a delicious meal. Afterwards, we sat on the couch in his living room and talked. He told me how much he admired my voice. He told me how much musical potential he thought I had. He asked me what I was thinking in terms of college applications. He smoothed a wrinkle in my skirt with his hand. He put his arm around me, gave my shoulder a squeeze, and said it was time to get back to school. My heart pounded hard in my chest.

Over the next several weeks, during rehearsals for The Sound of Music, Mr. Reid helped CiCi and me prepare for our performances. CiCi was adorable as five-year-old Gretel. I played Liesl, and each night helped CiCi, whose friendship had become very important to me, wrap an ace bandage around her body to bind her double Ds tightly against her chest. On the night of the last show, Mr. Reid came back stage to give “his girls” a big hug of congratulations. He put his arm around me and bussed the top of my head with a kiss. “You were fantastic,” he praised. “Wish I were eighteen,” he said with a wink making reference to my solo performance of “Sixteen Going on Seventeen.” At that, he brushed his elbow against my breast and whispered, “soft,” as he nudged his shoulder against mine in playful intimacy. In that instant I felt the thrill of a frisson surge through my body. But in the next instant, the momentary delight turned to fear as a memory snapped into my head.

Mr. Calbert, my eighth grade art teacher, was infamously known for his penchant of putting his hands on young girls’ breasts. Consequently, we began the term with an intense dislike and distrust of him. He was 60-something, rail thin, unkempt, and smelled of alcohol. He didn’t even bother to learn our names. Though we were mostly an untrained group with regard to drawing, Mr. Calbert expected us to attempt to draw the human form. Each class meeting, he would select, from among the ranks, a girl, who was then expected to pose for the class. When my day came, I apprehensively took my place as the model, and hopped up on the counter in the middle of the classroom. I telegraphed my despair to my friend, Lynne, who took up her pencil knowing what my fate was likely to be. Mr. Calbert slithered and oozed his way around the classroom making suggestions to his pupils on technique. Ten minutes into class, I began to relax. Twenty minutes into class, I began to hope I might escape the inevitable. The oily Mr. Calbert continued his critiques until with just three minutes left in class, he scurried over to me as if he’d almost forgotten the most important thing. “Now class,” he began as all eyes now looked up with rapt attention, “don’t forget the shadow under here.” At that, Mr. Calbert slid the palm of his hand along the crease in my dress made by my right breast, thereby cupping its underside. My humiliation was palpable. Lynne’s eyes grew wide as she helplessly watched. The bell rang. Mr. Calbert solicitously offered me his hand as an aid in getting down from the counter. The sardonic grin on his unshaven face was proof enough of the pleasure he took from his conquest.

After the cast party for The Sound of Music, after the set had been struck, after I was safely back in my bedroom, I considered whether there was really any difference between Mr. Reid and Mr. Calbert. I wasn’t sure.

Texas graduations are held at night to escape the June heat, and evenings were often quite breezy on the Gulf. I wore my sweater into the choral practice room for chamber chorus rehearsal prior to graduation, but decided it would be unnecessary to have it with me during the performance and ceremony. My graduation robe would be more than enough. I left the sweater draped on the back of a chair as we all headed to the stadium. We were a raucous group—the awarding of diplomas was accompanied by the sound of firecrackers and M80s. The chaos that ensued after we were pronounced graduated was something akin to a major athletic event. A sea of bodies, flash photography, flying caps, and shouts of congratulations all contributed to the cacophony.

Later, as I was about to put the key in the ignition of my car and head to the first of many parties, I remembered my sweater and hoped the choral room was still open. The buzz from the fluorescents added to the eeriness of the near-deserted campus. I slipped soundlessly into the dimly lit choral room, and picked my sweater off the chair. I turned to leave only to become conscious of the fact that I wasn’t alone. A low murmuring of voices could be heard coming from the open door of Mr. Reid’s office. Mostly out of curiosity, I cautiously approached. There, framed by the door stood Mr. Reid and CiCi in the middle of a passionate kiss, oblivious to everything around them as hands feverishly groped and fondled.

I left quickly, but not soundlessly, letting the door to the choral room slam shut behind me. I scurried out to my car, tears stinging my eyes. In that instant, I knew there was nothing special about my relationship with Mr. Reid.

His life at the school had stretched out over a twenty-year period; we girls were just the girls of the moment; there had been years and years of girls. And even after what I had seen, I still wanted to believe that Mr. Reid was just a Peter Pan that didn’t want to grow up. I didn’t want to know that we girls were his victims. I didn’t want to know that it was wrong for him to take advantage of his power as a revered adult figure. I didn’t want to accept the notion that, as our teacher, he was responsible for keeping himself in check, and that though we might think ourselves willing, he was completely wrong to use his influence in such a self-serving manner.

Graduation night was the last time I saw CiCi. She never returned my phone calls, and though I have, over the years, tried to reach out to her at various times . . . after the death of her mother . . . and then after the death of her sister, silence has been her only response.

Copyright DJ Anderson, 2011

Starbucks Morning

“What can I get started for you, sir?” the pretty dark-haired girl behind the Starbucks counter asked.

Laura stood in line behind the tall man currently being waited upon. She checked the time on her cell phone impatient for her turn.

“I’ll have,” the man hesitated as he squinted at the list of options posted on the wall, “a blueberry muffin and a Grande Mocha.” His voice had a baritone quality that didn’t quite sound as if he’d put a period at the end of his sentence. He paused again, reflecting on whether he needed to add to his order, or perhaps change his mind altogether.

It was 7:47 a.m. and Laura was supposed to be to work in five minutes in order to have time to get the switchboard software launched by 8:00. She was exactly five minutes from work, which meant she had three minutes to get her coffee and get in her car. The man in front of her had hopped out of his SUV and run to the door of the shop one moment ahead of her. She’d noticed him immediately because he looked as if he had just rolled out of bed. He wore flannel pajama pants that had a dark blue background with little snowmen printed this way and that all over the material. His shabby red plaid bathrobe, which he wore over a light-weight green fleece, hung loosely about his frame. The belt of the robe dragged on the ground behind him like a train. He had chivalrously held the door for her but then had scurried along in his Birkenstock slip-ons to get in line ahead of her.

“Is the Verona any good?” he asked the pretty girl who smiled patiently while he pondered. “It’s very smooth, sir. One of our best in my opinion.” Laura marveled at the girl's ability to be so cheerful. The girl marveled at the man’s oblivion to the now nine customers in line behind him. “OK, I’ll take a tall Verona too,” he decided.

Laura could feel her body relax knowing she’d be next.

“What name shall I use for the order, sir?” the girl inquired.

“Bubba,” he replied.

“Oh,” the girl brightened as she exclaimed, “my nephew is called Bubba and I think it’s the sweetest thing.”

The man nodded his head congenially and said, “It beats the original.” Somehow there was an incongruity about his name, the way he was dressed, and the fact that earlier he had said to Laura as he looked down at his clothes with his hands in the pockets of his robe, “I could get used to this.”

Laura had smiled and responded, “You mean rolling out of bed and driving to Starbucks for coffee?”

“Yeh,” he’d nodded. “It’s Pajama Day at my son’s school and I thought it would be great to spice up the car pool and join in. The kid’s all thought it pretty entertaining.” Laura smiled and nodded her understanding as she listened to him continue. “I don’t suppose clients would enjoy it much, though, unless I could convince them that I was some sort of eccentric genius.” Laura gave him her squinty I’m-tolerating-you smile. She really needed her cup of coffee.

The pretty girl set Bubba’s coffees and muffin on the counter and told him the price. He pulled out his wallet and handed her his Starbucks card—the one he “loaded” with $20 charged to his credit card every few weeks or so. “Cheers!” he smiled to all as he headed toward the door.

Laura ordered a tall Verona with room for cream.

At 8:03 the switchboard was up and running, and Laura leaned back in her ergonomically-correct desk chair to enjoy the bold smooth flavor of her coffee.

Copyright DJ Anderson, 2005

The Circumcision

When my son Aaron was born there was great concern about how three and half-year-old Ariel would take his arrival. She had emphatically announced prior to his birth that she wanted a sister. When we gently pointed out the possibility of a brother, she dismissed it as a bad joke. Unfortunately, the joke was on her. A brother did arrive in all his nine-pound glory.

Ariel’s first visit with Aaron was a little shaky. That is, John and I shook with fear as we lay the babe in her arms. She was wonderful as she cooed softly in his ear. He was so small, yet in her arms he looked enormous. A thousand questions raced through my mind as I tried to imagine the joy and companionship these two would give to each other throughout their lives.

The next morning, Aaron was circumcised just after his first feeding. The doctor came in to explain the procedure. A tiny plastic cap had been installed at the tip of his penis, and over a five- to eight-day period, the cap would gradually complete the circumcision, and would then fall off. She left a pamphlet for me to read but, as Aaron then began to cry out for his next feeding, I placed the pamphlet on top of the cabinet just beneath his bassinet. Ariel, John, and my parents arrived shortly after Aaron began his meal, and I forgot all about the pamphlet.

In all the adult cacophony, Ariel turned her attentions to exploring the room. Within a few moments, she discovered the pamphlet in all its full-color glory. At some point I became aware of her little voice trying to break through the din, “Mama . . . Mama . . . Mama. What are these pictures about?” Tightly grasped in her little hand, was the pamphlet. Each stage was carefully mapped out so the parents of a newly circumcised baby could be clear about what to expect over the next few days as the plastic cap did its job. “Well . . .,” I said. I could see my parents’ wide-eyed staring at me—the room suddenly quiet. Too quiet. This topic would never have been addressed when I was a child much less when they were children. How was I to answer my daughter honestly without embarrassing my parents whose faces were already slightly stained with blush?

I bravely made the plunge. “There’s a small piece of extra skin on the end of Aaron’s penis that the doctor has placed a plastic cap on. In a few days, the cap will fall off and the extra skin will come off with it.” There! I did it. Did she buy it? What other questions were lurking in that brain? Ariel looked at me, searching my face to be sure I had spoken the truth. Her eyes dropped to the pamphlet to examine the photos. Convinced that what I had said matched the pictures, she folded the pamphlet up and placed it back on the cabinet. The room visibly sighed with relief. Suddenly Ariel’s face lit up with a brilliant smile as she announced, “I’ll help you cut Aaron’s penis off.” We all stared in shock, tongue-tied. My mother saved the moment, uttering in absolute deadpan, “Hide the knives.”

Copyright DJ Anderson, 1990

9/11 Reminiscence

My father has brain cancer.

In the printed pathology report, the diagnosis states, “at least anaplastic astrocytoma with glioblastoma possibilities.” The bottom line is that the disease is fatal. It will probably take my dad within the next year and a half. As explained to me by Dad’s brain surgeon, the cancer cells grow in tentacle-like patterns. The visual picture that appears in my mind looks like vines rapidly lengthening and working their way through the gray matter, entangling, strangling, cutting off the synapses that should be firing off for normal brain activity.

Like those ever-growing tentacles, the shock waves created on September 11, 2001, stretched vine-like from the twin towers throughout the country, touching thousands who didn’t even know they were to have any connection to those who perished that day. I, like one of the many cells that will eventually be overtaken in my dad’s brain, found myself touched by the event in a most unexpected way.

On Friday of the week before the attacks, I received a cold call from a marketing firm located in Greenwich, Connecticut. The woman on the other end of the phone wished to make an appointment with me in the hopes of persuading me that her firm could do great things for the private school I worked for. I constantly received calls like this, and more often than not, politely explained that we had no need of their services. But, I had recently been made aware of the need to do some more aggressive marketing, and thought it might be prudent to at least start talking to some of these firms. The appointment was made for the following Thursday.

On the day of the attacks, I sat in my office working on the school’s rapidly expanding website when my colleague, Marne, poked her head in to say, “Hey, something really weird just happened. Some plane just flew into one of the twin towers.” By her light delivery, I imagined a small single or twin engine, and though tragic because certainly people would have been killed, responded in a most unemotional way. “Huh,” I probably said while continuing to mouse away. She, too, was not particularly affected and breezed into her office. When, however, Lorraine yelled up the stairs at us both that we’d better come downstairs, Marne and I headed down and into the small conference room where, stunned and shocked, we, and the rest of our co-workers, watched in disbelief as the second plane flew into the other tower. My story is about the same as tens of thousands of others after that point. That is, until two days later.

Forty-eight hours after the planes hit, the news continued with coverage. Over and over, we saw the clips. First one plane, then the other. The firefighters, the victims, the rubble, the mess, the everything. It was relentless and catastrophic, and inescapable. And far from over. In our office, we had the television on all day long. We drank our coffee in front of it, we ate our lunch in front of it. We edited copy in front of it. It was both repugnant and magnetic.

On Thursday, I checked my calendar and saw that, at 11:00, I was to expect two representatives from the marketing firm in Greenwich—the woman I spoke with on the phone and one of her colleagues. The minutes ticked past eleven until it was nearly 11:30. I wondered if I’d written the date and time down wrong. I wondered if these people had rudely failed to let me know they were running late. Finally, I paged through my datebook to see if I’d written down a contact number. I had. I called.

The weary voice of a man answered. He simply said, “Hello.” I thought perhaps I had dialed wrong. I explained who I was and the firm I was trying to reach. He confirmed that I had, indeed, reached the correct firm. I then told him that I wasn’t sure whether I had written down the information correctly and told him that I thought I had an appointment with two people from this firm. I then said their names. There was silence on the other end. The silence was so long I was compelled to say, “Hello?” thinking for a moment that the call had somehow been disconnected. I then heard this man, this complete stranger, someone I knew nothing about, start crying. He cried as he told me that these two people, his employees, had gone to the towers on Tuesday morning for a 9:00 meeting. He was certain they were dead. Their cell phones went straight to voicemail. Neither one of them had been in contact. They were no where to be found. I, too, was crying by now. He was inconsolable. And so was I.

Like anaplastic astrocytoma cancer cells, the tentacles of grief reached their way from the bottom of Manhattan and wrapped themselves around someone who had done nothing more than make an appointment with a soon-to-be victim. I spent about an hour talking with her boss, the owner of the marketing firm. His last words to me were, “I don’t know what I’m going to do.” His despair was palpable.

And so, with Dad, I, too, don’t know what I’m going to do. For now, I cope by paying his bills, keeping his checkbook balanced, and making sure he is well taken care of. Perhaps ten years from now, as it is with the families of those who died on September 11, there will be distance and perspective, a moving on. Closure. And as they have, I will have figured out what to do.

Copyright DJ Anderson, 2011

The Office

Harvey was hardly ever at his desk—he was fond of taking the two-martini lunch. When he was in the office, he made crass comments and jokes with sexual undertones.

Harvey got particularly annoyed about my transcriptions of his dictated letters. After he edited one, my practice was to print out a second draft on plain paper for his approval or additional edits. He preferred and demanded that I print directly onto letterhead. But, letterhead was expensive and he invariably had more corrections. If I followed his directive, the office manager complained about our usage. He, in turn, accused me of waste.

Harvey was to host the annual office party and before leaving on a business trip, he instructed me to type up the assignments, make 30 copies, and distribute them to the department. His handwritten sheet indicated that the men in the department would contribute “a bottle of wine” or “loaf of bread.” The women were assigned items requiring actual preparation.

One department assistant, Mary, was a young unmarried mother-to-be whose due date coincided with the party. When I came to her assignment, Two Bottles or Two Breasts, I did a double take. Surely I was misinterpreting Harvey’s handwriting. But, no. It was perfectly clear. I was appalled and completely confused about what to do. I finished typing the assignments and printed a copy to proof. Again, when I got to Mary’s assignment, my stomach turned. I called Harvey on the road and begged him to let me omit this particular assignment saying, “I’m afraid it’s just too personal and verges on mocking her.” His voice took on a menacing edge, “It stays in. It’s funny.”

I didn’t sleep well that night. Should I let Mary be humiliated? Or should I risk losing my job? In the end I decided to expunge the offensive entry, make the copies, and put them in the interoffice mail, resolved to being fired.

For three days I actually believed Harvey wouldn’t notice. But, that was just wishful thinking. He called me up to his office and waved the paper in my face. Noticeably flushed with anger he accused, “You deliberately went against my wishes!”

With a slight shake in my voice, I said, “You ought to be thanking me. I saved your ass.” He looked at me, incredulous at my boldness. I had never stood up to a bully before. I felt empowered. I was exhilarated.

Harvey was stunned as I administered the coup de grace, “I’ll be downstairs at my desk when you’re ready to apologize.”

He never did.

Copyright DJ Anderson 2010

Do you have an office story to share? Please do so by clicking on the comments section.--DJA

Robert J. “Robbie” Pogmore (January 23, 1933 to November 8, 2010)—A Remembrance

A plumber by trade, Robbie Pogmore, his impish grin barely recognizable for the chewing tobacco packed in his cheek, was one of a kind.

I met Robbie in the spring of 1983. A rabid raccoon had found its way into the basement garage of my house on the campus of Choate Rosemary Hall. It hissed, snarled, and foamed in the darkness of a corner. I called the school Plant Office for assistance. They sent Robbie.

He hitched up his sagging jeans and shined a flashlight into the space. Two glowing eyes reflected the light as an accompanying growl emanated from the animal’s throat. Robbie sighed, spit a trail of brown tobacco juice into my gravel driveway, and sauntered back to his pick up truck. He reached in and opened the glove compartment to remove a .45 caliber revolver. My eyes were wide as Robbie checked the chamber, cocked the gun, and walked back into my garage. He disappeared into the darkness.

A few moments later a loud shot exploded. Even though I was expecting it, I was startled just the same. As Robbie walked back out of the garage he muttered, “Won’t be botherin’ ya no more.”

Copyright by DJ Anderson 2010

Secrets and Lies Part V—Maggie #2

As senior spring wears on, my impending departure to Texas for a Baylor scholarship looms large in my future. Terrified of leaving my home and friends, I harbor a hostility I unleash only upon my family. Maggie and I spend more time together than Evy and I do at this point, for Evy and I know our friendship is like the stars—forever constant. Maggie and I, on the other hand, sense that we are more like a comet—a blinding bright thing that appears ever so briefly in the course of a lifetime.

Freshman year of college goes by quickly and I soon find myself arriving home for a much needed visit. My parents drop me off at Evy’s house on their way to Maine. The plan is for me to spend several days here, join in the fun of hometown Fourth of July celebrations, get reacquainted with friends, and then Dad will drive the three hours to pick me up and take me to Grandma and Grandpa’s house for the duration of the summer. I have a job waiting for me as a chamber maid in the Grey Goose Inn not far from where my grandparents live. I haven’t seen Scott since leaving for Baylor. He has, however, been in my constant thoughts. We haven’t communicated in any way but, when we see each other at the fireworks, it is clear that the feelings we have for one another have not changed. He has apparently given the whole celibacy thing the heave-ho because we spend the next two nights together. I am blissfully happy to be reunited with him.

I pull the blanket up over our naked bodies and snuggle close to his side. His arm draws me in tighter as if with just a little bit more effort we, like two droplets of water, can become one. He kisses the top of my head and says, “I’ve missed you so much.”

On my last day in Massachusetts, just a few hours before Dad is to arrive to pick me up, I call Maggie who I have mysteriously not run into at all. It is strange to not have seen her because I have seen so many other old friends. Nevertheless, she seems very happy to hear from me and asks if I can come over for a short time before I have to leave. I agree and walk the familiar path to The Old Mill. Everything seems the same and my thoughts travel back to the evening she told me such extraordinary things about herself.

Maggie throws her arms around me when she opens the door to the restaurant apartment. “I’m sorry we won’t have very much time together. C’mon in and have a seat.” We sit on the overstuffed couch, the same one we curled up in together on the moonlit night. “Have you had a good visit?” she asks hopefully. I tell her I have, that I have seen so many old friends, and that it has been a great visit. “Have you seen anyone special?” she asks peering deeply into my eyes.

I am puzzled by this question because it seems like a leading one. But, that is impossible. Perhaps it is the combination of my happiness and the lingering guilt over not sharing anything with her that night so long ago but, whatever it is, I feel almost ready to tell her about Scott. “Why do you ask?” I hedge.

Maggie looks away as if embarrassed and says, “Oh, I don’t know. There just seems to be a glow about you or something. It made me think that maybe something special had happened.” I smile eagerly at her and admit that I have seen someone special. She practically pounces on me when she says, “Who? Oh please tell me everything. I, too, am seeing someone new and I wanted to tell you all about it but only if you had someone. I didn’t want to brag like I did that night you stayed over and then make you all sad again because you couldn’t relate.”

I pause a moment over her comment. The truth is, I probably still can’t relate. Maggie sleeps with guys and has sex with guys because it feels good and because she can manipulate guys and control guys with it. She does it because she is infatuated and that’s how she expresses her enthusiasm about being with them. I, on the other hand, am more than just in love. What I feel for Scott is bigger than I am; I can control nothing about it. Her eager eyes bore into me with anticipation willing me to give up my secret. And so I do.

I explain that my relationship with Scott has been going on for a few years, that the last two nights have been heavenly, that I will probably cry for days because I have to leave. I am pouring forth all my feelings, but before I can quite finish, she interrupts me, a smile firmly plastered on her face, her eyes bright with enthusiasm. She says, “He’s here.”

My mouth is still open, the words I am getting ready to say a moment ago trapped in my throat. As if a sort of tsunami has just exploded in my bloodstream, I feel immediately overwhelmed with a wave of heat. “What?” I ask as a look of panic creeps into my eyes. Surely I have heard wrong.

Maggie is still smiling almost like she is coaxing a recalcitrant child to take his medicine. “He’s here,” she repeats indicating with her nodding head toward her bedroom.

The whole scene is surreal. I can’t figure out why she is smiling and telling me this with such enthusiastic excitement as if we’ve discovered the astonishing fact that we were both born in the same hospital on the same day. She is saying “He’s here” as if that is something we both should celebrate when we both must know it is a disaster.

My clothes feel as if they’re strangling me; I feel ugly, and dirty. It’s difficult for me to breathe. “I should go then,” I whisper as I stand up. I don’t know what else to do. By telling her, I have betrayed him. By his being there, he has betrayed me. I am horrified that he may have heard what I said. The walls are thin in this apartment and if he is in the little alcove of her bedroom, he surely has heard everything. There is nothing else to do but go.

Maggie hugs me as she says, “It was great to see you.”

I nod and force a smile, knowing I must leave in a hurry. “You too,” I croak. “Bye,” I wave over my shoulder not wanting to look at her face any longer. The tears start to flow before I reach the first landing. I literally run the half-mile back to Evy’s house and quietly sneak downstairs to her room. We have already said our goodbyes because she and her family have gone to a family friend’s birthday party for the afternoon. Dad will be arriving in about an hour and I can’t indulge in tears any longer lest he sees that I’ve been crying.

It is a silent ride up to Maine as the scene at Maggie’s plays over and over in my head. I keep trying to remember exactly what I said, exactly what she said, exactly what he might have heard. But, worst of all, I start to imagine what has happened after my hasty departure.

I text Evy a message to say I miss her already and decide that when she comes up to Maine at the end of July, I will tell her everything. I can’t bear the weight of this secret any longer. It is a secret that is also a lie—a lie to myself.

Copyright by DJ Anderson 2011

Secrets and Lies Part IV—Alex

It is Wednesday afternoon in the spring of my junior year, and I’ve just ridden the bus to Scott’s house after my oboe lesson. I raise the knocker on the huge double oak door of Scott’s family home. The doors are imported antiques from Portugal with a beautiful floral design in bas relief carved into their surface. The right side opens, and he lets me in. Mugsy, his calico cat, welcomes me as she does each week with a “meow.” The door shuts decisively behind me.

“I’ve decided to practice being celibate,” he informs me shortly after my arrival.

Thankfully I know what celibate means and don’t need him to explain. I feel like a vacuum cleaner is sucking all the air out of my lungs because I’m not sure I am able to breathe. My eyes seem out of focus because everything’s suddenly blurry and I can’t feel the books or oboe case I’m carrying. Mugsy rubs up against my leg reminding me that I am, in fact, in possession of at least one of my senses. I gaze around the entry hall where I stand near the closed front door with my schoolbooks weighing heavily in my backpack. My oboe case is grasped in my right hand and bumps absently against my thigh.

“Have you finished As I Lay Dying?” I ask evenly. I loaned him the book a month ago.

“Yes. It’s in my room.”

My face is without expression, like one of the stroke patients at my great grandmother’s nursing home where I sang Broadway show tunes over the Christmas holiday. “I suppose you’d better let me take it so I can finish our AP English assignment.” He disappears down the hall toward the room where all our secrets are kept as I choke back fear and dread and . . . humiliation. Mugsy looks up at me. Her meow sounds like it has a question mark at the end of it. I look her in the eye and whisper, “I don’t know.”

Scott comes back and offers the thin paperback book to me. “It was good,” he says. He means the book but, as I look into his hazel eyes, it dawns on us both that his comment easily applies to the past nearly two years of Wednesdays as well. I indicate with my eyes that he can just place the book in the top of my backpack. I feel the pressure this act exerts on the backpack’s shoulder straps and wonder how I might survive without him.

“Good-bye, then,” I say as I turn to leave.

He opens the large antique Portuguese portal and, looking down at his feet as if he’s sorry, says in a horsy voice, “Good-bye, Laura.”

I feel a surge of emotion course through my psychological bloodstream.

Just before school starts up again, Julie Soros texts me to ask if I’ll go to the movies with her. Her hand-me-down Lumina has been replaced with a used Honda Civic, which she will drive in less than a week to Stetson University in DeLand, Florida, to start her freshman year of college. She is still ostensibly engaged to Jim Dempsey and is determined to find me a boyfriend for my senior year. Specifically . . . Jim’s younger brother, Alex.

I’ve known Alex since first grade. Julie’s efforts in the short week before she roars off to her new life go unrewarded at first. But, as it turns out, Alex and I are assigned to the same study hall—a euphemism since no one actually studies. The place is an immense atrium of a room with 30-foot ceilings and glass windows on three sides. Typically, there are at least 60 students assigned to any one study hall and everyone talks at once. The chatter is so loud in the room, we are hard-pressed to hear the bell when it rings at the beginning and end of the period.

Mr. James, our monitor, is one of the basketball coaches. His only requirement is that we sit in our assigned seats until attendance is taken. We can then move to where ever we like. There are 150 desks in the room where exams are given at the end of each term, so during study hall, pods of students can gather at various different venues within the large space. Some groups play cards, and there are two guys who play chess. We are freshman, sophomores, juniors, and seniors all mixed together. I know exactly two kids in study hall: Tom Bell and Alex Dempsey.

Mr. James takes attendance, and I move to sit with Tom and Alex. We start reminding one another of childhood stories. And we laugh. We laugh the kind of laugh that takes your breath away and makes your stomach hurt. The kind of laugh that you think you’ll never recover from because you think you’re never going to stop. The kind of laugh that every time you look at one another, even when you’ve tried to stop, you erupt in a new fit of laughter. It’s contagious, it’s exhausting, it’s addictive, and it’s wonderful. After third period study hall with Alex, I smile my way through the whole rest of the day.

Alex and I never actually date. That is, we never go to the movies, or out to dinner, or to the shore, or out for ice cream. I go over to his house once and he comes over to mine a couple times. We do a little smooching, but mostly we laugh our way through study hall each day. When I see him, I feel all happy about having someone to call a boyfriend. For the first time, I can talk to my girlfriends about a boy who actually openly likes me. But, it is short-lived.

Alex is at my house after school two months into the school year. We go down to the finished basement and sit together in Dad’s big white leather Lazy Boy whispering and kissing. It is here, while in his lap, that he tells me about Leslie.

Leslie’s family is from Boston. Their newly purchased summer home is on a small pond not far from The Old Mill and is much more than a cottage. The family plans to come on weekends long into the fall. They even have plans to throw a New Year’s Eve party to which Alex claims, “You could come.” The house can easily sleep ten and can accommodate many more if guests don’t mind sleeping bags or cots. The accompanying horse paddock is adjacent to the Dempsey’s. Alex explains that he met Leslie early in the summer and they quickly became close friends.

“Close friends?” I inquire.

Alex looks away and says meaningfully, “Yes. Close.” He further explains that when Leslie left at the end of the summer to go back to her private school, he thought it was the end of their summer romance. But, Leslie and her family have come for the weekend and he has found out that she still considers him her boyfriend. “I really don’t know what to do,” he confesses. I am stunned into silence as I digest what he is telling me. “I was wondering,” he continues, “if it would be alright with you . . .” He hesitates as he gathers his thoughts. “I was wondering if it would be alright with you if you could be my weekday girlfriend and Leslie can be my weekend girlfriend.”

I think Alex is gutsy, and I actually admire him for “going for it.” But, alas, I can’t agree. It is a matter of self-respect I suppose. It is one of those decisions based on worrying over what my friends will say if they find out. Quite honestly, had he never said a thing about Leslie, I may never have known. My weekends are pretty busy with commitments. My piano lessons are on Saturday mornings. I have to either mow the lawn, rake leaves, shovel snow, babysit my sister, or some combination of all these things, on Saturday afternoons. Sunday mornings are pretty much entirely taken up with church, and Sunday afternoons are for doing homework and practicing oboe and piano. Plus I want to spend time with my best friend Evy when she is home on weekends from boarding school. Neither Alex nor I have cars at our disposal, so unless I get on the bus, I can very easily imagine never having a conflict with one of Leslie’s weekend visits—especially since she only comes up to the summer house about once a month. “You’ll have to choose,” I calmly tell him.

He chooses her.

“So . . . you’re with Alex Dempsey now,” Scott says to me outside Mr. McDermott’s calculus classroom. The fire that ignites, from the chemical heat that is all but visible between us, makes my armpits suddenly sweaty.

I wrestle with my inner thoughts, swallow hard, and respond, “I’m not with Alex Dempsey.”

Scott looks off to the side and takes a deep breath that he slowly lets out before he sheepishly asks, “What are doing on Wednesday?”

I want to give him the finger just to prove to myself that I can, but instead I say, “I’ll see you around four.” We go our separate ways in the hall without anyone noticing we’ve even spoken.

Copyright by DJ Anderson 2011

Secrets and Lies Part III—Maggie #1

My schedule during first term junior year at Mabry High School gives me a lunch period for one hour starting at 11:45. Julie Soros, my senior pal, and I meet at the back entrance to school, and hop in her white 1993 Lumina van, a hand-me-down from her grandfather. Julie expertly pulls into traffic, and drives to one of the many fast-food joints located along States Street in the heart of the revitalized section of this old industrial New England town we live in. Between 11:30 a.m. and 1:30 p.m. each weekday, the parking lots of strip malls with popular anchor stores are populated by hundreds of kids in vehicles. Mabry has an open lunch policy meaning we can leave campus rather than pay for a carton of milk and one of two choices from the school’s menu.

Julie’s waist-long blonde hair swings from side-to-side as I walk behind her like a dutiful little duckling. With a confident stride, chin held high, shoulders thrust back to perfect her posture, I am in awe of her as she yanks open the door to “Frank’s Burger Palace.” The place, trapped in a bit of a time warp, has survived urban renewal, and is always packed. The cacophony of metal chairs scraping along the vinyl floor, the jukebox playing pop tunes, the sizzle of the grill, and patrons shouting to be heard is deafening. The décor is a medley of 1930s art deco, 1950s drive-in, and 1970s melamine and pressboard. No updates have been made in over 30 years. Frank himself flips burgers in the back and occasionally is heard yelling, “For crying out loud.” Julie peruses the crowd looking for Jim Dempsey, the young man she thinks is her fiancé. He gave her a large white opal for Christmas that she takes to be an engagement ring. When I ask her with great interest how he proposed, for truly I can not imagine being engaged myself in just a year, she replies with an assured smile as she admires the gemstone on her finger, “Well . . . he didn’t really have to say anything. I just knew.” I marvel at the romantic notion of being one mind with another person.

Even though every day at the diner turns out the same, tension suffuses the air in the moments just before we see Jim wave us over to a table. He is always seated with his closest friends—guys with sport-fucker reputations that girls like me generally steer clear of. But, I am with Julie, who is practically the Virgin Mary, and Jim always plays the role of fatherly protectorate if any of his guy friends say anything that might be considered crossing the line of propriety.

“Hey, dick-face,” he says one day to Mark Kohler, who has just put his hand on my knee, making me blush up to my hairline, “Mind your manners.” Mark readily obeys the alpha male of his pack.

When both my schedule and Julie’s change for second term, the whole rhythm of my high school existence changes with it. Julie’s two classes are in the morning. The first isn’t until second period; she is done before noon. Having spent the past two and half years as one of Julie’s appendages, I find myself a bit friendless in the wake of her departure from my daily life. I start taking the bus each morning, a drudge I have been spared thus far by the welcome appearance of the Lumina in my driveway each morning. Having no way of getting to Frank’s, I start packing PB&J in a brown bag. It is January, and the cold north winds off the ocean blow impartially into the city whipping us kids indoors.

On the first day of the new schedules, I wander into the cafeteria alone and unsure of where to go to purchase a carton of milk. I stand in what seems to be a very long line looking surreptitiously over my shoulders to make sure no one notices how alone I am. The school has 3,000 students and yet, it seems, as I stand here amidst the din of hundreds of conversations, I know no one. Just as I am about to slink off to a corner to eat my PB&J in solitude having decided to get some water at the fountain afterwards, someone taps me on the arm.

An attractive auburn-haired girl smiles as she asks, “Is this the line for lunch?”

I am surprised by this coincidence that halfway through the school year someone else should be just as lost as I am. Extremely relieved to find a kindred spirit, I cough a little laugh and say, “I really am not sure myself, but I think so.”

“Do you mind if I stand here with you?” she asks, displaying a sweet face with beautifully aligned white teeth. She has warm brown eyes and long dark lashes. I am instantly interested in getting to know her better and welcome the comfort she brings me by offering some companionship in the lonely lunch line.

Maggie Stone is from somewhere in Ohio. I find that she moved to our town early last summer. As we talk, I discover that her parents are the new owners operating a restaurant called The Old Mill. She and her family live above the restaurant located less than a mile from my house. I am pleased to learn she lives so close and she is happy to finally make the acquaintance “of a girl I think I could actually like.” We are fast friends.

With her parents in the restaurant business, a relentless microcosm of activity off kilter with the traditional schedules of schools and other businesses, Maggie is a wild child. The apartment above the rustic-style restaurant is one huge room with perhaps as many as a dozen oriental rugs covering the unpolished pine board floor. Long large windows along the southern side look out onto a curved stone driveway where guests of The Old Mill can be dropped off under the shelter of a wisteria arbor. A view of the little inland pond, where the still-operating water mill churns rhythmically, is also visible. I am enchanted.

The first thing Maggie invites me to do is attend a play she is performing in at The Old Mill. Her parents are attempting to create a cultural environment to attract the Boston crowd to the bucolic atmosphere of their restaurant. They founded a small community theater group and turned one of the restaurant’s previous owner’s banquet rooms into an art gallery. The gallery showcases work by local artisans and Mr. and Mrs. Stone woo artists struggling for recognition in the Boston Metro area to it. In the play, Maggie plays one of the daughters in Paul Zindel’s The Effect of Gamma Rays on Man-in-the-Moon Marigolds. I am completely and utterly clueless as to the meaning of this play, but nevertheless compliment Maggie on her performance.

The few times I spend the night with her, we take the back way to the kitchen whenever we are hungry. The Old Mill chef fixes us anything we want. One night after he has made us baked potatoes and lets us split a filet mignon dinner that has been sent back to the kitchen for being overcooked, we switch off all the lights in the apartment, strike a match to a bunch of candles, and curl up on the overstuffed couch. We gaze out large windows that allow a perfect view of the restaurant property’s little pond and water mill. The sky is clear and full of stars. The silence grows long between us as we each let our minds wander to our own thoughts. “Laura,” she whispers in the candlelit darkness of the room, “have you ever done it?” My heart takes a little leap at the question. The only person I have ever talked about sex with is my best friend, Evy, who spends most of the year away at boarding school.

“You mean, ‘done it’ done it?” I ask not quite ready to divulge any information to Maggie.

“Yes,” she answers.

Besides whispered words with Evy, this is a subject the people I know would simply not bring up, unless it is in the context of a rumor. There are rumors, of course, mostly about the group of girls that call themselves The Fivers. Several long minutes pass by before Maggie picks up one of the candles and holds it close enough to my face to see if I am still awake. “Gees, I thought you’d fallen asleep or something.”

I look sheepishly at her and say, “No, I’m awake.”

She sets the candle down between us and snuggles up closer to me linking her arm with mine. “Well,” she asks again, “have you?” The candlelight flickers and throws a beautiful glow of light on our faces.

“No,” I lie, “I haven’t.” I’m not embarrassed about my relationship with Scott. I just don’t want anyone to know.

Another silence stretches out between Maggie and me before I then ask, “Have you?” I scrunch my face up as if bracing for a blast of hot air. Maggie settles in next to me as she relaxes all the muscles in her body. Until then, I hadn’t realized how tense we’d both been.

“Last summer,” she begins, “right after we moved here, I met Eric Shields.” Eric is a year older than we are and a high school senior with Evy’s brother Marcus. I can’t say I ever really met Eric, although I certainly know who he is. His mother is one of the best piano teachers in town. She often plays with local symphony orchestras and has guested with the Boston Symphony on a number of occasions over the years. Eric is a soft but good-looking blonde sixteen-year-old when Maggie meets him. She mistakes his shy introvert of a personality for depth and mystery and is immediately attracted to him.

“How did you meet Eric?” I ask.

Maggie explains. “He and David Samuels came into the restaurant looking for Dave’s older brother, Tim. Tim was part of the crew my dad hired to convert the old banquet room into the art gallery. I was in the dining room helping to reset the tables after the lunch crowd had left and there he was standing there with his mop of blonde hair and those sparkling blue eyes of his.” Maggie takes a moment to let out a little sigh. “We just sort of smiled at each other and that was it. He came back later in the afternoon, got up the courage to ask where I was, and we went out for a walk around the pond.” I conjure the picture Maggie paints of her and Eric walking around the pond and smile at the sweetness of it. “We started making out and he reached up under the skirt I was wearing. I swear to god, Laura, I never have breathed that hard in my whole life.”

“Weren’t you scared?” I ask feeling my own heart starting to beat a little faster.

“Hell no,” she says, as she goes into graphic detail. The way she talks is even more provocative than the first time I read a sex scene in a novel. Thinking about what she is saying and imagining what she and Eric did, makes me have that same achy feeling I got when I read about Scarlett and Rhett in Gone With the Wind.

“Are you still going out with him?” I ask.

“No, we broke up just after school started. But, all summer long we did it just about every day.” I try to imagine doing it every day. “The best time,” she continues, “was after we’d drunk half a bottle of vodka. We worked ourselves into such a frenzy that when it was over, we were both soaking wet with sweat. All we could do afterwards was lie there in a puddle of body fluids.” I look over at Maggie whose sweet face is lit by the moonlight that pours in through the big windows. Candlelight flickers in the room and I lie there staring up at the ceiling stunned by her story. Maggie is already living a very grown-up life. I am jealous of her freedom from convention even though I don’t really have a desire to imitate it.

Having shared such an intimate detail about herself with me, I feel guilty about not returning the favor. But, I just simply cannot divulge my most closely guarded secret to her. Evy doesn’t even know about Scott. I can’t even say his name without a frisson rippling its way through my body. The secret ritual of our affair and our feelings for one another is too great, too deep, too terrifying, and too precious to reveal. I am afraid that if anyone else knows, the passion will be sucked away by the jealousy and contempt others will have for a bond they can’t begin to understand.

Copyright by DJ Anderson 2011

Secrets and Lies Part II—Perry

Betty Marks’s first girl-boy party takes place the fall of our sophomore year. She is one of the younger members of our class, and is just turning fifteen. My fifteenth birthday was more than six months ago.

Dad drops my best friend Evy and me off at the bottom of Betty’s steep driveway, and we run to the door in the pouring rain. I wave back at Dad to acknowledge that I heard him yell, “I’ll be back at 10:00.” Betty’s mom holds the door for us as we step into the house and drip all over the welcome mat. “There’s all kinds of soda and chips down there,” she blinks over the top of pink-rimmed half glasses as she points the way to the basement. Her blonde frosted hair pokes up in hairspray-stiff clumps all over her head. “The pizza will be here in about half an hour.”

Evy and I make our way down the steep steps to the garage-like atmosphere of the Marks’s basement. My dad “finished” our basement when I was pretty young so it is strange to me to see one in such a raw state. I’m not sure whether Betty hung the paper Chinese lanterns from the pipes running along the ceiling for the party or whether they are part of the year-round décor. The soft orange, yellow, and red tones that glow from the lanterns lend a romantic air to the musty smelling space. An eight-foot folding table, borrowed from their church, is set up against one wall. A purple, red, yellow, and blue tie-dyed tablecloth hides the finger paint smears from years of summer Bible School arts and crafts. A juke box, with most of its neon lights burned out, sits in the corner playing the 45s Betty loaded in there during the afternoon with help from Kate and Virginia. Mr. and Mrs. Marks’s decades-old singles—music from the ’60s and ’70s—lend authenticity to this retro-themed party.

Evy and I take in the scene from the bottom step and observe Danny Ayres step over to the juke box and punch in the number for “American Pie.” As its opening strum and lyric begin, girls all around the room join in to sing. Knowing all the words was a prerequisite for attendance this evening. The boys mostly ignore the song until the chorus comes in with its upbeat rhythm. Couples then begin to pair off and dance.

I scoot along the back wall behind the table heavy laden with bowls of pretzels, potato chips, cheese curls, and corn chips. There is onion dip and taco sauce and a big washtub full of iced coke, lemon-lime, root beer, grape, and orange soda. I pull a can of root beer out of the tub and wipe it off with a napkin. I then flip the top off and toss the separated piece in the trash container.

It’s not long before I lose sight of Evy in the crowded room that is growing warm from the BTUs emanating from the dancing bodies at Betty’s Birthday Blast to a 1973 Past. I am wearing what my mother considers to be the coolest clothes she ever owned as a teen—the first outfit that was completely store bought—and, thus, why she has kept them for all these years. I think I look pretty good in Mom’s old purple velour hip-hugger flair slacks and the tight-fitting top that she calls a body suit. A harlequin pattern in purple and black decorates the scoop-necked long-sleeved material the top is made from. It snaps together at the crotch in order to keep the top from coming out of the hip-huggers. I wear her brown vinyl belt and matching lace-up boots to complete the ensemble. Despite my outfit, I suddenly feel out-of-place and wonder what I am doing here at this party with all the cool people. The Fivers—a group of girls Mother has quizzed me about, asking whether they are mean or not—are here along with the rest of the cheerleaders and football players. “American Pie” continues with its references to cars and waterways, and I don’t believe anyone in this room really knows what this song is about. They are all singing now and getting louder with each verse.

In the back corner of the room I see a group of people gathered around a pool table playing a friendly game of “Eight-Ball.” My root beer and I make our way to this quieter area where my wallflower status is less likely to be noticed. On a high stool, under a single bulb burning bright with 60 watts of power, sits the one boy in my world that can cause my breath to catch in my throat. Scott’s tall lean body is folded into its usual pose. A composition book on his lap, a pen in his slender fingered hand, he is writing the prose we all admire and imagine will one day make him famous. When he isn’t racing his road bike, competing on the swim team, or running in local 5K events, he is writing fiction. His dream is to one day be a novelist. None of us doubts he’ll achieve his goal. He looks up briefly and catches my eye, but does not invite me to come near.

Perry stands next to him, her arm draped possessively around his shoulders. I hate her for the familiarity she practices on him. She is an interloper, and a stranger, and in as much as I feel out of place here, she truly does not belong. Perry is a petite well-proportioned girl with long silky blonde, almost white, hair. She wears clothes straight out of the fashion magazines with all the right accessories: belts, necklaces, scarves, headbands, boots, earrings, bracelets, and rings. She is the envy of every girl and the object of desire of every boy. She is my opposite in every possible way. Her accoutrements say it all, “I’m confident. You want me.” Never mind her complexion is pock-marked and sallow, her eyebrows and eyelashes so light, they are nearly invisible. She possesses that kind of frailty that brings out the protective nature in all of us. She doesn’t have a thought of any substance running through her head, which is of no consequence to tenth grade boys.

Perry arrived at school in September, a quiet affected girl from a small town in Texas. She is Betty Marks’s cousin and Perry’s parents are in the middle of a nasty divorce involving loads of money, real estate, and a twenty-two-year-old redhead, one of the fresh crop of Dallas Cowboys Cheerleaders. Perry will live with her Marks relatives until things are settled, and that will take nearly two years.

I should feel sorry for Perry, and if she’d been interested in any other boy, I would have. But Scott is different. We have never discussed nor agreed upon any exclusive understanding, and no one even knows we are anything to one another. But, since the beginning of this past summer, this budding novelist and I have been “together.”

The dancing crowd in the other section of the basement starts swaying to the dirge-like final verse of “American Pie.” They continue to sing along with the words, and even some of the boys have joined in. Perry leans over and whispers something in my novelist’s ear, and Scott smiles. I feel sick.

“They make a cute couple, don’t you think?”

I look over my left shoulder where Kate Henderson is motioning her eyes toward Perry. My stomach does a flip-flop, but I say nothing back to her, not trusting her reasons for saying this to me. The Fivers rarely speak to me any more. In fact, the last time Kate and I were really still friends was back in fourth grade when we were paired up for a science project. The project was about how to distinguish one tree from another by its bark. As budding arborists, we went around to various trees on the school grounds, and at home, and left four-inch scars in the trunks by collecting bark samples.

“Hey Virginia,” Kate calls out to her best friend, another Fiver, standing just a few feet away. Virginia walks over, acknowledges me with a smile and flirty tilt of her head, and then turns her attention to Kate. “Go over there and see if you can find out what they’re talking about,” Kate orders. Already it has started, and as far as I know, my novelist and Perry haven’t been together. They are just flirting.

Virginia presses her double Ds into Scott’s arm as she looks at what he is writing. I see Perry’s confidence drain away, and her once smiling mouth turns into an inconsequential smear of pink lipstick on the background of her gesso-colored face. The girls are now in a silent battle of feminine wills to dominate and conquer. Scott looks up from his writing, toward me, but I let Kate think he’s looking at her. Kate wiggles her fingers at him to signal a greeting. I smile to myself with an unspoken affirmation that I will tell absolutely no one about us. I want us to be safe from all the games. I don’t want anyone dictating expectations to us. I like it just the way it is . . . a secret.

Dad picks Evy and me up, as planned, at 10:00 on the dot. I have to pull on Evy’s arm to coax her up the stairs. The party is winding down, and most of our classmates have already left, but she was hoping for a kiss from Nate Thomkins, and it hasn’t happened yet. Virginia moves in to Nate’s body space within seconds of my dragging Evy away. My novelist has been pulled over onto a broken down couch to watch a replay of the Penn State Notre Dame game from this afternoon. Evy and I are silent on the drive home, both worried about the late night outcome of what we’ve left behind.

A few days later Scott and I lie next to one another in his darkened room listening to the seconds tick by on his nightstand clock. We still have half an hour before either one of his parents comes home from work, but I know it’s almost time for me to leave.

On Wednesdays, I stay after school to take an oboe lesson. I’ve told Mom, who doesn’t want to drive all the way into town to pick me up, that I can catch a ride home with a kid who lives in our neighborhood, but I have to wait until he’s done with sports, which is over an hour later. Mom is fine with this plan because it saves her a trip. Even though she isn’t concerned, I further lie by saying, “I’ll just do my homework while I wait.” She nods her head, and I know she likes this embellishment.

What I really do after my oboe lesson is hop on the city bus, which drops me off thirty minutes later right outside Scott’s house, just a half-mile from my own home.

“You still haven’t told anyone right?” he asks with that concerned look he gets in his hazel-colored eyes.

“No,” I answer. “No one knows.”

At first, this idea of keeping everything secret adds to the excitement, and I like the thrill it gives me. Later, I want everyone to know.

“But, you know what they’ll do if they know,” he warns. “They’ll ruin it all.”

He’s right, of course, and already knowing I want him forever, I say nothing.

Copyright by DJ Anderson 2011

Secrets and Lies Part I—Kevin

Author’s Note—Over the next few weeks, I will post a series of fictional short stories. The series is called Secrets and Lies and are thus thematically tied together. Some of the characters in these stories make a one-time appearance, and others pop up throughout. The stories are all written in first person. The narrator’s name is Laura Fischer.

My first girl-boy party takes place by accident. It happens while my parents are off to a New England Patriots game on a bright October Sunday. After a three-day cold snap, the weather has turned warm again as summer-like temperatures lend a carefree air to the afternoon. I invite four girlfriends to spend the night. Monday is a school holiday. Frozen pizza, the latest downloaded music, and streaming video on our HDTV is the plan.

But, somehow the word gets out that there are no parents at 121 Horseshoe Bend Drive. As the sun sets, the temperature begins to drop, and by 6:00 p.m., I am screaming at Kevin Sacks to, “Bring that golf cart back right now.”

At first I think if I ignore Kevin and his gang of boys, they’ll go away. But, my girlfriends are excited that the boys have shown up. They all go outside to join in and see what the guys are doing, which encourages them to continue showing off. Soon, the garage door is open and Kevin is on his way down the road in my father’s brand new golf cart. Kevin is one of those affluent kids that teeters on the edge of juvenile delinquency just for the fun of it. The boys now wreaking havoc in my front yard are all kids I’ve known since grade school.

The water hazard for the sixteenth hole is just beyond our back property line. On Saturday mornings Dad proudly drives the shiny white fiberglass vehicle along our neighborhood roads to the first tee for a round of eighteen. When I watch him drive off, I can’t help but start singing a show tune from Oklahoma, “With isinglass curtains you can roll right down, in case there’s a change in the weather.” With Kevin at the wheel, I can only hear Carl Orff’s Carmina Burana running through my mind and I pray that this devil-boy will at least return the cart to the garage without scratching or denting it. Dad keeps careful records of the battery charge, which is exactly enough to get him to the club house, around the course, and back home before needing to be plugged in again. I know that even the slightest differential will catch his attention.

Mom often says, “Never lie to me. I will find out. It may not be today or tomorrow, but I will find out.” These words occupy my thoughts as I try to invent a way of hiding the evolving situation from my parents. The truth is out of the question since it will be irrelevant to my mother that I have not planned this party. Guilty until proven innocent is her modus operandi. When I hear the glass on one of the basement windows break, I know I am in deep shit. A prescient image of Dad’s cart coming to a dead stop halfway up Day Star Drive next Saturday on his way home flashes before my eyes. I shiver with the realization that I am unlikely to get myself out of this mess.

After Kevin and the boys leave, and my girlfriend get-together returns to normal, I go out into the garage to see if there’s anyway with which I can hide the awful truth of the evening. I see Dad’s battery charger tucked away on his workbench, the cord folded up in a way only he knows how to do. There’s a twisty wound around it so it doesn’t come undone, and there’s probably a prescribed number of twists in it. The cart sits in its proper place—at least Kevin had the wherewithal to accomplish that task. I remove one of the seat bottoms as I’ve seen my dad do and stare at the batteries. I haven’t the slightest idea how to hook that charger up to them to make sure they have a full charge for next Saturday morning. I sigh in resignation to the fact that I’m going to have to tell Dad what happened. Although Dad is capable of extraordinary anger, he can be a reasonable man if handled right. I make my plan.

I wait until the following Wednesday when Mom is away for the evening at church for a monthly meeting of women who then spend two hours discussing their assigned Bible reading. Pastor Schoenboem leads the discussion with his considerable ecclesiastical abilities.

I sit for almost ten minutes about mid-way down the steps to the basement and watch Dad read his newspaper. He keeps a peripheral eye on his television show. He occasionally scratches his dry scalp. I finally muster up the courage and call out, “Dad?”

He turns his head toward the sound of my voice, makes a face that clearly shows he’s confused to see me sitting there, and grunts, “Huh?”

I get up off the step and walk down the rest of the stairs and over to the couch adjacent to his white leather Lazy Boy. “Dad, I need to tell you something.” I try to put a business-like tone in my voice. “Please try not to get angry,” I begin, “And promise me you won’t tell Mom.”

Dad pushes his lips out almost like he’s puckering up to give someone an exaggerated kiss as he considers my request. Measuring his response he replies, “We’ll see.”

I explain as best I can what happened last Sunday. I tell him I’ve been scared all week to tell him that I am certain his cart won’t make it back home after his golf game. Hell, I’m not even sure it will make it the whole eighteen holes. Dad is silent and focuses his full attention on me. It occurs to me that I am getting his businessman look—the one he uses at work when sorting out rational facts and irrational feelings.

I wait patiently for the judge and jury to bring in the verdict.

Dad absently scratches his head, his newspaper flopped forward in his lap as he considers what he is about to say. “Well,” he begins, “I guess I’d better go up and plug the cart in so it has a full charge.”

I nod my head in agreement. I am thankful for the lack of malice in his voice. “Uh, Dad,” I add, “There’s one other problem.” Dad lets out a big sigh turning a dangerous eye my way. I grimace as I say, “They also broke one of the basement windows.” His face visibly flushes so I rush on to say, “I covered it up with a towel so the cold air wouldn’t come in and I’ll pay for it if I have to.” I am stretching my dad’s patience to the limit now, but I have to tell him about the window, because I don’t have the foggiest notion how to get that fixed.

“Anything else?” he questions with barely controlled anger simmering in his voice.

“No,” I shake my head, “That’s the extent of the damage.”

Dad pushes forward in his Lazy Boy, tosses his paper to the side, and walks to the back of the basement to inspect the window. I bite my fingernails and chew on the skin around them as I nervously await his return. “I’ll let you know the cost after I get that fixed,” he mutters as he comes back through the TV area and then heads up the steps presumably to plug the golf cart in. Now it is my turn to sigh.

The worst is over assuming he doesn’t tell Mom. I will not ask him again to keep it to himself.

When two weeks pass and Mom still hasn’t said anything, I know that Dad has decided to keep the incident a secret.

Copyright by DJ Anderson 2011

The Dinner Table

Every year Mom bought a half cow and instructed the butcher to package it up to her specifications for the freezer. Inevitably, that half cow included the organ meat. Consequently, once a year, we were served liver and onions for dinner.

By five o’clock my four-year-old sister, Susan, and I knew what was coming. We could smell the odor. I pressed my face deep into my bed pillow trying to breath in the scent of laundry detergent and fabric softener, but it didn’t help.

“Girls,” Mom called, “dinner is ready.”

Susan and I reluctantly appeared in the kitchen and obediently took our seats at the table. Dad sat down at the head, Mom to his left. Our plates were served, and Mom’s pressed lips indicated she was already anticipating what our response was going to be. We said our prayer of thanks and both our parents took up their forks and knives and began eating. I mashed my potatoes with the tines of my fork, applied a bit of butter, and pointedly ignored the liver. Susan stared down at her plate, a look of utter despair on her face.

“Eat your dinner,” Mom ordered, a note of irritation rising in her voice. I pushed my peas around and into my potatoes and took several bites. “The liver too,” she said, her index finger pointing clearly at the unappetizing blob on my plate.

“I don’t like it, Mom,” I whined. Susan’s head popped up, her look hopeful, her fear, that I had crossed the unspoken line, evident.

“You will eat every bite on that plate, young lady,” Mom crossly responded as her eyes bored into each of us. Tears welled up in our eyes and we both now stared at our plates. Dad continued to eat in silence and Mom joined him. I managed a few more bites of potato and peas but Susan hadn’t touched anything yet and was now openly crying. Tears plopped unheeded into her lap.

Mom and Dad finished their meals and got up from the table. “I don’t care if it takes all night,” Mom announced. “You both will sit there until those plates are clean.”

We sat. And sat. And sat.

An hour passed as Mom noisily washed the pots and pans, and the plates, glasses, and flatware she and Dad had used. Susan and I continued to sit.

“This is the most ridiculous display of stubbornness I have ever seen,” Mom now yelled in unconcealed anger. Susan began to sob, but I felt the throb of anger. “If that food is not eaten in the next 15 minutes, you both will be spanked and sent to your rooms,” she threatened. I was prepared to take the deal. A spanking was definitely worth not having to eat those liver and onions.

Ten minutes passed. Susan looked at me and squeaked, “Do you think she’s really going to spank us?” 

I nodded.

“With the wooden spoon?” she winced.

I nodded again.

Susan looked at her plate again and promptly vomited on it. I marveled at the way the vomit completely covered the food, how it teetered at the lip but had not spilled over the edges of the plate. It was a miracle.

“Oh for crying out loud,” Mom exploded. “Both of you leave the table immediately. I don’t want to see either one of you until morning.” We made a hasty and joyful exit and ran to our rooms.

Sometime in the middle of the night, my sister sneaked out of her room and crawled into bed with me. She snuggled close and whispered, “We didn’t have to eat the liver and onions.”

I patted her head in praise and said, “And we didn’t get a spanking either.”

Susan and I were never served liver and onions again. 

Copyright DJ Anderson 2011

Looking For A Job is Like Dating

After making a move to Tennessee for my husband’s work in 2003, I found myself unemployed for the first time in over twenty years. I spent the first six months getting our children settled in their new schools, our household items put away, and familiarizing myself with the area. With those tasks accomplished, I set about on the more daunting challenge of looking for a job. I cut an article out of the paper that outlined the top ten methods for finding a job. As I perused the list it struck me that the methodology seemed amazingly similar to the advice given for finding a successful love match. As I got deeper into my search for a job, I found that the parallels were indisputable. Looking for a job is like dating.

The number one way to find a compatible mate is through social networking—both the online kind and the person-to-person kind. It’s the same method in job hunting. First, after signing up for those online services, you tell everyone you know, anyone you happen to bump into, and generally all strangers who engage you in a conversation, that you are looking. Friends, acquaintances, neighbors, and even that woman behind you in the check out line at the grocery, will make recommendations. They may not know or understand exactly the kind of partnership you’re interested in, but they’re eager to set you up by giving you the phone number for a potential match—the blind date.

Whether you’re calling someone you don’t know to set up a date or calling for a job information interview, the blind date scenario can be awkward. You want to set up a time to see if you have any mutual interests, whether you click, whether there is a place for you in the person’s life. You have to be cautious about immediate chemistry in order to avoid making a bad choice by taking a job too quickly. This could result in the job equivalent of a one-night stand. Too many one-night stands or even its slightly more palatable cousin, serial monogamy (when you date one person exclusively for relatively short periods of time before moving on to the next), can look bad on a resume—a sort of job junky who is only looking for the next better, bigger, fix to come along.

In an effort to avoid becoming a job junky, I was careful about what jobs I applied for. Six months into my search, I was in serious contention for the perfect job. It had everything—the right hours, right vacations, right benefits. But, like one of those dating reality shows, I was one of many candidates vying for the hunky guy who fulfilled all sorts of fantasies. I was interviewed several times, asked bizarre questions like, “If offered this position, what kind of a commitment would you be making?” Having just come from a job I had held for twenty-one years, it seemed a bit like asking someone on their silver anniversary whether they believed in marriage or not. After all, what kind of person gets married with the intention of divorcing? My dating reality job competition came down to the last three players and I was one of them. I worked hard to achieve just the right balance. I wanted to give the impression of being interested without seeming too pesky or obnoxious. I really thought he’d offer me the job rose. We seemed to get along, and I seemed to have the experience and skills he was looking for. I had survived to this point when twelve other contenders had been told, “You’re great. I really like you. But, I’m afraid we have to say, ‘Goodbye.’”

But alas, I, too, was dismissed. And in a cowardly fashion. Instead of holding my hands while gazing into my eyes with sincere regret, I got a message on my answering machine during a time when he knew I would not be home to pick up the phone. It was as bad as breaking up by text message. And when I found out who he had picked, I was incredulous. It should have been me. Having come so close to true job love, I fell back into the game by joining a temp agency.

As with a dating service, the temp agency asks you a series of questions and gives you a battery of tests designed to match you up with compatible jobs and employers. Basically this method filters out the real duds. Mom suggested I take any job, “to get your foot in the door.” If the parallels hold true, would you date the first guy to come along just to get your foot in the door? The door to what? The bottom line is you have to focus on a good match or suffer the same pitfalls when looking for a job as you do with a mate.

And so, instead of “dating around,” I focused for four months on what I felt was a good match and great job prospect. The guy I interviewed with was the CEO of his own successful company. He employed about thirty people. The problem with the hire was that the person currently in the position had not resigned yet. She was on medical leave for mental and emotional health reasons. I heard about the job through my neighbor with whom this guy is good friends. Our first meeting went very well. We talked easily and understood our mutual needs and abilities. Then the flirtation, so to speak, began. We spoke on the phone and emailed many times. My heart beat a little faster when I saw his email address in my In Box.

And then of course, there were all the promises: he promised he’d make a decision about hiring me in two weeks. He was really hoping that his employee would resign on her own thereby saving him great anguish. A few weeks after that, he made a new promise to talk to her and lay out her options. Then he promised that he really had to pressure her to make a decision. Then he explained that he just wanted to make sure he had a clear conscience when it was over—that he had done everything he could for her. She’d worked for him a number of years and I honestly could respect and admire his loyalty and integrity. But after sixteen weeks, I really wanted to know whether he was serious about me or not. It was like dating a married man. He kept telling me he was going to leave his wife. But, he never did.

Copyright DJ Anderson 2004

Author’s Note—A full year went by before I was hired for the perfect job—and it ended up being none of the above. I’m well into my sixth year and am still in love with the place, the people, and what I do. Do you have a hiring story to tell that is like a dating story? Share with us here by clicking the Comment link. Or just Comment on any aspect of the story that resonated with you!