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Authors: William Stamp
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than clean it up. Still, it would've been the thought that counted.
“Don't worry about it. The thing needs to be cleaned anyways. Or thrown out.” I tossed it off the bed. She smiled and, as if the blanket had been the reason for her initial shyness, opened up further. I wondered if the incident had been an accident, or a test of my temperament.
Mary's receptionist job was a summer thing, an effort to hold down the rising tide of student debt as best she could. She also interned, unpaid of course, with a graphic design company that she hoped would hire her once she graduated in December—a semester early. That didn't seem likely, however, even four years later the aftershocks of the Panic had not yet run their course, and she'd most likely have to choose between eking out a living as a part-time receptionist at multiple offices across the city while living in a closet and hoping something better fell out of the sky or, worse, moving back home until the job market picked up. Home, where was that? Home was LaSalle, Michigan—a rink-a-dink town whose most notable accomplishment was winning a state football championship in 1981. No daily commutes to Midtown there. She'd be back to her high school job serving pitchers of beer at the bowling alley. What about myself? Me, I was house-sitting for a friend and working as a personal tutor.
“Nice setup,” she said. Then she giggled and told me how bewildered she'd been this morning. She'd awoken when she heard me walking up the stairs and, not having time to get dressed or run away, had decided pretending to sleep was her best bet. She'd been prepared for the worst—for a date rapist, for a freak, for a skeezy middle-aged businessman.
“So are you a vegetarian or something,” she asked, gesturing at the tray. “No bacon or sausage? No ham in the omelettes?” She cut into hers and twirled a piece around on her fork.
“Yeah.” I said. I stammered. “Actually no, that was a lie. Sorry. I wanted to play it safe—in case, you know, you were.”
“Is your first instinct always to lie to a girl once you get her home?”
“Yes, minus the 'once you get her home'.”
“That probably makes the whole operation simpler.”
We both laughed. She relaxed, resting her elbows against the windowsill. We talked through breakfast and continued into the afternoon. Memories exploded like land mines as our conversation ventured deeper into the fenced off territory of the past. Her first kiss under a dock at summer camp, the pain I felt when my first girlfriend broke up with me because I was too boring. In middle school. We agreed that someone needed to build a monument where people could hang the collars of their childhood pets once they passed away—in honor of the thousands of selfless hours devoted to their fickle masters; who, incapable of appreciating true love, abandoned them in favor of the opposite sex and higher education, abandoning the poor dogs and cats to waste away in old age.
We tried to reconstruct the previous night, agreeing on a single rule: it had to sound respectable, absurdly so.
I started. “I serendipitously came into possession of a bit of legal tender and, not wanting to leave such a splendid opportunity by the by, hastily locomoted toward a favored watering hole so that I might in solitude imbibe a mug of mead. Forthwith, I found myself accosted by a coterie of older ladies, intimidating in posture and seemingly possessed of a sterling nature. I pledged myself to conquering the heart of at least one of these fine birds. Unbeknownst to me, however, their characters were merely silver plated, and these innocent damsels were in actuality nothing less than disguised harpies, abandoning me to rot in a vodka soaked prison upon the arrival of their ogrish retinue.”
I paused and she motioned for me to continue, chin cupped in her hands. “Then it becomes hazy. I vaguely remember drinking some more, alone, and spying the swell barista of a tea house I
“Don't worry about it. The thing needs to be cleaned anyways. Or thrown out.” I tossed it off the bed. She smiled and, as if the blanket had been the reason for her initial shyness, opened up further. I wondered if the incident had been an accident, or a test of my temperament.
Mary's receptionist job was a summer thing, an effort to hold down the rising tide of student debt as best she could. She also interned, unpaid of course, with a graphic design company that she hoped would hire her once she graduated in December—a semester early. That didn't seem likely, however, even four years later the aftershocks of the Panic had not yet run their course, and she'd most likely have to choose between eking out a living as a part-time receptionist at multiple offices across the city while living in a closet and hoping something better fell out of the sky or, worse, moving back home until the job market picked up. Home, where was that? Home was LaSalle, Michigan—a rink-a-dink town whose most notable accomplishment was winning a state football championship in 1981. No daily commutes to Midtown there. She'd be back to her high school job serving pitchers of beer at the bowling alley. What about myself? Me, I was house-sitting for a friend and working as a personal tutor.
“Nice setup,” she said. Then she giggled and told me how bewildered she'd been this morning. She'd awoken when she heard me walking up the stairs and, not having time to get dressed or run away, had decided pretending to sleep was her best bet. She'd been prepared for the worst—for a date rapist, for a freak, for a skeezy middle-aged businessman.
“So are you a vegetarian or something,” she asked, gesturing at the tray. “No bacon or sausage? No ham in the omelettes?” She cut into hers and twirled a piece around on her fork.
“Yeah.” I said. I stammered. “Actually no, that was a lie. Sorry. I wanted to play it safe—in case, you know, you were.”
“Is your first instinct always to lie to a girl once you get her home?”
“Yes, minus the 'once you get her home'.”
“That probably makes the whole operation simpler.”
We both laughed. She relaxed, resting her elbows against the windowsill. We talked through breakfast and continued into the afternoon. Memories exploded like land mines as our conversation ventured deeper into the fenced off territory of the past. Her first kiss under a dock at summer camp, the pain I felt when my first girlfriend broke up with me because I was too boring. In middle school. We agreed that someone needed to build a monument where people could hang the collars of their childhood pets once they passed away—in honor of the thousands of selfless hours devoted to their fickle masters; who, incapable of appreciating true love, abandoned them in favor of the opposite sex and higher education, abandoning the poor dogs and cats to waste away in old age.
We tried to reconstruct the previous night, agreeing on a single rule: it had to sound respectable, absurdly so.
I started. “I serendipitously came into possession of a bit of legal tender and, not wanting to leave such a splendid opportunity by the by, hastily locomoted toward a favored watering hole so that I might in solitude imbibe a mug of mead. Forthwith, I found myself accosted by a coterie of older ladies, intimidating in posture and seemingly possessed of a sterling nature. I pledged myself to conquering the heart of at least one of these fine birds. Unbeknownst to me, however, their characters were merely silver plated, and these innocent damsels were in actuality nothing less than disguised harpies, abandoning me to rot in a vodka soaked prison upon the arrival of their ogrish retinue.”
I paused and she motioned for me to continue, chin cupped in her hands. “Then it becomes hazy. I vaguely remember drinking some more, alone, and spying the swell barista of a tea house I
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