Above: Dupont Circle, Washington DC
Cosmic Misfire
There are some constant laws in the universe that humans just can’t quite explain. A few examples: light acts both like a wave and a particle; if you get your wife or girlfriend's name tattooed on your body, then you are bound to get divorced or break up; or no matter how hard you try to keep all your socks together, you will always lose a few and end up with an odd pair.
Some of these rules, like the way light acts, are the subject of intense scrutiny. However, the smaller rules like the tattoo and socks phenomenon go unexamined, as they seem to be more annoying or even nonsensical. It is statistically possible, of course, to break one of these smaller rules and get away with it, but it's like hitting the jackpot in Vegas -- you never actually meet anyone who has done it.
It was the clothing that caught my attention. Probably because she was riding a bike though the city. She was wearing a light-grey peg skirt and a form fitting, low-cut green blouse. Otherwise, I only really recall this long, intricate braid of bright red hair that came out from under the back of her helmet. And no, I didn't hit her with my car, or watch her wreck or anything like that.
I saw her as I was coming out of the metro on the north end of Dupont Circle in Washington DC. I'd just landed a job as a copy editor at an education non-profit and it was my first Thursday (and only my fifth time) going to this office. I was still trying to make a good impression so I was going into work early. Yet as soon as I saw her, I knew. What I knew I could not say, but I stepped to the edge of the street where I'd seen her go by and inhaled deeply. I don't know if I
thought I would actually smell her perfume, or even if she wore perfume. I knew it was stupid and reeked of being a stalker, and even though I knew all these things, I was disappointed when all I got was a nose full of exhaust.
I took out my pocket watch and checked the time. The watch was old and the glass on it a little loose but it was also nearly indestructible. On the face, above the VI, was the stamp "CCCP." It was for that stamp alone that I'd bought the watch off of a street vendor that I'd found years ago in the Fremont neighborhood of Seattle, where apparently someone had put up a huge bronze statue of Lenin that had been completed not too long before the Soviet Union went bust. I wound it every morning when I woke up, and it now said 7:45. Still 45 minutes until I had to be at my desk.
I scanned the circle, looking for the woman, but she was gone. Still, I had the time and place and since it stood to reason she was on her way to work, it might be possible to see her again. Yet aside from a fleeting glimpse of her hair and clothing, I had nothing. I was excited and disappointed all at once, and I didn't know which feeling was stronger. In the end though I did the only thing I could and dragged myself towards the office, which was in a five story, red-brick building that while a place of business, pretended to be a house.
The office that I work in had moved to an open floor plan about a month before I was hired. It was supposed to foster collaboration and increase productivity but so far it was having the opposite effect. Still, progress can't always be tempered by such trivialities as facts.
"Hey. Hey. Tate! Anyone home?" My boss nearly shouted at me.
My eyes snapped into focus to see Diane in front of me. Standing at just over five feet tall, she nevertheless seemed to fill up the whole room with her presence. She had chestnut brown hair, a thin scar on her forehead, and piercing brown eyes. "Yes. Uh, I mean, yes. I'm here, what can I do for you?"
"Nothing. I'm just coming to check in on you. See how you're getting on? You look like you’re confused about something." Diane wore a look on her face that clearly said she was not sure the right hiring decision had been made.
"No. Not confused. Just a little distracted. It was a rough morning."
Diane looked me over a few times and then nodded. "How's that article I gave you coming?"
On my first day Diane had given me a 30 page article on the causal link between poverty and poor performance in elementary schools that linked to higher drop-out rates in later life. The ideas were solid, but the writer seemed unable to compose sentences of anything less than paragraph length and constructed like a Byzantine bordello. I had spent two days going back though all the clauses and tangents to get it into something comprehensible. "Good. I finished it about 20 minutes ago, and was just getting ready to do a final read through before I sent it to your desk."
Diane's look softened just a smidgen at this news. "Perfect. I'll send you something else when I get back to my desk. But tell me," Diane said in an obvious move to look like a caring boss, "what made the morning so rough?"
For once my brain did not stall on me, "Metro. Trouble on the red line. I got stuck on this car with a homeless guy who looked and smelled like he had not showered in about a century. I mean, you know that word ‘miasma’? I never really knew what that was until this morning, and now that I've experienced it first hand, I think I'll pass."
Diane actually laughed a little. It was a light, barking laugh and it irritated me. "Yeah. I think I know the guy you mean. But don't worry, that doesn't happen too often." Then she breezed away from my desk, leaving behind the scent of her perfume, which smelled like a Chanel #5 ripoff that had all of the price and none of the class.
I reread the article and sent it to Diane as promised, and then moved to the next assignment in my pile, which was a ten-page article of the benefits of charter schools in the DC area. I knocked that out and by the end of the next four hours had sent off three more articles, all marked for style and content. It was easy to move the work off my desk yet it was nigh impossible to get the smell of her perfume out of the air.
Soon enough my stomach gurgled. I stood up and stretched and then went out and bought two empanadas from a nearby shop that smelled of fresh dough, beans, and the milk and spices they used to make their horchata.
I got my food and went back to my desk. I didn't really want to be there, but since I didn't know anyone yet and it was too hot to eat outside, I sat under the fluorescent lights of the office, listening to the soft buzz of other people talking.
Then it struck me. It was an idea so simple and so ridiculous that it seemed destined to fail on its inception, but then I had not been able to get that red braid or those shapely legs working the peddles of that bike out of my head...and it was not exactly like there was anything to lose. Craigslist.
I had always derived a fair amount of schadenfreude from reading the Craigslist missed connections. I mean they always were something with a title like Rocker Guy, and usually said something along the lines of "I stood behind you while waiting for a sandwich at Cosi. You were wearing jeans and a faded AC/DC t-shirt and got a chocolate muffin. I should have said something, but I didn't know how. We looked at one another and I know we connected. If you see this tell me what I was wearing." The m4w section was the crème de la crème and was awash with titles like, Hot Asian Shopper. These posts would say things like "I saw you at Whole Foods next to the pineapples. You saw my wedding ring, but kept checking me out. If you see this, tell me what color my tie was, and I'll take you out for a drink." If the posts had anything in common it seemed to be the acknowledgement that they would go unnoticed by their intended recipient and that in reality they were just a way for people to cast a hope out into the world and then move on.
I finished my empanadas and then called up Craigslist on my computer. It was stupid of course. It would never work. On the other hand, if I got my desire for this mystery woman off my chest, I could stop thinking about her. This though was counterbalanced by knowing that I always thought of the people that posted there as desperate, lonely, and pathetic -- I had no desire to throw my lot in with them. I read one posting. Then another. They were exactly what I remembered, and I was sure to be laughed out of existence if anyone knew I put something up here. I hesitated. 7:45, Dupont.
I had the time and place. I knew the direction she came from. I could be ready for her. I closed the tab that I had opened on my browser, and even though I'd thought about nothing else all day long, I did not post anything on Craigslist. At least not yet. Instead I read an email from Diane telling me I'd done a good job with my first assignment. I left work in a slightly better mood than I'd arrived.
The next morning I was in the circle at 7:30 camped out on Connecticut Avenue, waiting. I kept a sharp lookout until 8:10 when I had to give up my stakeout to get to work. However, the thought of the red-headed woman haunted me all weekend long and on Monday I was back, patrolling the circle at 7:30. The fact that I did not see her did not bother me. But then, she did not appear the next day. Or the day after that. All that week I tried to catch a glimpse of her, but with each morning ending in disappointment, I began to think that I'd imagined her. Finally, on Friday, just as I was leaving my post I caught a flash of red hair out of the corner of my eye.
It was the same helmet, and the same red braid swayed down her back. This time she had on khaki slacks that were bunched around her ankles with reflective bans held together by Velcro. She had on a blue blouse topped by a black, sheer cover that was more decorative than anything, but I had already moved too far away from the road, and the lights were green. She sped past, leaving me to stare after her retreating form.
I didn’t wait. I knew that I would be back in the circle the following Monday, but how would I ever get her to stop for me? And even if the light was red, how could I get her to speak to me before it turned green and she sped off? Waiting was only half the plan. Yet as I walked back to my office I could not think of anything that might help me. I went to my desk and sat down. Diane had already emailed me several new articles to review, but editing was not what I had in mind.
I opened my word processor. Then I stopped. Stopped as if I had been a speeding car that smashed into a light post. My palms began to sweat. Was I really going to lower myself to posting on the missed connections on Craigslist? And besides, how could it be a missed connection if the other party was not aware of any connection, much less a missed one?
My fingers hovered over the keyboard, and just at the moment, when I was going to give it up, the smell of fake Chanel #5 battered its way into my olfactory nerves like a tank running over a cardboard box. “Tate. How’s it going this morning? You look a little pale?” Diane materialized in my field of vision as if she had conjured herself into existence. In one hand, she held her cell phone, and looked to be checking her email. Her other hand held a large Starbucks cup, which I could tell had more sugar than coffee in it, as prescribed by almost two full vertical columns of scrawl down one side of the cup.
“Uh, fine. It’s going fine.”
Diane smiled. “Well good. I just wanted to tell you that I think you are fitting in well here. But I wonder, have you had a chance to meet some of your coworkers? You don’t want to be an island, do you?”
I shot back, “Water, water everywhere and oh the boards did shrink. Water, water everywhere and not a drop to drink.” Where Coleridge had come from baffled me as much as anyone. And what did the Rhyme of the Ancient Mariner have to do with my coworkers?
Diane’s smile flickered. “I’m sorry. What?”
“Oh. I’m sorry.” I said, and hated myself for the blood that was flooding my cheeks. “I guess I meant to say not yet. I’ve been feeling a little swamped. But,” I added hurriedly, “I was going to reach out to them.” My loathing increased as the lie left my mouth. I had no intention of meeting most of my coworkers. Not that they seemed like bad people. Quite the opposite. But most of them had pictures of small children on their desks. A few even had signs that said things like “I luv you Mom” and had stick figures with twelve fingers and eight toes drawn in bright crayon.
The one coworker that did not have a family was a man named David. David had a picture of his two Chesapeake Bay Retrievers (Bogart and McQueen) that showed each dog with a bloody duck carcass in their mouth, while he stood in between them in a bright orange hunting vest and cradling a shotgun in his arms. He was a bald man with a beer gut and a gregarious manner, but as far as I could tell all he cared about (other than work) was his dogs.
Diane nodded. “Well, good. Good. You have to know your teammates, right?”
“Right,” I said and nodded to make clear I understood that I needed to reach out to those around me.
Diane nodded again, then said, “Keep up the good work” as a way of excusing herself and walked off.
As soon as she was gone, my fingers began to fly over the keys:
I know you will never see this (etiquette had to be observed) but I’ve seen you on your bike in Dupont Circle twice. The first time was last week Thursday at 7:45 in the morning, and you had on a grey skirt and green blouse. The second time was this morning. You had on khaki slacks and a blue blouse. You have the most beautiful red hair that you wear in a braid that sticks out from under your helmet. You probably missed me, but this morning I was wearing navy blue slacks, a white shirt, and a Jerry Garcia tie with purple splotches on it. Like I said before, you won’t see this, but if you do, I’d like to talk. Maybe buy you a coffee--just not Starbucks.
I posted it under the title Enchantress on a Bike -- Dupont. It only took me about three minutes to type up the whole thing and post it, and afterwards I felt as if I had let go of some unknown weight I had been carrying around. Two hours later I even said hello to David--albeit only in passing and I was grateful that he did not respond.
But like I said, there are rules in the universe, and if you break them, it usually does not work out. I went home that night, and was heating up a frozen pizza when my phone vibrated. I looked and saw an email address I didn't know, but the subject line was simply, Re: Enchantress on a Bike -- Dupont. Instantly my hands began to perspire and my throat went dry; for a moment I thought about deleting the message and forgetting that I had seen it, but then I tapped the screen and began to read:
I am not sure who this is, as I don't remember seeing anyone that matched your description in the circle. I am positive that you are talking about me because you got my clothing exactly right. Who is this?
I checked the address, but it read formyprotection12345@gmail.com. There was no way I was going to find out who had responded. I was not a hacker, and even if I was that would just be creepy.
I stood there weighing my options, and finally I hit reply. I typed out a line, and then deleted it. I mean, really, how do you respond to that without sounding exactly like the stereotypes I had always imagined? I typed a new line, but again deleted it. This process repeated several times, and was only interrupted by the smell of burning pizza.
I yanked the oven open and was hit in the face by billowing black smoke that reeked of burned cheese and blackened pizza crust. I cursed and scrambled to get an oven mitt on, and after a couple of semi-frantic seconds, I pulled what was left of the pizza out and threw it in my sink. I had just run the ruined mess under the faucet to get it to stop smoking when the smoke alarm began shrieking. I slammed the remnants of the pizza into the trashcan and shut off the smoke alarm. Then I opened the window and while the smoke cleared I ordered out for Chinese.
As I waited for the food to arrive I took out my laptop and began again on a response, which came to me easily:
My name is Tate Pearson, and I'm the guy who burned his supper because I was trying to find a good way to respond to your message. As I said in my post, I work near Dupont and have seen you a few times on your bike. I can't explain it, but I think I'm supposed to meet you. I just don't know how to make that happen. You’re always going so fast I can't get your attention. I hope this does not freak you out, as I know it sounds weird. But I hope you will at least take the chance to write me back again. I'm attaching my picture, so if you ever see me in the circle, you might stop and we can talk. The picture was taken a few months ago when I lived in Seattle.
The picture I selected showed me in a crew uniform and highlighted my wiry body and thick and curly black hair. The only thing I did not like about it was it showed that I was a little short. But I thought it made me looked handsome, and it showed there was nothing else, like a scar or tattoo that made me ugly. In it, I was walking with two oars for a single scull. I looked happy and alive, which probably was because I didn't know I was being photographed at the time.
After reading the message several more times, I took a break and ate my food, which came as I was attaching the picture. Then I watched a movie, and finally, right before I went to sleep I reread the message. Satisfied, I hit send.
That night I slept fitfully; my eyes even snapped open a half-hour before my alarm clock went off. I stared at my ceiling for ten minutes trying to fall back asleep before I gave it up as a bad job and flipped open my laptop. My email was open from the night before and it only took a few seconds to load.
Nothing.
I blinked and hit refresh. Again, nothing happened. I slammed my laptop closed and got up and took a shower. The hot water did little to wash away my frustration, but nevertheless, I began to relax. It was ludicrous to think that I would get a response in the middle of the night. I tried to put it out of my mind, and got dressed.
That morning dragged by. I arrived on the circle early to spot my mystery rider, but she never appeared. Disappointed, I shambled off to my work. I seemed to check my email every ten minutes, and I swore that someone had glued the hands of my watch down. Then, about forty-five minutes before lunch I got a response. I opened it and stopped. Did I want to read this? What if she said I was creepy? What if she said, she was flattered by the attention, but I didn't look like her type? But then, as if acting on their own volition, my eyes began to read:
Hello. So this is definitely the weirdest way that I've ever met anyone, but it can't be any better or worse than Match or other dating sites. That said, I'm not looking to date. But I am flattered you noticed me. So, I guess the least I can do is talk to you. Since we are both close to there, I suggest we meet in Dupont. I will come to the circle, and if everything seems ok, I'll introduce myself. I know what you look like, since I have your picture. So just sit in the center of the circle on the south-side of Connecticut. I will find you, and like I say, if it seems ok, I will introduce myself. Otherwise, please don't contact me again. I won't check this email address in the future. If you are available today, let me know in the next 20 minutes, otherwise, let's try for next week.
There was still no name attached, but at least it was something. I wrote back that I was going to be in the circle in an hour, and began to count the minutes. After almost the full hour had gone by, I got up and walked to the circle and bought food from one of the trucks along the street. I sat under the central fountain and waited. As I did so, a motley group of teens being led by a haggard looking tour guide approached the fountain, which featured three large semi-nude classical figures holding up a large platter-like structure with water pouring over its edge.
"And this is the DuPont fountain. Named after Rear Admiral DuPont, who served during the civil war; the fountain was created by Daniel Chester French and Henry Bacon. These are the same two men that designed the Lincoln Memorial. The figures on the statue represent the Sea, the Stars, and the Wind, or everything a sailor would need to operate a ship."
"So this guy, was like rich, right?" said a voice from somewhere in the flock of teens.
"He was a member of the DuPont family, and the only one of them to serve in the war," the guide said, sounding as if he swallowed an audio-tour tape from 1979. "He was a great man, who helped to introduce modern warships to the navy, or as they were called in their day, the ironclads."
"Yeah, but he was rich, right?" Said the same voice from within the clump of students.
"As I said, he was a great man, who came from an influential family."
"So he was rich? I mean, he'd have to be rich to get a circle named after him."
"No dumbass. They named the circle after him because he was an admiral, " said one of the taller boys, with a bad case of acne.
This time I got a look at the kid that was speaking, as his peers had moved away from him slightly. "I'm not a dumbass, Hunter. And just because his last name was DuPont does not mean he was part of the family that runs that company."
"Quite right," the guide snapped. "But in this case he was part of that family. In fact the fountain you are looking at is not the original centerpiece for the circle. It was commissioned by the DuPont family as they felt the first centerpiece that was here was not impressive enough.”
On any other day, I might have found this slightly interesting or even amusing, but today, I just wanted the pile of adolescent hormones in front of me to move on. I kept looking around them, trying to find a glimpse of the red hair.
It looked like the guide was going to continue when one of the girls in the group said "Ugh, that's disgusting." I looked to where she was pointing and saw that one of the more enterprising and larger rats that lurked in the park bushes had darted out and grabbed a bit of a hamburger that someone had dropped. "Can we please get out of here? Nobody cares about some dumb fountain anyway."
I got the distinct impression that this particular girl did not find anything outside of her cell phone worthy of note, but the guide looked too haggard to argue, and simply said, "Fine. We need to get moving anyway. We're heading south on Connecticut."
"Then what?” The same girl demanded.
"We're heading to the Discovery Museum."
"I can't believe we have to walk everywhere," a chunky girl who was eating a granola bar said. But that was the last snippet I caught before they left. The group cleared off, and as they lumbered away, I again began looking for the red hair that bewitched me.
Once I had established that she was not around, I turned to my lunch. It was a gyro loaded with what felt like a gallon of tzatziki sauce. I was soon so concerned with not spilling any on myself that I lost track of my surroundings. "Uh, hello," said a soft alto voice right next to me.
I jumped a little, and my gyro spilt a large amount of sauce on my pants. I looked up and in front of me stood the woman that I'd seen on the bike several times, already with a fleeting look of regret in her eyes. I quickly set my sandwich down and grabbed a napkin, while saying "Uh, hello. I'm sorry, but you caught me by surprise." I then added lamely, "It's my lunch break, but if I knew they put that much sauce on these things, I definitely would have avoided them." I finally got ahold of the napkin and started dabbing at the sauce, which only made a more conspicuous stain on my trousers.
As I tried to clean myself I got my first good look at my mystery woman. She was about five and a half feet tall and was slim and toned. Her clothing was immaculate, and I could tell that she had put on just enough makeup to look natural. In addition to her red hair, she had a smattering of freckles across the bridge of her nose, and her face had an angular quality to it. "Well...was it any good?" she asked.
I gave the trousers up as a lost cause and just focused on overcoming the poor start. "It wasn't bad. I hope you don't mind that I started eating while I waited for you?"
"No,” she said. "In fact, maybe I'll go get something."
"Can I buy you lunch?" I said, now kicking myself for eating before I met the woman standing in front of me. She looked torn and I knew she was looking for a good excuse to get away from me, so I tried to cut her off, "Look, I know that I'm not making the best impression here. Believe me. I don't know where my brain is at, but just give me a chance. Let me buy you lunch. At the end of it, if you don't like me, we will part ways. But at least you'll get a free lunch out of it."
I could still see that she was torn, but finally her features softened by just a fraction. "Okay. Just promise me that if we become friends, this is the one and only time I have to walk around with you while you have a stain like that on your
slacks."
I stood up and looked again. The sauce had hit me right in the crotch, and saying that it gave off the wrong impression was about as accurate as saying the Titanic had a little problem with icebergs. "Deal," I said, unable to conceal my relief. I scooped up the last bits of my sandwich and threw them into the plastic bag it had come in. "So, any ideas as to what you would like to eat?"
"There is this great empanada place not too far from here. How about that?" She said.
"Cool. So, like I said in my email, I'm Tate."
"Paige."
"That's a nice name. You don't hear it too often."
Paige tucked a stray strand of her hair behind her ear and said, "My mother liked it. She said she spent hours looking though this book of baby names and must have gone through every page in it. But she never found a name she liked, but since I'd supposedly made her flip through every page in the whole book, I became Paige."
"Your last name does not happen to be Turner?"
Paige actually cracked a small smile. "No, but good guess."
For the first time since I met her, I did not feel flatfooted and I managed to smile. "Well it was worth a try. So...I've only been in the city about a month and a half, but I've learned nobody is actually from DC. Are you the same?"
"Yeah. I'm from a little town in Michigan," and she held up her left hand and pointed to where her pinky met her palm. "Right here. It's called Ludington."
"What's it like?"
Paige looked at me sideways then said, "It's small. Less then 10,000 people and survives as a tourist town. There are some good golf courses, and a couple of national parks around it. But the town is a little boring, and it sits right on Lake Michigan, so the winters are nasty and cold. What about you. Where are you from?"
"I've lived all over. My dad was in the Army and we moved all the time when I was a kid. The longest time I spent anywhere was just outside Hamburg, Germany. We lived there for about three years starting when I was about seven."
"Really, that sounds interesting. Did you live in any other countries?"
Yeah, we lived in South Korea for two years starting when I was about 14. It drove my mother nuts though. She'd pack up the house, get the kids moved, and just about the time we were learning the language and making friends at school, it was time to move again. Korea was the last straw. After that she moved to Seattle and bought a house, and I lived there with her until I moved out here."
"What about your dad?"
"He stayed in the Army, and I think the time and stress of always being apart finally broke up my mom and dad. He still calls on my birthdays and things like that, but I haven't seen him in years."
We reached the empanada place and walked in. "That sounds sad," Paige said.
"It was a little. But you get used to it after a while."
"Used to what?" said a voice that I dreaded just as the smell of fake Chanel perfume obliterated the smell of the empanadas around me. I turned to see Diane, who had a bag of freshly purchased empanadas in her hand.
"Nothing." I said, and then seeing the two women eye each other I added, "Diane, meet Paige. Paige, Diane. My boss."
Paige softened just a little, but Diane's eyes seem to take in the situation and then a faint smile touched her lips that caused shivers to shoot up my spine.
"Please to meet you," Diane said holding out her hand, which Paige shook.
"The same."
Diane ran her eyes back over me, noting the stain on my pants. "So, Tate. Who is your friend?"
"Oh, we just met," Paige said before I could answer.
"Really?" Diane said. And then added, "I must say Tate, you have excellent taste in the company you keep."
"Uh, thank you," I said, and then gestured to the growing line behind us. "I'll see you at the office." Then I practically pulled Paige forward in order to get past Diane and order.
Diane looked disappointed but left without complaint. "What was all that about?" Paige asked as soon as Diane went through the door and was out of earshot.
I shrugged trying to brush past the subject. "Not sure. But what were we talking about?"
"Your family," Paige said as she ran an appraising eye over the selection and then turned to order.
"Right," I said as I pulled out some cash from my wallet and paid for the food. "Well, like I was saying. It's not too bad. Dad calls on my birthday and things like that, but for the most part, it's just my mom and I."
"So why did you move across the country then?"
"Because this is where I got my job. I was trying to get hired by one of the publishing houses in New York, but I didn't have enough experience for the jobs I wanted, so I took one here when I got the offer."
"And what do you do?"
"Copy editor," I said trying to gauge her reaction to this bit of news.
"Sounds boring," Paige said as she took her order and turned to leave. "So you wanted to go to New York and work for one of the publishers up there. Doing what?"
"I want to work in a Young Adult department. Eventually I'd like to be a editor or an agent. Maybe find the next big teen
series."
"So you're just trying to get a little experience and then move on to New York. Making DC just a stopover?"
"Uh, yeah. I guess." I said as I followed Paige out the door.
"Really?" said a voice from right behind me that made my heart skip a beat.
I looked up to find Diane waiting by the store window. "I seem to recall that when we hired you that you thought there was a lot of room to grow with our company," Diane said before she stormed off, leaving the cloying smell of her perfume in her wake.
I look to Paige who simply said, "That doesn't sound good."
I nodded. "No. It doesn't."
"Do you need to go?" She asked, and I knew that she was again looking for a chance to get away. But still I didn't want her to go.
"No. I'm sure it will be fine. My work is good, and it's my first job, so I think she will get over it. What about you? What do you do?"
"I'm a lawyer."
"Oh. That sounds interesting. What area of the law?"
"Family law. Mostly divorce and arranging pre-nuptials. That kind of thing."
"Oh...do you like it?"
"I love it," Paige said as her phone began to ring. "One second," and she thrust her lunch at me so she could dig in her purse. I took the bag, and in a few seconds she had the phone to her ear. Once she was situated she took the bag back, and I heard her say "That is unacceptable. He agreed to pay 25%, and now that he has broken the contract he will just have to accept the penalty. It's now 33%, and if he wants to avoid having me file to have a lien put on his house and his wages garnished, he will make a payment by the end of the week. No exceptions. No excuses. The only thing that stops this is a payment. End of discussion."
While she was talking, I pulled out my watch. The time showed that my lunch hour was almost over. Suddenly Paige was beckoning me to show her my watch. I handed it to her and she gave it a tug so she could better see it. "You tell him it is..." and she yanked on my watch again. And as soon as she pulled I heard a tear come from my pants. "12:50. I will call him at a quarter after, and he had better pick up!" She hung up and then looked at me. "Sorry about that. I've got to run. Something has come up," Paige then returned my watch and for the first time noticed that she had ripped off one of my belt loops.
"Oh, God. I'm so sorry," she said.
I looked at my pants, which were now ripped and stained and suddenly I was simply angry. "It’s fine."
"Obviously it is not fine," she said taking a step back. “Look, I'm sorry about your pants. Let me pay you,” she said, reaching into her purse. But I had already stuffed my watch, chain and all, into my pocket and began to walk off.
"Thanks, but no," I shot over my shoulder and marched back towards my office. I glanced in a window and saw Paige reflected there for a moment. She didn't look angry or offended. She didn't even looked shocked or hurt. She looked indifferent, which only served to quicken my steps.
Fuming I reached my office, and gave a silent word of thanks to the powers above that nobody saw me come in and go to my desk; however, no sooner had I sat down before Diane's perfume assaulted my nostrils, followed by her voice saying, "Tate, I was wondering if I could talk to you?"
As I turned to face Diane I wondered how much further downhill my day could go. "Have you ever heard of the saying 'don't bite the hand that feeds you?' Because I feel it is pretty universal, no matter what country you grow up in," Diane said.
I noticed out of the corner of my eye that some of my coworkers were now looking in my direction, and they all had the same practiced look that clearly said they were listening though trying not to seem like they were eavesdropping. The only exception seemed to be David. I could not quite tell what he was doing. He had gone red in the face and even though I could not hear him, I swear I saw him mouthing the words "thirty-three percent," over and over as she slammed down his phone.
Without knowing if he was or was not fuming over the phone call that Paige had been on, I laughed. One woman running roughshod over two guys in the same office with almost no connection to one another. The odds against are so off the charts that it could not be happening.
"Something I should know?" Diane said.
I looked back, and found her facing me. Her face was flushed and waves of that nauseating smell were radiating off of her. I simply said, "Yes. I think you wear too much perfume." As I said it I felt the weight of the watch in my pocket. Empires rise and fall. Jobs come and go. But some things in life, even if born out of some kind of cosmic misfire, last forever. I knew the look on Diane's face would be one of those things for me.
Some of these rules, like the way light acts, are the subject of intense scrutiny. However, the smaller rules like the tattoo and socks phenomenon go unexamined, as they seem to be more annoying or even nonsensical. It is statistically possible, of course, to break one of these smaller rules and get away with it, but it's like hitting the jackpot in Vegas -- you never actually meet anyone who has done it.
It was the clothing that caught my attention. Probably because she was riding a bike though the city. She was wearing a light-grey peg skirt and a form fitting, low-cut green blouse. Otherwise, I only really recall this long, intricate braid of bright red hair that came out from under the back of her helmet. And no, I didn't hit her with my car, or watch her wreck or anything like that.
I saw her as I was coming out of the metro on the north end of Dupont Circle in Washington DC. I'd just landed a job as a copy editor at an education non-profit and it was my first Thursday (and only my fifth time) going to this office. I was still trying to make a good impression so I was going into work early. Yet as soon as I saw her, I knew. What I knew I could not say, but I stepped to the edge of the street where I'd seen her go by and inhaled deeply. I don't know if I
thought I would actually smell her perfume, or even if she wore perfume. I knew it was stupid and reeked of being a stalker, and even though I knew all these things, I was disappointed when all I got was a nose full of exhaust.
I took out my pocket watch and checked the time. The watch was old and the glass on it a little loose but it was also nearly indestructible. On the face, above the VI, was the stamp "CCCP." It was for that stamp alone that I'd bought the watch off of a street vendor that I'd found years ago in the Fremont neighborhood of Seattle, where apparently someone had put up a huge bronze statue of Lenin that had been completed not too long before the Soviet Union went bust. I wound it every morning when I woke up, and it now said 7:45. Still 45 minutes until I had to be at my desk.
I scanned the circle, looking for the woman, but she was gone. Still, I had the time and place and since it stood to reason she was on her way to work, it might be possible to see her again. Yet aside from a fleeting glimpse of her hair and clothing, I had nothing. I was excited and disappointed all at once, and I didn't know which feeling was stronger. In the end though I did the only thing I could and dragged myself towards the office, which was in a five story, red-brick building that while a place of business, pretended to be a house.
The office that I work in had moved to an open floor plan about a month before I was hired. It was supposed to foster collaboration and increase productivity but so far it was having the opposite effect. Still, progress can't always be tempered by such trivialities as facts.
"Hey. Hey. Tate! Anyone home?" My boss nearly shouted at me.
My eyes snapped into focus to see Diane in front of me. Standing at just over five feet tall, she nevertheless seemed to fill up the whole room with her presence. She had chestnut brown hair, a thin scar on her forehead, and piercing brown eyes. "Yes. Uh, I mean, yes. I'm here, what can I do for you?"
"Nothing. I'm just coming to check in on you. See how you're getting on? You look like you’re confused about something." Diane wore a look on her face that clearly said she was not sure the right hiring decision had been made.
"No. Not confused. Just a little distracted. It was a rough morning."
Diane looked me over a few times and then nodded. "How's that article I gave you coming?"
On my first day Diane had given me a 30 page article on the causal link between poverty and poor performance in elementary schools that linked to higher drop-out rates in later life. The ideas were solid, but the writer seemed unable to compose sentences of anything less than paragraph length and constructed like a Byzantine bordello. I had spent two days going back though all the clauses and tangents to get it into something comprehensible. "Good. I finished it about 20 minutes ago, and was just getting ready to do a final read through before I sent it to your desk."
Diane's look softened just a smidgen at this news. "Perfect. I'll send you something else when I get back to my desk. But tell me," Diane said in an obvious move to look like a caring boss, "what made the morning so rough?"
For once my brain did not stall on me, "Metro. Trouble on the red line. I got stuck on this car with a homeless guy who looked and smelled like he had not showered in about a century. I mean, you know that word ‘miasma’? I never really knew what that was until this morning, and now that I've experienced it first hand, I think I'll pass."
Diane actually laughed a little. It was a light, barking laugh and it irritated me. "Yeah. I think I know the guy you mean. But don't worry, that doesn't happen too often." Then she breezed away from my desk, leaving behind the scent of her perfume, which smelled like a Chanel #5 ripoff that had all of the price and none of the class.
I reread the article and sent it to Diane as promised, and then moved to the next assignment in my pile, which was a ten-page article of the benefits of charter schools in the DC area. I knocked that out and by the end of the next four hours had sent off three more articles, all marked for style and content. It was easy to move the work off my desk yet it was nigh impossible to get the smell of her perfume out of the air.
Soon enough my stomach gurgled. I stood up and stretched and then went out and bought two empanadas from a nearby shop that smelled of fresh dough, beans, and the milk and spices they used to make their horchata.
I got my food and went back to my desk. I didn't really want to be there, but since I didn't know anyone yet and it was too hot to eat outside, I sat under the fluorescent lights of the office, listening to the soft buzz of other people talking.
Then it struck me. It was an idea so simple and so ridiculous that it seemed destined to fail on its inception, but then I had not been able to get that red braid or those shapely legs working the peddles of that bike out of my head...and it was not exactly like there was anything to lose. Craigslist.
I had always derived a fair amount of schadenfreude from reading the Craigslist missed connections. I mean they always were something with a title like Rocker Guy, and usually said something along the lines of "I stood behind you while waiting for a sandwich at Cosi. You were wearing jeans and a faded AC/DC t-shirt and got a chocolate muffin. I should have said something, but I didn't know how. We looked at one another and I know we connected. If you see this tell me what I was wearing." The m4w section was the crème de la crème and was awash with titles like, Hot Asian Shopper. These posts would say things like "I saw you at Whole Foods next to the pineapples. You saw my wedding ring, but kept checking me out. If you see this, tell me what color my tie was, and I'll take you out for a drink." If the posts had anything in common it seemed to be the acknowledgement that they would go unnoticed by their intended recipient and that in reality they were just a way for people to cast a hope out into the world and then move on.
I finished my empanadas and then called up Craigslist on my computer. It was stupid of course. It would never work. On the other hand, if I got my desire for this mystery woman off my chest, I could stop thinking about her. This though was counterbalanced by knowing that I always thought of the people that posted there as desperate, lonely, and pathetic -- I had no desire to throw my lot in with them. I read one posting. Then another. They were exactly what I remembered, and I was sure to be laughed out of existence if anyone knew I put something up here. I hesitated. 7:45, Dupont.
I had the time and place. I knew the direction she came from. I could be ready for her. I closed the tab that I had opened on my browser, and even though I'd thought about nothing else all day long, I did not post anything on Craigslist. At least not yet. Instead I read an email from Diane telling me I'd done a good job with my first assignment. I left work in a slightly better mood than I'd arrived.
The next morning I was in the circle at 7:30 camped out on Connecticut Avenue, waiting. I kept a sharp lookout until 8:10 when I had to give up my stakeout to get to work. However, the thought of the red-headed woman haunted me all weekend long and on Monday I was back, patrolling the circle at 7:30. The fact that I did not see her did not bother me. But then, she did not appear the next day. Or the day after that. All that week I tried to catch a glimpse of her, but with each morning ending in disappointment, I began to think that I'd imagined her. Finally, on Friday, just as I was leaving my post I caught a flash of red hair out of the corner of my eye.
It was the same helmet, and the same red braid swayed down her back. This time she had on khaki slacks that were bunched around her ankles with reflective bans held together by Velcro. She had on a blue blouse topped by a black, sheer cover that was more decorative than anything, but I had already moved too far away from the road, and the lights were green. She sped past, leaving me to stare after her retreating form.
I didn’t wait. I knew that I would be back in the circle the following Monday, but how would I ever get her to stop for me? And even if the light was red, how could I get her to speak to me before it turned green and she sped off? Waiting was only half the plan. Yet as I walked back to my office I could not think of anything that might help me. I went to my desk and sat down. Diane had already emailed me several new articles to review, but editing was not what I had in mind.
I opened my word processor. Then I stopped. Stopped as if I had been a speeding car that smashed into a light post. My palms began to sweat. Was I really going to lower myself to posting on the missed connections on Craigslist? And besides, how could it be a missed connection if the other party was not aware of any connection, much less a missed one?
My fingers hovered over the keyboard, and just at the moment, when I was going to give it up, the smell of fake Chanel #5 battered its way into my olfactory nerves like a tank running over a cardboard box. “Tate. How’s it going this morning? You look a little pale?” Diane materialized in my field of vision as if she had conjured herself into existence. In one hand, she held her cell phone, and looked to be checking her email. Her other hand held a large Starbucks cup, which I could tell had more sugar than coffee in it, as prescribed by almost two full vertical columns of scrawl down one side of the cup.
“Uh, fine. It’s going fine.”
Diane smiled. “Well good. I just wanted to tell you that I think you are fitting in well here. But I wonder, have you had a chance to meet some of your coworkers? You don’t want to be an island, do you?”
I shot back, “Water, water everywhere and oh the boards did shrink. Water, water everywhere and not a drop to drink.” Where Coleridge had come from baffled me as much as anyone. And what did the Rhyme of the Ancient Mariner have to do with my coworkers?
Diane’s smile flickered. “I’m sorry. What?”
“Oh. I’m sorry.” I said, and hated myself for the blood that was flooding my cheeks. “I guess I meant to say not yet. I’ve been feeling a little swamped. But,” I added hurriedly, “I was going to reach out to them.” My loathing increased as the lie left my mouth. I had no intention of meeting most of my coworkers. Not that they seemed like bad people. Quite the opposite. But most of them had pictures of small children on their desks. A few even had signs that said things like “I luv you Mom” and had stick figures with twelve fingers and eight toes drawn in bright crayon.
The one coworker that did not have a family was a man named David. David had a picture of his two Chesapeake Bay Retrievers (Bogart and McQueen) that showed each dog with a bloody duck carcass in their mouth, while he stood in between them in a bright orange hunting vest and cradling a shotgun in his arms. He was a bald man with a beer gut and a gregarious manner, but as far as I could tell all he cared about (other than work) was his dogs.
Diane nodded. “Well, good. Good. You have to know your teammates, right?”
“Right,” I said and nodded to make clear I understood that I needed to reach out to those around me.
Diane nodded again, then said, “Keep up the good work” as a way of excusing herself and walked off.
As soon as she was gone, my fingers began to fly over the keys:
I know you will never see this (etiquette had to be observed) but I’ve seen you on your bike in Dupont Circle twice. The first time was last week Thursday at 7:45 in the morning, and you had on a grey skirt and green blouse. The second time was this morning. You had on khaki slacks and a blue blouse. You have the most beautiful red hair that you wear in a braid that sticks out from under your helmet. You probably missed me, but this morning I was wearing navy blue slacks, a white shirt, and a Jerry Garcia tie with purple splotches on it. Like I said before, you won’t see this, but if you do, I’d like to talk. Maybe buy you a coffee--just not Starbucks.
I posted it under the title Enchantress on a Bike -- Dupont. It only took me about three minutes to type up the whole thing and post it, and afterwards I felt as if I had let go of some unknown weight I had been carrying around. Two hours later I even said hello to David--albeit only in passing and I was grateful that he did not respond.
But like I said, there are rules in the universe, and if you break them, it usually does not work out. I went home that night, and was heating up a frozen pizza when my phone vibrated. I looked and saw an email address I didn't know, but the subject line was simply, Re: Enchantress on a Bike -- Dupont. Instantly my hands began to perspire and my throat went dry; for a moment I thought about deleting the message and forgetting that I had seen it, but then I tapped the screen and began to read:
I am not sure who this is, as I don't remember seeing anyone that matched your description in the circle. I am positive that you are talking about me because you got my clothing exactly right. Who is this?
I checked the address, but it read formyprotection12345@gmail.com. There was no way I was going to find out who had responded. I was not a hacker, and even if I was that would just be creepy.
I stood there weighing my options, and finally I hit reply. I typed out a line, and then deleted it. I mean, really, how do you respond to that without sounding exactly like the stereotypes I had always imagined? I typed a new line, but again deleted it. This process repeated several times, and was only interrupted by the smell of burning pizza.
I yanked the oven open and was hit in the face by billowing black smoke that reeked of burned cheese and blackened pizza crust. I cursed and scrambled to get an oven mitt on, and after a couple of semi-frantic seconds, I pulled what was left of the pizza out and threw it in my sink. I had just run the ruined mess under the faucet to get it to stop smoking when the smoke alarm began shrieking. I slammed the remnants of the pizza into the trashcan and shut off the smoke alarm. Then I opened the window and while the smoke cleared I ordered out for Chinese.
As I waited for the food to arrive I took out my laptop and began again on a response, which came to me easily:
My name is Tate Pearson, and I'm the guy who burned his supper because I was trying to find a good way to respond to your message. As I said in my post, I work near Dupont and have seen you a few times on your bike. I can't explain it, but I think I'm supposed to meet you. I just don't know how to make that happen. You’re always going so fast I can't get your attention. I hope this does not freak you out, as I know it sounds weird. But I hope you will at least take the chance to write me back again. I'm attaching my picture, so if you ever see me in the circle, you might stop and we can talk. The picture was taken a few months ago when I lived in Seattle.
The picture I selected showed me in a crew uniform and highlighted my wiry body and thick and curly black hair. The only thing I did not like about it was it showed that I was a little short. But I thought it made me looked handsome, and it showed there was nothing else, like a scar or tattoo that made me ugly. In it, I was walking with two oars for a single scull. I looked happy and alive, which probably was because I didn't know I was being photographed at the time.
After reading the message several more times, I took a break and ate my food, which came as I was attaching the picture. Then I watched a movie, and finally, right before I went to sleep I reread the message. Satisfied, I hit send.
That night I slept fitfully; my eyes even snapped open a half-hour before my alarm clock went off. I stared at my ceiling for ten minutes trying to fall back asleep before I gave it up as a bad job and flipped open my laptop. My email was open from the night before and it only took a few seconds to load.
Nothing.
I blinked and hit refresh. Again, nothing happened. I slammed my laptop closed and got up and took a shower. The hot water did little to wash away my frustration, but nevertheless, I began to relax. It was ludicrous to think that I would get a response in the middle of the night. I tried to put it out of my mind, and got dressed.
That morning dragged by. I arrived on the circle early to spot my mystery rider, but she never appeared. Disappointed, I shambled off to my work. I seemed to check my email every ten minutes, and I swore that someone had glued the hands of my watch down. Then, about forty-five minutes before lunch I got a response. I opened it and stopped. Did I want to read this? What if she said I was creepy? What if she said, she was flattered by the attention, but I didn't look like her type? But then, as if acting on their own volition, my eyes began to read:
Hello. So this is definitely the weirdest way that I've ever met anyone, but it can't be any better or worse than Match or other dating sites. That said, I'm not looking to date. But I am flattered you noticed me. So, I guess the least I can do is talk to you. Since we are both close to there, I suggest we meet in Dupont. I will come to the circle, and if everything seems ok, I'll introduce myself. I know what you look like, since I have your picture. So just sit in the center of the circle on the south-side of Connecticut. I will find you, and like I say, if it seems ok, I will introduce myself. Otherwise, please don't contact me again. I won't check this email address in the future. If you are available today, let me know in the next 20 minutes, otherwise, let's try for next week.
There was still no name attached, but at least it was something. I wrote back that I was going to be in the circle in an hour, and began to count the minutes. After almost the full hour had gone by, I got up and walked to the circle and bought food from one of the trucks along the street. I sat under the central fountain and waited. As I did so, a motley group of teens being led by a haggard looking tour guide approached the fountain, which featured three large semi-nude classical figures holding up a large platter-like structure with water pouring over its edge.
"And this is the DuPont fountain. Named after Rear Admiral DuPont, who served during the civil war; the fountain was created by Daniel Chester French and Henry Bacon. These are the same two men that designed the Lincoln Memorial. The figures on the statue represent the Sea, the Stars, and the Wind, or everything a sailor would need to operate a ship."
"So this guy, was like rich, right?" said a voice from somewhere in the flock of teens.
"He was a member of the DuPont family, and the only one of them to serve in the war," the guide said, sounding as if he swallowed an audio-tour tape from 1979. "He was a great man, who helped to introduce modern warships to the navy, or as they were called in their day, the ironclads."
"Yeah, but he was rich, right?" Said the same voice from within the clump of students.
"As I said, he was a great man, who came from an influential family."
"So he was rich? I mean, he'd have to be rich to get a circle named after him."
"No dumbass. They named the circle after him because he was an admiral, " said one of the taller boys, with a bad case of acne.
This time I got a look at the kid that was speaking, as his peers had moved away from him slightly. "I'm not a dumbass, Hunter. And just because his last name was DuPont does not mean he was part of the family that runs that company."
"Quite right," the guide snapped. "But in this case he was part of that family. In fact the fountain you are looking at is not the original centerpiece for the circle. It was commissioned by the DuPont family as they felt the first centerpiece that was here was not impressive enough.”
On any other day, I might have found this slightly interesting or even amusing, but today, I just wanted the pile of adolescent hormones in front of me to move on. I kept looking around them, trying to find a glimpse of the red hair.
It looked like the guide was going to continue when one of the girls in the group said "Ugh, that's disgusting." I looked to where she was pointing and saw that one of the more enterprising and larger rats that lurked in the park bushes had darted out and grabbed a bit of a hamburger that someone had dropped. "Can we please get out of here? Nobody cares about some dumb fountain anyway."
I got the distinct impression that this particular girl did not find anything outside of her cell phone worthy of note, but the guide looked too haggard to argue, and simply said, "Fine. We need to get moving anyway. We're heading south on Connecticut."
"Then what?” The same girl demanded.
"We're heading to the Discovery Museum."
"I can't believe we have to walk everywhere," a chunky girl who was eating a granola bar said. But that was the last snippet I caught before they left. The group cleared off, and as they lumbered away, I again began looking for the red hair that bewitched me.
Once I had established that she was not around, I turned to my lunch. It was a gyro loaded with what felt like a gallon of tzatziki sauce. I was soon so concerned with not spilling any on myself that I lost track of my surroundings. "Uh, hello," said a soft alto voice right next to me.
I jumped a little, and my gyro spilt a large amount of sauce on my pants. I looked up and in front of me stood the woman that I'd seen on the bike several times, already with a fleeting look of regret in her eyes. I quickly set my sandwich down and grabbed a napkin, while saying "Uh, hello. I'm sorry, but you caught me by surprise." I then added lamely, "It's my lunch break, but if I knew they put that much sauce on these things, I definitely would have avoided them." I finally got ahold of the napkin and started dabbing at the sauce, which only made a more conspicuous stain on my trousers.
As I tried to clean myself I got my first good look at my mystery woman. She was about five and a half feet tall and was slim and toned. Her clothing was immaculate, and I could tell that she had put on just enough makeup to look natural. In addition to her red hair, she had a smattering of freckles across the bridge of her nose, and her face had an angular quality to it. "Well...was it any good?" she asked.
I gave the trousers up as a lost cause and just focused on overcoming the poor start. "It wasn't bad. I hope you don't mind that I started eating while I waited for you?"
"No,” she said. "In fact, maybe I'll go get something."
"Can I buy you lunch?" I said, now kicking myself for eating before I met the woman standing in front of me. She looked torn and I knew she was looking for a good excuse to get away from me, so I tried to cut her off, "Look, I know that I'm not making the best impression here. Believe me. I don't know where my brain is at, but just give me a chance. Let me buy you lunch. At the end of it, if you don't like me, we will part ways. But at least you'll get a free lunch out of it."
I could still see that she was torn, but finally her features softened by just a fraction. "Okay. Just promise me that if we become friends, this is the one and only time I have to walk around with you while you have a stain like that on your
slacks."
I stood up and looked again. The sauce had hit me right in the crotch, and saying that it gave off the wrong impression was about as accurate as saying the Titanic had a little problem with icebergs. "Deal," I said, unable to conceal my relief. I scooped up the last bits of my sandwich and threw them into the plastic bag it had come in. "So, any ideas as to what you would like to eat?"
"There is this great empanada place not too far from here. How about that?" She said.
"Cool. So, like I said in my email, I'm Tate."
"Paige."
"That's a nice name. You don't hear it too often."
Paige tucked a stray strand of her hair behind her ear and said, "My mother liked it. She said she spent hours looking though this book of baby names and must have gone through every page in it. But she never found a name she liked, but since I'd supposedly made her flip through every page in the whole book, I became Paige."
"Your last name does not happen to be Turner?"
Paige actually cracked a small smile. "No, but good guess."
For the first time since I met her, I did not feel flatfooted and I managed to smile. "Well it was worth a try. So...I've only been in the city about a month and a half, but I've learned nobody is actually from DC. Are you the same?"
"Yeah. I'm from a little town in Michigan," and she held up her left hand and pointed to where her pinky met her palm. "Right here. It's called Ludington."
"What's it like?"
Paige looked at me sideways then said, "It's small. Less then 10,000 people and survives as a tourist town. There are some good golf courses, and a couple of national parks around it. But the town is a little boring, and it sits right on Lake Michigan, so the winters are nasty and cold. What about you. Where are you from?"
"I've lived all over. My dad was in the Army and we moved all the time when I was a kid. The longest time I spent anywhere was just outside Hamburg, Germany. We lived there for about three years starting when I was about seven."
"Really, that sounds interesting. Did you live in any other countries?"
Yeah, we lived in South Korea for two years starting when I was about 14. It drove my mother nuts though. She'd pack up the house, get the kids moved, and just about the time we were learning the language and making friends at school, it was time to move again. Korea was the last straw. After that she moved to Seattle and bought a house, and I lived there with her until I moved out here."
"What about your dad?"
"He stayed in the Army, and I think the time and stress of always being apart finally broke up my mom and dad. He still calls on my birthdays and things like that, but I haven't seen him in years."
We reached the empanada place and walked in. "That sounds sad," Paige said.
"It was a little. But you get used to it after a while."
"Used to what?" said a voice that I dreaded just as the smell of fake Chanel perfume obliterated the smell of the empanadas around me. I turned to see Diane, who had a bag of freshly purchased empanadas in her hand.
"Nothing." I said, and then seeing the two women eye each other I added, "Diane, meet Paige. Paige, Diane. My boss."
Paige softened just a little, but Diane's eyes seem to take in the situation and then a faint smile touched her lips that caused shivers to shoot up my spine.
"Please to meet you," Diane said holding out her hand, which Paige shook.
"The same."
Diane ran her eyes back over me, noting the stain on my pants. "So, Tate. Who is your friend?"
"Oh, we just met," Paige said before I could answer.
"Really?" Diane said. And then added, "I must say Tate, you have excellent taste in the company you keep."
"Uh, thank you," I said, and then gestured to the growing line behind us. "I'll see you at the office." Then I practically pulled Paige forward in order to get past Diane and order.
Diane looked disappointed but left without complaint. "What was all that about?" Paige asked as soon as Diane went through the door and was out of earshot.
I shrugged trying to brush past the subject. "Not sure. But what were we talking about?"
"Your family," Paige said as she ran an appraising eye over the selection and then turned to order.
"Right," I said as I pulled out some cash from my wallet and paid for the food. "Well, like I was saying. It's not too bad. Dad calls on my birthday and things like that, but for the most part, it's just my mom and I."
"So why did you move across the country then?"
"Because this is where I got my job. I was trying to get hired by one of the publishing houses in New York, but I didn't have enough experience for the jobs I wanted, so I took one here when I got the offer."
"And what do you do?"
"Copy editor," I said trying to gauge her reaction to this bit of news.
"Sounds boring," Paige said as she took her order and turned to leave. "So you wanted to go to New York and work for one of the publishers up there. Doing what?"
"I want to work in a Young Adult department. Eventually I'd like to be a editor or an agent. Maybe find the next big teen
series."
"So you're just trying to get a little experience and then move on to New York. Making DC just a stopover?"
"Uh, yeah. I guess." I said as I followed Paige out the door.
"Really?" said a voice from right behind me that made my heart skip a beat.
I looked up to find Diane waiting by the store window. "I seem to recall that when we hired you that you thought there was a lot of room to grow with our company," Diane said before she stormed off, leaving the cloying smell of her perfume in her wake.
I look to Paige who simply said, "That doesn't sound good."
I nodded. "No. It doesn't."
"Do you need to go?" She asked, and I knew that she was again looking for a chance to get away. But still I didn't want her to go.
"No. I'm sure it will be fine. My work is good, and it's my first job, so I think she will get over it. What about you? What do you do?"
"I'm a lawyer."
"Oh. That sounds interesting. What area of the law?"
"Family law. Mostly divorce and arranging pre-nuptials. That kind of thing."
"Oh...do you like it?"
"I love it," Paige said as her phone began to ring. "One second," and she thrust her lunch at me so she could dig in her purse. I took the bag, and in a few seconds she had the phone to her ear. Once she was situated she took the bag back, and I heard her say "That is unacceptable. He agreed to pay 25%, and now that he has broken the contract he will just have to accept the penalty. It's now 33%, and if he wants to avoid having me file to have a lien put on his house and his wages garnished, he will make a payment by the end of the week. No exceptions. No excuses. The only thing that stops this is a payment. End of discussion."
While she was talking, I pulled out my watch. The time showed that my lunch hour was almost over. Suddenly Paige was beckoning me to show her my watch. I handed it to her and she gave it a tug so she could better see it. "You tell him it is..." and she yanked on my watch again. And as soon as she pulled I heard a tear come from my pants. "12:50. I will call him at a quarter after, and he had better pick up!" She hung up and then looked at me. "Sorry about that. I've got to run. Something has come up," Paige then returned my watch and for the first time noticed that she had ripped off one of my belt loops.
"Oh, God. I'm so sorry," she said.
I looked at my pants, which were now ripped and stained and suddenly I was simply angry. "It’s fine."
"Obviously it is not fine," she said taking a step back. “Look, I'm sorry about your pants. Let me pay you,” she said, reaching into her purse. But I had already stuffed my watch, chain and all, into my pocket and began to walk off.
"Thanks, but no," I shot over my shoulder and marched back towards my office. I glanced in a window and saw Paige reflected there for a moment. She didn't look angry or offended. She didn't even looked shocked or hurt. She looked indifferent, which only served to quicken my steps.
Fuming I reached my office, and gave a silent word of thanks to the powers above that nobody saw me come in and go to my desk; however, no sooner had I sat down before Diane's perfume assaulted my nostrils, followed by her voice saying, "Tate, I was wondering if I could talk to you?"
As I turned to face Diane I wondered how much further downhill my day could go. "Have you ever heard of the saying 'don't bite the hand that feeds you?' Because I feel it is pretty universal, no matter what country you grow up in," Diane said.
I noticed out of the corner of my eye that some of my coworkers were now looking in my direction, and they all had the same practiced look that clearly said they were listening though trying not to seem like they were eavesdropping. The only exception seemed to be David. I could not quite tell what he was doing. He had gone red in the face and even though I could not hear him, I swear I saw him mouthing the words "thirty-three percent," over and over as she slammed down his phone.
Without knowing if he was or was not fuming over the phone call that Paige had been on, I laughed. One woman running roughshod over two guys in the same office with almost no connection to one another. The odds against are so off the charts that it could not be happening.
"Something I should know?" Diane said.
I looked back, and found her facing me. Her face was flushed and waves of that nauseating smell were radiating off of her. I simply said, "Yes. I think you wear too much perfume." As I said it I felt the weight of the watch in my pocket. Empires rise and fall. Jobs come and go. But some things in life, even if born out of some kind of cosmic misfire, last forever. I knew the look on Diane's face would be one of those things for me.