A Walk in the Snark (19 page)

Because even if they GOT that, even if they felt bad when they found her sobbing at something they had done, they would never let on. They had their image of stupidity to uphold, you know.

She was good for a laugh. Unintentional, to be sure. But good, nonetheless.

Across the years, here is my theory on my experience with the Ilenes of this world— feel free to disagree. I believe there’s a small part in all of us, deep down, that takes a certain delight in these types of people, whether we want to admit it or not—because we wonder how they get through each day, through life in general, or simply because we are thrilled that we are not them.

I think, perhaps, we did actually miss her in the end.

***

JUST CALL ME WIMPY

When I worked in retail, it took all of my strength to get out of bed to go to a job I hated. Knowing that I was going to be standing on my feet for hours and dealing with the public was one of the most difficult choices I’ve ever made. But it paid my college tuition.

You definitely figure out who your friends are when you work nights and weekends with a group of men and women, young and old, from all walks of life. You learn who has your back, who will buy you a candy bar, and which prick will always put you on Checkstand One (the hell that never closes).

The only thing that made it bearable was working with some really um, interesting people.

My store manager, Jack, hired another pretty girl. I think he figured that if he kept hiring them, customers would come.

Nanette had brown, wavy hair and an athlete’s body. As I recall, she played volleyball. Tall but not exceedingly so, and sturdy, not skinny. Healthy. She was in college like I was.

I always saw her eating McDonald’s, Burger King, Carl’s Jr., all kinds of fast food. The common thread here wasn’t that her food came from “fast food” places. No. The commonality here was that she always, always,
always
ate hamburgers. Every day. For the entire year she worked there.

Hamburgers.

Okay, I figured. I like hamburgers. That’s cool. But this gets MUCH better.

One day, as we were having lunch together in the break room, I decided to ask her what she enjoyed so much about her hamburgers. Here’s where it gets...interesting.

Nanette: Well, it’s not so much that I enjoy them.

Me: Huh?

Nanette: It is just that it’s all I
ever
eat.

Me: Like, ever? As in, literally?

Nanette: Yeah.

Okay, now wait a gosh darn minute. My mind went into overdrive. Was it possible that I had before me a person that had never eaten some of life’s most amazing piquant pleasures such as say, pizza? Nope. Spaghetti? Nope. Eggs? God, no. Chinese food? No way. (Clearly, she wasn't Jewish.) Hot dogs? Ewww. (Yea, I kind of agreed with her on that one—though covered in chili and cheese? Well, now that’s a whole new article, isn’t it? “Weiner Love” Hmmm...might have to work on that title. Anyway...) Tacos? Uh-uh. Steak? I mean, that’s still beef, right? Nope. Fruits or Salads? Gro-sss.

The list went on.

Point is, this chick had only ever eaten hamburgers, plain, with a tiny bit of ketchup, her whole life.

It’s okay. I’ll give you a minute to process that.

Back now? So, how did she get to this point?

Nanette told me that growing up, she never liked anything spicy or that looked remotely “funny” or sloppy. Hamburgers always seemed safe. She would eat snack foods like potato chips or french fries to accompany her hamburgers. She figured the ketchup passed for her vegetable.

I asked if her parents insisted, like mine did (or most parents that I had ever known or heard of in my entire freakin’ life) that she at least try new foods. She said they didn’t. Her dad ate meat and potatoes every night and was perfectly okay with her doing that also.

And so the picture became much clearer.

Great. But the big question is—
all together now
—what about breakfast?

Yep. Hamburgers.

Did she have any health or nutritional concerns? Nope, and fuck off.

So, that was Nanette. Of course, she became known as Wimpy around the store and she didn’t seem to mind. Too much. It wasn’t the first time she’d heard that one.

Besides, Nanette was a big girl. Call her Wimpy too many times and she’d kick your ass.

Between bites, of course.

***

*Poignancy Alert*

DAMAGE

Sometimes more power, better, and bigger just isn’t enough to make a guy happy. He can have all the big-boy toys in the world; all the friends, wine, women, and song. And somehow, he’s still the loneliest of souls deep inside.

As 2010 came to a close, I realized that another Christmas will pass with a young son who has lost his father. I wonder how hard that is for the young man my ex left behind.

I too am now in a category I never thought I’d find myself: someone who is also left behind. Just another fragment of D’s life, looking for answers, finding only my journals and slivers of memories to guide me.

Painfully aware that it isn’t enough. Knowing it has to be.

How long does it take to recover from the damage of a broken heart?

D knew my body, my desires, my soul.

It’s one thing to learn, over the years, how to hold yourself up a little straighter whenever a cold shiver of memory hits you hard in the chest; it’s another thing entirely to deal with the fact that the lover you thought you were finally,
finally
over has killed himself.

I’m grateful I didn’t marry him. I’m glad I ended the cycle of raw emotion, the ups and downs. It was the hardest thing I’ve ever done. Not only was the attraction magnetic —one of the most intense I’ve ever felt to this day—but when he was sweet and good to me…well, there was no place else in the world I wanted to be other than right there.

Lost in his eyes, his skin, his sweet, whispered words—his heat a balm to my torn soul.

Despite that, I could see myself enveloped inside our own private war that clearly had no winner and no end, helpless to find my way out. With a sense of detachment, I watched the futile battles, the trauma, my soul crushed to dust when he cheated…and the disabling aftereffects of that; knowing I needed to do something if I was ever going to recover.

I don’t think he quite believed me when I ended it—we were so attached, so intricately involved in each other’s every move. Was it possible to live without all this intensity, drama, and despite the pain, love?

Of course. Though it took me years to get over him. Up one boyfriend and down another. On my own for several years. All the way to another coast and finally into my husband’s strong, generous arms. I no longer felt as wounded when I met JP, though I did feel vulnerable. I knew that I had a good man. I knew that he would treat me well. I knew that all men weren’t like D.

But could I risk my heart?

I could, and I did. That we’ve had a quiet eighteen years together warms my heart.

When D contacted me out the blue, my world started to spin again. Not to take away from my dear husband, but it was amazing to me that this guy still held a place inside me after all these years. Why couldn’t I just dismiss him outright? I’m not a stupid woman.

I was drawn in again.

Looking back, I’m very glad I had those few months of conversation with him. It was brief, intense, and brutally honest.

I realize now that though he may have been sincere with his feelings of regret about us, he wasn’t open about the havoc going on in his head.

A short three months later, he shot himself. I still can’t get my heart around that.

I had let him back into my life—granted, in a very structured, limited way. I knew he had changed. I knew I had changed. None of that matters. I didn’t see this coming.

I don’t know that it’s true that time heals all wounds. I had buried all those bruised years deep inside, yet I still feel unsteady when I remember his voice, his quick wit, his soul.

That he reached out to me means more than words.

The one-year anniversary of his death passed slowly, laughing the length of her long, slow day.

I don’t know when the rupture in my heart will heal.

I do know I’ll hold him close inside for a long, long time.

***

THE PERFECT BODY

As I struggled through my love/work relationships, I still interacted with lots of different types of people while working at the store. All of the managers were men and couldn’t care less about our problems with guys, especially if it was with one of their own tribe. We were just fodder for the break room.

Like my boss, Jack, who I’m sure never gave a second thought to his behavior toward women.

I ended up working for two managers during my sentence at Longs. I transferred stores to be closer to Sac State, so for the majority of my five years at that particular store I found it fascinating to watch him talk to my breasts or another chick’s ass.

Yeah, boys really are different than girls.

For a big guy, my store manager moved about as you'd expect. Slow as molasses.

But not that day.

I’d never seen a big man run down a flight of stairs so fast. You would have thought there was a fire.

But no, just a pretty girl.

However, this was no
ordinary
pretty girl. In fact, when you got close up, she wasn't all that attractive. Her skin was terrible. Her hair was just okay.

No, what got my manager and his over two hundred plus pounds of girth to literally fly across his store was this: one of the most killer bodies he had ever seen. Heck, that I had ever seen. Even to this day.