The Cubicle Next Door (14 page)

“We could go forever.”

“That’s the point.”

“What is?”

“Keeping the earth clean takes constant vigilance. If we don’t do this, then who will? Fun is doing something unexpected just because you can.”

He opened his mouth. Shut it. “You’re unexpected. But that’s not the point. The point is, who cares?”

“I do.”

“You’re probably the only one.”

“So what if I am?”

“So if you are, then what’s the point?”

“The point is that we’re doing something because it’s the right thing to do. Whether anyone else cares or not.”

Joe just stood there, a fisted hand clad in a flowered gardening glove on his hip. He glared at me.

A van swerved across two lanes of traffic and rattled to a halt on the shoulder of the road, 50 yards away from us. We heard a door slam but couldn’t see it through the swirling dust. As it settled, we saw a man walking toward us.

Joe closed the distance between us and then stepped in front of me.

The man stuck out a hand in Joe’s direction. “Hi.”

Joe took off his glove and clasped the hand. “Hi.”

“I’m Gil Patterson with
Your News, Colorado Springs
. I film the Positive Choices segments.”

Joe folded his arms across his chest. “Nice to meet you.”

“Are you doing this cleanup as part of an organized group?”

Joe glanced down at me. “Yes and no. Today’s my birthday, and Jackie organized the two of us to come out and do this. It’s her idea of fun.”

The man beamed. “Great! Fabulous. My other Positive Choice turned out to be high on drugs. What’s your name?”

“Joe Gallagher.”

“And?”

Joe replied for me. “Jackie Harrison.”

“So how long have you been out here doing this?”

“Far too long.”

“Okay. Stay right there, Joe and Jackie. I’ll be back with the camera.”

Gil jogged back toward his van. He opened the door and stuck his head inside. He returned several minutes later trailing a man holding a camera and various cords.

“All right. What I’d like to do is have you stand…” He looked out at the road, and then he looked across his shoulder toward the foothills. “Stand right here. We want to see some cars behind you.” He grabbed my shoulder and stood me alongside Joe. “Okay. I’m just going to ask you some questions about cleaning up. Why you’re doing this. The segment will air tonight. Afterward, if you give me your address, I’ll send you a couple mugs with the station logo. Okay?”

He didn’t wait for us to answer before turning his attention to the cameraman.

From behind the camera, an arm appeared, finger pointed up like a pistol. And then, suddenly, it swung down.

Gil smiled and then started to speak. “This is Gil Patterson with
Your News, Colorado Springs
. Today’s Positive Choice award goes to Joe Gallagher and Jackie Harrison. Why are you out here today?”

Gil tilted the microphone toward Joe. “To celebrate my birthday, Gil.”

“Do you celebrate this way every year?”

“No. This year’s special.”

“And why is that?”

Joe stepped closer toward me and put an arm around my shoulder. “Because of my friend Jackie. She thinks it’s fun to do things like this for no other reason than it’s the right thing to do. She doesn’t care whether people think she’s crazy or not. She’s one of the most selfless, self-assured people I know.”

“And how long will you be out here today. How far will you go?”

Joe looked down at me. “As far as we can.”

We worked another couple hours after Gil left. We’d collected a half-dozen paper bags filled with trash by then. We hiked back to the car as the sun was setting behind the mountains. Threw the bags in the back.

Joe slouched into the car and stretched out. “You know, I’ve never been on TV before. That was fun. Thanks for spending my day with me. It was a birthday I’ll never forget.”

“Thanks for…the things you told Gil. About me.”

“I meant every word.”

THE CUBICLE NEXT DOOR BLOG

Mistaken identity

I think you’ve mistaken me for someone else. Someone stronger. Someone better. That’s not who I am at all.

Posted on August 27 in
The Cubicle Next Door | Permalink

Comments

Don’t you hate that? It’s like they think you’re Superwoman. You can do everything. Yeah, right. She went out with the ’70s.

Posted by:
justluvmyjob | August 27 at 09:53 PM

But maybe it could be. If you wanted to be.

Posted by:
philopsophie | August 27 at 10:13 PM

That may, in fact, be the image you are presenting to the outside world. Many successful people worry that people will discover they aren’t really who everyone else thinks they are. That their success is a big hoax. It’s called Imposter Syndrome. And the funny thing is, you become who you’re desperately afraid to admit that you’re not. The correct perception, in this case, is usually everyone else’s.

Posted by:
NozAll | August 28 at 07:48 AM

At least he thinks you are someone. That’s better than being no one.

Posted by:
survivor | August 28 at 09:12 AM

Fourteen

O
n Friday afternoon Estelle sent an e-mail around the department advertising ten free tickets to the football game the next day.

I deleted it as soon as I read the word “football” in the subject line.

Joe didn’t. He raced down the hall and came back five minutes later holding two tickets in his hand. “I got the last two!”

“Great.”

“Want to go?”

“I don’t do football games.”

“I’ll have to add it to the list. Don’t do lunch. Don’t do dates. Don’t do football games. What’s wrong with you? Don’t you know how to have a good time?”

A good time? No, in fact, I did not. Not in the normal sense of the word. If Good Time can be defined by playing bridge with your grandmother’s closest friends, then maybe I did. If Good Time can be defined as terrorizing hapless waiters with superior wine knowledge along with three of your closest friends from MIT or trying to write a code to solve the unsolvable Hilbert’s tenth problem, then maybe I did. But in the classical cow-tipping, football-game-attending sense of the word, no, I did not.

“You’ve never been to a game?”

“No.”

“Never? Not even in high school?”

Especially not in high school. “No.”

“I’m picking you up at nine.”

“That’s fine, but I’m not going. You know I work for Grandmother on Saturdays.”

“I’ll just tell her you can’t.”

Touché. Because the way Grandmother and her friends treated Joe, they’d gladly donate me as a virgin sacrifice if he ever asked.

“I’m not good in the sun.”

“I’ll bring sunscreen.”

“If I have to go, then I’m driving.”

“I don’t think it would be a good idea because—”

“If you’re going to make me go somewhere I don’t want to go and do something I don’t want to do, then the very least thing I ask is we not waste gas doing it. Okay?”

“Okay, okay. Fine.”

At least he hadn’t added, “I’m just telling you…” But he should have. Who would have known the huge field in front of the football stadium turned into a parking lot on Saturdays during football season?

Not me.

Because there actually was a parking lot up on top of the hill. And that’s where I had been heading before I had been directed into the field lying west of the stadium.

“Why are they making me go this way?”

“Because this is where you’re supposed to park.”

“On the grass?”

“Everyone else is doing it.”

“It has a hard enough time growing as it is.”

“You’d better go, because there are about twenty cars lined up behind you.”

While Joe put a forearm up to the roof to protect his head, I bumpity-bumpity-bumped over the ground, praying my carburetor or muffler or any other mysterious car part wouldn’t fall off and get swallowed by a hole. I was directed into an invisible parking space by a kid wearing an orange safety vest about five sizes too big.

We got out. Joe reached into the backseat for a backpack that he slipped over one shoulder and two collapsible mini chairs decorated in the Academy’s blue-and-gray colors.

“Want me to carry one?”

“I’m fine.” He stood for a minute, looking in several different directions, and then he started off south, away from the stadium.

“Where are we going?”

“To the department tailgate. Over there.”

“Over there” turned out to be at the opposite end of the field, across another road, and down a ways. We got to tramp through quite a few other tailgates. By the time we got to ours, I was hungry.

Joe dug a small blanket out of his backpack and spread it on the ground. He handed me a bottle of sunscreen and then went to fill two plates with hamburgers, chips, and chocolate chip cookies. He ended up eating all of my chips and two of my cookies.

We watched some of the kids run around. Partook in a discussion about the general caliber of Academy cadets and a downward trend in their level of respect toward instructors. Overheard a discussion between parent and small child about whether it was worth hiking to the porta-potties all the way over by the stadium to go to the bathroom, or whether it would be easier and less smelly to just go in the woods.

Then we finally decided to head to the stadium.

We walked all the way to the east side to take advantage of the speedier lines reserved for personnel, but they still wouldn’t let me take in my bottle of water. And it wasn’t even “bottled” water. It was filtered tap water from home because bottling water can make it up to 10,000 times more expensive than turning on your own faucet and consuming the exact same amount.

“It’s just water.”

“I’m sorry, ma’am.”

“I’ll drink it in front of you.”

“If you’d like, ma’am.”

I unscrewed the top. Took a swig. “See? Water.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

I screwed the top on and started to pass through.

“I’m sorry, ma’am, but you can’t take the bottle in with you.”

“Didn’t we just do this? It’s water. Remember? I haven’t died yet.”

“I’m sorry, ma’am.”

At least it was only a 12-ounce bottle instead of a 16-ounce one. Then people would have been even more upset when I stood there and drank it. All.

They finally let me through.

Joe slid a glance at me. “Was that really necessary?”

“Yes. I brought the water; I obviously wanted to drink it. Do you know how much water is wasted each year in El Paso County? Do you know in how many years our aquifers are going to run dry?”

“I don’t know whether to be impressed with your knowledge, cheer your chutzpah, or strangle your cute little neck. So spare me the lecture.”

“You probably leave the faucet running when you brush your teeth, don’t you?”

“
And
I let the shower warm up for five minutes before I use it.”

He only said that to irritate me.

I think.

We made our way to the south side of the stadium and found our seats just in time to see half of the cadet wing march onto the field. The rest of the cadets were already seated in the student section of the bleachers. After saluting, the playing of the national anthem, and a couple additional maneuvers, they broke formation and ran to join their fellow cadets in the stands.

I heard the sound of airplanes in the distance. A formation of planes flew overhead, followed by a B-1 Bomber. The most impressive thing was the roar it made when the pilot turned the afterburner on.

And then a plane began to circle, high above the stadium, and parachutists jumped out, trailing smoke. The Wings of Blue, the cadet parachute team, came down in formation, one carrying the senior class flag, another carrying the POW flag, still another the U.S. flag. The group landed in the center of the field.

After everyone had finished clapping and sat down, the football teams ran onto the field. The sports announcer started talking, although I don’t think anyone could understand him.

It wasn’t far into the game when everyone stood back up. I think it was because the ball was near one of the ends of the field. Then everyone groaned and sat back down. And then it started all over again. The gradual buildup of tension, the gradual rising from the seats, the intense concentration directed toward the field, and then, sudden relief.

This time, everyone cheered.

“So the object of the game is to…”

Joe looked down at me. “You’ve never watched a game before?”

“No.”

“Well, it’s like this…” He bent down toward me, looking all the while at the field. He must have realized I couldn’t really see over the heads of the people in front of me. “Hop up here.” He took my hand while I stepped up onto the bleacher. “Nobody will mind for just a minute.”

This time, I bent down toward him so I could hear him talking.

“Notre Dame has the football now, right? And they’re trying to get it into the end zone for a touchdown. They can either pass it—throw the ball—or they can run it. And during any given play they can use a combination of passing and throwing. Most of the time, only the quarterback can throw the ball. Anyone can run with it. Their turn is over when they either fumble the ball—drop it—or they get tackled. Each time the ball reverts to them, they’re trying to move the ball ten yards. They get four tries to make it. And that’s about it. The rest is technicalities.”

That gave me enough information to follow the game. I stepped down off the bench. I still didn’t understand why the whistle got blown or why people had to kick the ball. Joe had only talked about passing and running.

And I didn’t understand the scoring at all.

But there were enough other things going on that it was…fun.

The first time Air Force scored, Joe grabbed my arm. “Look over there.” He was pointing toward the cadet section.