It’s the end of another long day, but a day that has been curiously short on disasters. Three separate events went off without a hitch. We arrived on time, the Minister performed well, and the audiences were receptive. What’s more, the local press somehow missed the story of the great paint fight. I could almost relax if Margo and the Minister weren’t behaving so oddly around me. Neither one has said anything abusive for two full days. Not that they’ve been friendly, mind you, but they have been more or less polite and professional. It’s disquieting.
The Tranquility Lodge, our abode for the night, is just another motel sprawled alongside a busy stretch of highway. To reach the driveway, we have to detour around a construction site where workers are blasting through limestone to expand the highway. Signs in the motel lobby warn that the pool and recreation areas may be evacuated occasionally prior to detonation.
Ignoring the warning signs that an explosion is about to occur in my own room, I enter unarmed.
“Libby,” Margo says without ceremony, “you just aren’t measuring up.”
Here we go. I sit down on the edge of the bed and prepare for the worst. Margo is already red in the face and she’s pacing back and forth over the worn gray carpet.
“The Minister is concerned about your lack of attention to detail and we’re both extremely disappointed by your poor judgment. You’ve really let us down.”
My judgment is poor? Which one of us shouted at children during two recent visits? But I remain silent because I have no experience in this sort of confrontation. I’ve always been considered a strong performer.
“I talk to you until I’m blue in the face, but your work doesn’t improve.”
“Could you give me some concrete examples of how my performance is unacceptable?” I ask, wishing my voice weren’t so hoarse.
This request appears to take Margo aback, because she hesitates. “Well, the formatting mistake in the speech was clearly a major blunder on your part. Then, you made us terribly late the next day when you got lost. Your driving is deplorable. And you have made little progress on the Minister’s scrapbook.”
“I see. Is there more?”
“Actually, yes,” she says, warming to the task. “Our biggest concern is your attitude. You are sullen and resistant to the most basic requests, Libby. This is a tight team and our effectiveness depends on each member playing his or her part. I’m afraid you just don’t fit in.” It’s as though I’m back in school, the girl on the outside, the one who isn’t allowed into the cool group. “I assume you have some strengths, but I have yet to discover what they are. What really surprises me is how your references can be so good. HR spoke to four people at length and no one had a bad word to say about you.”
BOOM! A blast from the road makes the windows rattle and shakes my tongue loose.
“My references were good because I was applying for a job as speechwriter. I doubt anyone commented on my abilities as a scrapbook engineer, baggage handler, private investigator or chauffeur. I’m disappointed too, Margo. Never once in the interview process did anyone mention that writing would be the last on my list of duties.”
“You see, this is the attitude I was talking about.”
“Well, I take my work seriously. I can live up to my good references if you’ll let me do what I was hired for.”
“If things don’t improve, Libby, we’ll need to talk again.”
I dig through my bag for my shampoo and head for the bathroom. Fifteen minutes later, I’m still under the shower, feeling defeated. I manage not to cry, though. It’s not as if she can really fire me. In government, it’s only possible to get rid of people if they’ve died at their desk. Even then, the absence of life signs must be thoroughly documented. However, Margo could end my contract and send me back to my home position with two weeks’ notice and the shame of it would kill me. Not that I’m deluding myself: I do have an attitude problem. I resent being assigned tasks for which I have no aptitude and I feel I’m being set up for failure. If only they’d give me an opportunity to put pen to paper, I know I could turn things around.
By the time I step out of the bathroom, Margo has left. I dress quickly and when there’s no answer in Laurie’s room or Bill’s, I decide to go for a walk. Some fresh air would do me good. Maybe I can find an ice-cream shop and drown my sorrows. Half a mile down the road, I discover a bar and a drink seems more appropriate for the occasion than ice cream. The place looks a bit run-down, but it’s got to be better than my own room at the moment. Once inside, I find it’s actually quite a nice little pub. I head for the bar, pull up a stool and take a moment to appreciate the young man stacking cases of beer behind the counter. Watching the way his muscles move against his white T-shirt is helping me forget my worries. He looks around and shoots me a flirty smile.
“Hey, there! See anything you like?”
Busted! Well, maybe not. He’s gesturing to the array of bottles behind him but the playful look on his face suggests he knows what I’m thinking.
“Yeah, does he know how to make a good Cosmopolitan?”
Did I just say that out loud? Margo’s inability to hold her tongue must be contagious. It’s like I’ve stepped onto the set of Sex and the City.
“Everything he makes is pretty good,” he says, smiling suggestively, “but you’ll have to talk me through the Cosmopolitan.”
“I think I can handle that.”
Did I just giggle? I’m almost old enough to be his mother, for God’s sake. He’s probably still living at home. And what could he see in me, a wizened government hack who’s almost been fired? Still, I flirt my way through the list of ingredients and when he slides the drink across the bar, he also offers me his hand.
“I’m Danny.”
“Libby.”
“Where are you from, Libby?” he asks, still holding my hand.
“How do you know I’m not from around here?”
“Your hair isn’t big enough.”
He’s funny and gallant too, because if the ladies in this area have bigger hair than mine, they’d never fit through the door. Ageism is an unacceptable form of discrimination, I decide, and by the time I’ve talked him through a Mudslide, I’m over the whole May-December issue. The bar is filling up, but Danny keeps coming back to chat to me between filling orders. I continue to flirt outrageously and all my inhibitions vanish by the time I lean across the bar and whisper the secret behind a good Slippery Nipple into his tanned, perfect ear. He returns with my concoction and studies me for a moment.
“How old are you?” he asks (as they must).
“Twenty-eight,” I lie (as we must).
The light must be kind in here, because he isn’t laughing. He tells me he’s twenty-four, which is good, because I draw the line at a decade.
“What’s on your mind tonight, Libby? You can tell me. A bartender is the closest thing you’ll find to a shrink in this area.”
I find myself telling him about my job, about Margo and the Minister, about feeling undervalued.
“They’re bullies,” he says. “You’re a bright, talented woman and you should stand up to them. What have you got to lose?”
Several of the guys from the road crew have joined me at the bar. Danny knows them all by name and introduces me. I’m having a fabulous time and, one Manhattan later, find myself recounting a few stories about the evil duo. I get up and demonstrate the ceremonial passing of the handbag. When I describe the great “penis” moment the guys are howling as if I’m the funniest gal in the room. Actually, I’m the only gal in the room (it must be true about the big hair), and I like it. The guys introduce me to the rest of the house as “Purse Carrier to the Stars” and pretty soon, everyone has come over to shake my hand or buy me a drink.
By the time Danny announces last call, there are half a dozen beers lined up in front of me along the bar. I offer them to the guys, because I’ve switched to water in a belated attempt to sober up. We move to a booth, and Danny, who’s sitting beside me, puts his hand on my knee. Oh my. I may be hazy, but that I can feel. The minute our chaperones drink up and leave, Danny and I are all over each other.
“I’ll drive you home,” he says, kissing my neck. He locks up the bar and we climb into his truck. On the grounds of Tranquility Lodge, he cuts the engine. “I could come in, if you like.”
“Oh, I’d like,” I say, amazed at the way my bra has magically come undone, “but I’m afraid my roommate wouldn’t.”
“Roommate? On a business trip?” He looks at me doubtfully, wondering if I am trying to get rid of him.
“Hey, I told you this Ministry is cheap. Besides,” I add, allowing my hand to slide up his thigh, “my room isn’t nearly as spacious or as comfortable as this truck.”
The boy knows how to take a hint. In less than a minute, my seat has been adjusted to the fully reclined position. Danny produces a condom from the glove compartment with an ease that would worry me, were I in my right mind. As it is, I can only consider it auspicious.
Later, as Danny wipes the condensation from the windows, I wonder what has happened to my brain. Taking a youth—however experienced—for a test-drive in a pickup truck just isn’t me. And what about getting plastered alone in a bar and spilling company secrets? I’ve been inappropriate in every possible way. If I get away with this indiscretion, I’m luckier than I’ve been feeling lately.
“Are you all right?” Danny’s voice silences the self-recrimination.
“Yeah, I’m all right.”
He massages my shoulders and I can feel myself relaxing again. The seat is surprisingly comfortable for two.
“No regrets, I hope?” His hand is beginning the slide south and I send one of my own on a reconnaissance mission. The appeal of a younger man is immediately obvious.
By the time I climb out of the truck, I’m feeling better about our little fling. Hell, everyone needs to blow off steam once in a while and with Margo and the Minister conspiring against me, I’ve been ready to explode. This was therapy.
“I’ll call you,” he says (as they must).
“That would be nice,” I say (as we must).
And with one last kiss, he leaves. I realize before I’m in the motel door that I never gave him my phone number. Well, tonight wasn’t going to be the start of anything and we both knew it.
Margo is snoring in deep, wheezy gusts as I creep into our room. How nice that worry about my whereabouts didn’t keep her awake! I undress quickly in the dark and get into bed. If I had the strength, I’d grab my spare pillow and put an end to that racket. Instead, I lie grinning and thinking about Danny until I drift into a deep, satisfied sleep.