It was at Jenny’s aunt’s house, a sprawling, palatial thing down by the lakefront with stucco walls and angular lines. It was a split-level, with a pool and a four-bay garage, each one with its own cedar wood door and Frank Lloyd Wright windows. We had just come in from the obligatory tour—Jenny’s uncle was rebuilding a 1963 Aston Martin in the far bay. Every time we went there we had to go see what small amounts of progress he was making. I was standing in one corner of the kitchen with a beer in my hand talking to one of the brothers of the groom-to-be. There were a lot of brothers in that family—six or seven, at least—I was never really sure. This one was named Tom.
“How’s work going?” Tom asked.
“Okay,” I said. It’s pretty much what I always said whenever someone asked me that question. It was simpler that way. But Tom was sort of family, and he knew what I did for a living, so I added, “Some days are better than others.”
Tom stopped himself in mid-sip of his Bacardi and Coke. “Didn’t Jenny tell me you were looking for something new?”
It was an interesting way of asking the question. It was entirely possible—likely even—but how was I supposed to know what Jenny told him? Jenny was always telling people something—quietly, and in confidence, as if setting traps for me to stumble into. Telling Pamela Thornsby about her pregnancy was a good example. I was still mad at her about that. I looked out into the great room and saw her in animated conversation with her Mom and two of her aunts. I had told her the night before that I was upset about how she had put me on the spot with Pamela, but she had just brushed it off, her tone practically indicating that I should really be thanking her for all the work she was doing on my job search.
“Well, yeah,” I said. “We’ve started looking.”
“How’s the job market look these days?”
Tom worked in the financial sector—doing what I’m not even sure. He seemed to get a new job every two years or so, hopping from one unheard of financial services firm to another, and always for an impressive step up, according to the family gossip.
I shrugged. “Hard to tell, we just started. I’ve got an interview on Tuesday.”
“Great!” Tom said with a wide smile. “Good luck with that.”
“It’s for a job in Boston.”
Tom gave me a strange look, prompted probably by my tone of voice. “Don’t want to move to Boston, eh?”
“Is it that obvious?”
“A little,” Tom said. “You might want to work on that before Tuesday. How long have you been at your current place?”
“Twelve years.”
Tom whistled. “Well, even if you don’t want to move to Boston, you should go into the interview like it’s the only job there is. You could probably use the practice.”
“Yeah,” I said, knowing he was right but not liking being told. Suddenly my phone started buzzing in my pocket.
“Is it a phone interview?” Tom asked.
I nodded, fishing my phone out and turning it so I could see its screen.
“All the more reason to work on your tone. Your voice is all they’re going to hear.”
I couldn’t make sense out of what the phone was telling me. I wasn’t getting a call, and the thing had stopped buzzing, but the red light was blinking as if I had gotten a voicemail and there was a strange icon I had never seen before on the screen.
“Excuse me,” I told Tom and began moving away from him as I flipped the phone open. I had one new text message.
Text message? I thought. Who was sending me a text message? I had never even used that function before.
I pushed the button to open the message and was greeted with: WHAT R U DOING?
What am I doing? Who was sending me this? There was a phone number listed in the “From” box, but I didn’t recognize it.
I decided to go into one of the bathrooms. The bride-to-be was just coming out and she smiled at me as I slinked past her and shut the door. Sitting down on the closed toilet I began trying to figure out how to respond to this message.
WHO IS THIS? I finally managed to type and then send.
I sat waiting, looking down at my phone as if it would start speaking to me. I was beginning to think that it was a fluke, a texted wrong number, if such a thing was possible, when it began vibrating in my hands, almost making me drop it. It was a new text from the same phone number. I pushed the button.
IT’S BETHANY. WHAT R U DOING?
Bethany. Why the hell was she texting me on a Saturday? Why was she texting me at all? I sat there a looked at the message for a minute, trying to wrap my mind around what it might mean. Should I respond? I didn’t have to, did I? What if I just ignored it?
The phone buzzed again. R U THERE?
Maybe I should tell her to stop texting me?
YES. I sent back.
WHAT R U DOING?
I took me a while to punch out my reply, my thumbs not used to the exercise.
I’M AT A FAMILY GET-TOGETHER. JENNY’S COUSIN IS GETTING MARRIED. WHAT ARE YOU DOING?
I thought mentioning my wife might be a good idea. But I was curious. As I waited for the reply to come back I could feel my heart beating in my chest. It felt illicit, having this conversation with someone else’s wife when she wasn’t really there.
I’M HOME ALONE. THINKING OF U. THOUGHT I’D SEE WHAT U WERE UP 2.
Thinking of me? What in God’s name did that mean? The little glowing letters gave me no other clues. There was no body language to read, no real context to put it in. Was she flirting with me?
DO YOU THINK OF ME OFTEN?
I was imagining what Bethany might be wearing when I heard a child scream. My heart in my throat, I stood up to look out the window and saw Jacob and four of his cousins, running around in the backyard, laughing and shouting at each other.
The phone buzzed in my hand.
STARTING 2.
This should stop. I knew that and, as if to confirm it, just then there came a knock on the bathroom door.
“Is someone in there?” a woman’s voice called out.
“Just a minute!” I said, thinking wildly that it was Jenny, coming to catch me.
“No problem,” the voice said loudly, clearly now not Jenny, and then more softly, as if to a child, “come on, honey, let’s go find another potty.”
My thumbs went to work, my chest pounding now, the fear that I would be caught edging out the thrill that Bethany might send me something even more provocative.
GOT TO GO. SEE YOU MONDAY.
After hitting send, I closed the phone and put it back in my pocket. I flushed the toilet for appearance sake and then went to the sink and turned on the water. I was splashing some on my face when I felt the phone start vibrating in my pocket. It created a warm feeling, and I tried not to make a lewd association. I told myself not to look at it, to ignore it and go back to the party, no matter how many more times she texted me, but my curiosity overwhelmed my resolve. I dried my face on one of the guest towels and then clawed the phone out of my pocket. The devilish little red light was flashing. I flipped it open.
BYE.
It was only one word, and hopefully the last one, but the whole record of our preceding conversation was there for anyone to see. I fumbled around with my slippery fingers, trying to figure out how to delete the previous messages. Eventually I succeeded.
+ + +
“Dragons” is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author's imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental. For more information, go here.
This post first appeared on Eric Lanke's blog, an association executive and author. You can follow him on Twitter @ericlanke or contact him at eric.lanke@gmail.com.
Image Source
http://lres.com/heres-why-amcs-need-to-pay-close-attention-to-looming-regulatory-changes/businessman-in-the-middle-of-a-labyrinth/
No comments:
Post a Comment