Flyover States, page 20
He’s not even yelling. He’s talking to me like I’m Claus, or Will, or Tina. Like he’s explaining why the thesis statement I’ve written is never going to work, can’t carry the paper I’ve intended to write. And it hurts, not like temporary probation from J.J., but a horrible too-late kind. I can feel it spreading across every square inch of my body.
“I didn’t ‘blow’ anyone over the weekend,” I say. I don’t even think that’s what I said to Luis, but everything from that conversation to my nontrip to Denny’s is one big, hazy mess.
“Doris, that’s my point all over again. If you didn’t, why say you did to a roomful of people? Not just people, your professors. Your peers. It’s just…frustrating.” Then a long pause. “Disappointing.”
After that, Zach leaves and this time I don’t try to stop him. I sit down in the empty classroom and watch through the windows as Zach moves purposefully from my field of vision.
“That’s some last day,” Ronnie says.
We’re at the Wing Shack, drinking beer and eating the super-hot special with blue cheese and celery. This is what we’ve been reduced to, one of the top ten dangers of small-town living. We can’t go back to the Vineyard because it’s overpriced and reminds Ronnie of La Varian. We can’t go to the Office Saloon because of the Earl situation, and the fact that Ronnie still isn’t sure what she wants to do about that. We can’t go to the coffee shop because that’s Zach’s favorite haunt. We’d better find someplace fast, though, because the Wing Shack only serves beer and soda, and I hate beer so much that I couldn’t get drunk on it if I tried.
“No Paolo?” Ronnie asks. “Our other, what was it, ‘stooge’?”
“His fella’s in town from San Fran. They’re locking themselves away, but he wants us to go to the recital he’s been putting together.”
“The junior ballet league? Do we have to?”
“I believe we do. It’s not until next week, so don’t panic in advance.”
“This beer,” Ronnie says, pointing at the plastic cup in front of her that’s only down a third. “Something’s gotta give, because this beer tastes like ass.”
“Do you think I act like an idiot?” I ask. “Does no one in this department take me even remotely seriously?” I look down at my nails, painted the new 1960s “kitten” pink, preordered from MAC by my sister, who gave all her bridesmaids self-pampering packages as wedding favors. I can’t decide which I hate more: the fact that I love this nail polish, its perfect, pastel pinkness, love the fact that I have it, the same way Claus loves having a pair of “Sean John” jeans. That, or the fact that I know better than to love this nail polish, know better than to talk about loving it, and know that if I were teaching the TROOPS version of me, I’d make myself ashamed to love this nail polish. Nail polish that I technically cannot even afford.
“I’m not humoring this,” Ronnie replies. “Since when do you care? You want to stay up all night thinking about how Way Gay feels about you? Or if Iris thinks you’re smart? Or J.J.? You’ll never convince me you give a real good-goddamn, so don’t even try convincing yourself.”
“Zach hates me,” I say. “It was the most disproportionate display of condescension that I’ve ever, ever seen. Ever.”
“Well, you know what they say.”
“What?”
Ronnie points a chicken bone in my direction.
“Hate is angry love.”
“But I don’t hate Zach,” I explain. “Even after this afternoon. It’s not like Luis. I’m mad and I’m sad, but I don’t hate him. I wish I could go back and do it all over. From the party on.”
Ronnie lets out a little sigh and pushes her hair behind her ears.
“I hate to be the one tell you, Doris. But if that’s the way you feel, how you really, really feel. That’s even worse.”
I watch the warm beer in front of me get flatter by the minute.
“Don’t tell me that,” I say. “Because at this exact moment, I’d rather not know.”
Ronnie
That night, after Professor Lind’s party, was the first time I ever called in sick to Valtek. I just couldn’t do it. I told myself that I would just have to stay home and not spend money out this week. I’d sell some CDs if I had to, and I’d eat only two meals a day, two twenty-five-cent packets of ramen noodles would be enough to get by on. Eating less won’t kill me. I’m certainly thick enough to keep from wasting away. That party was last week, and I’ve been at Valtek like clockwork ever since. I’m starting to feel numb, though, like very little, other than work, matters. I get excited about my Othello paper due in a week, but then I can’t seem to focus on it. All I can focus on is sleeping. But for all my complaints about grad school, I’ve been thinking about staying. Not just staying, but on through a doctorate degree. What working in a factory for two months has proven to me is this: It’s no kind of job to have if you can avoid it. And if I can survive the summer, I’ll be teaching again in the fall, and everything will work out. I can go back to doing the thing I love—the only thing I know how to do. Besides packing up vents and plastic speakers from an assembly line. At her party, I found Professor Lind sitting on her deck alone. I talked to her about staying on after the MFA to do Ph.D. work, and I was surprised that she was skeptical.
“Why do you want to do it?” she asked me. “What do you think you’ll get out of it?”
I was annoyed. I thought she was trying to discourage me because she didn’t think I could do it. “Isn’t this like the chapter in Žižek, in the discussion of ‘Che vuoi?’ How everyone asked Jesse Jackson what he really wanted when he ran for president? Nobody asked white candidates what they really wanted by running for president. Now you’re asking me what I really want by getting a Ph.D.”
Professor Lind smiled. “You’re right,” she said simply. “I’m glad you’ve paid such close attention to Žižek.
There’s more to that chapter, though. The Lacanian formula of fantasy? Let’s just play fast and loose with the guy and try to make sense of him vis a vis real life. Your life.” Professor Lind extended one hand, palm up. “In this hand is your ‘Che vuoi?,’ the question of what you really want by thinking about more grad school. In this hand—” she held her other hand up “—is the actual thing—at least five more years of grad school and an actual doctoral degree.” Then she spread both hands wide apart in front of her. “The distance between these two things? That’s the fantasy between what you desire and the actual object of desire. So.” She picked up a wine bottle and poured some more into her cup. “I just want you to ask yourself what fantasy, what scenario, you see when you look at a Ph.D.?”
I sighed. A few fireflies drifted past us. And I took a drink from my cup.
“Look, Ronnie. All I’m saying is that I know you’re a creative writer and a very intelligent woman. You don’t need a Ph.D. to be either one, so when I ask you what you really want, I’m asking you about your desires, what you expect the Ph.D. to give you. You’re great in the classroom and will be great in the classroom, whether you get an MFA or a Ph.D. Remember our discussion of your last paper,” she said. “You ran into trouble when you tried to fit into something that really wasn’t you.” She slapped her arm. “Dammit. We’re getting devoured.”
I’d barely noticed.
“Bottom line,” Professor Lind said, “you have to love academia, otherwise it’s going to crush your soul.”
I let what she said sink in, and then I realized that I was completely lost as to what fit anymore. Having my soul crushed didn’t sound like a good time. School would be the answer, but what kind of school? Truly what I can say to myself—if not to anyone else—is that I am impressed by a Ph.D. It would be a cool thing to have, that doctorate, better than money, even. But why? Why am I impressed with it, what do I see it giving me? Professor Lind didn’t give me any answers. She just gave me a lot to think about. Typical.
I hold the remote control in my hand and change the channels without really paying attention to what’s on. I’ve slept all day, so I’m not really sleepy. I’ll watch Animal Planet, BET, or whatever else is on until I have to leave at 10:45. My phone rings but I debate with myself over whether to even go over to my caller-ID box and see who it is. I’ve been avoiding the phone because I’m afraid of a call from Earl. I don’t know how to handle the situation yet. It’s still a wild idea to me, treating Earl like anything other than a guy to flirt with at the bar.
My curiosity gets the best of me, so I get up to at least see who it is. The name reads Bita Flannigan. I pick up. “Hey, lady,” I say, trying to sound peppy and not work-weary.
“I’m glad I caught you. You’re never home!”
“Everyone always says that. I guess because I never am.”
“That’s what I want to talk to you about.”
I say nothing because I can feel the whole factory lecture coming on.
“Are you there?”
“Yes,” I say. “What then?”
“Just hear me out before you say anything,” Bita says. “You know how crazy everybody thinks your job is…”
Here we go. “I’m listening.”
“Well, I’m going to send you some money so you can quit it.”
I’ve been standing and pacing around my small apartment, but when I take in what Bita suggests, I sit down. “That’s crazy,” I say, but I feel something like excitement when I think about not having to go back to Valtek. Almost right away though, “crazy” comes back to mind. “I can’t take your and Charlie’s money. Everybody acts like I’m selling my ass on the street or something. Summer’s almost over. I’ll be fine.”
“Listen,” Bita says in her hard voice that tells me she’s had enough. “This is bullshit. I don’t know what you’re trying to prove. You can work. You work hard. Good for you. But I want to help you now.”
“I don’t know,” I say slowly. “It’s weird, isn’t it? For you to just hand over money?”
“I’m not going to go around and around with you on this,” Bita insists. Then she adds, “It’s just not fair that you to have to do that kind of work.”
“Not just me. It doesn’t only suck for me.” I think of Mona and my brother. “It sucks for everybody who has to work that hard.”
“Exactly,” Bita says. “So if you had money to burn, and I was working like you are, working hard and making nothing, even if it was just for the summer, would you just let me keep working when I didn’t have to? When you could just write me a check for money you wouldn’t even miss?”
“Of course not.”
“So why is this different?”
“I don’t know. It just seems like I should suck it up. These are the cards dealt, it’s only for the summer—”
“You keep saying that, ‘It’s only for the summer,’ but however long you’d have to do this is not relevant. I know you think you’re keeping it real—or whatever—by doing this kind of job, because you feel like you have to make some sort of penance for having it easy.”
Bita is making me furious. I’m rarely furious. It feels like an interrogation, one where I can’t answer before I’m fired another question, and even if I had time to answer, I wouldn’t have a comeback.
When I don’t respond, Bita keeps right on talking. “Listen,” she says, “I believe you when you say there aren’t jobs in Langsdale. Trust me. I visited you. I saw, I ran screaming. All I’m saying to you now is that the situation is easily solved, and this isn’t news, but there will always be those who have, and those who have not, and when you have, you should give.”
I keep quiet, partially to be annoying, to keep her hanging out there on the line.
She sounds almost as mad as the day the girl at the bookstore tried to call her a scam artist. “I’m putting the check in the mail, and you’d better cash it.”
“You can send it,” I say, “but that doesn’t mean I’ll cash it.”
“Fine,” Bita says. “You are getting on my nerves,” she snaps, and hangs up.
I don’t know what’s wrong with me, because the truth is, I’m tired of Valtek. I want to spend the rest of my summer reading and writing. But I think of Mona and Ray and folks like the father-and-son combo, and I feel as if I’m leaving them holding the bag. But I hate to admit that Bita may be right. I said that La Varian was the type of person who hated to be called out on his stuff, who hated to be wrong, and now I realize that this might have been one of the problems between La Varian and me. We are very much alike.
The phone rings again. It’s Bita calling back to say she’s sorry for hanging up on me. But when I check my caller ID, I see the name Erardo Lo Vecchio. Who in the hell is Erardo Lo Vecchio? I consider letting my machine get it, but the Italian name gets the better of me.
On the final ring before my machine comes on, I pick up. “Hello?”
“Uh, Ronnie?”
“Yes?” I can’t place the voice, which is so not Italian, not even close. It’s got a soft twang in it, almost familiar, but not quite.
“Ronnie, this is Earl.”
I pause. Earl? I’m confused by Erardo. “Earl from the Saloon?”
“That’s right,” he says. “How you been keeping yourself, Ronnie? I hadn’t seen you around. Doris told me you were out in L.A., but I thought you were avoiding the place.”
I can’t decide what to concentrate on—the crazy name, or the fact that Earl’s calling.
“You there?”
“Yes, I’m sorry, Earl. It’s just the name on my caller ID. Is that your name?”
“Yeah.” Earl makes a noise that sounds like half a laugh, and half a puff of air through his nose. “My great-grandaddy’s name. I don’t go by it, though. Never have. Cain’t nobody hardly pronounce ‘Erardo,’ including me. Folks been calling me Earl since the first grade.”
“Wow.”
“Yeah.”
Silence.
“So you’re Italian?”
Earl clears his throat. “Yeah, on my daddy’s side, and a whole lot of other things, too. My family’s all mixed up.”
“Wow,” I say again, slowly. I sound like some stoner, one toke over the line. My love for all things Italian is well known. And here was Earl, technically fitting the bill. Strange as a three-dollar bill.
Earl clears his throat again. “Well, I’m calling because—”
“So have you been to Italy, then?” I can’t let this go. “Do you know what part of Italy your family’s from?”
“I don’t know nothing about no Italy, Ronnie. Never have been. One of these days, though, I might take me a trip over there.”
I think about all the trips I’ve taken with Sammy. “I’ve been,” I say. “Three times. All over. It was amazing.” As soon as the words are out of my mouth, I sound braggy and know-it-all.
But Earl only says, “That’s real nice,” in that soft drawl of his. Not a hint of smart-ass.
He waits a couple of more beats in case I figure out how to have a normal phone conversation with him, but he must not be able to take it anymore because he says, “Ronnie? I’m not good on the phone, so I’m going to make it short— I want to take you out.”
“Oh.” Shit. What do I say?
“And I know how you work at night and all, so I was thinking we’d get lunch or something.”
“Doris told you about my job.”
“Yeah, and Ray. I asked about you after I found out you were working over there.”
“Ray is your cousin. Great.” Every stupid thing I’ve asked or done flashes before my eyes. If Ray is Earl’s cousin, and they’ve talked about me, it can’t be good. “Oh, God, what’d he say? That I was the worst worker he’s ever seen?”
Earl laughs. “No. Not exactly.”
“Not exactly” told me that Earl had probably heard every story about me there was to hear. And then, you know what College asked? She asked if she could take notes. Hell, ain’t but four or five steps to remember! I feel like I want—need—to fill in the gaps of Ray’s stories to retrieve some of my pride, so when Earl asks again if we can go out, have lunch tomorrow afternoon, I say yes.
Before I got off the phone with Earl, I managed to offend him—twice. He offered to pick me up, I insisted on meeting him. “You don’t wont me coming to your house?” Earl asked. “It’s not that,” I said. “It’s the bike.” Truth: I was kinda weirded out about him coming to my house. “Let me take you to the Vineyard,” Earl said. “No, let’s go to Greg’s Cafeteria,” I said. “What, you don’t think I can afford the Vineyard?” Earl said. “Of course not,” I said. Truth: The Vineyard is very expensive—and reminds me of La Varian. “They just have lousy service there,” I explained.
So we negotiated a couple of land mines to get to where we are, which is sitting across from each other at the cafeteria. I love cafeteria food. I kept sliding my tray down the line and picking up nearly every thing there was to pick up: two pieces of fried chicken, one bowl of macaroni and cheese, one stuffed bell pepper, one bowl of cheese potatoes. And one slice of apple pie.
“Whew,” Earl says, watching me dig into my cheese potatoes. “You don’t hardly mess around, do you?” He has a big grin on his face, and I notice—again—his dimples, one carved perfectly in the center of each cheek. He’s still keeping his beard cut close, and I can see those dimples real good. In broad daylight he looks more like a mischievous kid, and not a, not a what? Redneck? Cracker? As soon as I think of both, I push them out of my head. I watch him cut his fried chicken with a knife while I pick mine up with both hands. Is he cutting the chicken for my benefit? Who eats fried chicken like that? It’s weird, but somehow endearing. I try to keep my attention on just me and Earl, but the fact is that most of the people in the cafeteria are elderly, all of them white. Sometimes people look our way, but Earl doesn’t seem to notice.
