Authors: Christine Jarmola
-30-
You Don’t Bring Me Flowers
Two days I could handle. Three, getting stressed. But by day four and no Al sightings or communication I was having major withdrawals. It was time to give up. Non-gay Al Dansby was obviously hooked-up with SW (aka skank woman, aka Thing One, aka Taylor.) I mean why not? She was what guys wanted, tall, beautiful and willing.
“No word today?” Stina asked at dinner. One look from me told her the answer. We were getting almost as scary as the K’s at non-verbal communication. “Doesn’t the guy ever eat? We’ve been staked out here in the cafeteria for days spending over an hour at every meal and he hasn’t come through.”
“We are not staked out. I just eat slow,” I said, in denial. Honest truth—I hadn’t eaten much all week. Slow or fast. I just played with my food, looking for his golden brown hair. No luck. “Anyhow, it’s a pointless venture. I saw him and SW with my own eyes. It’s so just not going to happen.”
Stina gave a Stina giggle. “Yeah, just keep saying that while you continue canvassing the campus for an Al Dansby sighting. Well, pokey eater, I have things to do and places to go. I’ll see you back at the room. And remember what my mom always told me, ‘A woman without a man is like a fish without a bicycle.’”
“Thanks for those wise words you Gloria Steinem wannabe.”
Stina gave me a sad smile. “Just wanting to remind you to believe in yourself. Something we all need reminding of some days.
Out of the mouths of Stinas do come very wise words some days. Not most days, but some. I had to quit being so lovesick pathetic. Time to go get on with life without a bicycle.
It was a nice day for January, only a little wind. I thought I should get some exercise so I started on a walk. Turning the corner I realized the wind had just been blocked by the building. It was there alright, strong and with a bite to it as usual. Maybe a walk wasn’t such a good idea. Up the front steps of the dorm, which I seldom used, and in the front door.
There he stood in the foyer in all his perfection, holding a single red rose. I’d either died and ended up on a pathetic reality show, or my prayers had been answered.
He turned to look over his shoulder to see who had just come in the door. His face was a mixture of glowing and dread. Find that color in your Crayola box. I gave him my biggest Colgate smile. He was there. He cared. He’d even shown up with flowers. How could it get any better than that?
“Oh, Al, you’re here,” came a voice from the lowest pit of hell. “And you brought me flowers. How nice,” said Taylor looking like a modern day Scarlett O’Hara walking down the stairs.
Life can be bad sometimes. Sometimes it can get worse. But that had to be the ultimate worse. Being all ready to get flowers from the man of your dreams just to realize he wasn’t there for you.
Instant tears of frustration, humiliation and any other -ation I could think of sprang into my eyes. This so wasn’t going to happen. He’d made his choice and I wasn’t going to stand there like the loser duffuses at the Bachelor Rose Ceremony.
“Lottie, wait,” he said. But I didn’t. The power of the eraser worked its magic. Even if things were never to be between us, at least he didn’t have to see me being all drama queen about it.
It was a nice day for January. Only a little wind. I thought I should get some exercise, but not by going on a walk. Instead a good cry in my room would burn off the same amount of calories, I decided as I entered the backdoor of the dorm headed to my basement sanctuary.
-31-
Noteworthy
Life always feels better after a good cry. And two Snickers bars. And a Diet Dr. Pepper. And some cookie dough. All shared with three good friends. And then wait four days.
A week had gone by with no Al Dansby sightings. At least none that anyone other than me would ever know of. I had kept my trusty eraser friend always close at my side making sure I wouldn’t accidentally run into the man of Taylor’s reality. Three times it had happened, but I had quickly fixed the situation. I was finding interesting alternative routes for getting to and from class. I just wasn’t up to hearing his voice, or some lame words of how we could be good friends.
I had just finished the most recent dodge/do-over by entering in the main dorm entrance rather than the back as for some bizarre reason Al had been standing next to the back door earlier.
“Hey, Lottie,” called Kasha as I entered the foyer. “Waz up?”
“Not enough. You working the desk tonight?”
“Yup. Trying to get
Madame Bovary
read. Have you started yet?” Like last semester, Kasha and I were in the same Lit. class, again with Dr. Jekyll. Second week of school and she already wanted an essay on a book I hadn’t finished reading. I couldn’t get past Madame Bovary and her lovers. SW’s face kept appearing in my thoughts and I wanted to sling the book across the room.
“Started, not finished. I forgot you worked the desk. I don’t usually come in this door unless it’s after hours, to sign in.”
“Obviously. Look at your mailbox. Ever think of getting your mail?
She was right. It was stuffed with junk mail and flyers. Guess I should check it more often, but who of importance used snail mail anymore? Email or text seemed to get the word out. If it was really important it could be Snapchatted. I grabbed the pile of junk and stood next to the trashcan sorting it. Credit card applications. Didn’t they know that they weren’t supposed to solicit to college students anymore? Yeah, right. Flyers for a dance from the week before. Guess I missed that. Hey, what was that? An actual letter written by hand. What could that be?
The front said,
“
Ms. Lottie Lambert –English Major, Basement, Asbury Hal
l
.” Okay, I was intrigued. I went to sit in the parlor to open it.
Lottie,
I enjoyed our duet last night and hope that we can do it again, soon.
I didn’t know how to get in touch with you, as I didn’t have your phone number or email address. Then I remembered there was this archaic form of communication called a letter. Rather inefficient, but better than smoke signals.
As I don’t have your number to call you, could you call me if you’d like to go out. If you don’t call I’ll understand.
Al Dansby
There in the bottom corner were both his email address and phone number.
He liked me. My heart was a flutter. The world was right. I swear I heard birds singing. He liked me. He hadn’t forgotten me. In fact he had written to me the very next day after our piano interlude.
THE VERY NEXT DAY. Oh crap! The letter had sat in my mailbox for over a week. He had been waiting for me to call, and I hadn’t.
“Good news or bad news?” Kasha called from the desk. “I heard you gasp all the way in here so it must be something.”
“Great news. Just the wrong time. I have got to check my mailbox more often.” With that I was off to my basement room to get advice on how to proceed.
***
My first impulse was to grab my phone and call. Always being one to follow my first impulse that was what I did.
“You have reached the cell phone of Al Dansby,” his magnificent voice said. “I am either unable to answer your call or am screening calls and you didn’t make the cut. Either way please leave a message at the beep.”
What to say? What to say? I hung up. Oh great, it would show my missed call. I’ll just erase that. Flick of the eraser and start again.
My first impulse was to grab my phone and call. This time I wouldn’t. I’d play it cool. I’d text. What to say? Keep it simple.
“Hey, Lottie. What cha doing?” asked Stina as she came in the door followed by Rachel, Olivia and Kyra and Kaylee.
“You feeling okay? Is there a reason why you’re standing in the middle of your room holding your phone in one hand and a piece of paper in the other?” asked Rachel.
“You look really flushed,” observed Kyra.
“Oo baby! You heard from Al Dansby! Didn’t you!” bubbled Stina.
I didn’t trust my voice. I just held the note up for them to see. Olivia took it and began to read it out loud.
Lottie,
I enjoyed our duet last night and hope that we can do it again, soon.
“Whoa momma! ‘Our duet.’ What is that code for?” asked Kaylee.
“How poetic,” said Kyra. “Our duet. So much nicer than say, ‘Hey it was great hooking up with you.’”
“Keep reading,” demanded Stina.
I didn’t know how to get in touch with you, as I didn’t have your phone number or email address. Then I remembered there was this archaic form of communication called a letter. Rather inefficient, but better than smoke signals.
“Why didn’t you give him your phone number?” Kyra asked. Four sets of eyes turned to look at Olivia. “Oh, yeah. Forgot about Miss Blow Chunks’ timely arrival.”
“Keep reading!” demanded Stina again. She was losing her patience.
As I don’t have your number to call you, could you call me if you’d like to go out. If you don’t call I’ll understand.
There was a collective sigh in the room. Rachel expressed the unanimous thought. “How romantic. There’s just something about a handwritten note. So old worldly.”
“So sweet,” said Stina.
“So a week old,” said Olivia. “Why have you been carrying this around for eight days and not telling us?”
“I just got it! Well, I mean I just got it out of my mailbox. I never check my mailbox. Who uses a mailbox? But there’s no point in it now. I saw him giving Trampy Taylor a rose days ago. He’s already over me and on to the next.” I just wanted to cry. My mail retrieval incompetence had made me miss the romance of a lifetime.
Kyra and Kaylee locked eyes. “We need to go check our mail,” they said in unison and fled the room.
Olivia read through the note again. “So Lottie. What are you going to do?”
“Obviously by not responding for more than a week, he’s thinking you don’t like him, but that he could move on to another girl so fast. . . not possible,” hypothesized Rachel.
“Oh, he probably feels stupid now for writing it. Maybe that’s why he hasn’t come to eat. Afraid he might run into you,” said Stina with sympathy for the note writer.
“Think, women. What is Lottie’s best plan?” General Olivia took charge. I had never seen her in a leadership position before. But as matters went, Olivia was our resident expert on the male species.
Stina held up her hand. “She has to call him as quickly as possible.”
“There’s no point in it. You all aren’t listening. He’s moved on to Skank Woman,” I moaned.
“Definitely she has to contact him,” agreed Rachel with Stina totally ignoring my comments. “But what does she say? She has to explain why she hasn’t called.”
“That’s crucial,” agreed Stina.
Slapping a pencil down like a riding crop Olivia added, “Yes, but she doesn’t want to look all needy, whiny. Somehow, in very few words she has to give him the message that she got the note and would like to pursue the relationship.”
“But he’s dating Taylor now! I saw it with my own two eyes. Why can’t you all get that this train has left the station and I missed it!” No one was listening to me.
My cozy little dorm room had turned into the command center of a war bunker. I thought that I was beginning to hyperventilate. Olivia handed me an old McDonald’s bag. “Breath into this,” she said. “You can’t call him wheezing like that. He’d think you were an obscene phone caller.
“Now ladies let’s get a plan and get it into action fast,” Olivia continued.
Kasha came running into the room. “The rose wasn’t for Taylor. I saw him there the other day with it when I was working the front desk. She did come by and say something about thank you for the flower. But he just laughed and said not this time. He waited around about an hour and then threw it in the trash and left. I didn’t know who he was waiting for and he never said.”
Then Kasha got an intrigued look on her face. “How did you know about the rose, Lottie? I never saw you come through.”
I was busted. And stupid. If I hadn’t used that stupid eraser he would have given me the rose and we’d be on our way to happily-ever-after. Instead it was in the trash, just like our future.
“Rumors,” I stammered. “Gossip and rumors. You hear everything that happens in this building.”
An hour later I was putting the plan into action. The general agreement was that a text message would be the safest. I could simply say,
Sorry to not be in touch sooner. Your note was waylaid and I just got it. Call me when you have time. If you’ve changed your mind, I’ll understand.
The only flaw was it then left me waiting for him to call—or not call. I guess it was only fair, as I had made him wait for more than a full week to hear from me. My biggest fear was that in those eight days he had changed his mind. That might explain why he had been locked in an embrace with Taylor behind the fine arts building. He had found someone else to play a duet with that was more
prestissimo
.
I had to retype the message three times before I had everything spelled right. I hit send. We all stared at my cell. Waiting. Waiting. Waiting.
Two hours later. Still waiting.
Stina sat on her bed doing some weird complicated math problems—one reason why I was an English major. Only basic math required. I sat on my bed staring at
Madame Bovary.
Was I just being a foolish romantic like Ms. B.? Living my life thinking that the love stories in real life could ever compare to those in novels? Would I just live my whole life hoping for a happy ending that wasn’t coming?
“Lighten up there Lottie,” said Stina. Was she now able to read my mind? “The look on your face is tragic. Give the guy some time to call back.”
“I wasn’t even thinking about him,” I lied. “I was just reading about poor Emma Bovary and her devastating affairs.”
“Yeah, right,” Stina snorted. “He’ll call.”
“Do you really think so?”
“Any guy who would actually go to the bother to write you a note will call. Think about it. That note was a lot of work. First he had to find paper and pen. And a real envelope. Who has an envelope available? He probably had to make a special trip to Wal-Mart just for supplies to write to you.”
Stina logic
made me smile. She was right. A note was much more work than a text message. So why didn’t he call?
“Should I call him again?”
“You haven’t called him have you? I thought we agreed on texting?”
There I had done it again. Confused the two realities. “I meant text him again.” There quick save.
“Wait.”
“Wait,” I repeated.
“Wait,” we both said in unison.
By eleven o’clock I had given up. Despair was taking over. I might as well go to bed and dream of an Al Dansby that I would never have. I was brushing my teeth with my phone next to me on the bathroom counter. Yes, hope springs eternal. It started to ring. I went to grab for it with a mouth full of toothpaste. Spa-lop my phone took a dive into the toilet. Had the diamond earring episode not taught me anything about leaving things on the counter next to the toilet?
“Oh my fig newton!” Stina screamed from the doorway. “That could have been him!” And it will be I thought. I ran from the room, snatched my purse from the floor and started digging. “What are you doing? Do you have an extension in your purse?’ Stina asked utterly confused.
Finally, I found my trusty eraser. My bosom friend. My help for all happiness. I might have swung it around a little harder than need be, but it worked.
I was back on my bed reading. It was 10:55. I thought about brushing my teeth, but I’d put that off for just a moment. Precisely at eleven o’clock my phone began to ring. Stina was bouncing on her bed—two thumbs up.
“Hello,” I said, my voice cracking.
“Lottie are you alright?” asked my mom. “Your voice sounds scratchy.”