Potica prayed to God all the time now. She thought that her name alone should have been reason enough. People never got it right—Paw teet zah, not Po teek ah. Her mother said it was Slovenian. They were not Slovenian—they were Anglo-Saxon, as in White Anglo-Saxon Protestant. She assumed, therefore, that the name had some special significance. When she asked, her mother simply shrugged her shoulders and said, “It’s a kind of sweet bread. Your father liked it.”
The thing about praying was that she wasn’t sure she believed in God. For one thing, bad things seemed to happen to her, not the least of which had been her birth to tragically homely parents who saw fit to name her after a foreign-made pastry. Her appearance was a blending of more genetic misfortune—lifeless, mud-brown hair to match mud-brown, myopic eyes. She wore glasses, which always slipped down her nose. Everything about her was uninteresting: her figure, no relation whatsoever to an hourglass; her voice, low-pitched and overly masculine; and her manner, remarkably graceless. She had long since resigned herself to the fact that if a pair of eyes happened to drift her way, it was only because she was in the way of their intended stopping point . . . which was normally Emily in Row 2B.
Potica hated girls named Emily. They always had golden-brown hair, cutting a straight path down their perfectly postured spines. They worked out in the gym in fashionable pink sports bras and giggled the most annoying, high-pitched giggles. Their smiles were overly bright. They were cheerleaders, with creamy white thighs, whose opening and closing seemed to control the motivations of a vast majority of the male population.
And, of course, no one ever got their name wrong.
The Emily in Row 2B was twenty-four. She was not a cheerleader, but she still giggled and wore short skirts, and she still drew the eyes of all the men in their department. It was little consolation that she was also stupid.
Potica was not stupid. It would have been intolerable to be both homely and stupid. She could picture it, a dull cow with dull eyes. But she had not yet seen how to make her extraordinary intelligence work to her advantage.
And this is why she found herself praying to God.
She did so in the morning mainly, when she opened her eyes—because that was the worst time. She would lie there looking at the ceiling and imagine what was to come next. Shower. Breakfast. Commute. Work. Suffer-suffer-suffer. Commute. Home. Dinner. Evening news. Bed.
Some days, she thought she might break the monotony by driving her car directly off the interchange right at the point when she was circling highest above the stacked highway. The car would tilt, plummet, and smack nose first into the concrete. It could be a nice change of pace.
She was never certain whether the praying made it worse—or if it merely brought into stark relief the very ridiculousness of her own life and the lives of everyone around her. But it occasionally made her feel closer to Emily2B. They had a common desire.
His name was Benicio. Like Benicio Del Toro, except instead of being a movie star, he was the department manager of their research firm. Being the department manager, she had numerous occasions to share her brilliance with him in the form of the following:
“Respondents in Licking almost always pick whole milk—and their incomes are consistently below the median. Maybe there’s a correlation. The ones who buy 2% are middle class, and the soy milk drinkers are consistently well above the poverty line.”
“Keep up the good work, Tica.” That was usually his response—right before he slid over to Emily, flashing his one hundred-megawatt smile.
Emily2B, of the honey-wheat hair.
So Potica prayed to God. She prayed that she would stop being interested in men like Benicio. “Whatever it is within me that makes me like him,” she pleaded, “please get rid of it. It’s practically a commandment: ‘And if thine eye offend thee, pluck it out . . . ’ I mean, whatever sort of stupid female gene elicits all this ridiculous longing, certainly it’s offensive! Wouldn’t it just make sense to be rid of it, to pluck it out?” She squeezed her eyes together tighter. She had no idea why it seemed like a good idea to have your eyes closed, but if it relayed a greater sense of piety—thereby increasing the chance of a heavenly boon—she would gladly pin them closed.
“I mean, wouldn’t I be a much more productive human being without all this distraction? Isn’t that the point, to be productive? If I’m a sheep in your flock, wouldn’t I be a better sheep if I weren’t so concerned with what the other sheep thought of me?” She paused. “Actually, what do sheep do anyway?” She shook her head. “Let’s say I’m meant to be a shepherd; wouldn’t I be a better shepherd if I weren’t so intent on singling out one particular sheep for special treatment? Somehow, God, you’ve gotten this situation a little mucked up.”
She paused. Maybe God didn’t like criticism.
“I mean, perhaps you might consider what else I might be able to accomplish, were I not so miserable.”
Every morning she woke up, hoping to discover a sudden total lack of interest in Benicio—and subsequently, the release of an enormous weight. And each morning, she was disappointed. It was still there. It still came bundled with an extreme sense of dissatisfaction. It still brought about feelings of discontent when observing her plain, uninspired, thirty-four-year-old face in the mirror. She thought perhaps she was phrasing her request in a manner that was unclear.
“God,” she said, brushing her hair with furious, downward strokes, “this stopped being funny a long time ago.”
There wasn’t anything particularly amazing about Benicio. He was tall, olive-skinned, and had perfectly white teeth—like Clark Kent in a Colgate commercial. He smiled frequently, showing off a single dimple. His black hair was neatly trimmed; he was clean-shaven. He wore perfectly pressed suits and blue-striped ties. He had an accent. She supposed it must be Spanish, but he managed to make her nickname sound like an Italian dish—Teetzah.
Women swooned when he walked by. Well, not literally, but their eyes trailed his progress up and down the rows. He had an amazing ass. Not that Potica had examined it—more than once, or twice, or a million times.
In general, however, it was not that he had done something impressive. He was middle management. He’d gone to a middle-ranked college. He was not especially intelligent, although he was perhaps above average. He was thirty-six, unmarried, clean, and most likely had a reasonably good benefits plan with the company. She imagined he had a small amount socked away somewhere—for the day when he decided to settle down with some Emily he’d chosen from the never-ending factory supply line.
So, why was it that every morning she woke up thinking of him? That when she came to work, her heart beat a little faster when he walked in, said good morning, and began to instruct them on the project for the day?
She was absolutely certain that the image she’d painted of him had no actual bearing to the Benicio that existed in real life. Men were never particularly amazing. Neither were women, for that matter. They were a collection of things, and on some occasions, a particular collection seemed to merge together into something singularly interesting. She supposed that must have been the case here. There was not one particular thing she could describe that would have warranted her strong affection. Yet, when certain things amassed, they generated weight. They made his smile brighter. They made his voice resonate. They made him kind, and thoughtful, and interesting. They made him any number of wonderful things, which then made her—
defective.
This was the only conclusion she could draw. She was suffering from a defect, an abnormality. Something in her was clearly malfunctioning.
“God, Potica here. I just wanted to let you know that one of your beloved creations isn’t functioning up to par. Surely this could be bad for us both. Think of your credibility. I mean, there’s a faulty mechanism. If I’m a cog in the great wheel of life, and I slip out of place, then my obvious lack of engagement thus fails to transmit successive motive force. So, if you could just sort of . . . line me back up, I could get down to business. I’m sure you must have something in mind for me. You know, other than this.”
While waiting for God to get back to her on the matter, she decided she might be able to take a few proactive steps on her own behalf. That’s why she was now standing up, smoothing the wrinkles from her sensible, ankle-length gray skirt, and tugging her sweater down over her hips. Deep breath.
Quickly, she marched over to his office. Her practical, low-heeled shoes made no sound as she crossed the carpet; subsequently, no one looked up to observe her passage. If she had been Emily2B, all eyes would have trailed behind her—magnets to the metal underwire of her bra.
She raised her fist, hesitated, then rapped smartly against the door.
“Come in.”
Benicio looked up as she entered the office. “Tica. What can I do for you?”
He smiled. It was his low wattage smile, but it made her pause for a moment just the same.
For christ’s sake, she thought, mentally shaking her head. He’s only a man.
“I just . . .” She looked down at her hands, noticed she was wringing them, and consciously dropped her arms to her sides.
“I just wanted to let you know that I’m going to be looking for other employment.”
Her declaration lacked emphasis—perhaps because she’d been slouching. She took a moment to pull her shoulders back, then tried again. “I mean, I am officially resigning, and I am not altogether certain I can provide you with two weeks’ notice.”
“Well, Tica, I must say, that’s a bit surprising.” Benicio frowned. “Why don’t you sit? Tell me what’s on your mind.”
Potica crossed the room and sat primly on the edge of the chair in front of the desk.
Benicio waited.
“Well, I simply no longer feel that I can adequately do my job. I am severely distracted, and it is not fair to the company that they should continue to pay me for what has surely become substandard work.”
“Interesting.” He leaned forward, folding his hands together and placing them on his desk. “And what do you think is distracting you? Is it a human resource issue? Are you having problems with someone on the staff?”
Potica nodded.
“Sexual harassment? Betty handles that. We would need to follow proper procedure.”
He seemed concerned. She thought it was sweet, and also amazing that he could consider the notion that there might be a sexual harassment issue going on between her and someone here. Anyone here. Anyone anywhere, really. She hadn’t been harassed since her sophomore year of college. He had been the chess club captain and a member of Mensa—all three hundred seventeen pounds and sixty-one inches of him. When he wasn’t playing chess, he was playing World of Warcraft. His fingertips, which were permanently stained orange with Cheetos dust, were clammy when they’d touched her skin.
“There is no sexual harassment issue,” she said.
“Well, what is it then? I’d like to think there’s something I can do.”
She nodded. She’d like to think that, too. But what? Short of unfolding himself from the space behind his desk, walking over to her, kneeling down, and declaring his undying love. Since that was unlikely to take place, she’d have to be content with him picking up the phone to tell accounting that they’d need to prepare her final check. He’d have to begin interviewing her replacement. Perhaps he could find another Emily. Like tic-tac-toe, he could fill a whole row with them, their raspberry mouths open in little o’s.
“Sir, I don’t feel at liberty to say.”
He nodded slowly, then uncrossed his hands and sank back into his chair.
“Are you certain? You must realize that you’re one of the best researchers we have. You’ve been on staff here for nearly five years. It will be upsetting to lose you.”
Potica sat up straighter. This was news to her. She didn’t think the company had much noticed her either—just a cog in a greater cog.
Suddenly, he shifted toward her, his tie pressing against the desk. The movement was startling.
“Please,” he said.
That one word, coming from his mouth—it was her undoing.
“I’m in love with you.”
This caught her by surprise—the sudden eruption of the feeling. There’d been no warning for it. The words simply piled up and exited before her brain could sound the alarm.
Immediately, she looked down at her lap. Her cheeks were red. She was mortified.
Benicio stood. Silently, he moved across the room, reached for the handle on the office door, and then pulled it shut. Potica watched as he walked back to his desk and sat down.
“Well . . .” he said.
“I’m sorry, sir.” She looked up quickly, but not at his face. Instead, she focused on the wall behind him. It held a poster that showed a single glass of water, half empty. Large print read, “Positive attitude—it changes everything.”
“I’m sorry. I had no idea I was going to say that. Certainly I would have stopped myself had I known.”
“Well . . .”
“It’s just, I’ve known you for five years.” She shook her head, suddenly amazed by the very concept of telling him how she felt.
“I don’t think I loved you that first year. Or the second even. I barely knew you. I’m just saying this because I don’t want you to think it’s merely some ridiculous infatuation. I want you to know that it’s something that has accrued over time. There is weight to it. I suppose it could have started during the project we worked on that third year for Reese and Whitman. All those late hours, late dinners . . . the small things we shared. Finding out about the way you took care of your sister—what you did for her. And—” She closed her mouth, then opened it again.
“I apologize, sir. This is all irrelevant. The fact of the matter is, I simply can’t continue working here.”
“Well . . .”
“I know it must come as a shock. Or perhaps not.” She smiled. It was a self-deprecating smile, which was the only kind she could ever muster. “I do want you to know that I have done my absolute best to resolve this issue on my own, but there appears to be no other way. Although I would have to say—”
“Tica?”
She paused.
“Yes?”
“Would you mind if I spoke now?”
She shook her head.
“Well . . . as I was saying, this is unfortunate.” He leaned back again, falling silent. His eyes scanned the bookshelf to his right.
She waited. It was amazing the amount of patience she had now—now that it was out in the open. Now that relief was in sight. She would get up soon. She would walk out of this office. She would return home and go through the want ads. Maybe she would take up nursing. Or dog walking. She could work at the local Foodmart until she found something in line with her career. She would bag groceries, being careful to keep the eggs and bread protected and the frozen foods separate. It was a critical job; she would take to it passionately.
“This certainly complicates things,” he added, still examining the bookshelf.
She followed his gaze—encyclopedias mainly, a small collection of law books, atlases, dictionaries, style manuals, company policy binders. The sight of them filled her with sadness. She loved these books. She would miss them.
He sighed, drawing her attention back to his face. He was no longer looking at the bookshelf. Instead, he was examining her closely.
“This is not the sort of discussion we should be having here, in my office, with the door closed.”
She nodded. “I agree, sir. Although I must note that you’re the one who shut the door. Regardless, you’re right. This is entirely unacceptable. My behavior certainly has been unfortunate, which is why I’ve—”
“Yes, yes.” He nodded his head. “We’ve established that. The question now is what we’re going to do about it.”
“Well, sir—”
“Why do you keep calling me sir?”
She frowned. “Because it’s appropriate . . . as my boss—”
“You just told me you’re in love with me.”
She nodded, slowly. “True—”
“It seems you might have already passed the stage of—”
“But that’s the point,” she said, leaning forward. “I know it’s wrong. For so many reasons. That’s why I’ve made the decision I have.”
“I’m just suggesting you call me by my name again while we figure this out.”
She shook her head, “There’s nothing to figure out. I’ve made my decision.”
“You seem to have made it this far without the need to quit your job. And I haven’t noticed a drop in your level of productivity.”
“Ha,” she said, lifting a finger. “Have you measured it against my level of productivity from three years ago?”
He shook his head. “No.”
She crossed her arms in front of her. “Well then. I bet you’d notice a drop. There is little chance I’m meeting my full potential.”
He reached for his coffee mug—the Ohio University one he favored—then stared into it. A moment later, he set it down and said, “What makes you so sure?”
“How could I be?” She examined his face, the way his dark eyebrows slanted over his brown eyes. There might have been flecks of gold in them, or maybe not. Probably not. But she saw them there, which proved she was delusional.
“How could I be meeting my full potential when I spend so much time thinking about you? If I put the same amount of energy into thinking about clean-burning fuel, or the state of our economy, or health care, I’m certain I would have solved the energy crisis, abolished our national debt, and provided a perfectly reasonable national health care plan that would increase American life expectancy by forty-three percent.”
“Only forty-three?” He smiled.
“You’re making fun of me.”
He nodded. “Only a little . . . Look. Tica, this comes as a surprise to me.”
“How could it?”
“You have been less than obvious about your feelings—which is why I’m optimistic that we can work through this without the need for you to quit your job.”
Potica shook her head again. “I don’t think so. I’m miserable. I know I’ll never catch your attention—
“I see.”
“—so everything else feels pointless, including my job. How can that bode well for the company? Teamwork, sir—”
“Stop calling me that.”
“—sir, I simply feel that were I to seek work elsewhere, in a more proactive attempt at resuming my life as a productive member of the greater human taskforce, then my misery will decrease, augmenting productivity, and certainly I’ll be back on my way to fulfilling my potential.”
“You have it all worked out then.”
“Of course.” She smiled. “I typically pride myself on my impeccable sense of universal order.”
“What if we pretend we never had this conversation?”
“Then what? I’ve tried long weekends. I’ve tried vacations in tropical locations. I’ve tried self-help seminars with women named Dancing Lightfeather who burned sage and waved crystal pendulums over my heart chakra. I’ve tried reading up on the relations of various Martians and Venutians. Plus, I’ve recently taken up praying . . . the result of which is that I still can’t stop thinking about you.” She stood up.
“Wait.”
“What?”
“Are you sure about this?”
She nodded. “Absolutely. It’s for the best, really.”
He sighed. “All right then. I’ll alert accounting. We’ll get the ball rolling.”
“Thank you.”
She tugged at her sweater, took one last wistful look at the bookshelf, then reached for the door.
“Wait.” He stood up and came around the desk.
She paused. “Yes?”
“Would you like to have dinner with me?”
She turned to face him, and her breath caught in her throat. His eyes were golden, she decided. And the shape of his face begged for the press of her hand.
“Potica?”
Benicio.” His name sounded strange on her tongue. “What a wonderful offer.” She reached her hand out slowly and put it on his arm. It was the first time she’d ever touched him—without also handing him a manila folder full of page proofs.
He smiled.
“I would love to. But I can’t.” She lifted her hand and backed away. “If I have to quit my job in order to get my life to where I think it should be, how much sense would it make to throw away this opportunity just on the chance to have dinner with you?” She shook her head.
“I’m sorry. I can’t.”
Her hand reached for the door again, then she turned back.
“One thing though . . .”
“Yes?” he said, flashing her the smile he normally reserved for Emily2B.
“Can I still count on you for a referral?”
lol a little blind?
December 6th, 2009 at 7:46 am