May Day (5/01/09)

I'm drinking to myself, a wee dram of Highland Park. It's my third bottle this year, the previous two rarely partaken of in any but ironic celebration. And let's not really call this a celebration as much as a relief. What I had to do I did--not, of course, in quite the planned fashion, but with quite the planned effect.

Imagine my day: As Julie's hour at the window did not come till four, I dragged under a nervous burden for most of the day. Julie never accepted eye contact, but that made my proposed action all the more immperative as it made me all the more morose. Twice Julie replaced me at a station. The first time, at backup, she was coming off lunch and was sitting at her desk as time neared for the transfer. Twice I left my post to give her a chance to sneak in and claim it, but as the clock ticked into my lunch hour, I just left to eat. When she was to replace me at the window for the fateful hour, I left there a few minutes early to headstart the holds. Usual etiquette in the changing of the guard at the window is to find the incumbent and announce your arrival. Julie, instead, looked at the schedule, then marched to her station. I was glad; I didn't want her to have to speak to me, as that might somehow marginalize my agenda. Several times during the day I challenged her with steady glances, and each time I could see the tension of conscious effort to avoid looking my way, could tell it for what I'd been doing to her. I remember feeling very childish ignoring her, yet here she was, no more mature. Since, I have felt less the pathetic man-child but no less ashamed for having brought out this dubious quality from her.

More than half the hour passed. My heart was thudding, as when I neared the moment,now nearly eight months past, of asking her out. I uneasily bided my time, waiting for the perfect moment, not knowing what that was--procrastinating. The workroom contained Julie, me, Judy and Brian. Brian was backup, as far from the window as possible, and Judy was at her desk nearly as far away. Judy knew of my intention, and Brian wouldn't care, probalby hadn't a clue as to what has transpired between Julie and I. Two of the holds on the pick list were for the drive-up; they would be my pretense of approach to Julie. I took a deep breath, arranged my opening line with confidence, snatched up the books, and marched resolutely, if unsteadily to the window.

Julie was turned my way but had her eyes on a book on top of the holds shelf between us. On top of the shelf, to her left, was a small, white, plastic bin designated for the books to be trapped for window pickup. Looking at her, I placed the books in the bin. She raise her head. I locked onto her eyes and thrilled with power from her ephemeral stupefaction. After a pause, perhaps waiting for me to speak, she said, "Thank you," and broke away, gathering the books she'd be checking. But I was not going to let her go. I stopped her with, "Julie."

"Yes?"

I found her eyes again. "This cold-shoulder stuff is killing me." I'd stunned her again, as I'd hoped, and continued. "I know I started this, and I deserve it, but it hurts."

In a high whisper, glancing around the room, she said, "I would rather talk about this outside of work." It seemed something of an embarrassed rebuke.

"So would I," I said, not in a whisper, already thrilling to the possibility of sitting down alone with her again. "But how else do I get to talk to you?"

Julie hesitated, still looking at me. I thought she was going to suggest I could have emailed her. I didn't want to try to explain why I wouldn't do that. She didn't suggest it. Instead, she began to think aloud, going through her weekend schedule. We couldn't find common free time, and she said, "Do you just want to think about it and let me know?" She smiled, and I felt a tinge of condescension. I sensed this was what she wanted, but I was not going to set myself to have to approach her again.

"No," I said firmly. "I just want to do this"--I chopped my hand through the air.

"Okay."

"We could do it Monday after work."

She was too-long a moment considering before agreeing. Again I was reminded of a moment in our past, but this time with a sense of redemption: I had dropped the ball in naming the time of our "date" in September. If I do nothing else Monday reminiscent of that disaster, then--well, I wouldn't necessarily call it a success, but it would be damned sight more satisfying, and the kind of memorable that doesn't fill me with regret and tangle my bedsheets. Slainte!