Where'd You Go, Bernadette(39)
That’s a lullaby compared to the alarm clock. The housekeeper must run her rag along the top of it when she cleans, so it’s been going off every night at a different wee hour. We finally unplugged the flippin’ thing.
Then, last night at 3:45, the smoke alarm started chirping. But the maintenance man was AWOL. Just as we were adjusting to this nerve-grating sound, the radio alarm in the next room went off! Full-blast, half-static, half-Mexican talk radio. If you ever wondered what the walls at the Westin are made of, I have your answer: tissue paper. Warren sleeps like a log, so he was useless.
I got dressed to go hunt for someone, anyone, to help. The elevator door opened. You wouldn’t believe the band of degenerates that tumbled out. They looked like those horrible runaways who gather across from the Westlake Center. There were a half-dozen of them, full of the most unspeakable piercings, neon-colored hair shaved in unflattering patches, blurry tattoos top-to-bottom. One fellow had a line across his neck imprinted with the words CUT HERE. One gal wore a leather jacket, on the back of which was safety-pinned a teddy bear with a bloody tampon string hanging out of it. I couldn’t make this up.
I finally tracked down the night manager and expressed my dissatisfaction with the unsavory element they allow into their establishment.
Poor Kyle, who’s two rooms over, is feeling the stress. His eyes are always bloodshot from the lack of sleep. I wish we owned stock in Visine!
On top of all this, Gwen Goodyear is trying to haul in Warren and me for yet another Kyle summit. Considering our circumstances, you’d think she’d give us a grace period before cranking up that boring old tune. I know Kyle’s not the most academically minded, but Gwen has had it in for him ever since Candy-machine-gate.
Oh, Soo-Lin, just writing this transports me to the halcyon days when we were happily collecting outrages about Bernadette! What simple times those were.
*
From: Soo-Lin Lee-Segal
To: Audrey Griffin
You want to be transported back? Well, Audrey, buckle your seat belt. I just had the most devastating conversation with Elgie Branch, and you’ll be shocked to learn what I just did.
I’d put Elgie in a conf. room for an 11 AM all-hands. I was running around fulfilling laptop requests, expediting furniture exchanges, authorizing battery orders. I even found a missing ball for the foosball game. All I can say about life at Mister Softy is: when it rains it pours. When I got to my office—did I mention, I finally have a window office!—no less than six coworkers told me Elgie had come by looking for me, in person. He’d written a note on my door for everyone to see, asking if we could have lunch. He signed it EB, but some joker had come by and changed it to “E-Dawg,” one of his many nicknames.
As I headed out, he appeared at my door, wearing shoes.
“I thought we could bicycle,” he said. It was such a nice day, we decided to get some sandwiches at the deli downstairs and bike to a nice spot off campus.
Because I’m new to Samantha 2, I didn’t realize we have a dedicated fleet of bicycles. Elgie is quite an acrobat. He put one foot on the pedal and skated along with the other, then swung it over the seat. I haven’t been on a bike in years, and I’m afraid it showed.
“Is something wrong?” Elgie said when I veered off the path and onto the lawn.
“I think the handlebars are loose.” It was the damndest thing. I couldn’t keep the bike pointing straight! As I got back on, Elgie stood on his bike with both feet on the pedals and jiggled so he didn’t fall over. You think that’s easy? Try it sometime.
I finally got the hang of it, and we zoomed along. I’d forgotten the freedom that comes with riding a bicycle. The wind was fresh against my face, the sun was shining, and the trees were still dripping from the storm. We rode through the Commons, where people were taking their lunch outside, enjoying the sunshine and the Seahawks cheerleaders, who were doing a demonstration on the soccer field. I could feel the curious eyes upon me. Who’s that? What’s she doing with Elgin Branch?
A mile away, Elgie and I found a church with a lovely fountain courtyard and some benches. We unpacked our sandwiches.
“The reason I asked you to lunch,” he said, “is what you said this morning about having my hands full at home. You were referring to Bernadette, weren’t you?”
“Oh—” I was shocked. Work is work. It was very disorienting for me to switch gears.
“I’m wondering if you’ve noticed anything different about her recently.” Elgie’s eyes welled up with tears.
“What’s wrong?” I took his hand, which I know probably sounds forward, but I did it out of compassion. He looked down, then gently extracted his hand. It was fine, really.
“If something’s wrong,” he said, “it’s my fault as much as it is hers. It’s not like I’m around. I’m always working. I mean, she’s a great mother.”
I didn’t like the way Elgie was talking. Thanks to Victims Against Victimhood, I have grown expert at detecting the signs of being victimized by emotional abuse: confusion, withdrawal, negotiating reality, self-reproach. At VAV, we don’t help newcomers, we CRUSH them.
C: Confirm their reality.
R: Reveal our own abuse.
U: Unite them with VAV.
S: Say sayonara to abuse.
H: Have a nice life!