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For Women Only
An Eleanor Rigby
"Eleanor Rigby,
picks up the rice
in the church where a wedding has been
Lives in a dream
Waits at the window, wearing the face
that she keeps in a jar by the door
Who is it for"
-Lennon/McCartney
The alarm clock next to Patricia's bed
read 6:02 AM. The alarm was set to go off each morning at exactly
6:05, but her eyes always popped open automatically at least 3
minutes early. She wondered why she never waited for the alarm
to wake her. She knew the answer immediately; she didn't
trust it.
In the kitchen she poured coffee from the same
automatic coffee maker that she'd owned for ten years. It was dingy and stained.
She had seen the new coffee makers in exciting colors with great
timer mechanisms, but couldn't see any reason to buy one.
Nobody else saw the coffee maker anyway.
As Patricia finished her shower, the phone rang.
It startled her. Nobody ever called this early during the week.
She briefly thought
about not answering it, concerned it could be bad news. The caller
ID said it was from her brother in New York. She hadn't heard
from him in weeks. Her heart was pounding as she picked up the
receiver. "Robert? Is everything okay?"
"Whoa, Patty. Settle down. Everything's cool.
Just called to say hey."Bobby was five years younger than his
30 year old sister, and was usually good about checking in with
his over-protective
big sister at least once a week.
"Don't be patronizing, Robert! You never called
last week. I was worried."Her heart slowly returned to a normal
rhythm. It felt great to get caught up, but she cringed at the
thought
of his living in New York--muggings, rats, crowded subways. Robert
had stopped asking her to visit.
After the brief conversation with Robert, Patricia
walked back into the bedroom. The first thing she did was make
her bed. She
smoothed the sheets very carefully, then fluffed the comforter
and placed it neatly over the top. The pillows were also fluffed
and positioned against the headboard in their carefully assigned
positions. Large king-sized pillows in the back, medium-sized pillows
next, and small throw pillows decorated with lace and ribbon in
the front. As she stood back to admire the well-made bed, she remembered
that it was Wednesday. She washed her sheets every Wednesday.
She quickly put the sheets in the washing machine
and returned to the bedroom. She stared at herself in the mirror
for about 30
seconds. She imagined herself with shorter hair, carefully shaped
eyebrows, colored contact lenses, a sexy dress, red lipstick. Each
day she added to the list of things she would change about herself
if she had the courage. But like yesterday and every day before
that, she put her shoulder length, naturally brown, straight hair
in a low pony tail and brushed an ever-so-small amount of pink
blush on her cheekbones.
From the closet she chose one of the four pair
of grey slacks hanging to the far left. Next hung the khaki slacks,
then the black ones--all
of them a bit too big. She then reached for the white turtleneck
from the turtleneck shelf and the black cardigan sweater from the
cardigan shelf. Finally, she slipped on comfortable black loafers
and headed out the door of her small one bedroom apartment.
Patricia walked quickly to the stairwell. She
had never been in the elevator. It would mean standing close to
people, or maybe
being forced to have a conversation with a stranger. (All of the
tenants of the building were strangers to Patricia; she had never
met any of them.)
She scooted quickly down the five flights of
stairs to the parking lot and her trusty 1988 white Ford Taurus.
She would have to hustle
to get to the library in time to finish the last chapter of Valley
of the Dolls before she had to unlock the doors and begin her daily
routine of shelving and reshelving books. She loved coming into
the big empty building early in the morning—the sound her
shoes made on the marble floors, the feel of the heavy oak chair
as she pulled it from beneath the table, the slight echo of the
pages being turned as she read. Seldom did she take books home
from the library. Reading them in the library made it seem less
like killing time and more like a hobby…less like escaping
from her loneliness and more like part of her job.
She was content reading before and after work
from books right there on the shelves, just waiting for someone
to read. Books like
Valley of the Dolls, The Stepford
Wives, Maneater, The Nanny Diaries always appealed to her. But she also really
enjoyed the classics…Moby Dick, Robinson Crusoe, Grapes of Wrath, anything
by Ernest Hemingway. But for the last two weeks she had been lost in the world
of Anne, Neely and Jennifer. Their climb to the top in the entertainment world,
their dive to the bottom of drug addiction and their sexy lifestyle was the epitome
of escapism for Patricia. She gasped out loud enough times to be thankful the
library was empty.
Her boss, Lilly, had offered her promotion after
promotion during her ten years at the library. Lilly would have
loved to have Patricia at the counter helping
patrons or in the main office handling employee and volunteer scheduling or
inventory. But Patricia couldn't imagine dealing with people
at the counter or with other employees. She was content pushing
the metal cart full of books around.
If she piled the books high enough, she could make her way up and down the
aisles without being seen by anyone.
Patricia finished the last page of Valley of
the Dolls at precisely 8:00 A.M. She made her way to the front,
unlocked the doors and opened them slowly. She
was startled to see a young boy and his mother standing just outside the
door. "Good
morning," said the woman cheerfully. "Do you work here? How silly,
of course you do. Are you open now? We're here for story hour. We saw it
advertised in the paper last week. It starts at 8:00, right? Ryan, say hello
to the nice lady."Ryan complied with an unenthusiastic, "Hi."
"Uh…I don't know. I mean, no. Sorry. It starts at 9:00. "Patricia
quickly stepped backward into the library and let the heavy door swing closed
slowly. Why was she so nervous about answering a simple question? She wondered
if she should see a therapist.
As Lilly and the other employees began to filter
in, Patricia collected books from the return bins and filled her
cart. She always tried to be done at
the counter before Lilly and the others got settled in. Although she liked
them,
Lilly especially, seldom did she engage in any small-talk. A half-hearted
smile and an uninspired wave as she walked away were usually all she gave…or
received.
Her morning went as it always did; reshelving
books, non-fiction, periodicals, children's, straightening shelves, finding the occasional book in the wrong
section and taking it to its proper location. She always saved fiction for the
end of the day. Today she needed to choose a new book to read. Maybe a horror
novel; Stephen King. She quickly changed her mind, and decided to find a good
classic or maybe a romance novel instead. Being scared wasn't her idea
of fun. She wondered what her idea of fun was. She couldn't think of a
single thing. The remainder of the morning was uneventful…just as she'd
hoped.
Patricia had just finished her work in the non-fiction
section when Lilly approached her.
"Patricia. How was your morning? I haven't
seen much of you; must've
been busy."
"Yes. Very busy," replied Patricia as she looked at the floor.
"Anyway, a few of us are going to the new Mexican place on Smith Road for lunch.
I think it's called Juan's. Would you like to go with us?"
"No, thank you. I have plans for lunch today."
"Plans? Wow. That's great. Good for you, Patricia. Have a great time and
I'll see you later. Maybe we'll have lunch another day."
Patricia wondered if Lilly thought that Patricia had a date for lunch.
She felt a bit guilty for being inadvertently misleading, but she
really did
have plans
for lunch--the same plans she had every day: Tuna fish, potato chips,
two dill pickles and a large iced tea at Murphy's Deli down the street.
She walked through the door of the deli and
was shocked to see almost every booth occupied. She had never seen
Murphy's this busy before.
She approached Seth, the host, and asked for her regular booth.
"Hi. It's Tricia, right? How ya doin? I can seat you right over here. I
know it's not your regular booth, but I hope it'll do for today."
"That's fine. I mean, if that's all you have available." And
then, as she followed Seth to her booth, she mumbled under her breath, "My
name is Patricia."
"I'm sorry, did you say something?" He replied quickly.
"Never mind."
She slid into the booth and indicated to Seth that she didn't need a menu.
He smiled, poured her a glass of water and motioned to the waitress.
She came right over and said "Hi sweetie. Tuna salad on toasted wheat, chips, two
dill pickles and iced tea. Right? Anything else today?"
"No, that's all. Thank you Sandy."
As she waited for her lunch, she looked around
the small deli and was quite relieved that she had gotten this
last booth. She'd been eating lunch at Murphy's
for almost three years, and she couldn't imagine eating anywhere
else. Even just the thought of it made her nervous.
"Excuse me. I hope you don't mind my asking,
but do you mind if I share this booth with you?" Patricia looked
up to see a beautiful young woman standing over her table. "I only
have thirty minutes before my next appointment, and I'm hungry
enough to eat a whole cow. Waitress," she motioned
to a busy Sandy, "can I please get a salad with Italian dressing
and a cup of vegetable soup? Thanks. "She was talking fast; almost
panicked that she wouldn't get lunch today. Patricia empathized.
Patricia answered, "Actually, I just told the
waitress to bring my lunch to go, so you're welcome to the booth. "She
grabbed her purse and slid out of the booth quickly. She tried
to look casual and nonchalant in her
desperate effort to escape the uncomfortable exchange. She found
Sandy near the front of the deli and asked for her lunch in a to-go
box. It was only a matter
of minutes before Patricia was on her way to the park. She would
have rather gone back to the library, but she'd already told Lilly
she
had plans.
Patricia finished her lunch, and began to walk
the block and a
half back to the library. She walked on the opposite side of the
street
so she
wouldn't
have to walk past Murphy's Deli. She didn't want to risk running
into the bubbly woman who hijacked her booth. Patricia was amazed by what she
saw in the store-fronts. A beautiful oak table in the antique shop; a red silk
dress in the consignment store; a tray full of fresh pretzels and rolls in the
bakery; sparkly diamond rings in the window of the jewelry store…she couldn't
remember the last time she had walked on this side of the street.
Back in the library, she walked past the front
counter and heard Lilly and her co-workers come in the door behind
her. They were
laughing and joking
about something
that had obviously happened at lunch. "That was the funniest thing I've
ever seen! Did you see the look on his face?!" And then from Lilly, "OK
guys, keep it down. Remember? Library? People reading?" More quiet
giggles, and then they returned to their positions behind the counter
or in the office.
Patricia quickly piled the books high on her cart and let the aisles
envelop her like a warm blanket.
At the end of the day, Patricia pulled into
the parking lot of her apartment complex. Home just in time to
microwave her leftover
casserole
before
the evening news came on. She set the table with a plate, a full
set of silverware
(even
though she knew she only needed a fork), a napkin and a glass of
iced-tea. She sat down at the small table facing the television
and served herself
a healthy
portion of the somewhat dry, two-day-old, casserole. She decided
that she would make lasagna the following evening. She would freeze
half
of it and
the other
half would last the rest of the week.
As she walked from the kitchen to the bedroom,
she thought she heard a faint knocking, but dismissed it quickly.
She certainly
wasn't expecting any
company. Again, she heard knocking at the door. Who could it be?
She tip-toed across the floor and looked through the peep hole.
It was her neighbor from down
the hall. She was pretty sure her name was Melanie. A nice girl
who always said hello, but Patricia thought she was a bit pushy.
As she stood looking at Melanie
through the peep-hole, it suddenly occurred to her why she was
there knocking at her door—the flyer. Melanie had caught
Patricia looking at a flyer she had posted near the stairwell last
week. "GET TO KNOW YOUR NEIGHBORS! COME
TO MY PAD FOR A COCKTAIL PARTY…" The only other thing she
remembers about the flyer was the smiling, winking frog at the
top of the page. "I
hope you'll come. "She had said to Patricia. "Don't you
think it's about time we all get together?" Patricia had nodded,
smiled and quickly walked away. And here she was, standing at her
door in a simple black dress, probably looking for people to come
to her party. Did anyone else
show up? Maybe she just needed to borrow some ice or something. "Don't
move…don't breathe…floor might creak…she might
hear you." She
thought.
Melanie left a few seconds later, looking rejected
and sad. Patricia felt bad, but not bad enough to answer the door.
She didn't know anyone in her building.
She didn't even own a cocktail dress. She sat on the couch, reached for
the remote and hoped that Melanie was okay. She watched two hours of television
and went to bed.
Next morning as Patricia opened her eyes, her clock read 6:02.
I need a therapist, she decided. "Please, sit down."
"Thank you."
"It's your hour…"
"I don't know what to say."
"Why don't you start with your name?"
"You know my name."
"Pretend I don't."
"I don't understand."
"Humor me."
"My name is Patricia Stevens."
"What do you do?"
"I'm a librarian; assistant librarian."
"Do you like it?"
"I've been doing it for ten years."
"Do you like it?"
"Maybe assistant librarian is an exaggeration. I restock the shelves
when the books get returned and, of course, I find a place for
the new arrivals; new books."
"Do you like what you do?"
"It pays the bills. You know, ya got to keep a roof over your head."
"Marital status?"
"Single. It's just me and, of course, Snow."
"Snow?"
"My cat."
"Why are you here?"
"I'm sad. A lot. Don't know why."
"Have you had a checkup recently?"
"Yes. I'm okay…physically. Dr. Greenberg is the one
who recommended you."
"I know."
"Of course you know. I'm sorry. Don't mean to waste
your time."
"It's fine. Let me put it to you like this: Why do you think
you're sad?"
"I don't know. I have a job, my own apartment (I sublease),
and a kitty who loves me."
"How old is your cat?"
"What difference does that make?"
"It's just a question. That's what I do. I ask questions.
How old is your cat?"
"Thirteen."
"If you had one wish, what would you wish for?"
"I don't know. That's a tough question."
"Wishing is a tough question?"
"I would need time to think about it. I haven't wished in
a long time."
"When was the last time you were happy?"
"I don't know."
"Where do you want to be in five years?"
"I don't know. Where do you want to be in five years?"
"I'm the one asking the questions."
"Sorry."
"It's okay. Look, in less than a couple of minutes, sum up
your life for me."
"I told you, it's me and Snow. I go to work 8:00 to 5:00 Monday
through Friday and 9:00 to 3:00 on Saturdays. I like to read and
sometimes go to the movies."
"That took you less than ten seconds."
"What do you want from me?! I told you, I'm sad! I don't
know why! I do the same thing over and over—day in and day
out! I can't tell one day from the next! I don't know
where I want to be in five years! I don't know what to wish
for! Is there some Fairy around here granting wishes?! ‘Cause
if there is, I'll get in line! I'm here for you to
fix me! I'm here to be happy again, even if I don't
know when I last was! That's what I'm paying you for!"
"Can I ask you one more question?"
"Go ahead!"
"When was the last time you did something new?"
"Like what?"
"I don't know; changed your hair, bought a new dress, drove
a different way to work, talked to someone in an elevator…"
"I don't do elevators."
"Right. I'll mark that down. We'll deal with that later.
When was the last time you did something new?"
"Are you telling me that I'm paying $150 an hour to have you
recommend I buy a new dress!?"
"I'm sorry. Your time is up."
"What?! I just got here! Where are my pearls of wisdom?!"
"Fine. When growth stops, decay begins."
"What is that supposed to mean?!"
"Everyday that you decide to do the same thing over and over; everyday
that you decide to play back your yesterdays; you stop growing.
You want to know why you're sad? I'll tell you. You're
sad because, at some point in your life, you stopped taking chances.
At some point in your life, you threw in the towel. I didn't
throw in that towel—Snow didn't throw in that towel—you
did. Every time you settle—every time you decide to ‘sit
this one out,' you decay a little bit more. You don't
want to be sad any more? Then do something about it. Sadness—loneliness—it's
a decision. I asked you when you first got here, over and over,
if you liked what you do. You never gave me a straight answer.
…
Start with that.
"Eleanor
Rigby, died in the church
and was buried along with
her name Nobody came
Father McKenzie, wiping the dirt
from his hands as he walks from
the grave
No one was saved"
-Lennon/McCartney
by Julie Seitz and Fred Cuellar the Diamond Guy®
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