Maria Elena Smith
April 28, 2014
Bells and Whistles
Ding. Ding. Ding.
Seriously why do I even bother setting an alarm anymore? God damn elementary school with its God damn bell waking me up at 8am every morning from two blocks away.
In all fairness, my alarm went off ten minutes before that damn school bell, but that won’t stop me from complaining to myself as I lay trying desperately to fend off the day ahead of me. Oh great, they’re having some sort of outdoor assembly. I hear announcements over the PA. That might be the most annoying part of the whole thing; close enough to hear the noise but far enough away so that I can’t make out what the muffled voice is saying. Nothing annoys me more than being an inch away from understanding. If I could only just understand what the voice was saying, it would somehow be less of an annoyance at 8 o’clock in the morning.
I roll over; grab my phone off the nightstand. No notifications. No texts, snapchats, or messages to look at, only the usual nine daily emails from J.Crew, J.Crew Factory, Tobi, Rue La La, American Apparel, etc. (None at which have I bought anything from in the recent past, and all of which I have unsubscribed from. But cookies and email capturing and such). I mass delete them as per my daily routine. Nobody seems to need me at the present moment so I might as well go back to..
Ding. Ding. Ding.
Again, not my phone.
A crackly amplified voice proclaims with resounding ambiguous enthusiasm that bounces off all of houses on the block, “Womp wompwomp womp womp.”
The announcement was obviously well received by the children who at this point I can hear faintly cheering.
Swinging my legs over the bed, I sit there for a moment trying to remember just what it was that was keeping me up last night. I can’t remember so I walk towards the TV and turn it on. The remote was lost in the depths of a freshman dorm room years ago. Every single morning, I have to get up, take the three and a half strides away from my bed, reach out my arm, turn on the TV, and change the channel manually. Ugh.
I turn the channel to the comforting faces of my weekday morning friends just in time to hear Al Roker say, “And here’s what’s happening in your neck of the woods.” What a strange guy. I wonder if he’ll still be doing the weather when I join as a host on the Today Show. More likely that he’ll be there than Natalie or Savanna. Women get cycled through those shows so quickly. I’ll change all that though, when I get there. If I get there. No, when I get there. I’ve heard that self-affirmations are an important part of a emotionally health daily routine. I heard it on the Today Show.
From my extensive knowledge of morning shows, the age of the female hosts hovers around 41 or 42. That’s 20 years I have to make that happen. Worst comes to worst, I’ll wait 40 years and host the fourth hour and drink wine at 10 in the morning on national television and read magazines every day. And in the meantime I’ll…
Suddenly I remember what caused my lack of sleep the night before.
When I get to work I’ll scour the Internet for answers. Work…Shit. It’s already 9. I should be there by now. I can’t even remember the last time I was at work on time.
I throw on Nike shorts and the closest tank top I can find that bears the artwork of some ridiculous theme of some sorority mixer, slip on my flip flops, grab my bag and head on my long, long, walk to the athletics building. It’s 9:15 when I reach the coffee shop situated exactly halfway between my house and work. Well, I’m already late; I might as well get some coffee.
There’s a few people in line and I make awkward eye contact with the person in front of me who is one of those people that thinks that it’s okay to wear his giant headphones in public places or when ordering coffee. Isn’t it a little bit early for screamo death metal? His pierced eyebrow tells me no. I take a look around at all of the tables, crowded with students hunched over laptops and textbooks. Maybe I’ll do some schoolwork when I get to work. Probably not.
As I survey the room, a girl who looks familiar in that may-have-had-a-class-with-her-sophomore-year kind of way walks up behind me in line. Or maybe it was last semester. I spend a few seconds trying to place her. My rule is if I am in class of less than 15 people with someone, I am only obligated to say hi or make polite chit chat with them for one semester past when the class was taken. It’s just good manners. But after four years everyone in those seminar type classes blends together and I can’t decide whether or not this girl fell into that category. Luckily the barista spares me this game-time decision with his (or maybe hers? It’s hard to tell) delightfully apathetic “Didja order yet?”
Iced coffee in hand, I continue my trek towards the very back of campus. Past the daunting steps of the student recreation center, lousy with Lulu Lemon clad girls and tank top wearing boys entering and leaving reminding me that at some point today, I should exercise. I check out the day’s progress on the new football stadium as I passed by. The construction of the stadium serves as a constant reminder of the passing of time this year. I roll into the Tulane Athletic Ticket Office and Team Shop 27 minutes late. Nobody cares.
Ahh the quiet incompetence of the Ticket Office first thing in the morning. Even the simplest questions take twenty minutes and at least three student workers to answer. Apparently, this is a long-standing tradition in the ticket sales department. Could be a subtle tactic of departmental rebellion. Or it could be that there is a very good reason that this office is at the bottom of the athletics administrative food chain.
Ring. Ring. Ring.
Damn it. Do I have to answer that? I wait until the very last second and then
“Tulane Ticket Office, this is Maria Elena speaking.”
An older gentleman was on the other end of the phone, and it seemed with every word he might just use up his last breath.
“Yes, now I was (cough, wheeze, cough) wondering if the game for tonight was still on, you know because of this darned weather we are having.”
If this man says another word he sure will keel over dead on the landline telephone that he is no doubt is attached to on the other end.
“The game has been moved until tomorrow night at 6:30pm.” Thank God, a quick question. Nothing worse than being expected to do anything at work.
“You know back when I was at Tulane, back in the stone ages you know [cough, wheeze, cough], I was on the baseball team. It’s a great sport isn’t it? Nothing more American.”
“It certainly is.”
“My wife won’t go to the games with me anymore and many of my friends are no longer with us but it doesn’t matter, I go watch our boys make the Green Wave proud…Why, back when I was on the team…”
I really don’t mind these kinds of calls. Especially for some of the older fans, I think they know that the information that they are looking for is on the internet or radio, and many of them even know how to use those new-fangled smart phones, but we have regulars that call just because they want someone to talk to; because their spouse has passed or is tired of hearing about the college athletics and the good old days. Some of them even go so far as to pay a call in person to the office and they’ll stay and chat for a while with the student workers to tell us about how it used to be.
“…and anyways nothings been the same since they let the negroes in, bad for the school, but good for the teams, am I right?” [Cackle, cackle, cough, cough, cough]
Wait what did I miss? Some time in the midst of my mid-conversation reverie this old man had turned from a sweet lonely Grandpa to an antiquated bigot. That’s probably a line that gets blurred quite a bit now that I think about it.
“Um yes I guess things are different nowadays.”
“That’s for damn sure. Well, sure you got better things to do than talk to a geezer meanie greenie like me all day.”
Why isn’t he hanging up? Am I supposed to laugh?
“No, no you are fine. So the game’s moved till tomorrow at 6:30pm.”
“That’s just swell. Have a good one, now.”
Ding-ding, ding-ding, ding-ding.
My phone suddenly erupts with notifications. It vibrates so violently against the green countertop that it plummets to the ground, twitching like some sort of insect that finds itself in contact with insecticide. Must be the group message. I look down from my high stool. I’m not getting that right now. I’m out of here in ten minutes anyway. They can wait.
Ding-ding, ding-ding, ding-di-ding-di-ding..
Alright, alright, Jesus Christ, someone better be dying or missing or pregnant or something. I hop down from the stool, crouch down and grab my phone.
Pam: Who’s everyone bringing to formal???
Brianna: No idea…
Gabby: [smiling poop emoji]
It went on like this for twenty messages. Most of them were emoticons.
The hell with formal. I’m not going to that shit.
I say that every year and yet somehow I wind up in a borrowed dress with a borrowed date at some downtown venue every April in heels that make foot amputation preferable to the wearing them fifteen minutes in.
I’ll drag myself to happy hour tonight and ask someone. And this time I mean it.
Another 15 notifications. Group messages are the bane of my existence. There’s no way out. What other life pressing issue is facing the college-girl-world today?
It’s the kickball team group text. I’m 20 messages behind. Apparently they’re trying to figure out what kind of beer to get for the game today. One of my better decisions in life, joining the drunk kickball league. If nothing else it gives me hope for the existence of fun in post-grad life. But it also puts me in yet another group text message conversation. I should just stop associating myself with more than one person at a time. Or just stop associating myself with people altogether.
I’m not reading all those messages. I know the conversation: Should I get two cases of the same kind of beer or two different kinds of beer? Guys who is everyone taking to formal? Should we take kickball boys? Guys what should I eat for lunch? Who wants to go get froyo? Should I go to the gym or take a nap? [beer emoji] [heart emoji]
Sometimes life can be so difficult.
Ring-Ring
I look at my watch. 10:40. Well technically I have class at 11. It takes me 15 minutes to get to the business school. I have time for one more call. But I don’t take it, one call was enough for this shift. They’ll call back. They always do.
I make my way back, past the construction on the football stadium, back past the gym, passing more gym-bound in-shape people, and through morning change of classes rush hour towards my class. Why am I even going to this class? He doesn’t take attendance and I learn just about as much about marketing not going to class as I do in attendance. But I skipped last class, and according to my personal educational bargaining system, if I want to skip Thursday, I have to go today. I finally approach that cold, unfeeling mammoth of a brick building that houses the business school and all of the suit wearing assholes that go with that.
The guilt of skipping class must hit everyone on the same day because there are people here in class that I have never seen here before. Have there always been this many people in the class?
“Did you read the case?” the girl next to me (Caryn I think, who the hell knows) asks.
“Uhh which one was it?”
“Southwest Airlines.”
“Oh yeah.”
I hadn’t read the case study. After four years as a business major I could write the book on everything that has ever happened to Southwest Airlines and Herb Kelleher ever and probably run the damn company. For this reason I also have not read any assignments pertaining to Apple, Coca Cola, Zappos, Amazon, or Starbucks. The right combination of familiarity with these companies, bullshit and business buzzwords (think synergy, innovative, paradigm) could get me into the Harvard Business School, then I too could write redundant case studies and collect royalties each time a poor business student like myself is forced to buy them.
“Namecards please.”
Yet another way the business school connects with its students. I am nothing name on card bearing the business school logo, to be checked off for attendance. Four months into the semester and the professor has no idea who is in the class.
I open my laptop as Professor Harish Sujan begins class. Brilliant man, terrible lecturer.
After refreshing both of my email accounts and finding nothing but a second round of spammy emails, this time from the university and my bank, I troll Facebook for something more interesting than whatever it is Harish is going on about. I check some of my favorite news sites, but nothing in particular is grabbing my attention so I look up to see what Harish has to say about Southwest Airlines. The slide on the projector reads “Ghandi’s philosophy.”
We get it, dude. You were born in India. Your wife was born in India. We are ignorant, shallow college students. We know, trust me. And we’re okay with it for the time being. Somehow, no matter what happens in this class, whether we are talking about Starbucks or Southwest Airlines, Vegemite or Spreadsheets, Harish never fails to remind us of our lack of global perspective. Usually with a Ghandi quote and a mispronunciation of an American colloquialism.
I feel for him, I guess. He’s a PhD and head of the marketing department. He has an honorable desire to impart some sort of social consciousness in his business students. He tries to make his class cross-curricular and philosophical; but dude, give the Ghandi stuff a rest. I’m sure a classroom full of 40 students staring with glazed looks at their computer screens must frustrate the hell out of him on some level.
I feel for him. But not enough to pay attention in this god-forsaken class.
Definitely not going on Thursday.
***
Ding-Ding.
That better be Brianna texting me back.
BR: Are you ready to go?
MS: Ya.
BR: K. Be there in 5.
MS: Sounds good.
Examining myself in the full-length mirror that might as well be a funhouse mirror for all the good it does me, I take one last gulp of the finest $2.99 wine that Rite Aid had to offer in my hand, and leave my room.
Well, I might as well pour something to sip on until she gets here.
I return to my room, pour one more glass of wine into a glass that reads “78th Shrimp & Petroleum Festival, King Burt Adams”. I really didn’t know what I had gotten myself into when Chelsea brought us to that festival that first weekend of freshman year. Now a two-time veteran of the Shrimp and Petroleum Festival, this wine glass is a badge of my Lousiana-ness that I have acquired over the past four years.
I head out the door for real this time and take up temporary residence on a green lawn chair on the front porch. God, I love that glass.
Pretty soon it won’t be socially acceptable for me to go to the all-to-familiar, all-to-close, and all-to-tempting watering hole for Tulane students. Nothing sadder than a post-grad at the Boot. It’s got to be even more tragic than seniors going to the Boot, wandering around a place where they very well might have, as sophomores or juniors reigned supreme over the happy hour, walking through the outside tables like a politician working the rope line, having to pregame because you knew you’d just run into a million people there that you’d have to talk to before finally getting to the bar. Ah, to be young.
Ding-Ding.
BR: At the light, bout to turn.
Was that really necessary? I look across the street and sure enough, there she is waiting at the corner light. Have I ever not been ready waiting on my porch when she’s come to get me? Yes, all the time. Still, I am offended her lack of faith in my readiness.
She gets out of her car, saying, “Do you know if Gabby is already there?”
“What am I chopped liver?” I say as loudly as I can in my best impression of my mother’s Philadelphia accent.
“I’m not even answering that.”
“Do I embarrass you?”
“Only when you say that word.”
“What word?”
“Em-BAHH-rassed,” she replied over-stressing over-flat “a” sounds in the word.
“I still don’t think I say it weird.”
“Oooh okay whatever you say.”
“Sorry we’re not all ‘Little Miss Hawaiian Tropic 1996’ from Al-lan-na.”
“Are we going or what?”
Jeez she’s impatient. I take one final gulp of the wine, regretting it almost instantly. Wine is not meant to be chugged. Particularly cheap red wine.
“Hold on a sec.”
I’m not going to leave my glass out on the porch. What if someone stole it? I shudder at the thought. After placing my glass safely inside on the beer-stained coffee table, I walk back outside to Brianna who is standing, hand on hip, lips pursed on her round face, obviously ready to go.
“Don’t give me that look I wanted to go at 5.”
Ignoring me, she starts down the stairs.
The last thing I need is for her to be pissy with me tonight. Sure, she’s always pissy with someone when we go out, but it was my turn was last week.
“How was work?” This seemed to be the question she wanted me to ask. Phew. I was not in the mood for one of our tiffs.
“Rick visited me.”
“Who’s Rick?”
Even in the dark I could see her eyes perking up. Why is she doing that weird thing with her eyebrows?
“He’s the bartender from Grits.”
“Hm.” As if there was only one bartender that she’d had a fleeting obsession with. I must have missed my cue to be display the correct amount of interest.
“Well?”
“Well what? Which one is he again? The one with the beard? Not Jason right? Because didn’t you have a thing with him?”
I’m overcompensating for my earlier apparent lack of interest. Amateur mistake. Hopefully she doesn’t notice.
“No, no not Jason. That was ages ago. The one I was talking to Wednesday night after kickball.”
“Was I with you after the game?” The night was blurry but I don’t recall hanging out with her and a bartender. But who knows, I’m getting old.
“No, but didn’t you read what I sent to the group?”
Ah, there we go. I’ll play it off.
“Oh that Rick…that’s so funny! What happened?!”
No idea who or what she’s talking about. Didn’t read the text to the group. Which fucking group was she talking about anyway? She is in three of the four that were regularly putting my phone into a state of epileptic seizure.
“Well who are you going to take to formal?”
“I’m not going.”
She knows I’m lying.
“You should ask John at happy hour.”
“Yeah okay maybe I will, just give me a drink or two first.”
Or 10.
We’ve nearly walked the two and a half blocks from my house to the final destination. It’s crowded. Great. Is it too much to ask to go to an empty bar on a Friday night?
There’s a crowd outside as usual but unlike the glory days, I recognize no one and everyone in this sea of people gives the impression that they still think it’s possible to find love in this hopeless place and that at any moment an undercover cop could come up and give them an underage. You can practically see the over-eager adrenaline dripping from their innocent faces.
The two of us waste no time, and Brianna pushes me ahead because she knows I’m not afraid to push my way through a crowd of drunken underage bitches. Everyone has their talents. I head straight for Annie, bartender and friend, I think. It’s hard to tell with bartenders. Annie sees me and immediately starts pouring a Cherry Screwdriver because when we met, that was my regular happy hour drink. I didn’t have the heart to tell her it wasn’t doing it for me anymore.
I’m past the days where I feel the need to make small talk with every person I recognize at happy hour. You can’t hear anything in here anyway.
“Where’s Gabby?”
God it’s loud in here. I can barely hear Brianna over the overpowering sounds of Blink-182. Comfort music, that’s what happy hour is best at.
“I don’t know should we go up on the stage and scope it out?”
“Yah.”
My favorite spot in the boot, three feet above the crowds, leaning on a railing that could give at any moment, judging the people below you, commentating on outfits, levels of drunkenness, interactions. I look out on my kingdom below. It’s early in the night and there is still a very middle school dance segregation between girl friend groups and boy friend groups. It’ll take a few more rounds of triple-shot drinks before any gender interaction occurs. Some things never change.
“There she is!” She’s across to the other end of the bar where Gabby is chatting up her favorite large bouncer. Of course.
“I think I need another one.”
“That was quick. I’m gonna go say hi to Gabby.”
I throw a few elbows in the thick crowd and most people are too drunk to think it wasn’t their fault. To the few that take exception, I turn around with my most innocent look and proclaim, “Oh my gosh I am so sorry someone pushed me!” and continue on my way.
Not sorry.
Finally, I make contact with the worn, familiar wood of the bar’s edge.
Damn it, Annie’s switched to the other side of the bar. I’ll just wait it out on this bearded bartender whose name escapes me.
I wedge my way between a girl who can barely stand up straight trying to count her dollar bills with some difficulty and a frat boy in a backwards Ralph Lauren pastel baseball cap. I rest my elbow on the worn wood, and notice my fingernails are almost as chipped as the formica surface of the bar itself. I press the home button on my phone in my hand on the bar, not wanting to look down too long for fear I’ll miss my chance. I’m waiting to catch the bartenders eye, or anybody’s eye really, trying to pull myself out of the impending reverie that comes every time I find myself in this odd juxtaposition of solitude in the midst of all of these people.
What do I want? I could get my usual and be comfortable, satisfied even. But I always get it. Maybe I should try something new, take a risk, be bold. But I only brought $12 out with me and if I don’t like it, then I’m stuck. I could ask for a suggestion from the bartender but it’s so loud in here, and I don’t want to make a scene or waste his time. What the hell do I want? The person next to me is paying that means I have to decide. What did she get? Ohh, vodka and grapefruit. That sounds good. I think I want it. Yes, definitely.
“Whaddya want?”
Ding-Ding.
I glance at my phone. Damn group message.
“Um..” I mutter looking up at the impatient bartender, flustered. I mutter something, not even sure what combination of shitty alcohol and syrupy mixer I had blurted out.
What had I wanted? I guess it didn’t matter now, I was just gonna have to want what I was gonna get. For now.