Page 2 of Friendshipped
Anyway, regardless of the cause of her general irritability and obvious dislike of me, it remains a fact that my advancement in the field of journalism currently rests in her tightly balled fists.
I’m just finishing the last of today’s obituaries when Trevor raps twice on the flimsy partition that cordons off my cubicle. “Time for staff meeting,” he says. “Should I play you a dirge?”
“Ha ha,” I say. “I’m planning to blend into the woodwork, be as unobtrusive and go-with-the-flow as possible. I’ll be completely off Jeanette’s radar unless she offers up an article I can’t resist. Then I’ll have to speak up. I can’t keep writing obituaries and page ten articles about city council meetings the rest of my life.”
“You won’t,” Trevor says with his usual tone of encouragement. “You’re far too talented to waste your writing on people who can’t even read what you’ve said about them.”
“The city councilmen can read,” I say. “Or at least I think most of them can.”
“I was talking about your obituaries,” Trevor says with a laugh.
When we walk into the conference room, all the chairs are almost filled. Jeanette stands up front near the whiteboard wearing a crisp suit that looks like it’s been starched to the point of passing a military inspection. Her straight black hair falls in a long bob and cat-eye glasses perch on her narrow nose making her look both intelligent and shrewd. Her lips purse in their usually dissatisfied resting state.
Jeanette’s eyes meet mine and I feel like an ice cube on the sidewalk in the middle of August, I resist the urge to do my wicked witch of the west impersonation.
When her eyes land on Trevor, she lets a smile crack through her otherwise stern face. It almost looks painful. Jeanette loves Trevor. I can’t blame her. He’s one of those people whose sincerity and adaptability make him hard to resist. He’s kind of like the human version of a Labrador retriever—loyal, smart, and generally well-behaved.
Jeanette’s fondness may have been part of the reason Trevor got a shot at being a food critic when the position opened up, while I regularly eulogize local citizens and write about such titillating subjects as the controversy over changing the hours at the county library.
It’s only a matter of time. I’ll get my break and be able to take assignments with more importance and impact. I simply need to be patient.
After the staff meeting, Trevor and I walk out of the conference room together to collect our things and commute home for the weekend.
The upshot of the meeting was that Trevor got an assignment to try several Italian restaurants over the coming week and a half. As for me, it’s more obituaries and a piece on the Corn Corners Garden Club’s annual plant sale. At least my project will earn me a day out of the office to interview the club president, a sixty-eight-year-old named Louisa Birch.
“Hey, you got the garden piece!” Trevor says with excessive enthusiasm.
I smile and look up at him.
“I kind of wanted the piece on visiting Native American landmarks around Columbus and Chillicothe.”
“I know, Lex,” Trevor says, putting his hand on my back to scoot me out of the way as one of our colleagues passes by. “You’ll rock the garden piece, though. That’s how it works. Write an article that captures the readers’ interest, and pretty soon Jeanette will be begging you to come up with your own ideas or even giving you a column.”
I nod. He may be right. I don’t think he is, but I can’t help but feel more hopeful when he encourages me.
“So, you up for checking out the new Italian place in Columbus this weekend?” Trevor asks.
“You have the best job,” I tell him. “Of course, I want to go. What girl in their right mind turns down Italian?”
And what girl turns down dinner with Trevor? Not this one, even if it’s under the guise of friendship.
Just glancing up at Trevor makes a trail of unbidden goosebumps raise across my arms. He’s smiling down at me with that seemingly harmless grin and it shouldn’t have any impact on me after all these years. But somehow, like an aging bottle of Merlot, he’s becoming more potent with time. My reaction to him isn’t advisable considering he’s completely and irrevocably only my friend. I only wish my heart had an on/off switch.
“My job’s not all glamour and fun, you know that.” Trevor says.
I’m sure he’s only trying to make me feel better about the garden club assignment. I’ll be writing about discount dahlias and deals on peat moss while he’s getting paid to dip garlic bread in an oil and herb mixture and come up with ways to describe the ambiance.
“Your job’s not completely fun,” I concede. “Like the week you had to do a writeup on mashed potatoes at ten different steak houses across the upper Ohio River valley. How many ways can you describe mashed potatoes?”
“Exactly. Though I do think I covered them all: fluffy, pillowy, comforting, dense, buttery, flavorful, hint of garlic, creamy, just like homemade, whipped, warm, distinct note of sour cream, perfect proportion of chives to bacon …”
Trevor drones on, reminiscing over descriptions of spuds while he walks ahead of me toward our cubicles. We grab our stuff and head to his car for the drive home.
2
Lexi
Familiar farmland passes outside the window as Trevor and I approach our hometown of Bordeaux on our commute home. You might be picturing a flourishing landscape of rolling hills, pastures, woodland, orchards and vineyards with a rich historical heritage. Table those thoughts. We’re talking about Bordeaux, Ohio, not the port city along the coastal southwest of France.
