Chapter 7
There are four distinct seasons in Chicago, and each brings a new personality to the city. Folks say there is no greater adventure than the thrill of discovering what the Windy City will blow in one day and out the next. Weather develops suddenly over the city, so you can’t plan too far ahead because the forecast changes by the moment. You could be enjoying fairly warm days toward the end of fall and then suddenly be facing a snowstorm the next day. It’s not uncommon to start the week out with temperatures in the 50s and then close it out with a bitter cold freeze.
And my life was rolling along at much the same rhythm as Chicago’s seasons—fast and sudden, just like a Chicago breeze. Several weeks had passed since I mustered the strength to leave Charlie and move in with the girls. Aside from that one moment of weakness on the first day, I kept my promise to myself. I wasn’t giving in to my weakness for Charlie, no matter what he did to convince me otherwise. Not being one to admit he’d been dumped, Charlie remained moderately persistent, keeping up a steady presence in my life, reminding me of his existence whenever possible. Fortunately we were both swamped with work and too busy to play games.
The office was silent, the way I preferred it. I was working lateone night, trying to get caught up. But when my phone buzzed three times in a row, I decided to answer. Can’t someone take a hint?
“Yeah?” I snapped.
"Roberta, honey, how are you?"
"I'm good mom, busy at work. . ." I sighed. I loved her dearly, but I was in no mood to have a conversation with my overly analytical psychologist of a mother.
"Well, I was just checking in to make sure you're taking the move-out move-in situation okay."
"Yes, mother, everything is working out fine," I said. “How are you?”
"Well, my shoulder’s bothering me again, but other than that. . . so, how's the boyfriend?"
"His name is Charlie and not good. I'm slowly ending things with him."
"It seems a bit unorthodox to be slowly ending something, doesn’t it? I can understand things can seem complicated, but in my day things were pretty black and white: you go steady or you don't.” When I stayed silent, she pushed, “So what’s going on with you, Bobbie? I think there’s something you’re not sharing with me.”
"It's different nowadays, Mom. I really don't want to get into it. My feelings and attitudes towards love are a little . . . exhausted.”
"Roberta, attitudes represent generalizations about phenomena based upon extrapolations from previous experiences—”
Here she goes.
“—and usually take the form of cognitive generalizations, so yes, your attitude toward love is most definitely what I would call askew... In order to have a tabula rasa effect on your life, you'd have to literally be reborn, and that is not happening, so I suggest you start creating new and better experiences for yourself, because that will determine the outcome of your future. Find yourself a man who demonstrates consistency. That's my best advice, honey."
"Okay, Mom, thank you," I said, trying to keep my cool. I wanted this conversation to end. Unfortunately, it didn’t. Not without another ten minutes of analysis.
At 7:30 p.m. on the dot. I cleaned up my desk, logged off my computer, packed my bag, and locked up my office. On the way out, I heard pounding, slamming, and a few swear words coming from the copy and blueprint room.
“Hello? Is everything okay?” I looked in the room, but didn’t see anyone.
“Oh, umm, hi,” a high voice stuttered. “I didn’t know anyone was here.” She was crouched on the floor, short boyish bleached blonde hair, bright big bug-eyes, and pink little lips. I noticed she was trying, unsuccessfully, to cram photo paper into the copy machine.
“Do you need some help?” I asked. “You do know that paper doesn’t go in there, right?”
“Oh yeah, I knew that,” she lied with a big smile as she stood up, turning completely pink, obviously embarrassed. “I’m trying to make copies of these photos by...” she read the memo. “Oliver...Price, no wait— Oliver Prince.”
“Olly’s photos?” I took the blue prints and began sifting through them. Excellent work, as usual. One photo caught my eye, and I pulled it out of the stack. A handsome older man embracing an older woman who held his face tenderly in her hands.
I sometimes forgot what an amazing photographer Olly was, with his uncanny ability to capture real life moments, evoking even more emotion from a two-dimensional photograph than even reality exposed. His photos hinted at someone much deeper than the lighthearted Olly I knew.
“I’m Lilly. I’ve seen you in and out of the office,” she said, and extended her hand for a shake. “I’m an intern.”
“How long have you been interning here?” I asked, surprised. I’d never noticed her before.
“All summer,” she replied. Woops. “And I’ll be here for the rest of the fall.” She leaned in close to me. “You smell really good.”
She was a quirky one, with her wild hair and the way she was blatantly invading my personal space, something that just didn’t happen at Fordham Agency. Here, if you got too close to another body, you ran the risk of getting slapped silly. She kept touching her hair out of nervousness. Her body was lanky and awkward, as if she hadn’t grown into it yet. I figured she must have been about nineteen. Her sporadic, ungraceful movements were strangely amusing.
“Thanks. It’s Coco Chanel.”
She smiled and nodded; she seemed to be taking mental notes. “Expensive, huh?”
“Don’t worry about the photos,” I said, changing the subject. “The photographer is a friend of mine, and he’s pretty easy-going. I’m sure you can pick up where you left off tomorrow.” I watched her relax, and I handed her back the photos. “Nice to meet you,” I said and walked out. I made my way to the elevator and hit the star for the lobby floor.
As I walked through the big glass and marble lobby, I could almost taste Lysol on my lips. “Hey, wait up!” I looked back to see Lilly the intern, her heels clacking on the marble floor, her knees buckling inward as she jogged along attempting to catch up with me. She really was awkward, and yet she reminded me of some tropical bird.
“I figured we could share a cab or walk or something,” she said breathlessly, obviously trying to be my friend.
“Sure,” I said, though I really wasn’t thrilled with the idea. I had been looking forward to a few minutes of mindless meditation.
We walked out and made our way towards Michigan Avenue. The Magnificent Mile was home to some of the swankiest shopping in the city, as well as the Art Institute of Chicago, Millennium Park and many other points of interest. It also served as a major transportation hub because of all the landmarks located there. “So, you must love working here at Fordham,” she said. “I go to DePaul. I’m a design student, and I was really lucky to get this internship. You must be over the moon with your job, being an agent and everything.”
“Sure, if you love working with snobby, insecure people who lack depth, take this industry way too seriously and are okay with depriving yourself of all real knowledge in life because your head is so filled with meaningless trivia. If you want nothing more than to be surrounded by starving beauties, then yes, this is your heaven.”
“Oh wow, that was honest,” she said. “So. . . why do you do it, then?”
“After college I lived in Italy for a while and I made some connections in the fashion industry. Then I helped a friend from Milan get into modeling here in Chicago when I got back, and one thing led to another. . . I found out I’m good at it. I’m really into contract law, for one thing. I’m good at connecting people with other people. . .” At least in my professional life, I thought. In my personal life, I felt insecure and inept. “And I’m a good advocate for my clients,” I went on. “I tend to get them good terms, you
know? Because I don’t mind a fight. I stand up for people.”
At least for other people I do, anyway, I thought. For myself, when confronted with any kind of conflict, I tended to curl up in my shell like the Cancer I was. “And the design aspect of the industry is cool, too. Working with some of the great artists, photographers, designers. . . I’m not that artistic or anything myself, but I really appreciate beautiful things and the people who create them.”
“Well, I want to be behind the camera, not in front of it.”
“I guess that’s the best place to be,” I said, thinking of how happy Oliver seemed to be, taking photos for a living.
As if she had been reading my mind, Lilly said, “I really like that guy Oliver’s photos. How old is he, anyway? He’s so cute. I feel like he should be one of the models.”
“Olly?” Her comment surprised me. I thought about his silly strut in my office. “He’s not really the model type,” I said. I pictured him, how he looked a couple of weeks ago, when his shirt pulled out of his belt as he lifted his arms above his head and rolled his hips in an exaggerated figure-eight. His moves weren’t bad, I reflected, and the glimpse of his bare torso above his low-slung jeans had showed a surprisingly hard-looking plane of muscle. But cute? Sure, Olly was cute, with his open, curious expression, his ready, crooked smile. That’s exactly what he was, cute. Not devastating, mysterious, dangerous. . .
Like Charlie.
We were almost to the Chicago Red Line stop when Lilly said she was going to hop on the L and take it up to Rogers Park, but I decided to walk. When I first moved into the city, I thought the mass transit system was extremely convenient because it meant I didn’t need to even own a car. But it didn’t take long for me to see the value in walking between destinations. There was a lot to see, especially at night when the city’s hustle and bustle was at its height, and the vigorous exercise of walking longer distances had helped to boost my mood lately..
Under Ella’s influence, I had taken up dancing again, going with her a couple times a week to classes -- jazz, hip-hop, and ballet. Now that my mother wasn’t making me go, I found I actually enjoyed my dance classes. It was all very familiar, yet new and exciting. And it was fun to go with Ella, who was clearly in her element, looking like a Barbie in a beigey-pink tank and tights, and a slouchy fisherman’s sweater she took off after warm-ups to reveal a slender but muscular athlete’s body.
We tried to get Ivy to come with us, but so far no success. “I only dance with a drink in my hand,” Ivy said. Barbara and Meryl wanted to try a class, but they always had something going on-- charity work, family and friends, Barbara’s weekly swim, Meryl’s writing workshops. They kept busy.