After they exchanged their morning greetings, Fred gazed intently into Myrtle’s eye. "Are you all right, Myrtle?" he inquired with evident concern.
"Why yes, Fred. Why?"
"Your eye is kind of red and puffy," he observed, wondering immediately if he might have found a more tactful way of putting it. "You haven’t been overworking it, have you?" he asked to demonstrate that his motives for asking were pure.
Myrtle smiled and patted his arm. "No, Fred. I’ve just been chopping onions."
"At 7:30 in the morning?" he squeaked.
"Yes," she chuckled. "For dinner tonight. I browned some brisket and chopped onion and put that along with a can of tomatoes and some herbs and spices into my crock pot. It’ll simmer all day while we’re at work and when we get home, dinner will be practically ready. I’ll just have to boil some potatoes and peas," she explained proudly. "I hope you like it."
"Sounds great," he said, trying to sound eager. It sounded fine to him, but he found it difficult to enthuse about a hot meal with onions in it at 7:45 a.m. He was a cereal man who could only rarely entertain the notion of bacon and eggs in the morning. Too greasy, he thought. The morning after his apartment burned down he had tried an egg breakfast out, but he hadn’t liked it and wished he’d just bought an ordinary bran muffin somewhere.
"What do you usually eat for breakfast, Myrtle?" he asked suddenly, instantly wondering if the question hadn’t sounded abrupt.
"Cereal," she replied.
Fred smiled in approval. "Me too. I particularly like Cheerios," he announced.
"Oh, I like those too, but I usually eat bran flakes... for the roughage," she said, wondering if she'd actually needed to say that. "Sometimes I have Cheerios or Rice Krispies for a treat though," she added. "What do you like for lunch, Fred," she asked, sort of trying to change the subject.
"Oh, I generally take a sandwich," he said without enthusiasm. "I’m tiring of it though. My mother has packed me a bologna sandwich every day since I came to stay with her."
"Why don’t you ask her for something different?" inquired Myrtle with a tone of disbelief.
"I did. I mean, I mentioned one day that bologna every day was a bit boring. The next day I got two unbuttered slices of bread with a piece of paper between them. She’d written on it, "violets are purple, roses are red, it isn’t nutritious, but it’s different, Fred."
Myrtle couldn’t help laughing, but Fred could only manage a half-hearted snort.
"Your mother sounds like quite the practical joker," ventured Myrtle.
"I guess so," he responded uncertainly. Actually, Fred was of the opinion that his mother did such things out of sheer meanness, but he had to admit he’d never really considered the possibility that she possessed a sense of humour. "Anyway," he continued, "I wound up buying a sandwich out of the vending machine. I thought it would be better than two slices of dry bread."
"Was it?" asked Myrtle.
"No,” he said simply. “Probably lucky it didn’t kill me,” he added, sticking out his tongue. “I don’t think people should buy food from machines.”
"Couldn’t you make your own lunches?" she ventured.
"I’d actually like to... I’m used to looking after myself," he assured her. "But my mother won’t let me use her kitchen unsupervised.” He suddenly realized how that sounded. “I mean, she’s just like that," he added hastily. "She doesn’t trust anyone else in her kitchen.”
"Oh. I’ve heard some women are like that," remarked Myrtle almost feebly. But she noticed that Fred had already drifted away on the current of his own thoughts. That was ok, she thought, pondering her own habit of buying a salad lunch in the college cafeteria. Not exactly exciting conversation, she thought, yawning. So they drove the rest of the way to the college in silence and said their usual smiling goodbyes at the door to her building.
Dick was standing in her office looking thoughtful as Myrtle came in. "Oh Myrtle, have you had a chance to do that report on the computer system?" he asked fitfully as she hung up her jacket.
"Good morning, Dick," she said calmly. Then she made herself comfortable at her desk, pulled her work file from the drawer and put away her purse. "Yes Dick, it’s done," she answered finally, pulling a paper-clipped sheaf of papers from her file and holding it out to him.
Dick nervously flipped through the papers. "Oh good," he sighed. "It isn’t too long."
"Of course not," she replied. "But you’ll be wanting to go over it carefully before you present it to the committee," she cautioned.
"Okay. Are we for it or against it?" he asked.
"For it, with certain reservations," she replied.
"Fence-sitting again," he observed with obvious delight. "But then, I guess that’s why we have cracks in our asses," he giggled.
Myrtle smiled tolerantly. Dick very often indulged in silliness unbecoming a man in his position whenever he felt relieved, yet still tense about something he had to do. "You should go over the last page in particular, Dick... to make sure you’re comfortable with the language prior to the meeting," she advised.
Dick turned to the last page. He looked over it and settled on a spot to begin reading out loud. "There are still some problems, large and small, to be resolved, but this is to be expected when in transition from one system to another. The college should encourage cooperation and patience from all employees working with the new system, and this committee in particular should take care to separate constructive criticism, which may help us overcome the problems we encounter, from petty complaints motivated only by self-interest." He glanced up at Myrtle. "This is strong stuff. It could upset the Dean," he almost whimpered.
"No, it won’t," she assured him gently. "It might embarrass him a little, but don’t worry, the rest of the report is quite boring."
"But, if I’ve lulled them to sleep, why wake them up at the end?" he anguished.
"Well, for one thing, Dick, it’s the kind of thing that will keep the Dean from asking you for any more reports for awhile," she smiled.
Dick returned a slightly uncertain, yet conspiratorial smile and sighed with some measure of relief. "All right then. I’ll go over it all before I read it to the committee tomorrow morning," he promised. Clutching the report in both hands, he turned to leave. "I hope they have donuts at the meeting instead of those stale cookies," he muttered as he wandered out the office door.
Myrtle chuckled softly. Dick would come to work tomorrow dressed in his most funereal suit, looking very dignified and ready to stand before the Dean’s Committee to offer an important perspective on a subject of some controversy throughout the college. Of course, Myrtle’s report would have him actually commit to nothing more than a general concept of collegiality. Myrtle breathed a sigh of relief herself and began thumbing through her work file in search of some ordinary task to perform. She came across some faculty correspondence which needed typing and decided to tackle that next.
No comments:
Post a Comment