THE PINK SLIP

Prose, including snippets (mini-memoirs).
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Cher
Posts: 63
Joined: February 18th, 2011, 6:49 pm

THE PINK SLIP

Post by Cher » September 20th, 2011, 2:54 pm

His words echoed in her mind. His chosen sequence signaled the end of one chapter and the beginning of another. If given the opportunity to adjust her life’s diary, she probably would not change very much, if anything at all, despite there being times when the proverbial light at the end of the tunnel definitely seemed like the oncoming train.
The dynamic between men and women will probably never be understood in its fullest, well to her at least. She was constantly plagued by the stories bantered about the office by the pompous male staffers who insisted on relaying their connubial exploits in the cafeteria. On occasion the ten-by-twelve room reeked with male testosterone and phallic envy as they lectured on their accomplishments. Hilda, who was but the receptionist, sat at the least visible table in the area and listened intently whilst trying to become like the pasty green lizard pressed against the flaked paint of the nearby wall.
“What have they learnt from their exploits?” This and other probing thoughts played with her mind often, especially when she had those fleeting moments of “my time” and she tried as best she could to pull from deep within the strength and order that her count-on-one-hand female friends insisted were key to being a successful woman, mother and wife.
The choices she made in her life were her responsibility to bear and hers alone.
Choices, many times these came pre-packaged and tagged with a price she thought was too high to pay, but she knew only too well that when the reaper was ready for his reward, there was little that she could fight against. Brave soul, she refused to let that gray bastard have the satisfaction of payment. Victory came when she consciously decided to take hold of her obligation by the seat of its pants, yank it to the forefront, face it head on and see what it was made of. Unfortunately, these triumphant occurrences were scarce, far between and needed to be managed as frugally as she did the meager salary that she drew every month.
To this quiet unassuming woman, the institution of marriage still remained one of the oldest establishments of which, from as a long as she could recall, she wished to be a member. She had been conditioned and preened, from a very young age, to be fully focused on the requirements for entry and as a proper young lady was expected to be versed on the language, the etiquette, the service (in some instances servitude), the song, the dance and the play (both fore and aft).
Her adolescent life was performed not unlike acts in a pantomime, scene after scene: comedy, tragedy, and parody. The directors may have changed, the screenplay edited but the concreted epitaph remained: My hope, my dream, “I promise to love and care for you, ‘til death us do part.”
The climax to the show remained her ultimate achievement. That wiggly little bundle of joy presented to her by the trusted family doctor. Tears and sobs choking and preventing her from making the ‘thank you’ speech, but such being gallantly delivered by her knight in shining amour who stood to her right, protecting her, loving her, showing her to the world; anxiously waiting to whisk her and their angelic wad into the newly leased car for the anticipated journey to the nest.
Was this only a dream? Or could this dream become a reality? She prayed on this every night. She was told by her pastor, that one should never ask for oneself. She should seek to allay the world’s suffering by pleading intervention on other people’s behalf. But who was doing it for her? Who held her in their nightly prayers?
She was certain that no one did and so she decided to brave the inevitable hell fire and brimstone and make just that one request. “Father, please bring him to me. I need to be happy.”
Her wish was granted, or so she thought. The early years were grand. She was happy, they were happy. Dreams became reality, or at least for a time. But then, it went horribly wrong.
The funny thing was that even though the evidence stared her straight in the face she was still blind to it. The excuses, the tales, the cover ups were numerous but she had been taught, that as a woman and more importantly a wife, it was mandatory to continue on the path that had been designed for her. Well, truth be told, she had been around the mulberry bush a few times, meandered the labyrinth and after a while with her head in a spin and nausea setting in, her world flipped upside down.
Such a pity that little girls and boys do not attend the same school of doctrine. Even if they did they were obviously taught a different syllabus by different teachers using different texts and no one had seen fit to add “Preserving and Nurturing Relationships” to the required reading list. Such a pity!
So, having now forcibly been thrown back to earth, no Asgard and no Valhalla in sight, reality hit hard. She was faced with unprecedented challenges, financial difficulties and spousal delusional episodes. Family, in-laws and friends attempted to mitigate in their self-perceived gracious manner and succeeded in making matters one hundred times worse.
Despite the turmoil, the female cranial cavity considered nothing to be wrong. She, with an unbelievable appetite for punishment, went about the tasks of the day, and night, with relentless aptitude, tireless resolve and unquestionable fortitude.
So when the sun rose, as usual, for the umpteenth day in her cycle of matrimonial bliss, steering her weary form to the kitchen to whip up the usual breakfast, get the kids out the door, to school and to work, prepare lunches and await the usual goodbye hugs and kisses, she was presented with “The Pink Slip”.
“I have not been happy for the past twelve years” her partner of a lifetime announced.
A relationship that spanned almost three decades, three children and a house (thankfully no dog or cat, just fish) was now destroyed.
“Say that again? No don’t bother, my ears are still ringing from the first syllables,” she thought to herself.
She gazed at him, eyes searching for clarity. Her every sense heightened, struggling with the stimuli they were receiving. Synapses firing wildly in her brain, she was breathing hard now, her heart pounding in her ears, her adrenalin coursing.
Hilda again tried to focus on the person standing in front of her.
“Come on, you can’t be serious” she finally was able to verbalize. “What have I done wrong?” she whimpered.
Her throat tightened as if she had mistakenly eaten shellfish. Her body went rigid, hot then cold, then hot again. Who was this man standing in front of her? This was not the same sensitive guy she couldn’t wait to see or hear so many years ago, and still does. What did she do wrong? Can she fix it? But as these questions pinged her mind like an impatient contact on the blackberry network, she was unable to answer them with the speed and lucidity that would satisfy.
He continued. “I don’t know if I can do this anymore.”
“Do what?” she beseeched.
The alcove to the kitchen started to sway and swirl, as if being viewed from under a turbulent stream. She tried to regain her composure, but to no avail.
“Why don’t we have sex as often as we used to?”
Oh Father Jesus!
Up to this point in the notification process, she was listening through a veil of shallow tears.
Miraculously, the veil lifted just when his last questioning accusation was pelted with a force that a fast bowler with exceptionally long arms and a wicked stride would envy.
“Is there something wrong with you? Were you sexually abused as a child?”
The yorker struck and signaled that part of her brain to fire one more time thus recognizing the absolutely bizarre verbal garbage she was being bombarded with.
Her body temperature normalized and then, with one last valiant attempt, she leaned on the table to her left, took a deep breath, lowered her eyes from his prying gaze and bowed her head.
As she awoke from the split second slumber, she glared at the homo-sapiens standing before her and parted her lips.
With energy never before felt, a fierce deep animalistic growl arose from her fore-gut.
“You must be watching too much Law and Order SVU”.
She heard nothing more, saw nothing more. She had collapsed on the freshly cleaned kitchen floor.
Hilda had no idea how long she laid there. The floral smell of Disiclin assailed her nostrils. She raised her upper body, steadying herself on trembling arms. Crouched on all fours she reached for the edge of the sink ledge and pulled herself up.
She must have been down only for a short time, or maybe that was just a wicked prank her brain was playing on her. She looked through the kitchen window out to the driveway. The car was still there. Maybe there was still hope, maybe.
With a demonic reverberation the front door slammed.
He left her then, overnight bag in tow, out the door, into the car and, she was sure, into the other door of the other residence.
What was she to do now? House, mortgage, children and mammoth debt, something had to give.
The average person would sympathize with her, empathize even but good will across an expansive energy field does little for the person on the verge of collapse and despair.
What would she do now? What could she do? Logical thinker as she was, she embarked on self-analysis. She decided to start with his-self.
The header on the pink slip was clear: I have not been happy for the past twelve years.
She however was convinced that the footer should have read “I have not been happy with myself for the past twelve years”. If her hypothesis was correct she then had only one course of action: stop, re-group, re-flect and re-cover. It was pointless moving forward with his baggage. Instinctively she knew that what she was hearing was not what was being said. The trick was to get pass the white noise and tune in to the true signal. The static confused her. She automatically defaulted into a self-blaming mode.
It had to be her fault. She must have done something wrong. What was it, oh God, could she fix it? From a very young age Hilda prided herself on her ability to be logical. She pulled on the one true strength she knew she possessed.
As the beginning of a plan formed in her violated mind’s space, she thought:
Step 1: Call in sick.
Step 2: Put the kettle on for a cup of chamomile tea. She was relying on the soothing vapours to calm her irrational thoughts and help her work through this madness.
Hilda waited patiently for the water to come to the boil. She did not trust herself to move from the spot by the counter where her knuckles were becoming paler by the minute as she gripped the edge of the ledge. Her legs were still a bit weak.
She walked gingerly to the sunny front room and sat in her favorite battered chair. Just then her phone vibrated in her pocket, jumping her already frayed nerves, causing her to spill some of the hot beverage on her pink cotton tights. “Great, now that’s gonna leave a stain” she stupsed. It is interesting how such small actions become so important when you are in the midst of a crisis.
It was Kevin calling, Kevin Bertram from the office. The only guy she had said two words to since taking up her new assignment at the Ministry of Micro & Macro Economics. All the years as a receptionist and struggling through the evening classes had finally paid off. She was convinced that things were looking up when she received the news of her transfer in early March, three months before. Her request for transfer had not only been granted but had been met with a temporary acting appointment as well.
“Hiya Hilda, I was looking for you this morning and Pam told me you were out sick. Forgive my forwardness but I have always seen you here on time so I just thought I would call,” he asked in a voice that was even more mellow and soothing than any cup of tea, “Is everything ok with you?”
She hesitated. She was unsure as to what to say. The last thing she wanted was to have a conversation with another man at this time. Or did she?
“Hi Kevin, nice of you to call,” she declared timidly. She was in two minds whether to tell him she was busy and could not speak to him right now, or should she indulge herself. Talking to someone, anyone, at this time might not be a bad thing.
So they talked for a bit, just general things at first, nothing specific. It was strange, but his voice was even more calming to her than the tea that was now resting on the side table, getting cold. The time moved along slowly, as the conversation progressed. Before she realized what she was doing Hilda was telling him of the events of the morning. She knew she should have kept this to herself, but he seemed to have some weird hold on her. She couldn’t figure it out.
As would be expected, he sympathized with her and asked how she was ‘holding up’. She sighed, “I guess I will have to deal with it. What can I do?”
Hilda stared through the window into the distance and her eyes focused on an unnaturally small hummingbird that was flitting amongst the hibiscus hedge of her next door neighbor. Its colours seemed so brilliant compared to the darkness that she felt washing over her. She felt the balminess of the morning sun on her face and neck as she stood now, leaning on the upright between the window and the front door. The same door that she was certain if she had placed her palm on it she would still feel the vibrations from the closing forces of two hours earlier.
Kevin continued to talk. She knew she was not replying as she should and possibly was being a bit rude by relaying only a few “uh huh’s” and “yes’s”. But there was something even more disturbing to her. It was his voice.
Standing there, eyes no longer focused, feeling the warmth of Mother Nature’s rays and the cool eastern breeze that was coming off the sea that seemed just a stone’s throw away, she felt strange. There was a fluttering in her stomach and a slight tingling in her ears. This was a faintly familiar feeling, one she had experienced for the first time almost twenty-five years ago. One that she had thought she would never feel again, or wanted to feel again. But here it was….
“Are you still there Hilda? Are you ok?” she heard a male voice on the other end of the mobile. “Do you need some help? Can I call someone for you?” the sound was persistent, but it was his tone. It stirred her.
She took a breath and answered as if to no one in particular, “He is his own man, apparently. He can do what the ass he feels like doing. It’s not my fault that he chooses to foop in another parish!” The venom was dripping, oozing from a source foreign to itself.
“What’s that you said?” Kevin? Yes, Kevin. That was who she was talking to. Oh crap! What did she just say to him? Shit! She must be going insane, or not.
“Oh, Kevin, I am really sorry for the outburst there,” she made a lame attempt to perfect her damage control, “my mind just wandered for a bit.”
“No worries, it’s ok” he chuckled, “just that it sounded really unusual. You seem to be such a nice lady, I guess I was a bit shocked, that’s all.”
Hilda laughed a bit, maybe a little too loud and too long, but she was experiencing a euphoria that was unexplainable. Could one man’s voice do this? Or was she using his voice as an excuse? Maybe she should finally admit and embrace the inner strength she knew intuitively she possessed.
“Kevin”, she beckoned, “are you still there?”
“Yea, I haven’t gone anywhere”. She could hear him smiling over the phone.
“What are you doing later this evening? You know around 7 o’clock or so?” She heard him pause. “Ammmm, nothing I don’t think,” he sputtered unsurely.
“Well,” she continued, “how would you like to meet me for a drink at the Gap Bar? Nothing fancy, just so we can talk a bit more. I am not sure I wish to be here alone tonight and my kids are off to friends for the weekend. No pressure, just an impromptu thing”.
It was obvious to her that he knew not what to say. She waited patiently. The time seemed to go on forever and then finally, “Ok, I will meet you at 7 o’clock, as requested” he replied. He was sounding much more chipper now and obviously on the verge of proffering those peacock feathers he was trying so hard to hide during the earlier conversation.
“Great,” she smiled. “I will see you then. Oh, by the way, if you get there before I do, just order me a dirty martini, very dry, no ice, with two olives, black olives.”
She heard him gasp as she disconnected the call.
Hilda replaced the phone in her pocket and crossed her arms in front of her chest. She was smiling.
The hummingbird had returned.
It was time.

User avatar
dadio
Posts: 4652
Joined: December 10th, 2010, 1:20 pm

Re: THE PINK SLIP

Post by dadio » September 22nd, 2011, 8:04 am

A well developed and well written story.

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Cher
Posts: 63
Joined: February 18th, 2011, 6:49 pm

Re: THE PINK SLIP

Post by Cher » September 22nd, 2011, 8:50 am

thanks Dadio

I have another story I will post in a bit.. it is called Intervention...i have entered both of these in our National competition (NIFCA) and I am awaiting the results...I am not putting my hopes too high cuz the judges are very archaic and there is always quarreling and protests at the end of the exercise....

btw I plan to expand Pink Slip into a novel by year end hopefully...

Hope you can find time to read Intervention......

cheers
Cher

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