The Captured Moments

I am a glorified slave, a work mule, a trepidant servant. This may sound dramatic, but I do feel like I am well within my rights to say this. I am an assistant to the boss of Sparks Publishing in my hometown. We publish books for children. I got this job 6 years ago…. I have received no raise, no promotion, no compliments in all my years here. You may be asking, then why have you stuck around? Well, the thing is, I like order and I like certainty and, although I am certainly oppressed, I am also certainly employed. “Abby, get Mr. Rowland on the line!” Carmen hollers from her office. Carmen is my boss, my lord, my leader, the wind beneath my wings. She pays me, so I obey her, perhaps too readily. She isn't necessarily a bad boss, just a single-minded one. Her goal is, ‘to bring joy to children using literary prowess.’ This is on the door of our building. I don’t think children even know what ‘prowess’ means, but I dare not bring this up. Apparently, it took five months to come up with that garbage. I call Mr. Rowland and connect him directly to her. He is our best writer, a fifty-four-year-old man with an almost obsessive passion for writing elaborate children’s books about dinosaurs. I once overheard him yelling passionately at his colleague about the many attributes of a Nigersaurus and I nearly spat out my drink. But his books sell despite his oddly….fanatical disposition. I do not like working here. In all honesty, I’ve never liked my job. Oh, the pay is fine, considering I don’t have to pay rent, but the hours are draining, the workload monumental and I have a sneaking suspicion that Carmen uses me to get out of late nights. She has said and I quote,” the young must learn that they have all the time in the world for nonsense.” This is something she does quite a bit, tries to sound intellectual and ruminative. She is forty-five, married with no children and spends an ample amount of time on the various dating sites she uses to cheat on her sweet dear husband. His name is Stuart and is ironically the spitting image of an old graying version of the mouse in Stuart Little. I say sweet and dear because I’ve seen the poor man. He is short, balding, wrinkled all over and looks at her like she’s icing on a cake. A large part of my day is spent wondering whether she would ever find out that I sent him an anonymous email last summer elaborating on her misdeeds. About a year ago, I had an epiphany. Life should be lived with integrity, we should all strive to get along and maybe the Christians are right. Do unto others etcetera. Perhaps it was the blazing hot sun and the ear-splittingly annoying pitch of Carmen’s voice as she asked me for yet another report that had me feeling rather pensive. Once again, I was stuck in the office while my colleagues were out to lunch. Once again, I had arrived at the office two hours early to run some numbers (which really, isn’t my job) and, once again, I was the office coffee maker, the underappreciated barista. It was only Tuesday. I couldn’t take it and I eyed her office resentfully as Stuart sauntered in with two lunches. They had some sort of squabble where she insisted on eating alone and the feeble man just sighed and nodded in dejection. As he was stepping out, the angel of a man saw me sweating buckets and asked if I’d eaten yet. “Have you had something to nibble on little lady?” he had questioned with a crinkle on his forehead. I nonchalantly pointed to the wrapper of my protein bar with a smile and he lost it! He was as impassioned as I’d ever seen him; I do believe he even scowled. “Well, of course, you look like a half-baked peach, you can’t survive on these health crackers,” he said, shaking his head. Then, with a sigh, he did the nicest thing. He took out the second lunch (which I knew was his) and placed it on my desk. Before I could object, nay plead for him to take it back, that there was really no need, he walked into the elevator and was gone. I made a decision then to do something for him…anything. Darn it, I’d clean his shoes if he asked. But that was unnecessary; because when I accidentally saw texts on Carmen’s phone from a boy toy named Rob, I knew what I needed to do. Never mind that I read those messages instead of cleaning her office like she asked. I shuddered as I read rows upon rows of messages from lover boys from various clandestine dating sites for those wishing to engage in illicit extramarital affairs. I sat at my desk with a new powerful resolve. All will be well with the world! The good shall never be hurt! The kind shall only receive kindness! I made a new email address- no use getting caught- and wrote dear old Stuart a lengthy message explaining just how cruel Carmen really was for what she had done. Before I could let logic reign, I shut my eyes and hit send. I blink back the memory and try to compose myself. I have a tiny desk opposite Carmen’s office and it clashes with the overall ambience of the place. Sparks tries to be colorful and inviting. The interior is clad with multicolored walls and posters of all published successes. There’s a photo of Carmen shaking R.L. Stine’s hand. He never published with us, but I suppose it’s enticing for a client to see such a renowned face. Carmen looks razor sharp in the picture, her thin lips primly trying to master the semblance of a smile. Her hair is buzzed short and dyed crimson red. She is a heavy woman, about six feet tall and with large hands and feet. My colleagues often say that she looks scarily similar to Agatha Trunchball. I find this harsh but fitting. Carmen’s office looks like if you stepped into a postmodern era. All glass tables and black tiles. The dark interior is rather opposite to the energy otherwise created at Sparks. There’s something of a lack of dignity one feels working here. My desk is small and honestly pathetic. I have a tiny drawer neatly filled with files and stationery. I should have an office. After all my years here, I should have an office. But I resign myself to this desk because this is temporary; it should be. I am playing with a strand of my hair while I write my list for the week. I have lists. I do them every week. I do not think this needs any further explanation. The world is too messy, too disorganized to not have lists. I shudder at the thought of a life without order, without intention. ‘Buy lavender washing soap’ I jot down. My pen is my favorite one, the kind with all the color options. I settle for lime. I am quietly contemplating the vast qualities of scented soap when I receive a text from my sister. ‘Hey bean! I’m texting to schedule a call you uptight maniac’, it reads. She writes this with love. I am a strong-willed black, independent woman; I shall not silently wince at her words. I shan’t. I should be thankful that she remembered to schedule a call at all. The last time she called me unexpectedly, I thought something dreadful had occurred. It was inevitable that a rogue stranger would steal all her luggage on one of her travels and leave her stranded. Obviously, a hurricane had hit and she was the only survivor in her hotel. In reality, she had wanted the name of the hair mask I wear. With a shrill, I told her it was Shea butter Mocha supreme, cut the call and had a good cry. Vanessa, bless her, is my elder sister. She has this peculiar habit of spontaneity and I cannot fathom where on earth she got it from. Whereas I am a lowly, 26-year-old houseplant, Vanessa is a 30-year-old vivacious, valiant, verdurous, virtuous, erm, vital member of society. I once wrote a number of compliments starting with the word v when trying to make a homemade birthday card for the woman. Currently, she is likely soaking up the sun somewhere wonderful, writing blogs about the rectitude of good sunscreen. I envy her. Wait no, I don’t mean that. No need for envy, I am perfectly content with my life. I rearrange the top of my desk and stare at my ongoing list: • Wash the curtains • Bleach the kitchen and bathroom floor • Meal plan for my health and wellbeing- must achieve immunity from most illnesses • Learn how to properly bake bread • Buy that delicious smelling lavender washing liquid to unleash the goddess within Yes, I can manage a call, in fact, I do think I can manage one tonight. ‘You can call me tonight at 1900 hours’, I type out. No, erase, I start again.’ I hope this finds you well..’ This isn’t a work email Abby! Finally, I am confident with a ‘Thanks for the schedule. Call me at seven pm please!’ and I send that with sheer satisfaction. Short, precise, I might be describing myself, seeing as I’m only 5’2. I realize quickly that there is a time difference between where she and I both are and I reach for my phone to correct this absolutely rudimentary error when she replies with thumbs up. She gets it and I am fully able to unclench my butt-cheeks and get on with my day. “Abby! Office now!” Carmen bellows. To be fair she does not have an inside voice. However, with every new demand, with every dramatic raise of her voice I wonder, does she know? I shrug that off and walk in, nervously wiping my hands on my skirt. “Order me that salad from that spot that I like Abby. And do tell them not to add any of that dreadful cheese they gave me the last time,” she urges without lifting her head from the book she’s currently evaluating. That spot that she likes is called the Green Garden, it is a twenty minute walk and only ever put the cheese as per her specific request. I nod my head and grab my bag from my table to get it. Green Garden is one of the many new restaurants that opened up while I was still working at Sparks. It pains me to admit that I have worked there for many tiring, heart wrenching years and with every clack clack clack of my shoes I contemplate the time I have lost and the misery of the fact that I may have spent way too much of my life on that desk. The Green Garden is often full of new faces; excitable people eager to try the new ‘woke’ salads created. Small and quaint, it is entirely too decorated with plants of various breeds. It always smells of mint and basil with hints of rosemary. The rustic chairs and tables, the intimate placement of every seat, makes it feel like you just walked into a forest; or a garden, matching the name perfectly. Phillip waves at me from the window as I walk into his quaint little establishment. Contrary to the rumors swirling around, Phillip is not the reclusive owner of the Green Garden. He isn’t reclusive at all. In fact, I dare say, I have never met a more talkative man. But ah yes, there is the matter of his light features, his inked arms and the sweet quiver of his voice. I assume he simply doesn’t like most people, but latches on to the ones he finds adequately agreeable. When I first met him he called me a glorious pet. I expected a popsicle. “Abby m’love! Come for the salad for the old wench?” he asks, eyes sparkling. “Hey Phil. She demands no casein,” I reply. This perhaps, is where our friendship stems from. Our love for salads, the fact that I know way too much about the nutritional components of food and the fact that in a town riddled with meat-lovers and barbeque spots, we are two unlikely vegetarians. “Tsk,” he mutters,” I had warned you that she doesn’t seem up to any dairy products. Not good for digestion at that age.” I nod and make agreeing noises as I plop down on a stool by the counter. It is the bastardly hour of three pm but this is not an odd time to be ordering lunch for Carmen. I have become quite accustomed to my sporadic visits and evidently so has Phil because he sets down a green drink for me with a wink. “Phil, one of these days you just might find that I’ve already eaten,” I say as I gratefully cup the drink. What a guy. If I had a brain in my skull I might have wondered earlier if an odd-placed crush was forming. I never notice when I find anyone romantically appealing until they are moving in with their leggy neighbor (enter Leon, my whip smart colleague who sent me flowers every Valentine’s for three years. I thought he was into floriculture). “Drink it and tell me if you can guess the new ingredient!” he all but giggles. Phil may be 6ft tall and undeniably rugged but his soft gooey insides and avid love for blending vegetables is unmatched. I take a hesitant sip because, let’s face it, health drinks have the tendency to taste like a mowed lawn. But this is unsurprisingly delicious. I shouldn’t worry, Phil is a genius. “Amazing,” I exclaim with a grin, “is it wheatgrass?” “Moringa,” he corrects, and our eyes meet and for a brief second I wonder if something is passing between us. I feel no flutters in my stomach, but really I equate that to chronic indigestion and not romantic feelings. I am happy to be here staring at this jubilant silly man, but I hold no desperate feelings of longing or passion. Perhaps I read too many of those books that say ‘when you know you know.’ Quite frankly, I hardly notice anything, even the blatantly obvious. I clear my throat and he hands me the salad. “See you tomorrow cookie,” he says as I grab the bag. Walking back, I wonder what had transpired. Is this flirting? Is this subtle, shy and reluctant flirting? I haven’t had a relationship in over three years. My last partner ended it on the cusp of my twenty-third birthday because she couldn’t stand how rigorously I tended to dust the shutters. You pay more attention to furniture than to me. I tried to argue against this but she deviously opened the contents of the vacuum and scattered them on my freshly polished floor. Who could blame my divided attention? Anyway, Melissa had the habit of hoarding vintage magazines and that simply wouldn’t do. I sigh as I enter my office building once more and prepare for another evening of mind-numbing work. At precisely six thirty pm, I leave my desk and head home. I blow kisses at Bertha and Gladys, my work wives, and wave to Simon the guard as I exit and he mutters something about me working myself to death. Thank the gods I live so close by or I would be rather worried about missing Vanessa’s call. She probably wouldn’t mind nearly as much as I would because she has this infuriating ability to go with the flow. I can already hear Papaya as I unlock my door. The poor pup has a bit of separation anxiety and makes an absolute mess of things when left alone for too long, which just so happens to be all the time. The thing is, I’m sure she doesn’t miss me. She misses the ability to ruin my life and this is no exaggeration. Her fascination with pouncing and attacking me is one I could never comprehend. But gosh darn it I love her, all messy fur and tiny paws. I got Papaya on a whim. I was twenty four and living alone and for the first time I felt lonely. Not the type of loneliness where you crave a partner but the type where you want a companion. I go nowhere, see almost no one and I come to bed alone. I suddenly didn’t want to sleep in cold sheets without something to hold, or someone. I went to an animal adoption center, hoping to get a docile little kitten and there she was. The owner warned me that she was ‘not very easy’ but I felt a motherly pull. I would love her in spite of her not so easiness. Maybe part of me had felt that we were the same. “Hi Pawpaw,” I coo. She yelps and runs to attach herself to my leg. I am accustomed to this and have taken to wearing long skirts so she has the freedom to mess with my fabric and not my ever so fragile skin. The truth is, outside of Phil, Vanessa, Gladys and Bertha, she is just about my only friend. “Hang on you demon, I’ll get you dinner,” I reach into the pantry for her kibble and as I am pouring it into her bowl I get the call. “Hey there buck! Ol pal! Ya ol’ crazy goon!” Vanessa goes. I smile and reply,”Hey you cactus.” “Best you can do huh?” Papaya lets out a reproaching bark. Even the dog is embarrassed for me. I roll my eyes, because we have played this game before and I always lose. “Oh shut it. Why’d you ever so frantically schedule this call then? It couldn’t be to judge me endlessly.” “Calm down you overdrawn ostrich beak, I bring good news,” I can almost hear her smirk, probably very proud of herself for that one. I am now aligned with giant bird species, this is my lot, I must endure. “What is it then?” I detest suspense and can already feel the beginnings of an eye twitch. “Ok, remember Jared? You know, big guy? Glorious bum? Sparkly green eyes and outrageously white teeth?” “Oh you mean Jared Baxter? What did you call him? The mystifying ornament of all things good and pure? The best man you’ve ever met? Didn’t you tell me he gave you three consecutive-“ “Yes, him! Well you’ll never guess what happened? We were walking back to the hotel after an amazing dinner, just a normal night. I was looking obscenely fantastic in this turquoise dress I bought and I guess he couldn’t imagine his life without me because he got on one knee and he proposed! Abby, I’m getting married!” I’m stunned into silence. I knew things were serious between Vanessa and Jared but I had no idea how serious. They have only been together two years! I have never even met the man aside from an occasional video call. He seems nice enough, and surely Vanessa knows what she is getting herself into right? But marriage? Isn’t this a debilitating institution where all one’s autonomy goes to die? I can’t imagine fiercely free-spirited under the clutches of marriage, waking up to the same distinct morning breath. I recall her vowing to never be tethered to anyone aside from me. We even have promise rings! Plastic bands and a surreptitious oath but still. “I can feel you freaking out you know,” she interrupts my internal tirade. “Wow sis, congratulations! You must be so happy!” After a beat she speaks with sincerity,” Look, I know we’ve been through a lot together you and I. And, it’s been just the two of us for so long bringing someone new in probably isn’t easy for you. But I love this guy Abby, he’s one of the good ones. He makes me happy and that’s all that matters right?” Well I can’t really argue with this. As a good sister, I should support her no matter what and this huge development shouldn’t change us. We’ll be fine. “Yeah Vee, that’s all that matters…so umm, have you decided when you want the wedding or y’know even where?” I have a feeling this isn’t all she called to tell me. I know the ins and outs of my sister’s mind, well mostly. She is always up to something and cannot for the life of her keep anything to herself. Travel blogging was almost an all too perfect career choice for Vanessa. When she had first decided to leave our beloved Ausdom Ridge, she took an abrupt trip to Japan because it was ‘all the rave’ and she’d grown obsessed with the culture. For the month she was there I would receive lengthy reviews of her stays, of her food, of that one bar where all the dancers wore large red hats via email. I say this constantly, I love my sister. She’s my best friend but I could not handle five emails a day about the little inconveniences or joys or friends she made along the way. A call a week could easily suffice! I’d jokingly remarked that she could just document this for money instead of bombarding her poor (and tired, overworked, sleep deprived only) sister and she did just that. Now she travels for money and I envy her. I must stop thinking that. I don't envy her one bit, it just isn’t true. “Abby, I have a thought and I’m going to run through it with Jared. I don’t want you to freak out so I am kind of...prepping you that if it all works out, something unexpected is going to happen. I am going to meet Jared and his best man Josh. We’ll talk things through and hopefully things will go well. Please, please keep an open mind and wait for me to tell you OK? I promise in two days I’ll have all the details if it all works out. I swear on my cat.” “You don’t have a cat, “I remark, already aware that my life is likely going to be turned upside down.