“Hey, Sorry, Can You Watch This While I Run to the Bathroom?” (2023)

When her mother asked her what she did with her time, she told her that she was working on her dissertation. She had been working on her dissertation for three years, and every year she worked on it a bit longer, she could feel her esteem in the eyes of her mother growing bit by bit. She had been a housewife all her life, worshipping at the altar of pot roast and dirty martinis and short flirtations with vacuum salesmen. And yet, despite the odds, she had raised an intellectual. An educated woman, who did things like write grant proposals and write dissertations and one day soon she will have raised a doctor, and wasn’t that sort of fantastic? Wasn’t that sort of magical? That a woman plucked out of the secretarial pool before she could ever really make use of her typing certification, who only ever read magazines and watched daytime television could be so successful in the only area of her life that even remotely mattered that she would have raised a daughter with a doctorate. And sure, the doctorate was in something she could barely comprehend, a field so niche and specific that she could barely read the title of said dissertation, much less get past the first page. But wasn’t that even more magical? More special? That she had raised a daughter that was so smart, so gifted, that she could spend years on a piece of thought so niche and specific that one could only care about it in the abstract? Her daughter was smart, and she had raised her well, and perhaps one day her daughter would use her excellent upbringing to raise an excellent granddaughter, and that granddaughter may actually affect some change in the world. Either way, it didn’t particularly matter. Her work was done. She had done her job, and every time she spoke to her daughter on the phone, her pride deepened, and her laurels grew, and grew, and grew, until they created a plush, green bed on which she could sleep.

 When her advisor asked her what she did with her time, she told him her mother had recently died. She hadn’t, not yet at least, but he never asked any follow up questions, he was so concerned with displaying a withered shoulder for her to cry on. He fancied himself a bit of a lothario, and so he bought her beautiful bottles of amber liquor and offered her the couch in his office to sleep on if she ever needed to get away from it all. His wife’s mother had died a few years before, and he knew what it meant for a girl to lose her mother. Any kind of parent, really, he said, staring surreptitiously down her shirt. A lack of a parental figure could really set a girl adrift. It threatened to create a real crisis of self. He would hate for a girl like her to feel alone in the world. Really, any time at all, his door was open. Poor, poor, girl.

She told her roommate that they were sleeping together, she and the advisor. When she first mentioned it, her roommates eyes widened with the information, and she raised a shaking hand to her mouth like a heroine in a bodice ripper. Really? Her roommate was shocked, awed, disgusted, envious. Really? Wasn’t he married? Wasn’t he old? She just nodded her head, smiling slyly. Wow. It’s kind of classic, really. Kind of legendary. I’ve always thought he was sweet. Do you think he’ll leave her? Do you want him to? From that night forward, every time she left the house her roommate would wiggle her eyebrows and clap her hands and caw and cheer in approval.  

One night, she met a man at a bar, and she told him she was a secretary. Well, a receptionist. Secretary as a term was a bit outdated, she corrected him. It was okay, though. He could buy her a drink to apologize. He did, and that night, back at his apartment, she looked around at his books and bar cart and large, flatscreen television, and decided that if he asked her to marry him, she would say yes. He was successful, judging by the stacks of papers on his desk, the framed MBA on the wall in the living room. He seemed kind as well, had held the door of the taxi for her, had been sure to ask her her name and what she did, and he had nursed just one beer the entire time they spoke. He was exactly the kind of man who had never particularly attracted her, a nebbish sort of man. He snorted when he laughed and snored when he slept, and at one point he became so flustered by her attention that he had gotten an uncontrollable bout of hiccups which were only abated by repeatedly thumping his own chest and burping loudly ten times in a row. She found him sort of repulsive, really. But that night, tiptoeing around his apartment, opening drawers, and leafing through unread textbooks, she envisioned a life with him. A life where she spent her time making pot roast and drinking dirty martinis and flirting with vacuum salesmen. Where that was all she did. A life that only existed in the silent moments when his breathing stopped, his sleep apnea mask abandoned on his nightstand in the throes of passion.

Really what she did was steal laptops from coffee shops.

By asking her to look after them, they basically begged her to take them. Their trust, their blind trust, was so damning, so repulsive, that they practically got down on their knees, dirtying their secondhand chic trousers on the cold concrete floor and begged her. Teach us a lesson, they said. Teach us not to be so naïve, so classist, so bad and evil and repugnant. Teach us that just because a woman wears a tight sweater and carries an expensive bag and has shiny hair and a pretty smile that it doesn’t mean that she is our friend, that it doesn’t mean that she can be trusted. Okay, she would say, brushing their hair out of their eyes and kissing them gently on the forehead. I will. But only because you asked. Thank you thank you thank you, they said. We will never repay you. We will try. Don’t worry, she would say, smiling kindly. I’ll teach you.

One day, a man came out of the bathroom a few seconds too early. A few seconds off schedule, and he caught a glimpse of her exiting through the door, tote bag over one shoulder, a manicured hand gripping the strap tightly. The bell jingled, and his eyes darted to his table. His laptop was gone, and so was she. He set off in a sprint, ducking past tables and tripping on backpacks and finally chasing her down the street. Hey! He yelled. Stop! She was wearing large, black headphones and couldn’t hear him. Hey! He yelled louder, pumping his arms, running faster and faster, and finally, he caught up with her. Hey! He screamed, grabbing her arm. What are you doing? She jumped, turned around, and removed her headphones. What are you doing? He screamed. That’s mine! He jabbed his finger at the corner of her tote bag, where the corner of his laptop poked out.

I’m so sorry, she said, eyes welling with tears. My mother just died.