“Queue”
by Jefferey Spivey
I’ve got a chatty one. I forgot to request a silent ride and now I’m stuck in a lightning round of small talk inquiries. I’m polite to him, offering quippy responses with a reserved smile.
My day is fine so far.
I’ve lived here for twenty years.
Yes, this is the best weather we’ve had all spring.
All the while, I wonder if the conversation will peter out on its own, or if I’ll have to ask him to be quiet. And then I wonder what impression he’ll have of me if I do ask, if I’ll come off as a classist who thinks he’s above chatting with a driver.
I have both earbuds in, not those Bluetooth ones, so the thin, white cord is hanging down my shirt like a necklace. It should be obvious that I have other plans for entertainment during this commute.
“I wonder why this is news and decide to avoid any other stories I see that mention the president’s tweets or the word covfefe.”
I decide to go for it.
“Is it alright if I listen to a podcast for the rest of the trip?” I ask, instead of simply telling him that he talks too much.
He nods, seemingly unoffended. He turns the radio up a bit and starts to hum along. I want to ask him to stop this as well, but I know I’m being ridiculous.
I start the podcast.
Ultimately, our minds benefit from stillness. We need time to unplug, to stop the busyness of everyday life, and reconnect with ourselves. Meditation gives us that psychological space, and if we do it enough, we can find inner peace.
I wonder if I can achieve inner peace by listening to the hosts’ discussion, instead of actually meditating.
***
I was drawn to the FreeWork office for the perks – the wellness room, the garden space, the bike storage, the abundance of natural light. But the only one I take advantage of is the craft beer on tap in the communal kitchen. I stop to pour one on my way in. I don’t feel guilty about this. It’s just one. I won’t be the least bit intoxicated from just one. And it will likely linger on my desk until a time that’s more socially acceptable to drink it. But I like to think of myself as someone who would drink beer in the morning and who would care that it was made in small batches by a B Corp.
The news is on in the kitchen, CNN.
I pop one earbud out as I fill my glass.
Overnight, the president fired off what’s perhaps his most perplexing tweet yet, leading voters and experts alike to ask the same question – what in the world is covfefe?
I wonder why this is news and decide to avoid any other stories I see that mention the president’s tweets or the word covfefe.
“Did you see this asshole’s tweet?” Deena asks before I can even close the door.
“I’m not giving into this asinine news cycle,” I tell her.
She finds other things to complain about. We’ve recently finished a website redesign for an organic vitamin brand and they have another edit request. They want their slogan to read, Your best days are now ahead of you, instead of, Your best days are ahead of you now.
“I wouldn’t be sad if we dropped them,” she says.
I open my inbox and see an email from FreeWork. A rate increase is going into effect, to uphold its standards of cleanliness and ensure a fair wage for its staff.
“If we lose them, we’ll be running this business from my kitchen table,” I say aloud, though I meant to think it.
I catch the time, 9:30. I take a sip of my beer.
***
For lunch, I go to Green Baby. I start scrolling through my Instagram feed while I wait and I see an ad for a “renew and restore” retreat in Hawaii. I click the link to Learn More and see that the basic package is almost $5,000. I wonder if this is meant to reset my emotional stores or my bank account.
I keep reading the site while I make my way through the salad assembly line, absentmindedly saying yes to whatever chopped ingredients are offered. I end up with a gigantic bowl of indiscriminate cubes and spinach drenched in the house-made vinaigrette.
For the most part, it tastes like soggy grass.
***
I offer to read Phoebe a bedtime story until she falls asleep, one about princesses and unicorns and whatnot. But she asks if we can watch a cartoon on her iPad instead. I say yes though I’m still on the fence about screen time, in general and especially before bed. I’ve read all these articles lately, one about how blue light suppresses the production of melatonin and keeps us awake, another about a tech CEO who won’t let his kid use the very device he makes a living from.
I’m convinced it’s digital poison. But when Phoebe is throwing a tantrum in a restaurant or when she’s in one of those hyper moods where nothing keeps her attention for more than five minutes, I realize the iPad is a flat, rectangular life jacket.
After she’s asleep, I find Julian has cued up Netflix, one of those historical dramas that everyone is think-piecing. I’ve never found myself attracted to shows about history, or dramas, or anything on Netflix, really.
I tell him I want to read.
“But we have a million things in our queue,” he whines.
“That’s the point, isn’t it?” I ask.
“ We’re writing to inform you that Phoebe’s hair is non-compliant with the acceptable hairstyles listed in section 64.15 of the Student Handbook.”
Somehow I end up reading a short story collection from Joyce Carol Oates, the kind of book to which I need to devote my full attention. But Julian starts watching something on his iPad. YouTube compilations about music divas’ bitchiest moments and videos of people trampling each other on Black Friday. All of them involve yelling and repeated cries of “bitch!” and Julian laughs at nearly every scene. It’s all just noise to me.
I find myself stuck on the same page. I read it nearly ten times before moving on.
When Julian finally falls asleep, I stay up until almost 1 a.m. so I can make a dent in the book. The next morning, I can’t recall anything that I read.
***
In movies about parents, the working moms dodge the Type A housewives at pickup, because they’re annoying and always asking about signups for a bake sale or a dance committee. I don’t know any of the parents at Phoebe’s school and I like it that way. I stand alone outside of the iron gate waiting for her. She runs to hug me and we walk home holding hands. I sometimes think I squeeze her little seven-year-old fingers too tightly, like I’m trying to protect her from everything.
Today, I notice a tri-folded letter sticking out of her backpack and ask her about it.
“Mrs. Penning says it’s for you,” Phoebe says.
I take it out and read it.
We’re writing to inform you that Phoebe’s hair is non-compliant with the acceptable hairstyles listed in section 64.15 of the Student Handbook.
Why does an elementary school handbook have so many sections? I wonder. Then I look at her hair.
Phoebe is biracial, half-Black, half-White. We don’t know much beyond that. One day, when I feel less ethically conflicted about it, I’ll order her a DNA testing kit. Whatever the results may be, her mixed ancestry has gifted her a mane of bouncy, kinky hair. We let her wear it free, no scrunchies or headbands, no buns or ponytails, because she told us that’s how she likes it. She says the kids at school play with it all the time, which is mildly problematic, but she never tells us that they say mean things to her.
Also, we are two men who’ve never done much with our own hair, and the less we have to do with hers, the better.
I’m unsure if her hair is “non-compliant” because we don’t style it or because it’s a biracial girl’s hair.
She asks me what the letter says, and I tell her not to worry about it. This is disingenuous. She’s old enough to understand, not necessarily the why but at least the what.
I have one earbud in. I listened to the meditation podcast on my way to her school but paused it upon seeing her run toward me. I press play now.
It’s all about connecting with your breathing, not so much thinking about it, but just allowing the air to flow in and out naturally, and letting this happen without worrying about anything else. This is a way to get in tune with your body.
I try to pay attention to my breathing and it makes me self-conscious. Each breath gets shorter and shorter like I’m running out of air. It’s as if my lungs will only work if I ignore them.
Before we get home, we stop into a bodega and I buy Phoebe an apple juice. It’s for her hardship, though she has no idea she’s going through a hardship. I watched an investigative report last year about kids and sugar, and I’m supposed to treat the juice box I just handed my daughter like it’s toxic sludge. But she loves it.
At the counter, the cashier, an older Asian man, has on talk radio.
“This is exactly the kind of stuff liberals get hung up on,” a pundit says. “Who cares about covfefe? This is why they lost!”
The cashier chuckles to himself as he scans the apple juice.
***
Julian is upset about the letter from Phoebe’s school, fuming as though it’s his hair they don’t like. He paces back and forth, bouncing between answering an email on his phone and uttering his grievances.
“You have to handle this,” he tells me. “If I say something, I’ll just come off as this privileged asshole who’s trying to seem ‘woke’.” He does the air quotes for woke.
I’m surprised it’s taken us this long to get here, to a matter of race where the onus falls on me to protect our girl. Part of me thinks Julian’s wrong, that his middle-aged, red-faced privilege is the very thing we need in this situation. He can make a scene, refuse to follow the rules, threaten to pull her out of school, which means lost tuition for them, and then they’ll capitulate. They’d probably tell me to calm down or they’d call security to have me removed.
“We can just get her hair permed. I know a place in Prospect Park.”
“She’s seven!” he exclaims.
I call my mother while we’re all there in the room together. I put her on speaker and ask how old she was when she got her first relaxer.
“I was six years old. My momma had one rule about our hair – no naps in her house,” my mother says, her voice rising like she’s on the pulpit. “Little Phoebe ain’t too young for the creamy crack. Make her an appointment.”
Hang up, Julian mouths at me.
I make a mischievous smile at him. I don’t know why.
***
We agree that I’ll take care of the situation with the school, meaning I’ll tell Mrs. Penning and any other teacher or administrator to go fuck themselves. I’m to accuse them of instituting appearance policies that are exclusionary, and I’m to tell them that under no circumstances will Phoebe change her hair. I’m also supposed to mention that, for the money we pay, she should be able to roll out of bed and show up in her wrinkled pajamas if she damn well pleases.
I say none of this when I drop her off. I hug her, I tell her to have a good day, and I stand there until she’s inside the building.
I don’t even walk past the gate.
***
The organic vitamin brand has another edit request. Now, they’re pondering whether to include a period after Your best days are now ahead of you. They send a lengthy email about it. They understand that they’re using their slogan as a headline on the homepage and headlines aren’t supposed to have periods, because they’re not proper sentences. They’re more like proclamations. But they think that adding a period could be a deliberate choice to communicate the essence of their company. It says that they’re unafraid to make the right choices, regardless of convention or trends.
“All these edits are dragging down our hourly rate,” Deena says. “A fucking period? Really?”
***
I take the train to pick up Phoebe because I’m spending too much money on taxis and Ubers. I get on the 4 at Union Square and the entire car seems to fill up. There are so many people that I can’t sit, hold onto a pole, or lean against one of the doors. Instead, I have to press my palm into the ceiling to stop from falling down. I feel closed in. My breathing gets really short again, and I can’t tell if this is what hyperventilating feels like or if I’m just observing my breathing too closely.
I resume listening to the meditation podcast.
It’s really important to find a calm space where you’re free from distractions. No television, no mobile phones, no children or pets, no other adults. Just you and your breathing.
I turn it off.
I shove my way off at the first Brooklyn stop. I turn down a side street that I’ve never walked before. I move quickly, almost running, escaping. Midway down the block, I look around at the brownstones, and I slow down. The flowering pear trees are in bloom, small white petals littering the sidewalk.
I’m not especially taken by the sights. It’s just that I realize I’m alone and I want to savor the moment while I can. I almost missed it.
***
At home, there’s a covfefe coffee mug on the counter.
“I couldn’t resist,” Julian says when I ask him about it. He saw it in a promoted tweet and gave in. Almost twenty dollars. I put it in the sink so it’s out of my immediate view.
“You know, all of this just helps his case,” I say. “The snotty liberals making fun of the president over a grammar mistake. Very relatable for blue collar workers.”
“How’d it go?” he asks me, nodding his head toward Phoebe’s room.
“Fine,” I say. Then I walk out of the kitchen before he can ask me for details. This part, the lying, is easy.
I haven’t settled on a solution yet, but time is doing its thing, running out and forcing me to reckon with my poor decision-making. I’ll have to do something.
Before bed, I decide I won’t attempt to read until Julian has fallen asleep. I replace my book with Instagram, where I see an ad from a very limber yoga influencer. It has all the hallmarks of a sponsored post. The “personal” story (this one about how stressful it is to run her influencer business). The nonsensical tie-in (a meditation app helps her clear her head and keep creating more mindful content). The discount code for the limited-time offer (KELSEY2017).
I’m not usually duped by these things, but I think that a meditation app might be more beneficial for me than listening to two academics talk about the practice. I click to Learn More, I download the app, I enter her discount code, I find myself with a six-month membership to a service I hadn’t even heard of five minutes earlier.
I slip in my earbuds and choose an introductory session. It’s just ten minutes. The soothing voice of a British woman fills my ears. She tells me to turn off my light and put my phone on my nightstand. I do what I’m told. Then she tells me to sit up straight. Preferably, I should be on a flat, hard surface, but I don’t want to get out of bed. I lean back against the headboard.
She takes me through five deep inhales and exhales, then she tells me to close my eyes. I’m to listen to all the sounds around me and take note of what I hear. Mostly just Julian’s iPad. I try not to decipher what he’s watching but I hear the narrator. And Mariah Carey’s number one shadiest moment…
My mind starts to wander. I’m not even three minutes into this exercise and I’m already distracted. I think about how stereotypical it is that Julian watches videos about pop divas, and then I think about how unfair that is, and I try to list out things I do that people would label stereotypically gay.
Somehow, the meditation ends and the British woman says she hopes I feel restored and excited about the meditation journey I’ve just begun.
I think that maybe Julian isn’t the only one who wasted his money today.
***
As I’m getting into the office, my phone rings, Phoebe’s school. I answer expecting it to be Mrs. Penning, who I’ve always found to be less than delightful. Every time I see her, I wonder when she last laughed.
But it’s Mr. Baldwin on the line, one of the administrators.
Oh shit, I think. Is kinky hair really an issue for an administrator?
“I just wanted to check in,” he says, “about Phoebe. I know the letter may have been a bit off-putting, but she hasn’t been singled out. We’re having this conversation with many of our children.”
Does he intend “many” to mean they’re cracking down on all the ethnic children or all the children in general? I don’t ask this.
“Have you identified a suitable solution?” he asks me.
I stay silent for a moment, not purposely trying to create an awkward silence, but it is, awkward. I don’t want to spend as much time thinking about Phoebe’s hair as the school would like, yet it feels like my response in this moment should be well-considered. I’m not a person who has time to thoughtfully consider things.
“It’ll be handled,” I say, like I’m trying to placate my boss or my father.
“Again, we don’t want you to feel any undue pressure, nor do we want to make Phoebe feel othered. We just need to ensure that every child at the academy is abiding by the same set of rules.”
I tell him I understand, because his explanation is easy to understand, even if this situation is not.
After I hang up with him, I stop by the communal kitchen and pour myself two beers.
“Thank you!” Deena blurts out when I walk in double fisting my drinks. I want to tell her to get her own, but then I think about how awful it looks that it’s not even 10 a.m. and I need not one but two alcoholic beverages to cope. If coping is what I’m doing. I don’t know if I’m self-aware enough to label this coping.
She takes a big gulp from hers, like a person who actually drinks in the morning.
It’s probably for the best that I don’t have both.
***
Julian forces me to watch the first episode of the Netflix historical drama with him. It’s historical in the sense that it’s loosely based on a historic period, but it’s not concerned with actual history. The buzz has been more about the ethnically diverse casting and its juicy plotlines, how bingeable it is. Nothing is bingeable to me. I hardly have the patience to get through a half-hour of television without letting my mind wander. Several hours of uninterrupted viewing is a big ask.
“This series is incredible. I can’t believe you made me wait so long to start it,” Julian says, looking ahead.
I don’t say anything.
I see a notification on my phone, BREAKING NEWS: Leading investigative reporter inks book deal about covfefe.
“You don’t think it’s good?” Julian asks.
Another notification, about a mass shooting at a shopping center in California.
“You know how I am about TV.”
It’s the second time that day that someone has tried to coerce the appropriate response from me. I wonder how I’d feel about things, Phoebe’s growing hair scandal, this Netflix show, the president, if I had time to process them. I spend all day absorbing bits of information and storing them for later, which makes my brain nothing more than a hard drive that’s almost at capacity. I take it all in like it has nowhere else to go, like there isn’t another person with a phone and fear and an embarrassingly short attention span waiting to receive it in my place.
“You’re not above escapism,” Julian says.
I’ve never claimed to be above it. I just don’t know what it is.
***
My mother is unwrapping something. The crinkling is so loud it sounds like she’s pulling the phone itself out of plastic packaging. I genuinely want to invest in our conversation but the noise is grating.
“Don’t question your mother,” she says when I ask what she’s doing. But as is typical with her, after we’ve moved on to something else. She shares that she was opening a fruit basket, a gift.
“People still give those?” I ask.
“Not everyone can be happy with an e-card. Us old folk need tangible gifts.”
I try to call her weekly but sometimes the week isn’t long enough. There are so many other things to worry about. If I had an eighth day, our call would top my list of priorities. But stuck with a measly seven, I can’t always squeeze her in.
She’s retired now but always seems busy. The fruit basket is likely a gift from someone at her church or someone from her Black romance book club or someone from her food cooperative. I like to believe her days are fulfilling whether I call or not. I tell myself this isn’t a justification to avoid talking to her. By even thinking of her happiness and seeing her as a whole person, I’m being a good son.
“What’d you decide to do with my grandbaby’s hair?” she asks out of nowhere.
Everyone wants to know, people with a stake in the matter and people without.
“I don’t know,” I say. “It’s actually getting a bit stressful.”
“What’s stressful about it? Get the damn relaxer and call it a day.”
“Julian thinks she’s too young.”
“Julian is white,” she says, as though this is reason enough to disregard his opinion.
Generally speaking, Julian’s whiteness doesn’t bother her. But speaking more specifically, in matters of identity and lived experience, she holds it against him, this piece of him that he can’t change or control.
“She’s just going to get older,” she says to me, “and the kids at school will get older and meaner. Her hair is gonna be a sore spot. She can spend her life explaining it to white folks or she can just straighten it and move on. It’s all about what path you want baby girl to take – the one of least resistance or the one where she has to step on landmines.”
Now this was a discussion about Phoebe’s entire life. I couldn’t tell if this was my mother’s wisdom or absurdity.
When we hung up, she sent me 10 texts, each one a Black hair salon with a rating of 4.5 stars or higher. I should’ve been grateful for the information, but all I could think about was how I’d never have time to open the links.
***
The organic vitamin brand requests another miniscule edit and this is the straw that breaks Deena’s back. She gets into a screaming match with both CEOs before I reach the office. I get a call from them when I’m in the elevator, sandwiched between several other modern workers who’ve bought into FreeWork’s dubious promises. We all look the same, Brooklyn casual in ripped jeans and neutral sweatshirts and oversized eyeglasses. I like to think of myself as an individual, but it’s clear to me then that I have followed the exact path of so many other people, to a coworking mecca, to an anti-corporate dream that’s just as sterile as the source material.
CEO 1 is all about the big picture and claims that Deena has been difficult to work with from the start. He says that she’s a liability to my business and that I can easily find someone to replace her who does superior work.
CEO 2 cuts in, sparing me the need to respond. He’s more focused on the now. He feels Deena has disrespected him, and he wants the situation rectified sooner than later, same day is preferable.
“We’re your client, and it’s your job to make sure we’re happy, right?” CEO 2 asks.
“Yes,” I say in my most professional voice and at an elevator-appropriate volume, though I’m sure everyone can hear what’s happening.
“Well, we’re not happy,” he says. “Nope, not happy after her little shit fit. Not at all.”
I apologize through gritted teeth and assure them I’ll speak to Deena. I tell them I’ll personally handle all communication with them from this point forward. I apologize again. It’s hard for me to take them seriously, because they say things like “shit fit” and because they don’t realize a period indicates nothing about their brand beyond their basic grasp of English.
The rest of my walk to our suite, I think of reasons not to kill Deena.
***
Train traffic. That’s what the conductor says. Since when has there been traffic underground? Isn’t the whole point of taking the subway to avoid getting stuck in traffic? Isn’t it supposed to be seamless, timely, free of pile ups and delays?
I don’t know who I’m kidding. In the last decade, during the few times I’ve settled for the train, it has been decrepit and smelly, like a big, metal armpit. I can’t recall if it was on time or not because I wasn’t using it to get anywhere important. Julian has always been an architect in the time that we’ve been together, and he has always been successful, and thus he has never criticized my Uber use. He even encourages it, and he frequently takes a black car to work himself.
We don’t come from the same background. I worry about money more than I need to because I’ve never quite accepted the fact that we have plenty. If my mother were to see how much I spend on cars and taxis, she would slap me, I’m sure of it, and then hand me one of her bills to pay instead. I take the train to appease her voice in the back of my mind telling me to spend responsibly and stop behaving like I’m above taking the train to get places.
I know I’m not above it. But it does look and smell and feel icky.
The longer I sit there, waiting for the train to start moving again, the smell becomes more apparent. Like damp garbage buried beneath the car’s floorboards. I can’t tell if it’s getting stronger or if I was just distracted when I walked on.
I open the meditation app, not with any intention to start meditating. I just need something to do until we start moving again.
A middle-aged man starts pacing at the opposite end of the car and mumbling something to himself. His frustration is palpable.
A British man’s deep voice starts in my earbuds. It’s jarring because I expected the woman again, but I guess she only leads the introductory sessions. As the practice gets more serious, the man takes over. Figures.
He speaks slowly and deliberately, and I have the volume turned up too loud so his words tickle the insides of my ears.
Another announcement. We should be moving shortly. They always say that, shortly, to make you think the issue will be wrapped up in a jiffy. But an ETA would be more informative and honest.
The middle-aged man slaps his palm against the metal pole. It startles me but no one else seems bothered.
The British man tells me to take five deep breaths, in for three counts, out for three. How much is a count? I follow his instructions, breathing in and out for the duration that I think constitutes three counts. He moves on to the next step before I’ve finished.
I notice the time on my phone, since I don’t have my eyes closed as I should. It has been 30 minutes. I’ve been in the car so long I don’t remember where I needed to be. Is this early onset dementia or plain old ADHD or just an average short attention span?
I turn off the British man. He says something about folding my legs and turning my palms upward toward the sky and imagining a gold light outlining every part of my body and I just don’t want to do that in this space.
“Come on!” the middle-aged man yells at no one in particular, maybe God, maybe the conductor.
I let out a heavy sigh. It sounds like the kind a person lets out when they want someone to acknowledge their frustration, but that isn’t why I’ve done it. I’m genuinely frustrated.
“It’s bullshit. The fare just went up for the second time in a year and this is what we get,” a woman next to me says.
I nod. I have no idea why it costs more to ride the subway now. I can’t imagine where the money is going.
The train starts to crawl forward, and we inch through the dark tunnel. I hear someone clap, which is a bit dramatic. I decide I’ll stick to cabs and Ubers and ignore my mother’s voice. This too is dramatic but justified.
***
I sit in bed scrolling through Yahoo Answers, looking for any question about the appropriate age for a girl’s first relaxer. I want a complete stranger, or several, to tell me it’s okay to melt Phoebe’s hair into submission. I know none of these people are experts but I believe one of them will provide a profound insight into the situation, something that I haven’t thought of, something that will simultaneously affirm my position on the issue and also wow me.
Relaxers aren’t a necessity. The fact that these toxic chemicals are packaged in kits for children doesn’t make them safe for your baby’s scalp.
The earlier my girl can look like Beyoncé, the better.
Your daughter’s hair, your choice. There’s no right or wrong answer here. Just make sure the salon tech knows what they’re doing or they’ll burn off all her hair.
Julian tries to initiate sex. It’s a weeknight and we haven’t been a couple that makes love during the week since before Phoebe. It’s not that I’m repulsed by Julian, but his naked body is less appealing now than it was a decade ago, softer and paler and rounder. And no matter what people say, it does get boring fucking the same person again and again for years, regardless of what positions you try or toys you play with or magazine articles you read about spicing things up.
He climbs on top of me and sucks on my neck.
“We’re not teenagers,” I tell him.
“Indulge me,” he says and he takes the thin skin into his teeth.
My neck feels warm and wet, but I don’t feel turned on. All I can think about is the last comment I read, about the salon tech possibly burning off a girl’s hair.
***
In a taxi on the way to FreeWork. A clip from the TODAY show plays, about covfefe and its meaning. I mute the video. I’m impressed that something so frivolous has had such a long news cycle. I’m also irritated, steeped in my resolve to keep avoiding it.
Luckily, I don’t have to explain myself. The yellow cab drivers rarely want to talk. They just take you from point A to point B with little regard for friendliness. I appreciate it because what they lack in openness they channel into expediency, navigating city blocks from memory instead of using their phone’s default maps app.
I arrive early, and for the first time in a while, I skip the beer station. Though I’ve told myself one doesn’t matter, I secretly think that it does. That if I continue on like this, it’ll become a habit, I’ll spiral, and then what’s to stop me from graduating to a flask of bourbon with breakfast.
Deena tells me the organic vitamin brand has terminated its contract with us. She says she’s happy that they’re offloaded, and she does the gesture to indicate that her hands are clean.
I feel nothing but dread in the pit of my stomach. I search my inbox for the email about the rate increases. When do those go into effect?
“Are you going to say anything?” she asks.
“About you chasing away one of our only clients?”
“So this is my fault?”
“It’s not not your fault.”
“Rich,” she says.
“Exactly what we need to be if we’re going to stay in this office space,” I say. It’s childish, I know, but I’m sick of her. She’s such a purist, only wanting to work with clients who sell “meaningful” products and who love everything she does. She only wants to be validated and she thinks anything that isn’t praise is censure.
“We have other clients,” she says. “Stop fretting about money. We’ve been able to make this work for three years now. There’s always someone else.”
“We?” I ask her.
“Oh, so now I don’t contribute? Did you magically learn graphic design overnight? So you can run this whole shit on your own?”
I roll my eyes at her. These are the dangers of going into business with a friend. Julian warned me. When I first pitched the idea to him, he reminded me of Deena’s sensitive nature. He said that she seemed difficult as a friend and that it would get worse if she was my co-founder. I blew him off. I wish I hadn’t.
I step out of the building to avoid saying something I’ll regret. In the moment, I just want to be done with her. I think CEO 1 was right, and Julian was right. She is a liability. But I’m in no place to get rid of her without it becoming a big fucking mess.
The Wafels & Dinges truck is parked outside the building. I get a wafel smothered in whip cream and chocolate syrup. I sit on a bench in the courtyard next to FreeWork and devour it. Anger, and maybe a looming despair, have left me famished. I can’t remember if I’ve eaten anything else. Maybe I haven’t. I look down and see that some of the syrup has dripped into my lap. I’m wearing khakis; it’s not the most appealing visual. But it’s a fitting development for the day.
I order an Uber and hide my soiled crotch in the backseat of a mammoth SUV with tinted windows. I feel like someone important.
A reminder pops up on my phone. I have less than 24 hours to solve Phoebe’s hair dilemma.
***
I watch as the stylist smears petroleum jelly on Phoebe’s scalp and hairline. Then section by section, the stoic woman with box braids applies the relaxer. She’s methodic, almost militaristic in her technique. Phoebe’s eyes well up with tears and her mouth crumbles into the most heartrending frown. I don’t know if it’s because some part of her skin is burning or if she’s already mourning the loss of control over her identity.
I look away.
I decline a call from Deena.
I question if that’s the right decision.
I question if this is the right decision.
If I’ve ever made the right decision. About anything.
***
“I thought you said you handled this!” Julian screams at me when I walk in with Phoebe.
He doesn’t realize that I have handled it, just not the way he preferred. I only had enough energy for the path of least resistance.
“What message does this send to her?” he asks. He touches her newly straightened hair tentatively. He looks down at her. “You’re fine just as you are. If you don’t want to do this again, you don’t have to, okay?”
Phoebe nods at him and then asks to go to her room.
When she’s gone, Julian just glares at me.
“I can’t believe you,” he says. “This should have been a joint decision. It’s her hair. Her hair! You can’t just change it because you’re afraid to stand up to the school.”
“I’m not afraid. I just don’t agree with you.”
I was afraid.
“This is an act of cowardice. My poor girl.”
“She looks nice with long hair,” I say.
He keeps going, he’s wound up. I stick in an earbud and wash out the Tupperware containers from Phoebe’s lunchbox.
Listen to your surroundings. Take stock of what you hear but don’t give in to the sounds. Just be aware so they don’t distract you during the session.
“Sometimes I just don’t understand you,” he says. But he’s not speaking directly to me. He’s pacing, looking everywhere but in my direction.
Close your eyes. Check in with each part of your body. Note how they feel but don’t think about why. Just notice and move on.
I feel my phone vibrate in my back pocket. I resist the urge to check it.
In for five, out for three. In for five, out for three.
I stand there breathing, in for five, out for three. I can’t hear anything. I can’t feel anything. It’s not peace, but it’s close enough.
Jefferey Spivey is a Des Moines, Iowa-based freelance writer and editor. His short stories have appeared (or will soon appear) in The Evergreen Review, Typehouse, Flying Island, decomp, and Las Positas College’s Havik anthology. He’s a 2022 de Groot Foundation “Courage To Write” grant recipient, and his as-yet-unpublished story collection, The Birthright of Sons, was a finalist for the 2022 Iron Horse Literary Review Book Prize. Additionally, his humor fiction has appeared in Slackjaw, and his nonfiction work has been published in DADDY and Parks and Rec Business magazines.