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Lisa Doherty |
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Another Resignation Letter Nancy Burns Barnes saluted me on the way down the elevator on Friday evening at 5:05 pm. It was a messy salute. With her wrist bent awkwardly, her fingers curled, and her thumb dangling, the salute was nearly unrecognizable. Partly because she wasn't paying attention and partly because she wanted to get a rise out of me, she smacked herself a little too hard on the forehead in the process of saluting, if you could call it that. "Ouch," she said, glaring at me, like it was my fault she got carried away. The elevator doors opened and four people stepped on, pushing us back into the corner. Nancy rubbed her forehead and looked to me for sympathy. But, I had none for her and her forehead; I was too busy feeling sorry for myself because I still had to shine my boots, pack my sea bag, and press my uniform tonight for my Navy Reserves training this weekend. Now that I had more than fulfilled my Navy obligation, with six years on active duty and three in the Reserves, I felt it was time to submit my letter of resignation. I had written my first resignation letter six months earlier, just after the September 11 terrorist attack. The second letter was written the next month and the third letter the month after that. But submitting the letters was another story. The thought of sitting down with the Commanding Officer and explaining that I just didn't feel like it anymore was. . . well, it was wimpy. Today at the office, my co-workers, in their civilian worlds, flaunted the beautiful weekend. They popped out of their work cubicles all day long and announced the latest weather forecast for the weekend. By 4:00, it was like the last fifteen seconds of popcorn popping in the microwave. Three people popped up above the cube line and called out "69 degrees!" Then, another person popped up and yelled, "Grab your shades, people, it's gonna be 72." Just before five, it went crazy with people not only popping out of their cubes, but running for the windows to take a peek. Then the cube popping slowed and sputtered at five 'o clock and people disappeared. Up here in Wisconsin, the coming of Spring was more celebrated and cherished than Christmas and it called for happy hours in smoky bars with drinks and gossip. Well, it was Wisconsin, after all. "It's going to reach 78 degrees, I just know it!" a screechy voice announced after I thought the last kernel had popped. Then two middle-aged women high-fived each other, refilled their plastic coffee sippees, and ran into the hallway to await the elevator. With all of this rejoicing, I begrudged my Navy commitment even more. I would have to wear hot and clunky combat boots this weekend and everyone else would be sporting sandals. I envisioned pastel-colored sling-backs, flip-flops, clogs, and open-toed varieties. Their feet would get to breathe, even if it was only smoky bar air. But my feet would be sweaty and hot. I'd probably even catch a foot fungus again in the showers after physical readiness training. We were only half way down the elevator when two people in the front turned around and invited us all to Happy Hour at John's Bar in celebration of the beautiful weather. They were strangers on an elevator, inviting other strangers out for a drink. True, we all recognized each other from daily elevator rides, but we never spoke other than to say, "excuse me," "cold out there, eh?" and "have a good day." And probably because the winter had been especially harsh that year, three people looked at each other, exchanged head nods, and agreed to join the social butterflies at John's Bar. Nancy was mouthing, "Lieutenant" at me in the back of the elevator and making toy soldier marching motions with her arms, when the social butterflies asked, "Ladies? You going to join us?" They maneuvered their heads between a row of necks to make pointed eye contact with Nancy and me. "Us?" I asked. "What do you say, Lieutenant?" asked Nancy. She had insisted upon calling me "Lieutenant" all day long. "Why don't we go to John's?" I scowled at her. She knew I needed to get up at 0500 the next morning to be at morning muster on time. "Come on, we'll just have one," she pleaded. I rolled my eyes at her and inched my middle finger down my thigh, where only she could see it. "Just one," she repeated. Oh how I wanted to go and drop this heavy briefcase on the sticky bar floor, sink into a large booth, order a cheap beer, and sit there with Nancy, making fun of her, while she mimicked me. She'd tell me that when I laughed at our boss' joke yesterday, I sounded fake and flirtatious. Then, I'd tell her how dumb she had looked ordering two different kinds of soups at lunch today. And she'd start making fun of how I walk. And I'd mimic the way she said "hi" to the older gentleman who had been in line behind us at lunch. But no. This tomfoolery would have to be smacked away for now, just as Nancy had smacked her forehead in a sloppy salute. "I can't," I told her. I still had to shine my combat boots, iron my camouflage uniform and pack my gear for the sea bag inspection. By the time the elevator came to a rest on the first floor, the social butterflies had picked up at least three more people for their jaunt to John's Bar. Everyone filed out, moving as a mob of office workers. I continued along with the mob, since it was heading in the direction of my car. As we moved, sunglasses came out of trench coat pockets and the murmuring voices lost their professional tones. There were giggles and shrieks that I had never heard in the elevator among these same people. Even Nancy, who normally pretended to be shy, had struck up a conversation with the short balding man whose pants were pulled up too high. I looked forward to teasing her about it later. One of the lawyers offered breath mints to the whole mob and the photographer told a joke. A skinny woman, wearing spandex and running shoes, karate chopped an accountant in a black suit, who turned around and laughed. He actually laughed and I could see the debits and credits drain from the sacks under his eyes. Nancy gravitated toward the front of the mob, where she clapped her hands and called out, "Listen, listen, guys. I've got good news for everyone." They all stopped and leaned toward her as though they were expecting to hear that Monday was a holiday. "Okay, we're going to be in good hands this weekend. You can all sleep well tonight," she informed them. "Lieutenant Gwen here," she said, pointing at me, "will be on duty, so nobody has to worry about anything this weekend." They all looked at me as though I were from Mars. "On duty for what?" the spandex woman asked. "The Navy," I said with a moan. "I'm in the Naval Reserves." "Oh how cute," she said, staring at me and chewing her gum, as though she had no idea why anyone would want to do that, other than to wear a cute little sailor's outfit. "In honor of our Lieutenant, I'll buy the first round," said Nancy. There were excited whispers now as everyone forgot about me and my patriotism and pushed forward to the bar, to line up for their free drinks. The briefcases were swinging again and the spandex woman pulled a tube of melted lipstick out of her sports bra and applied it thickly. "You coming?" Nancy asked me. "No, but you go ahead. Maybe you'll run into your new boyfriend," I said, referring to the old guy she had said "hi" to at lunch. "Oh, I have a boyfriend?" she asked, putting on a good show of being insulted. "What about the way you flirted with the insane man with the Santa hat in front of the drug store? You let him touch you." My mouth dropped open and both fists flew to my hips. "I was telling him what time it was and he touched my wrist when he looked at my watch!" "Yeah, right. Like it wasn't planned. 'Oh, here, look at my watch and touch me all over.'" She said this with her bimbo voice, which she reserved only for mimicking me. And the bantering went on and on until we realized we were standing in front of John's Bar and everyone else had gone in to the smoky haze to celebrate Spring. "Come on," Nancy said, pulling me toward the parking ramp. "I'll help you shine your boots. We can order a pizza and sit on your porch." I smiled a bigger grin than the insane guy did when he got to touch me. "Okay," I said, disguising my delight. "But only if you promise to laugh at the boss' jokes next week. I need a vacation from that duty." "I'll agree to that if I can wear your combat boots for Halloween." "Take the whole freakin' uniform. But I get your shoes so I can go as a clown." "Ha ha. Very funny," she said. Midway through the pizza, a warm breeze blew through the screened porch. I inhaled the flowery scent of spring and thought about how I would love to sit out here all weekend long, with a slice of pizza and Nancy Burns Barnes heckling me and dragging her feet to mess up the rhythm of the porch swing, as I pushed us forward and backward. Once again, just like every night before the monthly training, I decided to write my resignation letter. On Monday, the spring air was gone, replaced by a cold chill from the north. The talk on the elevator was back to "have a nice weekend? . . . yah yah. . . how 'bout that weather?" In the back, Nancy Burns Barnes touched her fingertips to her forehead, another nearly unrecognizable salute. Though it was limp and weak, it meant so very much and I again tore up my resignation letter and dropped it into my briefcase. |