Compartments

Professor Witten stands at the window in his office, back to the room.  He is waiting for the woman to leave.  He had been waiting.

"I guess I'll go now," she says, and he nods his silent permission.

He does not lean against the desk, as he does not wish to give the appearance that he lacks energy, something that, unaware to him, his body projected none of. If he wanted to, he could stretch out and nap on top of it: it is bare except for a single pencil, his physics textbook (he could use that as a pillow), and a dozen or so resumes from women applying for the position he's advertised, typing his research papers.

There is no ring on his finger, but those observant few might discern a faint indentation where one once was.

He listens without appearing to, and then glances over his shoulder.  She is making her way out the door. Finally.  With relief, he watches the back of her head, her ridiculously curly sandy-blond hair bobbing as she crosses the hallway.  He sighs; he didn't want to be rude, but she just appeared in his office, no appointment, and handed him her resume.  It was all so highly unusual.  Still, to be polite, he told her he would take it into consideration.  Then, when most people would thank him and walk away, she lingered.

"Well," she said, "Thanks so much for thinking about me for the position.  I think I could do a good job, I mean, of course I know I can, and this would be so perfect, the hours and everything."

When he had simply nodded, she had rushed on in the silence.

"I'm a pretty good typist.  I try to practice every night."  She actually said that. Then: "I bought a typing manual and taught myself." Still more: "I really need to find a job, now that my husband is gone for good.  And I always thought it would be wonderful to work here at the university, surrounded by so many smart people.  Like yourself, I mean."

            This is what she said to him.  He was still astonished; he could mentally picture the noose around her throat.

After her told her he'd keep her in mind, she kept glancing nervously about his office, smiling too much.  It struck him that, while she was not unattractive, she had on an excess of makeup.  Her fingernails, he noticed, were painted not a tasteful pearl pink or an alluring deep red, but a shade of purple best described as “bruise”.

When she finally left, he picked up her resume, and carefully placed it into the trash.

Tonight is Thursday, which means steak, broiled, no seasoning.  Baked potato. No sour cream, not because of the calories, but because it doesn't agree with his digestive system.  Corn nibletts, straight out of the can, uncooked.  They were arranged perfectly onto the three compartment Styrofoam plate, steak at 12 o’clock, potato and corn at 4 and 8 respectively.

Sometimes people (women, generally) ask him when he would be ready to date. They all seem to have some friend to fix him up with.  But he isn't interested in rearranging the compartments of his life again. He doesn't see how it could work.  There is his dog to consider, for one thing (a beagle that his wife had impulsively purchased and then, left behind).  The dog likes to be walked at 6 pm everyday.  That means that, if he wanted to ask a woman to dinner, it would have to be a meal that was ridiculously early (say, four pm) or terribly late (say, after eight pm).  Generally, he is too hungry to wait until eight pm to eat.

Of course there are other things, like movies. But he had never felt particularly comfortable in a movie theatre. Total strangers had been known to sit right next to him. In the very next seat. Once, a woman wearing blue eye shadow and orange lipstick plunked down next to him, and then placed her drink into the cup holder on the armrest between them. When he'd looked down, he'd seen orange lipstick circling the straw. He'd looked over at her and she'd smiled, and there was lipstick on her teeth.

As much as he'd wanted to, it had been impossible for him to get up, and change seats.

Just beyond his office, there is a clicky-clack, the sharp smack of sure fingers against computer keys.  Sue, a woman in her mid-fifties and exactly what he'd wanted, is working efficiently at her desk, typing his papers.

Witten is dressed, as always, in neatly pressed khaki slacks and a pale blue shirt with a button down collar. He cares nothing for clothing, but he has found that this particular combination (beige with blue), is acceptable for almost all social and professional settings. Once he had discovered this color scheme, and applied it to the correct materials and fibers (wool slacks in winter, cotton in summer), he found with relief that he never had to think about his clothing again.

It is a particularly warm afternoon for September, and James finds that he is unable to concentrate on his work. He has some thoughts he would like to share with someone, but there is no one. They are not particularly scientific thoughts, and therefore he does not feel his colleagues are appropriate. There is Sue, his secretary, but he thinks she would only be confused if he suddenly spoke to her in a casual manner. Besides, his thoughts are unformed, chaotic. They are just general things, hazy observations on the yellow aspen trees dotting the mountain outside his window, the way the moon was so round and orange in the sky the other night.

Since there is no one, he tries to dismiss these thoughts from his mind, but finds he can’t seem to return to his lecture notes. Finally, he sits back in his chair, and gazes outside the window.

With a jolt of shock, he observes that girls are parading by.

Every fall, he is surprised by the sight. They burst onto campus, cheeks rosy in the pale autumn sun. One moment you're spotting piles of leaves that need to be raked and bagged (a chore he yearly performs with resignation), and in the next they appear: the most eloquent array of beautiful young women.

Some have straight black hair tucked earnestly behind their ears. Others are blond and slender-hipped, wearing cotton sweaters, arms loaded with books.

So many sure-footed, confident, fine-looking women, striding toward secure, bright futures, faces glowing in the sun.

He sees a particularly nice one now, a tall girl with pale skin and curly, sandy-blond hair.  Except, no, she's different. Less certain than the rest, and oddly out of place, though he can't pinpoint why.  Perhaps it’s because she is slightly older than the others, and walking with a thin little boy, who he is just now noticing.  Perhaps it is her eyes, which stare out at the world anxiously, as though expecting to be told she is doing something incorrectly.  Her clothing looks new, but all wrong.  Too bright, and inexpensive fabrics, like something from a discount store.

Then he realizes. It's her. The woman he turned down for the job.

For some reason, he watches her progress across the courtyard, feeling unnerved.  She makes him uncomfortable, though he couldn't say why. He doesn't like watching her, and yet, he can't quite bring himself to look away.

At one point, she reaches down, taking the little boy's hand.

He stares until she has disappeared. Sad in her cheap clothes, she and the little boy walking alone.

On Saturday mornings, Witten likes to dine at the Marlow Café. They hold a booth near the window for him, and it's sunny and cheerful and (most importantly) very clean.

He finds it comforting that the wait staff always remembers what he wants: two eggs over easy, coffee, toast, orange juice.

He's paying his check when he hears a familiar voice, and turns. It's that woman, the one with the curly hair. "I was wondering if you were hiring," she is asking. "I can do anything. Waitress, dishwasher, hostess, whatever you need."

"How versatile," the hostess says, and laughs. "But we don't have any openings. Try again in a couple of months."

"Thank you," the woman says politely, and turns to walk away.

Witten stands, holding his change, watching her go.  He watches her for several steps until she is out the door and has collected her little boy, who was waiting for her on a bench outside the restaurant.  Then, without knowing what he is doing, he finds himself walking toward her.  Hurrying, so that he can catch her before she walks away.

"Excuse me," he says. "I believe we've met. I'm Professor Witten.  You applied for a job in my office?"  He purposely inflected ‘office’ to falsely indicate uncertainty.

"Oh, hi," she says, smiling in such a way that, he swears, her eyes appear to be smiling too.

For a moment he is disarmed.  He has no idea what he intended to tell her; he is staring into her eyes, watching the unguarded way she looks back at him. He's never seen eyes so open, so vulnerable.

Finally, he says, "I'm sorry I wasn't able to give you the job. You seemed highly qualified, but my former secretary returned."

"Oh," the woman shrugs. "That's okay."

"Are you still looking for a typing position?" he asks. "Because I may know of someone who is hiring, at the university."

"Oh really?" she asks, eyes brightening a step more.  "That would be so nice. I'd really appreciate it. I'd love to work there. I always wanted to go to the university, as a student, I mean, but it never really worked out.”  She paused.  “Well, see, I had Joey here, he was a big surprise, let me tell you, before I even graduated from high school."  She paused, looked back at him. "I'm babbling. Stop me when I do that."

"It's okay," he tells her. "I like it."

            "You do?" she asks.

"Yes," he says, surprising himself with the truth of it. "I do."

Her name was Sarah Collins. Sarah. It rolled nicely on his tongue. It suited her, he thought.

The next night, Witten finds himself at a party.  A yearly bash thrown by his department head to kick off the new academic term, but hardly mandatory.  Normally he avoids parties. So many people, so close up, bumping against you, drinking too much. Telling you things you never wanted to know about their personal lives.

He's not really sure why he's gone. Until suddenly he finds himself talking to his co-workers. Asking, does anyone here need a secretary?

Witten waits for Sarah near the fountain on campus, a cup of coffee in his hand. It’s a windy day, but warm, a nice day in April.  Around him, the women march by, going to class, going to work, looking certain about their lives.  Each year, he thinks, they grow more professional and determined, more beautiful.

In winter, he often caught sight of one in a red scarf and blue boots, punching her way through the crusty snow on unpaved walkways. And now that it’s spring, a few emerge in soft dresses, bare arms chilly in the wind.

When Sarah appears, sandy-blond whirling about her head in a cloud of curls, he smiles and hands her the coffee.

"Oh thank you," she says, kissing him lightly. "You didn't have to get me this."

"I don't mind. I know you need your coffee in the mornings." And while she sips it, he asks, "How is Joey?"

"Adjusting. New school and, you know, everything." She smiles at him, happily.

A thought pops into his mind, and without thinking too carefully, he asks her the following: "Have you ever noticed how determined everyone is today? How all these people seem to know exactly what they want, and how they are going to get it?"

"I know," she says. "The certainty of others, well, it confuses me. I never know what I'm doing. Do you know what I mean?"

"Yes," he says, taking her hand. "I know exactly what you mean."