Poison and Pearls
A smug little roach; she sat there proper in her pearls and pink pastels, knees crossed smartly at the lightly ruffled hemline and her sharply heeled right foot ticking up and down in the rhythm of one who thinks she’s better than everyone (but secretly has her doubts). I hated her before we were introduced. The empty wooden chair to her right was the only vacancy, which I – for loss of knowing anyone else – fool heartedly occupied. “How do you know…”, “How do you know…” the games began and the fight was on.
Her story belied her humble beginnings, but she wore them as a badge of honor: “We met doing extra work…back in the day.” A statement allowing vulnerability? No, she wanted to convey she worked the ranks, struggled and strove, fought the good fight, emerged triumphant on the other end: back at the studio she was first hired at, at a hefty sum of $54 a day, she now was corporate, a legal aid with a salary, benefits and a 401k. She was the extra with that extra kick of attitude: I know I’m better than this, I know I deserve better than this and I will get better than this.
Like two schoolchildren in the playground, we battled it out – but we fought the way women fight, with a slap of the tongue and a flash of a smile. Were we getting to know each other, or seeing who had the bigger breasts? Nothing to gain from playing the “I’m better than you” game, but we threw our dice nonetheless.
“Blah, blah, blah, testosterone,” said I, “No, chromosome,” quothed she, “Yes, same thing,” threw I, “No, it’s the chromosome,” insisted she. She hadn’t a clue for her defense other than she read it somewhere, so how does one argue with the ill educated? I moved on, tight lipped and ready to bait. A recent accomplishment had graced my life, and I was dying to make her jealous, but without seeming obvious, so I dangled a tidbit without details, knowing anyone would immediately ask, “Tell me more!” She did not. She merely countered with her own past accomplishment, as convoluted a tidbit as mine. I did not ask for details.
We’re 0-0, tied at the race, neck and neck, black and blue. However, anyone passing near would think we’re the best of friends: I grabbed a drink for her, she swiped a cake for me, and we smiled together at a friendly photographer. And the ploy continued. And attempts by others to join our fun were quickly severed with a comment or lack of a comment, a turn of the head or a blatant ignoring.
Unfortunately the fun was cut short when I had to run. My frienemy and I kiss kissed good-buy, see you next time, SO great to meet you, and so forth and so on. We both thought we’d won some war, and she sat there and I walked out – both falsely triumphant.
Walking to my car, I realized I didn’t even say “Happy Birthday” to the birthday boy; my friend’s son - it was his first birthday.
