Like Nothing Happened Dennis Lawson
It’s an hour drive from our office in Wilmington down to Dover, and my colleagues wanted to carpool, so I’m praying something goes wrong. Getting pulled over speeding is the most likely possibility—lots of state cops patrol Route 1, snagging cars that are just over the speed limit. Maybe John could suddenly feel ill and cancel the whole thing. He’s the owner and founder of the firm, but he’s on his way out. He’s finally retiring in a few months. He’s sitting in front of me, in the passenger seat. Harris, my boss, is driving his leased BMW. The back seat is uncomfortable. It’s raining outside. Everyone on Route 1 is driving sensibly, including Harris, except for this little Kia that passed us a little while ago. And then, there it is, pulled over on the side, with a cop standing in the rain at the passenger’s window. Harris slows down to fifty-five as we go by. I’m stuck here. The good thing is, I’ve taken the afternoon off. I knew this morning would be exhausting. I can maintain my friendly, charming, professional face for only so long before I can’t do it any more. This is an hour down, probably at least an hour meeting, and then an hour back up. My only saving grace is that Harris has an early afternoon meeting, so we can’t do lunch. “See that, Thomas?” John says. “That’s what I was talking about. As soon as I saw that little heap fly by, I knew he was a goner.” “He had an appointment in Samarra,” I want to say, but that’s too weird for these two. “Especially in this rain,” I say instead. A lot of people in business question the value of the arts. I learned to act in the theater club in school. If not for that, how would I be able to act like a normal person?
he can’t keep up with the present. We recently lost a client because, at an event, John took credit for some creative that the client had actually designed in-house. The conversation got back to the client. Finally a staffer leads us into a conference room, and then the Director and two more of her staff members join us. All women. I can already hear John complaining about it. On the way home, he’s going to say that it used to be that you’d sit down with some government guys at Fraizer’s Restaurant, have some beers, and hash out a contract. We would’ve been better off bringing John’s wife. She’s number three for him. She’d been previously divorced herself, and she went into this marriage with eyes wide open. She has a fun sort of cynicism about her. I used to flirt with her at staff parties. She ignores me now. The Archives staff has all sorts of insightful questions that we’re not remotely ready for. At some point, I tell a lie about doing research there in college, for no other reason than to make it seem like we aren’t completely clueless. As we’re walking out of the building, a young woman comes striding in. She’s a tall, thin redhead in a long black coat and black rain boots. I hold the door open for her, and she doesn’t acknowledge me. I recognize her from somewhere, but I can’t put my finger on it. “Let’s get out of here,” John says. In the car, Harris tries to put a positive spin on things. He says that the Division of Arts has just put a request out, and that we’ll have a better idea of what state agencies are looking for in the “present climate.” I want to tune them out and figure out how I know that redhead. But I know that if I do that, I’ll end up staring out the window and seeming like a nutty spacecase. So I force myself to make occasional contributions to the conversation. I’m going to drop dead if I don’t have some coffee.
Delaware’s Public Archives are in a large brick building with a striking, glassy cylindrical façade. We’re there to deliver a presentation on a potential marketing campaign. The Division of Archives had put out a request for proposals, and John thinks it’s going to be easy pickings. We hurry in to get out of the rain. Harris signs in for us, and the girl at the desk tells him that it’s going to be a few minutes. I walk around and look at the current displays. It turns out that the Director of the Archives has a meeting with the Chief Deputy Secretary of State, and it’s going long. Harris and I should’ve spent more time on the presentation. At the same time, I like it when John is revealed to be out of touch. He thinks he can just bank on his past reputation, but
Harris and I chat for a few minutes at the office and then he takes off. I go through my emails while eating lunch at my desk. Then I’m out. I stop at Dunkin Donuts for a coffee. The weather has improved, slightly. The rain has stopped, leaving us with a miserable, gray December day. Maybe my therapist will brighten things up. I have a one-thirty appointment. I hop onto the highway because it’s the quickest way to North Wilmington. Right now I’m driving a black Acura. I prefer the feel of my previous car, a V6 Accord, but the Acura has better
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