November Surprise (6 page)

Then she walks back towards me, and we continue this routine
for several blocks. We talk about nothing.

It’s Sharon who breaks the silence. “Maybe it would help if
I could understand why this is so important to you.”

I think for a moment. I can’t always explain it to myself,
let alone to her. “I like to believe in the good in people. All the things he
wants to do, like funding education and giving everyone an equal opportunity,
it makes me hopeful.”

“So it’s not the economy, Stupid?” Sharon laughs at her own
joke and tosses her hair back.

“Nice,” I say, in reference to her take on Clinton’s
unofficial campaign slogan.

“Do you think he’ll actually keep his promises?” She asks
this without attitude, but as a simple question.

“I hope so.”

We keep walking. After a moment Sharon says, “I have ideals
too, you know. I believe in self-enterprise. I’ve worked for everything I have,
and that’s been
good
for me.”

“Okay…”

“And I’m not evil, just because I happen to be a
Republican.”

I put my last flier underneath the windshield of a Subaru.
My fingers feel like they’ll never thaw. “I know. Sorry if I made you feel that
way. And thank you, for tonight.”

Sharon acts as if she hasn’t heard me, and moves up to a
house and secures her last flier to the door handle. I notice how graceful she
is, which contradicts her height and frame, both being on the large size. I’ve
always envied her confident way of moving and talking, as if there’s never any
doubt that the world will embrace her.

She meets me back down on the sidewalk. “I suppose I’m a
little jealous.”

“Of what?”

“I like banking,” she says. “But I don’t love it. I’ve never
had anything I love as much as you love this.”

I smile and she smiles back. We call a silent truce.

“Speaking of love, isn’t Bryce waiting for you?”

“Yeah.” I hate to leave her, to leave this moment.

“So you should go. It’s late, and I really should get home
and go to sleep.”

I reach out and grab her in a
hug. She hugs me back, and we walk back to our cars.

Later I’m lying beside Bryce as he gently snores; the cold
of the evening was forgotten after the warmth of the covers and Bryce’s arms
erased it from my consciousness. But sleep remains elusive. I get up and move
into the living room, where I find a brown blanket knitted by Bryce’s
grandmother and wrap it around me. I turn on CNN. Clinton is waving at the
camera, and then they cut to a commercial.

On it, a cheesy song about “nothing getting to you” and “being
fresh and full of life” plays. Meanwhile, a pretty blonde wearing heels walks
down the street. A businessman is sitting at an outdoor café, checking her out,
when all of a sudden, her heel breaks. Does she freak out? No, she just pops a
Mentos into her mouth. Then she snaps the heels off both her shoes so they
become ballet flats. The businessman is impressed. She continues walking,
feeling confident and sexy. No doubt she has great breath too.

I wish real life was that easy. If I could figure out all my
problems by popping a Mentos into my mouth, I’d buy a ton.

My mind wanders to tonight’s excursion with Sharon, and her
underhanded insults of my boyfriend. If I wasn’t so happy that the tension
between Sharon and me has now dissipated, I’d take issue with what she said.
But as it is, I merely sit and stew.

Should I break up with
Bryce?

He’s good to me. Almost exactly four years ago I was sure I
would never trust any man enough to feel safe, and now here I am, confident
that Bryce will never hurt me.

When CNN returns, they’ve switched to financial news. A
chirpy blonde reporter who I don’t recognize states that the Dow jumped
thirty-six points today. She attributes the gain to people's confidence from
weekend polls, projecting a Clinton victory.

More good news, but it’s like mumbling heard from another
room. I can scarcely attach meaning to any of it.
What is wrong with me?

I wrap the blanket more tightly around myself, and shiver
although I’m perfectly warm. What if Bush wins after all? There have been upsets
before. Maybe this is all just too good to be true, and my bubble will pop
tomorrow evening when the returns are reported.

Or, what if Clinton wins, and I wake up the next day, just
as flawed and confused as I’ve always been? Either way, I’ll still have a
relationship that I don’t know what to do with.

With a sigh I settle into the couch, laying my head against
the pillow, trying to get comfortable. I channel surf for a while, and find
reruns of
The Fresh Prince of Bel Air
.
I watch for a few minutes, but it does nothing to calm my nerves or lull me to
sleep, so I return to CNN. After a while even they aren’t reporting anything
other than recycled news stories I’ve already seen.

At some point my eyelids grow heavy, and I’m sort of
conscious of the fact that I’m pressing the off-switch on the television, and
rolling over to sleep on the couch, which is where Bryce finds me when he gets
up the next morning.

His stirring around in the kitchen wakes me, and I sit up
and stretch while he makes his morning coffee. When I wander towards him he
raises an eyebrow at me.

“Was it something I said?”

“No.” I arch my neck and roll my shoulders, trying to relax
a knot of tension that formed over night. “I just couldn’t sleep.”

“Was I snoring again?”

I shake my head no and hop up to sit on the kitchen counter,
so now I’m looking down at him. “Well, yeah, you sort of were. But that wasn’t
it. I just couldn’t get comfortable. My mind kept racing.”

Bryce shrugs his shoulders, and that signals the end of the
conversation, or at least that he’s satisfied with my answer. Adrian, his
roommate and my classmate, emerges from his room and joins us in the kitchen.
He gives me a one-eyed squint.

“Are you voting before or after class?” he asks.

“Neither. I volunteered to work the polls from five to nine,
so I’m going to get there early and vote right before my shift.”

He nods his head. “And the party?”

Adrian is referring to the “victory” party all the College
Democrats were invited to, at least all the ones who volunteered for the campaign.
All the local Democrats who are running for office this year, whether for state
representative, U.S Congress, or mayor, are putting it on jointly.

“I’m going after the polls close. You?”

“Yeah.” Adrian scratches his head and looks toward Bryce.
“Coffee ready?”

“Almost,” Bryce answers.

Adrian sighs and walks toward the bathroom, scratching his
butt as he goes. With nothing but his boxers on, his beer belly hanging out and
his hair sticking out in tufts, he makes quite the sight. We watch him go, and
when the door is closed safely behind him, Bryce laughs and shakes his head.

“Dude says he wants to be a politician. He’s going to need
to work on his image.”

“Or just personal polish in general.”

Bryce laughs in agreement, and now I peer at him through
discerning eyes. He has a lean, muscular frame and his features are as even as
if one side of his face was the mirror image of itself. He’s undeniably
beautiful, even before his daily shower or first cup of coffee.

And that makes my stomach turn again, just like it did last
night when I couldn’t sleep.

“Bryce,” I say. “Have you thought much about what you want…”

“…to do after graduation?” He finishes my sentence for me
and gives me an “are you an alien” sort of look, communicating both disbelief
and indignation that I would ask such a thing.

“Did sleeping under my grandmother’s blanket make you turn
into her?”

I laugh, and try to sound nonchalant. “No. I was just
wondering if you have a plan.”

He reaches for a mug and pours himself some coffee, then
returns the pot to the brewer without offering me any. “My plan is to play it
by ear. Literally. I want to see if I can make it musically.”

I shift my weight on the counter. “But how…”

“…am I going to make money?” He takes his first sip and
swallows. “Lucy, haven’t we had this conversation already?”

I don’t respond. He steps in closer to me. “I’m pretty sure
we’ve been over this before. Now, can you chill out? It’s too early in the
morning to be stressing.”

I’m actually sure we haven’t had this conversation, which
must mean he’s had it before, with someone else, possibly a past girlfriend.
But I’m not up for picking a fight.

“Sorry,” I say, and I brush a lock of his hair off his
forehead. He kisses me. It’s the kind of kiss that could lead to more, but I’m
not in the mood for that.

I gently push him away and hop down from the counter. “I
have to go,” I say. “Today’s a big day, and I need to go get ready.”

Bryce shrugs his shoulders again, clearly not upset by my
hasty departure. “I’ll catch up with you later.”

“Yup,” I say. I go back into his bedroom, find my jeans and
pull them on, and then I fish a scrunchy from my pocket and tie back my unruly
mane of hair into a messy bun. On my way out of the apartment I call to Bryce,
“Don’t forget to vote!”

“Yeah, yeah,” he says.

The day crawls by.

The truth is, there isn’t that much to do except wait. I go
to my morning class, and afterwards I return to my apartment and take a nap. In
the afternoon I watch more CNN, but there isn’t much they can say yet.

Before my evening shift of working the polls, I call Bryce.
He’s not home, so the best I can do is leave a message.

“Hey, it’s me. You should come vote while I’m working. Then
you could stick around and go with me to the victory party. So… hopefully I’ll
see you. Okay. Bye.” Suddenly I’m worried that I sound needy, which is strange,
because it’s the opposite of how I feel. Oh well. You can’t undo voice mail.

Later, Sharon comes in while I’m working, and as I check off
her name and hand her the ballot, I do so with flourish, using both hands,
acting as if I’m bestowing her something.

She smirks.

“Are you sure you want to give this to me?”

“No, but legally I have to.” I smile and she disappears into
a voting booth. Moments later, on her way out, she approaches me again. She
nods towards the other volunteers, who are mostly women in their eighties.

“Are any of them going to the party with you tonight?”

“Definitely. They can hit on all the college guys. It will
be like a reverse Woody Allen/Soon-Yi type of deal.”

“Nice.” Sharon looks me up and down, inspecting my outfit.
“And is that what you’re going to wear?”

I have on my floral mini-dress with leggings and Doc
Martens. “What’s wrong with it?” I ask.

“Nothing,” Sharon says with a straight face. “But don’t
expect to pick anyone up tonight, because they…” Sharon nods back towards the
eightyish volunteers, “…are all dressed more sexily than you.”

I wad up a piece of scrap paper and throw it at her. “Very
funny. I’m not looking to pick anyone up, anyway. I have a boyfriend,
remember?”

The mere thought of Bryce brings back all my anxiety. My
face must betray my emotions, because I don’t have to say anything more.
“What’s wrong?” Sharon asks.

“Bryce hasn’t shown up yet,” I tell her. “And I’m not sure I
care.”

She pats me on the shoulder. “Don’t let him ruin this for
you, whether he shows up or not. Deal with it tomorrow. Okay?”

Her face is so sweet and sincere, and I am reminded of how
she is always taking care of me. It’s probably time that I start taking care of
myself.

A latecomer voter is walking up
to me; Sharon will have to step aside. Partly to end the conversation, and
partly because I mean it, I say, “Thanks Sharon. I promise I’ll deal with it
tomorrow.”

Finally, just as the polls are about to close, I grab my own
ballot and go behind the curtain to the voting booth.

It’s my first time voting for president.

One of my first memories of watching television was back in
November 1976. I was five years old, and a man with a huge, toothy grin was
waving at an audience. I asked my mom, “Why is that man so happy?”

“He was just elected president,” she said. “Wouldn’t you be
happy too?”

Of course, the man in question was Jimmy Carter, and we all
know how that turned out. At the time, I didn’t really understand what being
president meant, but I figured it must be something wonderful. From then on,
whenever my parents talked politics, which was quite often, I paid attention.
And now, finally, I get to vote for president. My senses feel heightened; the
buzz from the radiator sounds very loud, and the dark blue ink against the
white ballot presents a vivid contrast.

My chest is thumping as I fill in the circles for
Clinton/Gore. Wow. It’s like I’m losing my virginity all over again. Voting for
senator and governor two years ago was like going to third base, and now I’m
losing my
civic
virginity, by voting
for Bill Clinton. After I fill in the circles for the other Democrats running
for office that year, I exit and hand in my ballot. Then I help shut things
down, and grab a ride from a College Democrat coworker to the victory party.

It’s not until I’m at the party, mingling with other College
Democrats and talking with puffed up candidates that I let it sink in: Bryce
never came by to vote.

I bet he didn’t vote at all.

I consider finding a payphone, calling him, imploring him to
come join me at the party. But a fleeting moment of desire to do so gives way
to the knowledge that if I did, the evening would feel forced. I wouldn’t be
taking care of myself and I would be taking care of him, and I’d waste my time
trying to entertain rather than simply having fun.

My indecision is settled by a collective whoop from the
crowd. I glance up at the television screen above me. Dan Rather is saying that
CBS news has now projected Bill Clinton as the winner of the 1992 election.