OYM Day 93: Sierra — Pt. 3
I should have said no. The amount of red flags were enough to start a parade, but sure enough, the following evening I found myself in my bathrobe, staring at my closet, wondering who to be this time. Sometimes I hate that my curiosity overtakes my better judgement. Sure, I have a lot of stories, but I have to get through the experiences first, and that’s not always easy. In fact, it rarely is. And I wonder why I struggle with anxiety…
I picked out my outfit. This time I wore all black. Black jeans, a loose black top, and my favorite black boots. The restaurant chosen by “the popular table” was upscale, with white table linens, low lighting, and the occasional local celebrity sighting. It was a sharp departure from the bowling alley. I wondered if the masterminds of the group corralled women at the bowling alley, assessed each one based on some pre-arranged scale, and then added up scores. The one they liked most would be invited to the slaughter house — I mean, popular table. With this thought, I dressed for my funeral.
I pulled up and had my car valeted, because I couldn’t find a spot. I handed over my car keys and my chances of running for the door and escaping in a split second diminished.
The restaurant bar was packed and I could tell from the candle glow of the tables and buckets of champagne resting throughout the dining room floor, I was going to spend at least $100 having a horrible night. I saw Sierra sitting at a table with 2 other women,one with blonde hair and one with black. They looked like an angel and devil on either of her shoulders, but beautiful and perfectly groomed. One thing I’ve noticed here in Somerset is that the women never look over the top in a way that exudes comfort and privilege. In fact, the ones that are the most well off often show up to places like they decided to attend on a whim. Their makeup could be refreshed, they could use a nap, maybe a stylist. But their earlobes sagged with diamonds and they hired someone and outsourced every daily task that they could, like little, helpless baby birds.
Sierra waved me over to the table and I wished I’d taken a shot of tequila before leaving the house. It’s not that I can’t handle social situations or meeting new people. I enjoy parties and deep conversations, even board games and dance offs. I’m usually the first to make a fool of myself and typically leave with plans to see people again the next day. But this usually happens, because well… I’m weird and there’s a science to it. I try not to judge, I talk to everyone, and have a habit of making myself vulnerable regularly so that people feel they can open up to me, too. I believe that humans are good at heart. I think love is the answer to every problem. I think laughing is the closest we get to enlightenment. I just believe in human connection. And I’m also weird.
Walking over to the dark corner of the restaurant where 3 strangers sat drinking vodka martinis, I felt my little parade of red flags marching in time. I didn’t fit in here, or with them. But here I was and there they were.
“Casey! Hey girl! Sit, sit. We just ordered muscles and a round of drinks. Vodka on the rocks, right?”
How did she remember?!
“Oh, sounds great. And yes, thank you.”
One of the women, Amber, had just come back from her vacation home in Tahoe. We were welcome to use it whenever we’d like, she said. She was married to an Air Force pilot and kept checking her phone so she could view the house cameras and see what her golden doodle was up to. She planned to open a small vintage boutique in Somerset. Things like that never did well in the area, I knew, because when I tried to find them they were all out of business. People in Somerset didn’t like used. They liked new. Sparkly, plastic, and new.
The other woman, Laurel, was from California, but moved to Vegas a few years ago when her husband was transferred for work. Nothing in Vegas came close to California, I learned, as she said it about 100 times. Her parents were upset that she didn’t plan to have kids and she was having a bad day because the remote-start on her Lexus was acting up.
Amber and Laurel didn’t strike me as particularly awful, but Sierra made up for it.
“I went to my husbands office today to drop off some boxes of paperwork and I had the worst run-in with his new secretary. I told him he couldn’t hire anyone remotely attractive and trust me, he was listening. She’s this big fat woman with an attitude. Honestly, I think she’s a dyke. And she was so rude to me! She had no idea I was his wife! And if that’s how she is talking to his patients, we are going to start losing them! That dumb dyke!”
My eyes were wide and I sat there, like a person that witnessed a fountain of stupid overflow into a carpeted room. The name calling threw me and it had been so long since I sat across the table from an openly homophobic person. And she didn’t stop.
“I’m going to get that dyke fired. She deserves it.”
She took a sip of her drink and just then I noticed a hair growing out of a mole on her neck.
“Ok, ok, but what exactly did she do to deserve it? What do you mean by her attitude?” I said.
“I came in and she asked if I had an appointment and I just laughed at her! Like, hello! I’m the surgeon’s wife! And she rolled her eyes at me! Can you believe that? She had to page my husband in back to come out and verify I was who I said I was!”
I waited for more, but she was done. None of what she said seemed like a fire-able offense.
“I don’t think you can fire her for that,” I said. “She was just doing her job and being safe.”
“She can’t talk to me that way. I’m going to get her fired. I’ll just say she came on to me.”
I thought I might leap over the table and hit her. To this day, I wish I had. Instead, I let the heat of rage chew a hole in my stomach. Was everyone in this town like her? I looked around the room, full of human sized cockroaches. Saliva hurtled up the back of my throat.
Amber spoke.
“Casey, are you okay? Your face has gone white.”
“My name is Cassie. Stop calling me Casey. And I don’t think calling people ‘dyke’ is okay. Same goes for making up sexual harassment claims. How could do that and sleep at night? Or live with yourself? Something tells me you wouldn’t have a problem doing either and that just…it makes me sick. Literally, I think I’m going to be sick.”
“I make you sick?” Sierra laughed. “I’m only joking!”
“I’m sorry, but your sense of humor sucks,” I said. “I hope she sues. Because she could sue, you know. Tell her if she needs a lawyer, my husband is great.”
Hooray! I finally had a turn to speak about my husband! Because I’m not a person, right?
I pushed away my vodka on the rocks and told them to get home safely. I didn’t really mean it, though. I was only joking!
She spoke something to the back of my head as I was leaving, but I couldn’t hear her. Maybe she called me a dyke. Maybe she apologized. But I took my chances and told her, loudly, to go get fucked. I thought it would make a good ending to a good story.
And so it did.
