Gandhi's Guide to Getting By

chapter five

Matt is outside.

Matt is outside is all I can think about as I stand squished in the elevator with ten other people. I tell myself to think of something else. I ORDER myself to think of something else.Someone pushes me from behind and mumbles "excuse me". I move over to make more room and catch a glimpse of my reflection on the elevator's mirrored back wall.

"Oh God," I say out loud before I can stop myself.

"It's the lights," the woman next to me says. "Don't worry, you don't look as bad as you think you do. It's this yellow light that makes the bags underneath your eyes look more pronounced and the pimple on your forehead--" The woman stops. "Really," she says, "You look great."

"Actually," a second woman says, "She looks like she's going to kill you."

"No, really," I hear myself saying, "It's fine."

"Personally," the second woman says, "I think it's great you don't wear any make-up."

"Oh oh," the first woman says, "Looks like it's you she wants to now kill."

We're at the lobby. The elevator empties. The two women with the big mouths hurry their way down the lobby. One even glances back. I don't know what she expects to see. Me with an axe running up behind her?

"Are you going back up?" An older man asks as he gets in.

"Oh," I say as I get out, "Sorry, guess I got lost in my thoughts."

"Thoughts are good," he says, "By the look on your face, I'd say they were pretty serious thoughts." 

Oh yeah, they're serious alright... I'm not wearing any make-up, I've got bags underneath my eyes, and as if that isn't mind-boggling enough, I have a pimple on my forehead.

So now I've got the pimple on my forehead foremost on my mind. I tell myself to think about world hunger, poverty, global warming. Awful, really awful but not as awful as the pimple on my forehead, and the bags underneath my eyes, and what self-respecting woman walks out of the house without ANY make-up. World poverty, I tell myself, global warming, what about the novel I'm reading? Forget it. It's back to who the hell gets pimples at twenty-four? Oh, and the fact that Matt is outside.

Another text - this one from Stella who needs me to meet her RIGHT NOW at ChiChi's for lunch.

ChiChi's? I text back. I push open the oversized door and step into the heat of the outside.

Yes, ChiChi's

How'd you swing that? Didn't I just read that ChiChi's is the newest "in" place in town, i.e., don't bother going unles you're a somebody, or, at the very least, glued to a somebody. A long text, I know, but it's important I look busy because what if Matt is watching. For all he knows, I'm texting a colleague over at the Young office about implementing a new housing law. For all he knows, the reason I have a pimple on my forehead, bags underneath my eyes, and no make-up on is because I have been up all night re-wording a housing law which is about to gain nation-wide prominence.

Don't ask. Hannah and Bibs here too.

Bibs???

Rosetta's new name 4 girlfriend. beyond idiotic boobs sextoy. Just cab it here!!!!

Oh yeah, some real serious texting going on in my life at the moment. Almost as serious as the thoughts in my head.

Not sure if I have enough time for lunch, I text.

A lie. The truth is I have two hours to kill before I head to Young's office. Usually I just get a sandwich at a café nearby. The café is on a side-sidestreet which means enough people overlook it to ensure an empty table where I can sit and work on my novel-in-progress. It's the kind of unassuming, artsy place where I can sit and work for as long as I like although lately I'm beginning to suspect the owner's slipping some sort of hallucinatory drug into the food. Twice I've caught myself thinking my novel is going to catapult me to fame. There was one time where I actually envisioned myself as a creative guru, a renowned literary visionary whose picture illuminated the cover of Time Magazine. The One Who Understood The Value of an English Lit Degree, the caption read.