Ship of Fools

Mike ruined everything when he referred to us as the ship of fools.

I put my early fear aside and laughed with the others. Bob Seger was in the room, so there was a slight possibility that the deeper significance might not settle anywhere. Still, I wanted him to take it back and never again suggest a name for that puppy; we couldn’t keep it and I wasn’t ready to let it go. Not even close.

The laughter stopped short, too soon for legitimate replacement emotions, too late to pretend nothing had happened. Mike slouched back in the chair and braided his fingers around his beer bottle. The four of us locked in a silent group stare at nothing. My hope sank as I watched him roll the rounded edge of the bottle on the table, aware that the others couldn’t look away either, and frightened by what that meant.

The name settled in hearts that would break now, when our puppy walked away. Determined to ride out every last second, I dared not be the first to move and end it all. I willed my bladder into submission, swallowed a sneeze, controlled my breathing, and snuggled up to the warmth of our fraying connection.

Collective passion for separate, sometimes conflicting dreams had united us, even when scattered to opposite corners in crowded places. Appreciation of the unspoken hunger we shared had bound us, like the rope that secures toddlers on a field trip. Only, our tie had been invisible, even to us.

Until Mike named it.

A-non-y-mouse Smiles

For the first time in my life, I couldn't force a smile. I had been through most of it before, just never so many things at once. And the one thing I hadn't experienced before was worse than all the others combined.

The kids were two and thirteen; that alone was enough to warp a smile. I was recovering from surgery, working full time, going to school three nights a week, doing my best to ignore the ugliness of the divorce proceedings, selling the house I had worked so hard on and loved, and watching my father die.

Friends noticed before I did. The engineers on the other side of my office window drew cartoons and placed them on my side of their blinds. Doctors checked me for physical symptoms when they came in to work with me, and the girls in the cath lab invited me up for watermelon. I turned up the corners of my mouth, but didn't convince anyone.

Cheryl placed my mail in the basket one morning and dropped an unopened envelope on the desk. It looked like a greeting card, but my birthday was months away. I couldn't imagine anyone sending a card to the office anyway. I slit the flap, expecting a creative seminar invitation.

It was a greeting card. The outside read Noticed you lost your smile, and the inside, So I'm sending you one of mine. It was signed A-nony-mouse. It worked. I stood the card on a shelf and smiled each time I looked at it.

Similar cards arrived every day that week. No one admitted having any idea who had sent them. I watched for guilty eyes and smiles but found none.

On Friday, a sizeable audience had gathered to watch me open my card. I laughed, and said the greetings were nice but flowers would be better.

A single flower arrived on Monday. I was embarrassed, and positive A-nony-mouse worked somewhere near me. I thanked everyone I passed that day. No one took responsibility. Finally, I told Cheryl the flower made me uncomfortable and asked her to spread the word.

Everything returned to normal, until Friday. Six flowers arrived late that afternoon. I laughed, thanked everyone again, and still they denied sending anything.

Flowers came every day the next week. Word got around and I attracted visitors from other departments. Everyone agreed that A-nony-mouse was quite the nice person, but no one had any idea who he might be. On Friday, I upped the ante. I said flowers and cards were nice, but diamonds would be better.

You guessed it. My co-workers liked me, but not that much. When I let them know this gift scared me, they understood. Not only did they promise they weren't responsible, they tried to help me find A-nony-mouse. The florist wouldn't budge, and I had no way to track anything else.

I almost went straight home that evening, but decided at the last minute I needed to unload on the shoulder of the classmate who also came from work and had thirty minutes to kill before class. He had the matching earring. Apparently, I had told him more than I realized.

We Don't Share Crayons

I believe every child deserves a special, never-have-to-share toy. House rule said this toy stayed out of sight when friends come around. Jessica chose crayons as her non-share toy, over Stephanie, the doll who shared her skin color and went everywhere she did.

This might have seemed odd to anyone who didn't know she owned the special one-hundred-twenty pack with the plastic trays and individual holes for each crayon. Or, that her mother hoarded her own box, although she had the measly sixty-four pack with cardboard holders.

Stephanie and the crayons survived college and returned home with Jessica. I discovered this the day I came in with a new stack of coloring books and she, her little sister, and I each ran to our rooms to get our crayons. We laughed as we gathered around the dining room table and they teased me for having my own stash.

"I am not the only adult with crayons," I argued, picking up the phone to prove that was true. I dialed my neighbor, grinning at the girls when Tracey assured me she had her own crayons. "Bring them over," I said. "I bought new coloring books."

Tracey wrestled an eighteen-gallon storage container through the door and placed it on the floor beside her chair. She pulled off the lid off, revealing every crayon, marker, and colored pencil on the market.

My younger daughter giggled as Tracey pulled her favorites from the bin and lined them on the table. "I bet those belong to Dustin and Kristin."

"Hell no," Tracey answered. "They aren't allowed to touch these." While Tracey looked through the new books, my daughters eyed my sixty-four box of crayons and me with new appreciation.

My cousin Dana dropped by a few days later. The girls mentioned our coloring party and she wanted to know why we hadn't called her.

"Do you have your own crayons?" I asked. "We share books, but not crayons."

Dana rolled her eyes. "Of course I have my own crayons."

We scheduled a coloring party with Dana on the following Monday, and invited Tracey. The following week, we put the leaf in the table when one of Jessica's friends joined us, and we spilled over to the kitchen table the week after that when the friend and the cousin brought extras.

For months, we had our adult coloring party every Monday evening. I found out most of my friends had their own crayons, and that one had nearly died of embarrassment when her son told his teacher she wouldn't let him borrow her crayons for his homework.

One Monday night, a friend called and invited me to play Scrabble. Much as I love Scrabble, I told him I was in the middle of my weekly coloring party but he was welcome to join us, if he had his own box of crayons. He didn't have crayons, but drove over anyway. We didn't share.

Maybe it's something only women do? I'm curious now to know if any men have their own crayons.