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Since we’re being honest with each other, I’ll tell you another little secret: I don’t really have any close friends. It’s
pretty embarrassing to admit it, but there you go.
I don’t mean that I don’t have friends . I do have friends. I have three friends from university I still chat to regularly, and a decent amount of high school and
childhood acquaintances I occasionally touch base with. But none of them are close friends. You know the kind I mean. Those magical adult friendships you see in shows and movies, the ones who go to brunch
together and share all their secrets and would help each other bury the body if they killed someone.
None of my university friends live within a thousand kilometers of me, so there’s no chance of brunch dates, and if I killed
someone, the police probably would’ve caught me by the time they showed up. Or the family of the person I killed would have
murdered me for vengeance.
Okay, I’ve taken this to a bit of a dark place.
Sorry about that.
The thing is, if you think about the ways adults make close friends, it’s usually through work or through their kids. Or maybe through some shared interest, like a book club or sport or something, but there just aren’t a lot of opportunities for socialization in Waldon. So when I get customers like Ethel who have to hang around while they wait for a service, I really do enjoy it. Especially when they’re older, which most people in Waldon are. Older people love to have a chat. Most people think it’s boring to listen to them, but that’s probably because they don’t ask the right questions.
You wouldn’t believe what you can learn if you ask the right questions! Like Ethel, for example. She just told me she was
born in 1948, and that she still remembers watching the moon landing with her husband and children in their first home. She
made onion dip and they had Chicken à la King for dinner (no, I don’t know what that is either).
I do some quick math and calculate that she was twenty-one when the moon landing happened. At twenty-one, she had a husband
and children and a home. When I was twenty-one, I’d just broken up with my first serious boyfriend and spent a month drinking
wine in bed and binging Netflix.
Yikes.
Ethel is there for nearly an hour, and I think she enjoys the time as much as I do. She looks disappointed when John returns,
and downright devastated when he says, “You’ll have to come back tomorrow. Suspension’s worn out.”
Ethel stares at him blankly. John never bothers explaining things to customers; he just assumes they know as much about cars
as he does.
“Can you fix it?” she asks.
John nods without looking at her, absently wiping his greasy hands on an even greasier rag. “Not today. Come back tomorrow.”
I almost roll my eyes. Honestly, can’t he say it a bit more apologetically? Poor Ethel’s brow crinkles right up and I just know she’s worrying about missing her bridge club. I’m actually thinking of offering to drive her there myself when she sighs and says, “Oh, well. I suppose I’ll have to go with Shirley or Dotty.”
“Would you like to use our phone to call them?” I ask. “We’ve got a phone book.”
Ethel laughs. “I don’t need a phone book. Their numbers haven’t changed in forty years!”
My smile is a bit hollow as I hand her the cordless phone. Even Ethel has close friends. If she murders someone at bridge
club, Shirley and Dotty will help her bury the body and then drive her back home to share some Chicken à la King.
John disappears back into the garage and another customer comes in to drop their car off. By the time I’m finished with them,
one of Ethel’s friends has pulled in to pick her up. Ethel smiles and thanks me for keeping her company before she goes. I
smile back, but once she’s gone, I settle a bit heavily into my chair.
I desperately need a distraction from my gloomy thoughts, but the shop phone stays silent almost all day and the rest of the
customers hurry in and out without any small talk. Around three, my phone dings with a text. I reach for it gratefully.
[3:06] Mom: Off to New Zealand! Boarding plane now.
Safe flight! I text back.
They’re traveling with another couple, Abe and Ann, and they’ll be gone for six weeks. They’ve known Abe and Ann since before I was born, and now that they’re all retired, they’re going on trips to all sorts of incredible places, Costa Rica and Switzerland and South Africa.
At this rate, I won’t have anyone to hang out with when I’m retired. I’ll have to get a bunch of cats. (Which actually sounds
quite nice, but you can’t take a bunch of cats on vacation to Costa Rica, now can you?)
My phone dings again in my hand.
[3:08] Mom: Your father is asking if you’ve heard anything from that film studio in Calgary?
My stomach twists unpleasantly.
[3:08]: Nothing yet!
[3:09]: Could be a while
This is a slight lie. I applied for an internship at this small independent film studio a few weeks ago, and about a week
later, I got a rejection. But I’d already told my parents all about it, and how I thought it might be the perfect stepping
stone into the industry because the posting specifically said, “People of all experience levels encouraged to apply!”
[3:09] Mom: Hopefully you’ll hear soon!
[3:09] Mom: Going on airplane mode now. Love you!
[3:09]: Love you too!
I put down my phone with a sigh. I should really stop telling my parents about all the jobs I apply for, but I don’t want them to think I’ve given up trying. They’ve never once told me they’re disappointed in how my life’s turned out, but I think deep down, they sort of are.
Like, there was this one time when I accidentally overheard my mom talking to one of her friends in the kitchen, and her friend
said something like, “What’s Emily up to these days? Still doing fill-in jobs?” And when my mother confirmed I was still doing
temp work, her friend clicked her tongue in sort of a regretful way and said, “She was always such a bright girl.”
I don’t remember exactly what my mom said in response—something like, “Oh, she’s just sorting things out”—but I do remember
her tone. Like she secretly sort of agreed. Like she didn’t quite want to admit it, but deep down, she knew I was squandering
my potential.
Which is why I keep telling her and Dad about all the jobs I’m applying for, even though they all end up in rejections. I
am still sorting things out, and I will find my dream job. Someday, my mom’s friend will ask her what I’m up to, and she’ll be able to say, “Oh, Emily? She’s doing
such-and-such. Oh, yes, she absolutely loves it!”
This auto shop job, and Waldon, are only temporary. A stop on the road to my dream job. My dream life . A life where I’m happy and fulfilled and have close friends to share it with.
On impulse, I open the group text between me and my three university friends. The four of us really did have one of those magical friendships you see on TV. We met during frosh week and were basically inseparable for the next four years. Almost every photo I have from university is of the four of us. Squished together on the bleachers cheering on our university hockey team, posing on the library steps wearing matching sequin headbands (we were going through a Gossip Girl phase, all right? And I never said that we were cool). If I’d killed someone in university, they definitely would have helped me bury the body. If they weren’t too hungover from partying the night before, I mean.
We’ve kept in touch since then, but our lives have gone totally different ways. Divya moved back to India for a while and
now lives in Toronto with her fiancé, whom she met in law school. Fallon and her husband started their own company selling
cold-pressed juices and they now have four locations across Canada. And Martha moved to Maine, where her husband is from,
and is pregnant with her third child.
I scroll through our last texts—a debate on whether Martha should name her next child Harold (I voted no; I kept picturing
this creepy old-man baby with wrinkles and a monocle)—and then start to type.
[3:36]: Miss you girls! We should plan a reunion trip sometime soon!
I don’t really have money for a trip right now, but if you book way in advance, you can sometimes get flights from Charlottetown
to Toronto for less than a hundred dollars.
No one answers right away, which isn’t unusual. I take my lunch break at my desk and scroll through information on a degree in classics. I think I can see myself doing that. I really like Roman history. Or at least, I really liked this podcast I listened to last week about Julius Caesar. And I bet you could get a job in an art gallery with a degree in classics. I picture myself striding through a gallery, my hair drawn up in a bun, a long skirt swishing at my ankles, my heels clicking on the marble floors, talking to someone about... whatever art gallery workers talk to each other about.
I’m Googling “What does an art gallery worker do” when my phone dings.
[3:38] Fallon: That would be so fun!
Divya texts a moment later. It’s a GIF of a bunch of girls dancing. I quickly search flight prices on my phone.
[3:39]: Maybe we could all meet in Toronto in September!
[3:40] Fallon: I’ve got the new store opening in Calgary then
[3:40] Fallon: Maybe next year!
[3:41] Divya: I’ll be way too pregnant in September lol
I blink at my phone. Divya’s pregnant?
[3:41] Martha: Omg!!!!!!! Congratulations!!!!!!!!!!!!
I type a little slowly.
[3:41]: Omg! Congrats!
[3:4] Martha: When’s your due date?
[3:4] Divya: September 30
September 30? That means she’s like... five months pregnant, if my mental math is right. I wonder why she hasn’t told us
until now.
[3:43] Fallon: Crazy
[3:43] Martha: Have you found a good birth coach yet??
She and Divya talk about birth coaches for a while (I can’t help picturing an angry hockey coach screaming at the obstetrician
from the side of the hospital bed—“You call that an epidural? I’ll show you an epidural!”), and when that peters off, I try
again.
[3:47]: All the more reason for a reunion trip! We can all come meet the baby!
There’s a minute of silence.
[3:48] Divya: Yeah, maybe!
[3:48] Fallon: That would be fun
[3:49] Martha: Have you found a good preschool Divya?
The preschool talk goes on for a few minutes. I try to stick with the conversation, but I don’t really have anything to add.
As the conversation tails off, I half-heartedly suggest a group video chat sometime, which Divya and Martha agree to so enthusiastically
that I know it will never happen. Fallon doesn’t even answer. I’m pretty sure she dropped off the conversation the moment
the preschool talk started. Fallon has complained to me more than once that all Martha ever wants to talk about is her children.
Which is true, but at the same time, all Fallon ever wants to talk about is her business. Since I have nothing interesting
to say about children or business, most of my conversations with them are pretty one-sided. And my conversations with Divya
are usually pretty superficial. She can’t talk about her work, since her law firm handles all these super-sensitive, confidential
cases, and we don’t have a ton of interests in common, so all we’re left with is bland, soulless exchanges. How are things? Great, you? Oh, not bad. Love your new haircut! Aw, thanks, girl!
I put down my phone with a sigh. It’s probably just as well. I can’t really afford a trip right now, anyway.
The afternoon drags on. I practice a bit of French on a free language app (I have this secret dream of living in Paris someday—it’ll
be just like Emily in Paris , except I’ll try not to be the worst), and I straighten up my desk and clean the windows. In desperation, I even wander back
to the garage to see if Dave or John want me to make coffee (no).
Just before closing, John comes out to the front desk with a customer, arguing with him about... I don’t know. Something to do with the guy’s car. The customer, an older man, is a bit red in the face and John’s voice is sharp with impatience.
“I don’t know what you want me to tell you,” he says.
“Well, thanks for nothing, then,” snaps the red-faced man, and storms out.
“What was that about?” I ask.
“Huh?” John blinks at me like he hasn’t noticed me sitting here. (He does that all the time. I’m one of three people who work here, is it really so hard to remember?) “Oh. Nothing.”
Nothing? A customer storms out and he says it’s nothing? Does he really not care, or does he think I’m too stupid to understand
their argument?
All of a sudden I’m just furious, and I can’t stop myself from snapping, “You should really be nicer to people.”
He blinks at me again. “What?”
He doesn’t sound offended, just mildly surprised, which if anything just irritates me more.
“You’re rude to the customers,” I say.
“Oh.” He looks to the door and back again, like he’s just putting together what happened. “That guy’s a dick.”
“He’s still a customer ,” I say. “If you want to keep his business—”
“I don’t,” John says, then looks at me as if to say, Are we done here?
My hands clench in my lap. “Ethel isn’t a dick, and you were rude to her too.”
“Who?”
“Ethel! The woman with the worn-out suspension!” This is the only way John can remember customers, by what’s wrong with their cars.
“Oh,” he says, completely unconcerned. Then, “What time am I booked tomorrow? I’ve got a thing in the morning.”
I want to scream in frustration. It’s like trying to argue with a wall. A really flat, boring wall covered in stupid car posters.
“Nine thirty,” I say through my teeth.
“’kay,” he says, and wanders off.
Conversation over, I suppose.
I close up the front part of the shop at five and head home. John and Dave are still clanging around in the garage, but I’ve
learned not to wait around for them to finish.
I drive home in a sour mood. My spirits are so low that not even the sight of my house can raise them. Maybe I’m being biased,
but I’m pretty sure it’s the prettiest house in all of PEI. If I showed you a picture, I bet you’d agree. It’s set a little
way back from the road, with two huge leafy trees in the front yard that partially conceal it from view, and a huge backyard
that slopes down toward the harbor. The walls are white, and the window trim and metal roof are a matching shade of dark green.
It has three bedrooms, two bathrooms, and an office, which makes it approximately one billion times larger than any house
I could actually afford on my current salary. The owners are living in their condo in New Mexico for a while, and I’ll tell
you right now, if you’re looking for me the day they tell me they want it back, you’ll find me sobbing hysterically in the
bathroom.
I pull into the driveway and get out to check my mailbox, hovering for a little while just in case my elderly neighbor spots me and wants to come out for a chat. After a few fruitless minutes, I give up and go inside.
I change into sweatpants and wander aimlessly around the house. I could make dinner, but I’m not really that hungry. I could
go for a run, but all my limbs feel really heavy, like they’re weighed down or something. I could have a glass of wine, but
I’m starting to worry I’m becoming one of those people who drinks alone too much, and Canada’s new alcohol guidelines (two
drinks a week , what sadistic monster came up with that?) are stressing me out a bit. I pick up my phone to call my parents and then remember
they’re on a plane somewhere and will be out of touch for six weeks.
In the end, I curl up on the couch, put on Anne of Green Gables —the original one from 1985, which I’ve watched about fifty times since I moved to PEI—and cry a little bit when Matthew dies
at the end.
Just because it’s a sad movie, you know.
No other reason.