Weak

(OR a Dissertation Examining an Ingenuous Perspective on the Power Dynamics Between Two Intractable Forces)

Focus 1: Presenting Stable Subject A to Stimulant Subject B

Theme 1 – Simple

One could never employ the words easy, basic, straightforward or simple in detailing the last 5 years, even when taking “it” into consideration. In fact, “it” often is the complicating factor if present in any decision making. I will say, the physical intimacies – or “it” – in which I and my captor engaged should by no means be used singularly to explicate my current predicament. But to circumvent mentioning “it” entirely would mean excluding the most instrumental weapon in our power struggle. And although many of our assaults took place on the tangible battlefield of a bed or table or desk or floor, it had always been a War of Wits, our ammunition a text, an email, a phone call or a board meeting, sometimes even a mere greeting could incite a brutal crusade; and I was never sure of the victor until it was too late, and either I was suing for mercy or he was angling for forgiveness.

But these somewhat histrionic exchanges between us take place much later in our relationship and are unequivocally satirical and juvenile if not given thorough context. I’ll begin my discourse with a view to delivering this vital background by first directly disclosing our initial arena of study – Chicago, Illinois. I’ll admit, my formal manner of speaking might cease as I may undergo a change of tone as to offer further context or to clarify for the laymen. Finally and with much consternation, I cannot fail to disclose that if I mention my captor again, I’m referring to my husband.

My name is Theresa Land. My smile is stern. My lips are crimson. My skin, as determined by an ex of mine, is a satiny bronze, and my hair is in a constant up-do: clipped, pinned, or on more lax days, ponytailed. My heels aren’t a must but a given, and my suits are tight and accentuate the curves I’ve never quite had. All this was once true. I’ve mollified since my edification; but to be quite, quite honest, my temperance is a symptom of a downward spiral.

The Rhinestone and Rucker building on Wacker, R&R we call it, is no extravagant building, doesn’t house the greatest corporate minds America has ever birthed, isn’t boasting of any significant award winning businesses and nothing unequivocally philanthropic has made its way out of its concrete walls, save for some food, toy and clothing drives. No, R&R is only a place I work. It’s a job. It’s not even THE job. Though I do show some pride in at least holding a desk at the company whose name is welded to the façade of our modest skyscraper.

We occupy the top 3 floors. Any sensible person, if in fact this person is deemed sensible,  who wears a matte gray JCPenny’s coat, a pair of red pumps from Anne Klein’s collection and the only reputable article of clothing, a Dolce purse that cost me $367, would never aimlessly ride the elevator to the top floor where she does not belong. With such pathetic attempts of parading luxury, I would validate how undeniably inept I was to even cast my eyes upon the reflective black walls of the 70^th floor. But my rides to the top were never aimless and I was certain that I wouldn’t just be looking upon its gaudy tiles and imported decadence with wanton yearning, but soon I’d be relieving my pampered Manolo Blahniks onto those esteemed floors as I sauntered to my enormous office decked in cherry wood and chrome furnishings with its obligatory expansive view of Lake Michigan.

I rode to the top every day. I made sure to arrive at least 30 minutes before my regular work hours to indulge in my torturous campaign of idolatry and envy, ever so seldom catching the eye of a sir or madam I’d read about in Forbes or saw on CNN. 

This particular Tuesday 5 years ago was no different. My companions on this daily trip would often change. This time it was pursing lips blonde, telephone guy in burning need of mouthwash, the two friends who might as well manage The Smiths, their only topic of conversation, and three other gentlemen who I don’t see often. I had boarded the elevator that skips floors 3 through 55. On 57, we traded the blonde for a man who frankly couldn’t NOT discuss his paycheck followed by a poor bespectacled sap punished to take instruction from him. On 60, one of the faces I didn’t recognize jamming to his red Beats, bobbed off and a leopard skirted, kinky-haired woman walked on, a desperate red-faced man crying after her.

“You dropped this,” he huffed holding out a receipt to her.

She looked at him sideways, crossing the threshold into the elevator. “I wasn’t carrying anything.”

He examined the thin paper and shook his head. “Could have sworn I saw it fall from you?” Then he raised his anxious pink face and smiled.

The doors began to close as she exhaled, “Lemme see.” She pushed them back with her left hand, grabbing the paper with her right.

“Come on,” came Paycheck with a hard Chicago accent I rarely hear from actual Chicagoans.

Leopard didn’t bother a response but instead nodded. “Oh. This IS mine. Thanks.” She stepped back in, as did a sudden wave of her perfume, Gucci Guilty I gathered.

“You’re welc…” the would-be savior managed before the doors closed on his cheesy grin.

Paycheck made some asinine remark that everyone chose to ignore including his mandated servant, drawing his attention as far from his master as feasible in an enclosed space. Loud and Without a Toothbrush laughed into his phone, repeating “Bro, bro, no, bro!” Finally, floor 62 came and he abandoned us to beautiful silence and odorless air as did Paycheck and his slave.

“I’m next,” came a baritone from behind, and this second new face moved around me as I sashayed closer to the far left wall. In stepping aside I caught the eye of the third new rider and we traded breaths of amusement. I’d hope it was due to the last guy’s obvious lusting or Paycheck’s put on masculinity or even Loud’s rancid breath. As long as it wasn’t me who amused him, since, upon reaching 64 and watching New Face Number 2 walk off, I realized with great trepidation who New Face Number 3 was.

On 65, leopard skirt and one of the Smiths’ groupies left, leaving just us three to the muffled screeching of cables and steel frames. Then 66, and the other Smiths’ fan called it quits.

Me and Face Number 3. Alone. A sweet Ralph Lauren fragrance garnished the rest of our journey to the top, and the top was the only place this man would be going. My palms began sweating and the heat that stirs in the pit of your stomach when you’re at the cusp of behaving badly initiated its ascent through my body as we likewise heard the elevator ding 67, 68, 69…

“My stop.” He had an easy smile and soul trapping blue eyes, a long face and a strict jaw. I wasn’t sure if I had smiled back this time, pure reverence taking over. He stepped off, veering to his left but stopping to leave his hand in the entranceway. For me. “Your stop?”

“Oh. Oh shoot,” I feigned, peering at the furniture lining the foyer and then the buttons inside the elevator. “Shoot, shoot, shoot.” I pulled my hand from my pocket and pressed 68. “I must have missed my floor. People, you know. Distracting.” I looked at him and prayed.

He gazed at me, as if reading an oh-so-familiar children’s book. But his smirk said something else entirely. “Yes, people are very distracting.” I exhaled a quick laugh. He did likewise and moved his hand. “Shame. Knew we were heading to the same place.”

I held back a frivolous giggle. “You’re too kind.”

“No. I’m really not.” And the doors closed. Thank all that is good and righteous and wholesome! I would have NO idea how to respond to that.

I came up for air, leaned against the wall and laughed hysterically to myself. Then I felt, in my heart and in the deep marrow of my bones, a sort of pity and relief. Jon Moores isn’t just a man one runs into on the street after exiting the bus or train. Nor would he ever be found on a bus or train. I’m surprised he even walks on his own two feet. To see him, in front of me, holding an elevator opened for me, and showing some type of disappointment in my not disembarking with him, a shattered hope vaguely scribbled across his face…

“Well that will never happen again.”