McHuge pulls two tables into a single long surface with as little effort as Eleanor making her Barbies kiss. Then he’s off to the DJ booth with his set list of doom.
Béa hurls herself despairingly into the chunky slat-backed chair next to Jason. “Tabarnak,” she whispers, the French Canadian swear layered with elemental fear. This is bad for us all, but it’s probably worse for someone who hates talking so much she got a job at a silent bookstore. I already cornered her to tell her I was doing extra improv practice at her coffee shop last weekend and not to worry about anything she overheard. If she believed me, I couldn’t tell.
David drifts away, phone to his ear. I have my suspicions about how real his “call” is.
Sharon plops down, patting the neighboring chair. “When somebody saves your life, you have to save them a seat. Maritime law,” she says with a pursed-lip smile.
“McHuge and his field trips,” I mutter, settling in.
Sharon shrugs, tapping her fanny pack. I’m amazed she’s back. I mean, improv feels like a near-death experience for most of us, but Sharon literally almost crossed over last week. Her right eyelid is still a bit puffy and purple around the sting. Underneath those mom jeans is a real badass.
Sharon’s motivations are a mystery. Béa said that thing about her wedding; Jason hoped he’d meet a cute, funny guy. Even David didn’t come as that much of a surprise, given what I read about improv sometimes attracting creeps. But Sharon seems so competent—not someone who needs to risk death for a community comedy course.
Unfortunately, emotional overwhelm—like the kind you get while contemplating your imminent death onstage—makes me even more unfiltered than usual. “Sharon, what areyoudoing in this class?”
Sharon smirks. “You mean, why am I the only person over fifty? Over forty, even?”
“Oh, no! That’s not what I meant. At all. I would never imply, uh,” I fumble.
“It’s all right. I know how old I am.” She squints, purposely emphasizing her crow’s-feet. “Also, I lost the ability to be embarrassed when my kid came out ass first. When a gorgeous ob-gyn is up to the elbows in your hoo-ha, and another is hauling the baby out of a place that didn’t used to have an exit sign, something changes in your brain.”
She laughs at whatever she sees on my face, some combination of backpedaling and horror. “You’re still so young, you don’t even know how young you are,” she says, popping a mint from a tin of Altoids she produces from her bottomless purse. She waves the container at me.
I shake my head, muttering, “I’m thirty.” I’m not thrilled to be seen as a kid, even though the big three-oh makes me feel ancient.
Sharon laughs at me some more. “When I was your age, I thought I’d be settled and comfortable at fifty. But, Liz, I am bored.Bored. I’m tired of everything fun and new being reserved for twentysomethings. I don’t want to paint, or quilt, or sign up for a new social media platform every year from now till I die.
“I need to feelalive,and this is really doing it for me. And it’s easier on the joints than training for a marathon,” she adds sagely. “Enough about me. What brings you here? Beyond having a socially acceptable reason to stare atthatfor three hours a week.” She nods at McHuge’s ass with a look of deepest appreciation.
Looks like we’re trading prying questions. One of the leadership books I read recommended unusual questions as icebreakers. I thought that was overly optimistic, but Sharon’s bald honesty is a tall glass of ice water right in the face: a hell of a wake-up, but also kind of refreshing. I’ve never had a friend her age, but… maybe I could?
I push past the instinct to hide my unpretty parts. “I, uh. Hit a bit of a breaking point at work, and my husband… he’s sort of my ex, I guess, although we’re doing this thing… never mind, TMI. But it’s as if nobody seesme. No one looks beyond a first impression, and those are not my strength. As we saw at the first class.”
“It wasn’t so bad.”
“It was, though.”
“Yeah, it was. But you don’t give people much else to work with, do you? The first time I saw you peek out of your shell was when you stuck a needle in my thigh. I was impressed. You should show your strengths.”
Sharon’s observation prompts a weird rush of defensiveness mixed with uncertainty. If I don’t show myself, it’s because I haveto guard against rejection from people who only see the label they slap on me after knowing me for five minutes.
“It’s not a big deal. My job involves a lot of emergency problem-solving. But I’m looking to move into leadership. I’m here to practice being innovative and social so I can pitch tour ideas my boss doesn’t hate.”
“Oh? Like what ideas has he hated?”
“God, so many. My favorite was Quiet Rafts. River rafting crossed with a vow of silence, for people who want to hear the sounds of the wilderness instead of that one guy who won’t stop telling dad jokes.”
Sharon frowns. “That’s… quite good. It could attract a demographic we don’t usually get in adventure tours. Who do you work for?”
“Craig West, at West by—”
She holds up a hand. “Never mind, I know Craig. Did you ever think of switching companies?” Sharon says as if it’s as easy as deciding to go.
“I tried. But job interviews turn me into a semi-sentient blob of goo. Along with every other social situation. Anyway. People don’t see me, so I decided to be someone theycouldsee, and I have to be positive and have ideas andnetwork,” I say tragically. “And learn to golf.”
Sharon’s headshake is such a mom headshake, right down to the disapproving nasal breath.
“Oh, honey. There’s a difference betweendoingsomething new andbeingsomeone new. But I remember how it felt to get unsolicited advice when I was thirty, so I won’t do that. The golf, though. That I can help with. I’ll book us a tee time at my club. Hit the driving range a couple of times first and you won’t do too badly.”
