enough of his respect to be worthy of legitimate help.
“And here,” he said, “instead of putting the percent into the formula, put it off in a single cell somewhere and reference it as an absolute. That way, you can change the percent in the one cell and it will automatically change in all these formulas.”
We continued refining my design until about eleven when Jerry persuaded me to stop and come to bed. I had reached the point where I was satisfied, more than satisfied, with my accomplishment. I’d always assumed such things as spreadsheets were incredibly dense and mysterious. But if you took it a step at a time, patiently, it was pretty straightforward.
“Not to everyone,” Jerry said, undressing. “We’ve got people at work who can only use a spreadsheet that somebody else designed. And that’s after months or years. In one evening, you’ve gone far beyond them. I’m very impressed.”
I fell asleep with a great sense of urgency, anxious for tomorrow to come, as though I had been wasting my time, wasting my life. I wanted to do things. I didn’t know what, but something, something new, something that mattered. I was only just beginning to understand how much a single individual could accomplish. I had so much time to make up for.
51
Chapter Five
Faye and I were working out on side-by-side elliptical trainers at the gym, which we only occasionally managed to do together because of schedule conflicts. After a good forty minutes, we had both had enough.
“We may as well face facts,” Faye said, as we walked to the locker room. “Rosie’s gonna lose.”
“It seems so unfair,” I said.
“It makes you feel differently about her, doesn’t it?” Faye asked. “Knowing about this. I mean, it shouldn’t matter. But it does.”
“Yes,” I said, not really agreeing with Faye in the way she would assume. “How do you feel different?”
We changed into our street clothes while we talked.
Faye pulled off her tank top and wiped her face off with a towel. “I don’t know. I mean, I like Rosie. I think she’d make a first-rate mayor, even president of the country if such things were possible, but I am always aware of…I mean, just knowing that she has sex with women…”
52
“She doesn’t do it in front of you,” I said. “She doesn’t talk about it.”
“I know. But you just know it. It makes a difference.”
After we left the gym, I said good-bye to Faye at her car.
Knowing about Rosie did make a difference. To me too. But I didn’t know how, exactly. Rosie didn’t make me uncomfortable.
For me, she had become more vulnerable, and perhaps because of that, more approachable emotionally. I felt closer to Rosie.
She was no longer super-human. Her Achilles’ heel, it seemed, had been exposed. To what instinct of mine did she appeal, I wondered. Maternal? I wanted to take care of her, protect her from harm like I did my children. How peculiar, I thought, that I should think of myself as potential champion to such a powerful woman. Especially since I had no means of protecting her against the wave of hostility washing over her.
Ever since the news of Rosie’s association with Catherine Gardiner had been revealed, I’d been looking for some of her poetry. The bookstores in town reported a run on the two volumes which were currently in print. I ended up driving into Sacramento to find them, and, after getting them home, sat alone in the family room reading, searching for something, I didn’t know what, some essence of Rosie, perhaps. Most of the poems were unapproachable, too difficult for me, full of social criticism, subtle irony, harsh imagery. There was nothing sentimental about Gardiner’s work. There was one poem, though, I read several times. It was called, simply, “Love Poem.”
Come home, ogress, claws bared
brown curls bouncing
rage in your veins
your blue-green veins
arms and legs thrashing crashing through walls Come home,
scratch out my eyes
like a demon
“And here,” he said, “instead of putting the percent into the formula, put it off in a single cell somewhere and reference it as an absolute. That way, you can change the percent in the one cell and it will automatically change in all these formulas.”
We continued refining my design until about eleven when Jerry persuaded me to stop and come to bed. I had reached the point where I was satisfied, more than satisfied, with my accomplishment. I’d always assumed such things as spreadsheets were incredibly dense and mysterious. But if you took it a step at a time, patiently, it was pretty straightforward.
“Not to everyone,” Jerry said, undressing. “We’ve got people at work who can only use a spreadsheet that somebody else designed. And that’s after months or years. In one evening, you’ve gone far beyond them. I’m very impressed.”
I fell asleep with a great sense of urgency, anxious for tomorrow to come, as though I had been wasting my time, wasting my life. I wanted to do things. I didn’t know what, but something, something new, something that mattered. I was only just beginning to understand how much a single individual could accomplish. I had so much time to make up for.
51
Chapter Five
Faye and I were working out on side-by-side elliptical trainers at the gym, which we only occasionally managed to do together because of schedule conflicts. After a good forty minutes, we had both had enough.
“We may as well face facts,” Faye said, as we walked to the locker room. “Rosie’s gonna lose.”
“It seems so unfair,” I said.
“It makes you feel differently about her, doesn’t it?” Faye asked. “Knowing about this. I mean, it shouldn’t matter. But it does.”
“Yes,” I said, not really agreeing with Faye in the way she would assume. “How do you feel different?”
We changed into our street clothes while we talked.
Faye pulled off her tank top and wiped her face off with a towel. “I don’t know. I mean, I like Rosie. I think she’d make a first-rate mayor, even president of the country if such things were possible, but I am always aware of…I mean, just knowing that she has sex with women…”
52
“She doesn’t do it in front of you,” I said. “She doesn’t talk about it.”
“I know. But you just know it. It makes a difference.”
After we left the gym, I said good-bye to Faye at her car.
Knowing about Rosie did make a difference. To me too. But I didn’t know how, exactly. Rosie didn’t make me uncomfortable.
For me, she had become more vulnerable, and perhaps because of that, more approachable emotionally. I felt closer to Rosie.
She was no longer super-human. Her Achilles’ heel, it seemed, had been exposed. To what instinct of mine did she appeal, I wondered. Maternal? I wanted to take care of her, protect her from harm like I did my children. How peculiar, I thought, that I should think of myself as potential champion to such a powerful woman. Especially since I had no means of protecting her against the wave of hostility washing over her.
Ever since the news of Rosie’s association with Catherine Gardiner had been revealed, I’d been looking for some of her poetry. The bookstores in town reported a run on the two volumes which were currently in print. I ended up driving into Sacramento to find them, and, after getting them home, sat alone in the family room reading, searching for something, I didn’t know what, some essence of Rosie, perhaps. Most of the poems were unapproachable, too difficult for me, full of social criticism, subtle irony, harsh imagery. There was nothing sentimental about Gardiner’s work. There was one poem, though, I read several times. It was called, simply, “Love Poem.”
Come home, ogress, claws bared
brown curls bouncing
rage in your veins
your blue-green veins
arms and legs thrashing crashing through walls Come home,
scratch out my eyes
like a demon
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