By Doug Hoekstra
Scott’s counselor was older than he, a young grandmother with gray blonde hair, who typically wore shawls and hippie skirts and carried a positivity that belied her years. The wall of her office was covered with her artwork, watercolors, not abstract, not representational, but rather, people and places that fell between two worlds, suggesting things but delivering shapes. Bright colors, mostly.
She placed a book on the coffee table between them. Stop Walking on Eggshells was the title, so he picked it up and scanned the back jacket, credentials and testimonials, signposts of a sort. It had been a year since he started seeing his counselor; he first came in with his ex-girlfriend, she recommended it, couples therapy, said he needed to learn some things. He wanted to learn how to stay together, but after one session, it was clear that was not on the docket and indeed, nothing was to be salvaged. These days, when he’d leave his counselor’s office and see couples in the waiting room, he’d always ask her if they were going to make it and usually she nodded yes and usually he thought to himself, that’s good. Usually.
Anyway, it was a pattern of his, apparently, this eggshell thing, something uncovered in their conversations, and considered carefully, like a second-hand memory told by a relative, true and yet murky. Something he was learning, if unintended. Scott looked ahead at his favorite painting, the one of a rainbow at sunset, colors that were emphasized to the point where they washed each other out, bleeding across the sky and into the landscape until neither were distinct. After a minute or two, his counselor asked him if he was seeing anyone since their last visit, a common inquiry
“The question,” he said, pointing at the book, “is do people really want honesty? Or do they simply want their version of honesty.”
“That’s a good question,” she said. “but not the one I’m asking.”
Scott laughed. “No, it’s not. Well, I haven’t, to be honest, no pun intended. Not making excuses, but you know, it isn’t all that easy, with my schedule and where I’m at with this process.” He paused. “And most of the time, I’m enjoying my freedom.”
“Just be open.” she said.
“I will.”
Walking on eggshells, he thought. Eggshells.
II
Scott sat on the Executive Committee at work, how he got there, he had no idea. He didn’t mind his work, but he really wound up in his career, as opposed to pursuing it. Yes, he believed in green technology and felt like the company was helping the greater good, by installing better cooling systems and solar panels in people’s homes, among other things. But they were still there to turn a profit. For him, it was primarily a way to pay his bills and do the things he wanted to do.
The day after his session with his counselor, he walked in to learn that the C.E.O. called a last-minute Exec meeting, mandatory attendance, for all five of them, 10 a.m. sharp. It was about the new building. He knew it was important because the email subject header added the word mandatory, in all caps. Lots of the techs went to various site visits, trade fairs, and all kinds of things offsite, but Jack, their CEO got the idea that they needed to upscale their digs, as a means to attract more customers. Or maybe it was just ego talking.
Scott was the second person to enter the conference room, walking in to find only Nancy, the CFO, sitting at the end of the long rectangular table, laptop open, fingers moving. There were three large architectural renderings taped to the walls, all clearly outlining “open office space” configurations. The last time Exec had met on this, conversations indicated they might head the direction of every other progressive, tech company, allowing employees to work at home more often, choosing the proper “work-life balance.” Studies showed that it did not affect productivity negatively, quite the opposite, because remote workers tended to stay with a company longer and reported greater happiness. Scott knew all this because he’d done his homework, and he knew his boss was at heart, old school, despite his persistent use of the word innovation.
Scott whispered to Nancy, “I thought we were doing private offices, with maybe two break out spaces. This looks like cubicles in the second one,” he said pointing.
“You know Jack,” she said, “he’s like Elon Musk with these things.”
She was right. Their CEO worked a minimum of sixty hours a week and prided himself on hiring the best people, as if he had a unique insight into the human condition. Scott had known several CEOs like him in his day, and he wondered if the piece about hiring the right people was meant to reflect on their high regard for their own decisions, rather than the actual intelligence of those hired.
Jack bounded in, his usual seven minutes late, followed by their Production Manager, Alisha. They were probably talking about the meeting before the meeting. He got right to business. “Well, unfortunately Adam is offsite today and unable to access zoom at the moment,” he said tersely. “But we have a timetable, so I’m going to hold the meeting. We are scheduled until 11 and we won’t go over.” Jack wore fashionably trim, tapered suits, and skinny jeans; he was of average height, but lean and muscular. He participated in Iron Man competitions on the rare weekends he wasn’t working. Jack extended his pointer and began to identify aspects of each plan, which were very similar, adding that because they would be in an open office space, ideas would be exchanged quickly, that energy would be high, that results would improve. “If I need, say a budget spread sheet from Nancy for a meeting that just fell on my calendar, all I’d have to do is walk this short distance from my corner office to the innovation pod, to get the answer.”
That’s just the problem, Scott thought. You have an office, and you are going to disrupt or holler for the information, distracting everyone else, and interrupting Nancy’s workflow, when in reality, you probably knew about whatever it is you’re scrambling about the day before and should’ve told her then. Manufactured urgency, he’d seen this movie before, someone who put out an idea of themselves based on what they thought they should be – as opposed to what worked best or who they really were.
Scott remained quiet as the meeting unfolded, as usual. He liked to choose his words carefully and had a deep dislike for grandstanding, probably instilled by his parents, individuals who were soft-spoken, but extremely intelligent. They rarely, if ever, bullshit. In his research, Scott ran across a study from the Harvard Business School, whereby researchers discovered through hidden cameras, that the people who talk the most at meetings get their ideas accepted most, regardless of what they are saying. But sometimes one couldn’t get a word in and right now, Jack was on a roll.
“What I’m trying to do is get us together, to build culture, to strengthen our work family, which is something you just can’t do at home. Plus, why should one person get to work at home, when another doesn’t? My lawn person doesn’t get to work at home. The people who work building the parts we use have to go to a factory. My child’s teacher doesn’t get to work at home.” He stopped to take a drink of water. “Scott, we haven’t heard much from you. What are your thoughts?”
There were three choices in front of them, but they were really all the same – versions of an open office, cubicle driven design. Nancy and Alisha had deftly neither supported nor criticized any of them. Adam, for whatever reason, was wisely absent. Scott thought about his efforts to be direct, and not let the result affect his work – or his life – in a negative fashion.
“Well, to be honest,” he said, as if giving himself a pep talk, “I don’t think that’s a strong argument. People go into careers, ideally matching their skill sets to their passions and they are aware of the parameters that entail doing that job well. I mean, the person who is a lawn maintenance person knows that going to people’s houses is part of the job. Someone like me, who writes ad copy and such, well, I can do that anywhere, and I do it better when I have some quiet, ideally at home, but at least in an office.”
Jack raised his eyebrows, set down his pointer, and crossed his arms. Even his smallest movements carried assurance.
“Seems some of these jobs can be done at home, as in, maybe people given the tools and integrating the tools, learn to collaborate in different ways,” Scott continued. “When things change, seems like we focus on what we lose as opposed to what we might gain.”
Crickets. Only a few seconds, but it seemed much longer.
“So, I take it, then, Scott, that what you are saying is none of these schematics on the board appeal to you? Are you committed to our next phase development?”
“Of course, I am,” Scott answered, “and I’ll work with whatever parameters are rolled out. But, if you’re asking me for an honest opinion, I think it’s about intention. So, I’d favor a space with private offices and a couple of workspaces for collaboration, as we originally designed.”
It was about more than working at home, really, but at this juncture, pointless to argue. “I think I have all the input I need,” Jack declared, “you can have 10 minutes of the meeting back. We will go forward with the shared desk open plan. I do appreciate everyone’s candor.”
With that, he quickly left the room. Nancy looked at Scott sympathetically and laid a hand over his, gently. She was his kindest, hardest working co-worker.
“Not your fault, Scott, he had his mind made up.”
It was harder on Nancy than anyone, she was a single parent with two grade school age girls. She could crunch numbers from anywhere, Scott thought. She was right, really, and it wasn’t as if he was going to lose his job. But at the end of the day, he wished he hadn’t said anything, because he knew he would pay one way or the other, down the line.
III
For lunch, Scott drove over to the arts district to pop in on his friend Ross, who was setting up a new gallery show. They had taken a few art classes together as undergrads and, a bit later, taught at the same community college, in the days before Scott decided to make more money. He was glad to get out of the office, clear his head from the meeting and think about something other than cubicles. The drive took 20 minutes to go three miles. More cranes. More traffic. He pulled up to the warehouse, moving slowly through the gravel parking lot to what appeared to be a parking spot. Ross was waiting at the door.
“Good to see you, man.” Ross was a hugger, so they hugged. “What’s up?”
“Oh, the usual,” Scott replied, “you know, working and just trying to get my act together.”
“Cool, man, cool, I can’t wait to show you what I’ve got going.”
Scott followed him, from the open space to a long narrow corridor and then into another bigger space, which was of course, an effective use of space, opening things up for more light and contrast. Ross waved his hand in circles like a magician as they entered, pointing out exactly where he wasn’t quite finished. Some paintings were hanging at different levels on the wall and others were propped up, leaned into the space between the floor and the wall. Scott had seen Ross’ work plenty of times, and thought he was good, in a fashion that extended beyond their friendship. However, this batch of work traded on Ross’ strengths, heavy on the gray, kinetic lines etched in oil, paintings that recalled Frances Bacon or Gerard Richter, or an abandoned alley in a German expressionist film. In mood and delivery, the content traded description for feeling. Scott turned and examined a large round sculpture at the center of the room, a circle with a rim that extended about two feet from the ground, black against darker black. At first, he wasn’t sure if it was part of the installation.
“People stand there, when they come in,” Ross said, pointing. “That’s ground zero. And, from there, if you follow the ring, then you see the works in sequential order, and if you go right or go left, you still come back to the center.”
“Ah,” was Scott’s simple, non-committal response.
“You can step inside the ring or not. That’s why it only goes up two feet.”
Scott knew art but he also knew his friend and he searched in vain for whatever it was Ross was going for. It was all dark, per usual, and there’s nothing wrong with dark, because people felt dark sometimes. But Scott didn’t feel dark as much as he felt he was being manipulated by the work, to feel dark. And, even if he did feel authentically dark, he didn’t want to feel dark anymore and he wasn’t sure he felt the darkness in these works or that it was a different darkness Ros was exploring.
“It’s definitely you,” Scott said, after a long pause. “I think your style gets stronger all the time.” What the hell did he know, really, he thought.
“Thanks, man.” Ross said, reflexively moving one painting about three inches. “This should really be here, instead of there.” He paused and scratched his long wispy beard and pulled his t-shirt down over his belly. “You can be honest, you know, that’s why I asked you here, I’m not finished anyway, which is part of it.
“I think it’s strong work,” Scott quickly added
“Yes, but do you like it?” Ross replied. “It’s a simple question,” a statement that was very much in character.
“Of course I like, it, I like all your stuff. If I was to compare to other shows, I see a lot of darkness, and echoes of echoes, so maybe it’s like a retrospective that isn’t quite that, if that makes sense.” Scott was digging himself a hole. “It’s good stuff, but it’s hard not to compare to your past shows, and I’m not sure where this one is pointing you.”
This part was true, and Scott meant it as a positive comment, it was like when he taught, and he would try to get students to do their thing but simply do it better, to excel on their own terms. He used to tell them that you don’t really compete against each other, you only compete against yourself. Ross didn’t say anything. He put down a painting, mid-move, and shook his head.
“Wow, I mean, wow”
“What?”
“That hurts.” Ross sat down cross legged on the floor, took off his John Deere trucker cap and wiped his hand through his thinning hair. He shook it, put his hat back on and just sat there, eyes closed. Scott thought he might start crying.
“It’s strong work, I mean, you haven’t finished the sequence so maybe…”
“No, no, no, it’s not that.”
“What?”
“You said it was dark.”
“Well, yeah, it’s monochrome and…”
“Sure, my work has been dark – at times in the past – like the killing fields pieces or the death row pieces or the interactive methadone clinic installation But these pieces…” he waved his hand “They are redemption, they are hope.”
Ross stood up and made a wide sweeping gesture with his arm. “It’s all the permutations of the grays in the abstracts, their connections, the way the circle leads you home.”
Scott had to get back to work. He still wasn’t sure he completely got it, but regardless, he was suddenly glad he didn’t teach anymore.
“I’m sorry, Ross, I think all your stuff is great, and you asked me what I thought. But if it’s bleak or dark, that’s not bad, that’s your calling card. I can’t say I like it, that would be lying. But it’s good, very good.”
“Thank you for coming,” Ross said abruptly, turning his back and busying himself again with organizing the paintings. He didn’t look back as Scott left the room and headed back to his car. Scott usually brought his lunch to work, so when he got back to his office, he closed the door, unwrapped his sandwich and went online to check his messages. He was still a bit shaken by the exchange at the gallery. There was an email from Ross, who refused to text because of the government.
“The opening is next week, but you don’t have to come. Just because we knew each other once and took some art classes together doesn’t mean I should ask your opinion. My bad.”
Wow, thought Scott, wow. Eggshells.
IV
It had been a day, but Scott was looking forward to night, specifically, dinner with Ariel, a woman he’d met online two weeks before. Typically not a fan of dating sites, his counselor had got in his head a bit and he felt he should check out the process anyway, that being counterintuitive might open him up to new possibilities, zigging when he would’ve otherwise zagged. Maybe he was making bad choices in the tangible world, and he would make good choices in the intangible world. Maybe.
So, he set up a profile, keeping it minimalist, and Ariel was one of the first matches he received. She was a writer, liked to hike, liked to read, and liked old movies. She was also into birds and in her profile, she included two particularly interesting shots, one of a raven on the edge of a canyon, and another of herself with a raven at the Tower of London. She also said she liked trying new things and was ethically non monogamous. Brown hair, dark eyes, a bit younger than him, but not too much. She had a nice smile, there was something in her eyes. It was just a vibe.
Scott quickly learned to take these profiles in stride, because no one said they didn’t like traveling or didn’t like having fun or basically, hated new things. It would be refreshing actually, if someone did. He wasn’t really sure about the ethically non-monogamous thing, because that wasn’t his jam, but he liked ravens and would love to learn more about birdwatching, if he had the time. He’d been to the Tower of London and maybe even seen the same raven, they live a long time, he knew.
So, they started texting, clicking right away, moving on to nightly facetime chats, covering all the things that one covered when there was a certain built-in comfort – what brought us to this point, how one looked at the world, and interests that lie beyond the screen. More facts, more sharing. Ariel loved Radiohead, had two brothers, both younger, and had been living in Teetertown for the last two years, due to a series of strange circumstances, including a divorce. She showed him a raven tattoo she had on her lower left hip. It quickly evolved, but didn’t feel forced, needy or anything else but what it was. It just felt like two people trying to get to know each other. One night she said she wished they could snuggle right then, and that struck him as ethically sweet.
Teetertown was a good forty minutes from city center, out in the middle of nowhere, really, a place where people liked to drive around and look at their land. When they got to the “shall we meet” phase, she volunteered to drive all the way in, arrive at his doorstep and listen to records all night. Something felt a little odd about that, so he suggested grabbing Thai food at a restaurant nearby, meeting there, and then coming to his place afterwards.
“See you at 7” he texted. “I look like me.” She sent a laughing emoji back.
Scott got there a few minutes early to get seated; the restaurant was small, with only eight tables inside. She arrived right on time, spotted him, hugged, smiled, and sat down. She wore a medium-length skirt and sleeveless top, several bracelets and a bejeweled necklace, a touch of lipstick, a touch of eyeliner. They ordered quickly, but as the appetizers came forth, they unexpectedly fell into their first uncomfortable silence, followed by semi-nervous small talk. She sat quietly, turned sideways, knee bobbing up and down.
“One thing we haven’t talked about is the Criterion thing,” Scott said, searching for something new and light to say. “You know, on your profile you said, “If you like the Criterion channel, we’ll get along.”
“Oh, yeah,” she said, glancing out the window.
“I love them, it was my lifeline during the pandemic.” He took a sip of his water. She flagged down the passing waitress and ordered a glass of wine. “They have Orson Welles’ Chimes of Midnight now,” he said, “The restoration.” He felt suddenly self-conscious, not wanting to come off like an obsessive trainspotter, or decidedly unfun cinephile. But he continued, nonetheless.
“Some argue it’s better than Citizen Kane.”
“I saw that,” she said, “I need to see one of his movies. Isn’t that the one about a newspaper guy? Excuse me, gotta pee.” She was up and off in a flash. The waitress came by and set down Ariel’s glass of wine. The food came next. He waited. He looked at his phone. She returned. “I’m going to see Radiohead in New York next month,” she said, plopping down, unwrapping a set of chopsticks and starting in on her Pad Thai, one flawless motion of reckless grace. “Eighteenth time,” she said. “Hmm, this is good.” Slight pause.
“Soooo, tell me, Scott,” she continued, finally. “What is it that you want?” Another pause. “You know, relationships, dating, fucking, all of it,” she quickly added, reading his mind, pointing a stick in the air. Scott’s return to dating quickly taught him that it always had the potential to feel like a job interview, but this question threw him. So far Ariel hadn’t seemed laden with intent, really, in fact, one of the things that attracted him was her presence in the present. He wasn’t sure to address the fucking or the all of it, but with eggshell awareness, he proceeded.
“It depends…equanimity is the goal, and I am a romantic at heart.”
She raised an eyebrow.
“But, I think you have to be open-minded and get to know a person,” he continued “When I started messing around with this site, I figured, in the worst case scenario, I’d go out with somebody and have a nice night out or two and that would be it. Maybe make a friend. Best case scenario would be more than that, a connection, you know, someone to go forward with.”
Crickets. Only a few seconds, but it felt much longer.
It was the truth, but to Scott, it didn’t feel like the truth she wanted to hear. He felt like he was giving her a wishy-washy answer, and now they were already off somewhere else, lacking all of the easy banter they had shared before. The check came and he handed the waitress his credit card.
“I get you,” she said, finally. “It’s a trip, isn’t it? Speaking of trips, I can’t tell you how much I’m looking forward to this New York adventure, there are three friends from college going that I haven’t seen in forever and it is going to be epic.”
He figured in a tip and signed the receipt and referenced their original plan.
“Shall we head back and listen to some tunes?”
“Sure, but I still don’t have your address,” she said with a smile.
He texted her the details, though for some reason, he felt a bit funny about giving them out, despite the fact that she was sitting directly across the table. Cognitive dissonance was like a kudzu vine sometimes. “It’s really just down the block,” he added. “You can follow me, if you want, it’s two turns, essentially. Left and right.”
Ariel nodded and he followed her to the parking lot, where their vehicles sat side by side. Scott took note of her car, pulled out first and waved. Then he turned onto the first main thoroughfare. It was only half a mile to the next turn, but when he glanced in his rear-view mirror, her car had disappeared. Maybe she stopped for something, he thought. He made the next turn and was on the last leg home. Nothing. He glanced at his phone, lying on the seat. No texts. Then he pulled into his driveway and waited five minutes. Still nothing, so he sent a quick text, “just pulled in.” Nothing. He hoped she didn’t get into an accident and was about to retrace his steps, when she replied.
“I’m really sorry, I’m on my way back to Teetertown. An emergency.”
“K,” he texted. “I was just checking on you, hope everything’s okay.”
“It should be,” she texted back. And then “I’m in my head a lot.”
Scott unlocked his front door and walked into the front living room. A copy of In Rainbows was propped up against the stereo. Ariel had told him it was her favorite Radiohead record, so he got it out in anticipation of her visit, along with a few other records he thought she might like. He thumbed through them, reached for Monk, and then went with Radiohead anyway. He lay down on his long mid-century couch, put his hands behind his head, and watched through the window as a couple with a dog strolled past, making their rounds of the neighborhood. It was a nice night, there would be lots of walkers out. The couple looked happy, comfortable in each other’s company, he could tell from the way they moved together, close and then apart, like an unplanned dance. The dog was definitely over the moon, wagging his tail and circling them both. Dogs were like that, he thought.
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Doug Hoekstra is a Chicago-bred, Nashville-based writer and musician, whose prose, poetry, and non-fiction have appeared in numerous journals; Ten Seconds In-Between, his latest collection of short stories, earned a Royal Dragonfly Award for Best Short Story Collection of 2021 and Next Generation Indie Book Award Finalist 2022. www.doughoekstra.net