The Lies in Tootsie’s Journal

by Ginger Marcinkowski

We look like Hillbillies. We’re not politically correct. We make up things. Okay, we lie. We’re familiar with big words, but rarely use them. Surprises people when we know more than we let on. They don’t know squat.

My husband and I work at the same publishing company in Podunk, Iowa. Lots of stupid people live there. Most of them look through us because we’re not polished. They don’t think we dream or want anything beyond where we are.

He’s a janitor. I work in the cafeteria. I tell others he’s an engineer. I say I’m a company director. I’m resigned to being kitchen help, though I want more. He says my job is easy. Slopping food on some CEO’s plate or making lunch for company workers constitutes play to him.

Not like his position. Cleaning dirty toilets. Mopping up puke from some sick employee. Polishing five floors of brass railings twice a week. That’s work. I tell him he’d better sleep lightly, as I can’t be held responsible if he doesn’t wake up in the morning.

He huffs.

Both jobs are monotonous. We’re up at 5 a.m. Shuffle off to work. Park a half mile away and walk—rain or shine. Inside, he heads to the janitorial hovel in the basement. I proceed through the grand lobby. Wave at Monty, the security guard, before disappearing down the long hallway to the cafeteria.

The company’s front desk is lavish, decorated with lush ferns and a brass plate that reads, Castor & Boil Publishing Company. Tell me that ain’t funny. Every time I walk by, I think of Grampa. He has bowel problems. Says Castor Oil takes care of it. At least our building smells like heavy perfume and printer ink, not the bathroom after Grampa goes.

The walls here are slatted with wood. Walnut. Paintings of the head honchos dot the walls. The President, Vice President, Past President, and the founder, who weirdly reminds me of myself, hang there. Puffy eyes. Gray hair. A cowlick. One eyebrow pointing north. A toothy grin centers two huge dimples. Makes me wonder if we’re related. I’m sure I’d be a somebody if I were his daughter.

I smack that picture every morning when I walk by. Probably get fired if anyone catches me. After all these years, I’ve slapped the paint off half his face. Doesn’t matter. Nobody else even looks at him.

As for my life? Met my man playing Bingo at sixteen. Ran off to Mississippi after a winning game. Got married in the doorway of a Kentucky Fried Chicken while the Justice of the Peace placed his order. Mostly happy since then. Gave up a lot. College. The travel I dream and write about.

For our future, I just want one exciting trip before he up and dies on me. So, I save as best I can from our small salaries, and wait.

Two days ago, he springs this on me during his late lunch. I’m punching a scoop of mashed potatoes onto his plate. Dottie, my co-worker, is thrusting six hamburgers and two hot dogs at him. Her bushy black hair reminds me of a Brillo pad. She’s flirting with him, but he pays no mind as she’s only got one arm. She’d make an odd massage therapist anyway, which is the only woman he’d ever leave me for.

“Why are you still standing here?” I motion to an empty table with my chin. Lunch is over. The cafeteria is empty.

“I’ll bring you some coffee.”

A grunt or two later, he says, “I was going to surprise you for our anniversary. I’m retiring today.”

You’d think I was an Olympic hurdler. I clear that counter like I had a stopwatch on me, landing on his chest. Flip that man right over backward. Broke his arm. He’ll need a cast, but he’ll get over it. Not funny now, but it will be in my next journal entry.

That’s the best news ever,” I squeal, sidestepping his howling, and the fact that the birth of our grandson took THAT title a few years earlier. The little guy melts our hearts when he decides not to call us Gram and Gramps, choosing instead to call us Slick and Tootsie.

“I’m so happy!” I blubber. “Now we can travel!”

Then I start thinking. We’ve needed a vacation for three decades. I’ve made up stories about places I’d love to go and things I’d love to do for years. I even have Germany, Ireland, and  Italy, tattooed on my butt because he hinted his “displacement” might actually happen before I have to bury him.

Slick swore he’d travel someday, but wanted to wait until our son was “settled.” That was twenty years ago. Our boy is grown, married, and has a burden, I mean son, of his own.

A day later, Slick says, “Schedule something,” like he’s all of a sudden Rick Steves. It takes me a nanosecond to show him the order of journeys I’ve envisioned. I’m already packing.

He says, “Let’s do Italy first!”

I’m thinking, Idjit. Of course, we’ll start with Italy. That’s where our son and his family are stationed. Haven’t seen them in a year. I’m a second away from slapping him off his recliner.

Being younger than Slick, I can’t retire for another year unless we want to live in a tent and eat grass for dinner. Not one minute sooner, or my benefits and bonus money disappear. Like the kitchen employee who honked off an editor when we ran out of Primrose tea. She was two months from her send-off. Lives in her car now—with her cat.

I’ll have to ask for time off. That’s never easy. Service workers are disposable, not like the travel writers on the second floor. They get to leave anytime they want and take their fat checks with them. Castor & Boil requires two years’ notice before we’re approved to leave the building.

So—I lie.

It takes a few days to wind up enough courage to inform my boss—the one with her well-cushioned rear in the corner office—that Slick is “terminal.”

“I’ll need a couple weeks with him before he ‘goes,’” I say straight-faced. She glares at me like my news is unbelievable.

“You’ve used that one before,” she says, not blinking an eye. “Good try.” She taps her desk with a broken pencil. “We’ve got that major cafeteria overhaul coming up. We’ll need all hands-on deck.”

My throat tightens like I’m trying to swallow a foam pillow before she speaks again.

“You’ve been here, what, nineteen years now? Just shy of retirement, right?” Her eyes roll upward, like she has a thought in her head. I feel my plan slipping away. It sucks, as our suitcases are already in the trunk of the car.

“Well, if you must go,” she pauses like she’s having a bowel movement, “we may have to replace you.” By now, she’s got me by the cajones. I’m a hair’s breadth from collecting my pension and bonus. We’re depending on it to pay off the house.

My tongue scrapes the inside of my cheek. I keep it moving so I don’t chew it off. Glancing around, I study the room. Mahogany bookcases and a sleek chrome desk decorate the room. A wilted palm tree by the door echoes my disappointment. I recognize Ireland in her photographs. I’ve seen movies. She and some chubby cheek poser are eating fish & chips in Dublin, clutching foreign do-dads that now line her windowsill.

Catching my gaze, she reaches for a little blue vase filled with twigs. Lights them with a fancy match while I sweat. The sticks send a swirl of cinnamon into the air. Like she’s a genie trying to wish me out of the room.

“It’s your decision.” Her words slice like an ugly kitchen knife.

The quiet office faces the park on Main Street, five floors up, quite unlike my work area. The kitchen houses pots and pans that clang from the ceiling every time I reach for them. Steam tables send up smoke signals. Dishes clatter all day. Sounds like I’m in Tibet waiting for a monk to arrive for yoga lessons. I constantly mop the linoleum to keep grease splatters from sending my staff sailing out the door. It’s not my dream job. It’s what I fell into after I married young. I want to write. I want to travel.

Still, I arrive every morning with a smile. Look the best I can afford, but by 4 p.m., I look like Aunt Jemima. Head wrapped in a kitchen towel. Face nearly burnt to a crisp. Hands white from biscuit flour. Gravy covering my shoes.

This woman will never understand what it’s like to only dream of visiting places other than Iowa. Or Mississippi. I leave the office aware she’ll be stalking me, unable to shake the feeling I’m one lie away from losing everything.

Slick won’t be as upset as I am. He’s six days into retirement. I can already make a mold of his backside from the new green recliner. This morning, near the couch, I left a plastic urinal, toilet paper, Cheeze Whiz, and an ice pack for his arm. He’ll still be there when I get home. But he dreams, too.

Grabbing lunch, I head to the mop room. Today, I decide Slick and I are heading to Germany even though tonight, I’ll remove our suitcases from the trunk of the car and hope I get a refund on our airfare. Can’t chance losing my pension. My hand glides across the page. We’re traveling once again.

***

‍ ‍The flight to Germany is on Luthunka. We go to board the plane. Some gate agent screams out, “Ach! De ach, de fluggenheimer, ach,” or something near that. Two hundred people race toward the door, each clutching nine bags. It’s like the Kentucky Derby without horses.

‍ ‍I researched luggage requirements. We’re allowed a personal item or a carry-on weighing less than one pound or an item two inches tall, whichever is applicable on that day. We’re practically naked just to be sure. We are rule followers. Obviously, the only ones.

‍ ‍We board last. The German gate agent stops Slick to inform him he cannot take his wallet or cast without charge. Both are considered “excess baggage.” I point to the crowd, each dragging additional bags and say, “Seriously?”

‍ ‍Well, THAT ticked her off. We pay the extra $65 for his wallet and $65 for his cast, which, mind you, is attached to his arm.

‍ ‍Attendants on board give us the side-eye.

‍ ‍I’m thinking, “Are you kidding me?” Three circus midgets are standing on a woman’s shoulders in the middle of the aisle, trying to jam each other into the overhead compartment, and WE are the problem?

‍ ‍I land a middle seat sixty-three rows back next to someone who blows his nose the whole ride. Slick is four rows behind me. Two women ask Slick to give up his seat so they can sit together. He’s now on the aisle. That’s a good thing, IF he Hadn’t had to squat on his seat because someone put a cat container under the seat in front of him. He is allergic. The attendant is in no mood to help. I tell him I’ll chop his legs off after the food service.

‍ ‍The women next to him won’t stop singing, “Sweet Caroline”—in French—out of key. He texts me to say he wants his ears plucked off, too.

‍ ‍The German language is harsh. Everyone sounds like they have to hawk up a hairball. No one smiles when you pass on the street. They glare. Buildings resemble Russian prisons. Artwork consists of “tagged” fences. They force Schnitzel on you. We’ll be heading to Italy before you can say, “Ausfahrt.”

***

In my mind, we’re traveling our way. Honestly. Frugally. Normal people sharing the ups and downs of everyday travel. We’re not the “Oh, look how special we are dressed in our Gucci outfits while we climb Mount Everest,” kind of garbage Castor & Boil plasters all over the magazines we print. No. We’ll be the ones tumbling off Mount Everest in our pajamas.

I flick the journal pages again. Grin. The closet feels like I’m riding a train in a mile-long tunnel. It’s dark and stinks like Mop-n-Glo. Years ago, I brought in an old lamp with a four-watt bulb. It gives me just enough light to write without making me feel like Dracula. Coke-bottle readers help, too. My desk is the upside-down washtub we hide dirty plates in when the dishwasher is full. Not like the fancy oak desks on the second floor. No one bothers me here, so I revisit our make-believe journey to Ireland.

***

‍ ‍We arrive in Dingle—population 1200. Fifty-two pubs. Most people stop for a day or two. Leave thinking they’ve seen it all. Slick and I do things differently. We try catching fish with our boots. Pretend we’re goat herders until dogs chase us away. Feign we’re flagmen at a construction site when I hang a pillowcase on his cast. Life finds us. Cops do, too. But our adventures are mostly free.

‍ ‍A pub owner suggests we jump a local bus. Explore the famous Slay Head Drive.

‍ ‍“It’ll take an hour,” he says, winking at the old man behind us. “Tourists love it!” They snicker as we leave. Tap their Guinness glasses.

‍ ‍We fall for it. Board. Choose front seats so we see everything. Slick gets the window. Me, the aisle. Four people on board, including the driver. We’re warned we’ll stop wherever anyone sticks their arm out. Moments into the ride, we realize our driver must compete in Formula One Races.

‍ ‍We pass the famous Dingle Gin Distillery and fields of fluffy sheep before the tranquil road embracing the jagged coastline turns into a coil. We’re riding a corkscrew—with no seatbelts. Seagulls are circling us like buzzards. The driver careens the oversized vehicle down a two-lane, seven-foot-wide motorway, doing 100 miles an hour.

‍ ‍Slick notices an oncoming vehicle. We’re on a curve that rivals every pretzel we’ve ever eaten. Our bus is hugging the edge of a cliff with no guardrails. There’s a drop-off of 1000 feet plunging toward the ocean floor. Both buses have like-minded drivers. Neither gives up space. It’s a jousting match.

‍ ‍Seconds later, Slick screams like a little girl. The sound makes my ears bleed. The other bus keeps barreling toward us, now 500 feet away. Our driver steps on the gas. He’s making a sandwich with one hand, holding a Guinness with the other, while steering the bus with his knees.

‍ ‍We are white-knuckled. The guy in the back jumps out the window. Slick heaves into the brown bag I’ve strapped to his head. The land on our side of the bus crumbles from under the tires toward the sea.

‍ ‍I know we’re going to die. I’m seeing angels. Needing gin. Slick suddenly stops shrieking, passes out, and pees his pants, all at the same time. I hear scraping of metal and see sparks flying as the two buses pass. The drivers then wave, as if they’ll be meeting for a pint later.

‍ ‍Some say it’s the most breathtaking coastline in Ireland. I can’t confirm that. I was comatose for the rest of the drive. I do remember it being punctuated by a zillion stops, including 43 people who “stuck their arms out” along the way. It was like passing a road full of Nazis.

‍ ‍When Slick finally removes his face from the vomit bag, my characteristically gentle mate pummels the driver as we exit the bus. We have since been banned from the local line. And I’m slapping the pub owner when I find him.

***

Voices from the kitchen interrupt my read. I’m ten minutes from completing my lunch.  I flip pages again, hoping to complete my yarn about Italy.

***

‍ ‍“Where do we board the Eurostar to Rome?” I ask. No one speaks English. We’re on Track 1—the last car. I need binoculars to see the front of the train. A woman points in the direction of China. Slick starts moving like he’s missed a meal. I’m dragging two suitcases, two backpacks, my purse, and his “man bag.” I feel guilty about canceling our tour to the Leaning Tower of Pisa, but then again, I needed wine. We round the corner to realize Track 25 is obviously located in Syria—

***

Voices rise again. Dottie is yelling at another worker. The argument becomes deafening. I slam my book shut. Exit the closet. Wonder if Slick and I will ever see Germany, Ireland, or any other spot outside Iowa. I secure my writings under a menu at the end of the Formica worktop. Deal with the drama in the kitchen.

The back room is vibrating with anger. A chair scrapes the floor behind me as I walk. Probably Monty. I don’t look back. It takes twenty minutes to talk the women off their cliff. They hug. Forgive.

I return to retrieve my journal, hoping for a few minutes of peace. When I reach the counter, my book is gone. Dottie nods her head toward a table near the door. I track her signal with my eyes. Get the willies when I realize my boss is huddled over my stories. All lies.

I start gagging like I’ve been watching Rosie O’Donnell at the Oscars. My boss hears. Spins around. Motions for me to sit. I’ve ten seconds to thump her or throw up.

I realize my job is over. My pension gone. We can’t pay off the house. We’ve lost our dream of seeing the world.

I squat. Clutch my throat. Wait for my dismissal.

“These stories are good,” she says. “I never realized you’ve traveled so much!” Her pudgy face warms. Mine goes pale.

“These are so real and funny. Don’t you just love Ireland?” She reaches to touch my hand like she has feelings.

“I’d like to feature your journeys in our tourism section. Maybe move you to the second floor. Give you some travel assignments. A raise, of course. Would you consider doing Florence next?”

I pee my pants right there.

I may never have to unpack again.

‍ ‍Unless I tell the truth.