Jack and Diane [part I]
A long time ago, in a small town far away, a girl took a night course at the university, to try to raise her grade point average so that she could apply to grad school.
The girl was very happy, then. She had a great job, and a cool car, and a new old house, and a boy who loved her very, very much. She bought a textbook called Rhetoric and the English Language, and drove to the university in her cool car, looking forward to an evening of mental stimulation in the halls of academia.
She was not disappointed. The class was small, only a dozen students, and the professor was an engaging speaker. That first day they discussed and debated the rhetorical merit of an essay, written by George Bush and published in Newsweek, in which he justified his decision to send troops to Kuwait. The girl argued that the essay was extremely persuasive. She argued vehemently against a tall boy in the class, who was equally firm in his resolve that it was not.
The class ended, but the argument continued all the way to the parking lot. She walked slowly, and he followed, never missing a beat of their discussion. Then they were at her car.
"Listen, Jack," she said, "I can tell you think you're pretty smart, but you don't know what you're talking about."
She lost the argument. She was not in the habit of losing arguments. She was not accustomed to arguing with a boy who was smarter than she was. The girl would never have admitted this.
She drove him home, since she had a car and he didn't. She drove him home, not every night, but most nights, for the twelve weeks of the course at the university. She lost more arguments, but she won some, too.
On the day of the last class, when she drove him home, she tried to get caught by all the red lights. She didn't want this to be the last time she'd see him, but she couldn't think of a plausible reason to continue the relationship. At the corner of his street, with the car in neutral, and her body turned fully to face him, she looked up at him through her thick, curly bangs that were in dire need of trimming, but he didn't do then what he told her, years later, he knew she wanted him to do: kiss her.
She didn't see him again for six years.
Then one day the girl was at work at an Internet company in the same small town far away, listening to her boss, who was a very smart man, tell her that she was being irritating. This was something he did from time to time, but only when she deserved it, and she admired him all the more for being straight with her, because she knew that sometimes she pissed people off without meaning to. She still loved her job, she still lived in the new old house with the boy who loved her very, very much, she was still very happy, and she had an even cooler car.
The very smart man was saying, "...and I don't want you scaring them. They're new, and we need them, so I want you to go meet with them... blah blah..."
And then he said a name, "____," and the girl remembered the tall boy in her rhetoric class all those years ago.
"How does he spell that?" she asked, "With an O or an E?"
The very smart man ignored her question, finished telling her what he was telling her, then walked away. As soon as he was gone she looked up the name on the company's email directory. It was, indeed, spelled with an E, and so she sent a message:
"Jack?"
Five minutes later he was standing beside her desk, looking down at her with his steel blue eyes.
"Hey, you," he said.
* * *
Here begins the four part story of Jack and Diane. Click here to read part II. Or, go to the next story in sequence, in which Postmodern Sass learns that she can't hold a candle to either Angelina Jolie or Joan Cusack — but then, she already knew that.
The girl was very happy, then. She had a great job, and a cool car, and a new old house, and a boy who loved her very, very much. She bought a textbook called Rhetoric and the English Language, and drove to the university in her cool car, looking forward to an evening of mental stimulation in the halls of academia.
She was not disappointed. The class was small, only a dozen students, and the professor was an engaging speaker. That first day they discussed and debated the rhetorical merit of an essay, written by George Bush and published in Newsweek, in which he justified his decision to send troops to Kuwait. The girl argued that the essay was extremely persuasive. She argued vehemently against a tall boy in the class, who was equally firm in his resolve that it was not.
The class ended, but the argument continued all the way to the parking lot. She walked slowly, and he followed, never missing a beat of their discussion. Then they were at her car.
"Listen, Jack," she said, "I can tell you think you're pretty smart, but you don't know what you're talking about."
She lost the argument. She was not in the habit of losing arguments. She was not accustomed to arguing with a boy who was smarter than she was. The girl would never have admitted this.
She drove him home, since she had a car and he didn't. She drove him home, not every night, but most nights, for the twelve weeks of the course at the university. She lost more arguments, but she won some, too.
On the day of the last class, when she drove him home, she tried to get caught by all the red lights. She didn't want this to be the last time she'd see him, but she couldn't think of a plausible reason to continue the relationship. At the corner of his street, with the car in neutral, and her body turned fully to face him, she looked up at him through her thick, curly bangs that were in dire need of trimming, but he didn't do then what he told her, years later, he knew she wanted him to do: kiss her.
She didn't see him again for six years.
Then one day the girl was at work at an Internet company in the same small town far away, listening to her boss, who was a very smart man, tell her that she was being irritating. This was something he did from time to time, but only when she deserved it, and she admired him all the more for being straight with her, because she knew that sometimes she pissed people off without meaning to. She still loved her job, she still lived in the new old house with the boy who loved her very, very much, she was still very happy, and she had an even cooler car.
The very smart man was saying, "...and I don't want you scaring them. They're new, and we need them, so I want you to go meet with them... blah blah..."
And then he said a name, "____," and the girl remembered the tall boy in her rhetoric class all those years ago.
"How does he spell that?" she asked, "With an O or an E?"
The very smart man ignored her question, finished telling her what he was telling her, then walked away. As soon as he was gone she looked up the name on the company's email directory. It was, indeed, spelled with an E, and so she sent a message:
"Jack?"
Five minutes later he was standing beside her desk, looking down at her with his steel blue eyes.
"Hey, you," he said.
Here begins the four part story of Jack and Diane. Click here to read part II. Or, go to the next story in sequence, in which Postmodern Sass learns that she can't hold a candle to either Angelina Jolie or Joan Cusack — but then, she already knew that.
Labels: Jack
<< Home