Just One of the Guys

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“The one who just left?”

“Sorry, I didn’t see him.”

Damn. Can’t catch a break these days. I head to the meeting room where our class will be held once a week for the next eight weeks. Maybe I’ll meet someone here, I remind myself.

I don’t. Well, not that kind of someone. There are six of us, three men, three women, and I try not to be disappointed that none of the men is going to be my husband, being that two are in their fifties and all are married. Perhaps the teacher is some hunky paramedic or E.R. doctor…but no. In strides a brisk-looking middle-aged woman with wiry gray hair and sturdy shoes. She whips out a clipboard and peruses it intently. “O’Neill?” she barks, looking at the list.

“Here,” I answer.

“I meant, are you one of the O’Neills?” She cocks her head, birdlike.

“Um, if you mean one of Mike and Betty’s kids, then yes.”

She bursts into a smile. “I’m Bev Ludevoorsk. I know your dad,” she says. “And your brothers, let’s see…Matthew, Mark, Luke and John, right?”

I nod, simultaneously proud and irritated. Proud of my brothers, irritated at being pigeonholed.

“What great guys!” Bev barks.

“I can see you don’t know them well,” I joke.

“Hahahaha! You should certainly sail through this class, with the family history you’ve got!” she booms approvingly. “And look at you! Just as big and strong as your brothers. Patient lifting won’t be a problem for you, now, will it?”

“I guess not,” I mutter, trying to feel flattered.

“What’s your first name?” she asks. “Charity?”

“Chastity,” I correct. One of my classmates smiles. “My father thought it was funny,” I explain. “My middle name’s Virginia.”

“Ouch,” the woman says.

“Tell me about it.”

“Chastity’s whole family works in emergency services,” Bev barks. “Right, Chastity?”

“Three firefighters, a bomb detonator and a chopper paramedic,” I confirm.

“And isn’t Trevor Meade somehow related to you?” she asks.

“No, actually. An honorary O’Neill, but no relation.” I feel my face warm at the thrill of discussing Trevor, loser that I am. For Pete’s sake, I’ve known Trev my whole life. We were together romantically for roughly seventy-two hours. You’d think I’d be over that.

“Right, so anyway, why don’t we introduce ourselves and say why we’re here. I’m Bev, as I already told you, hahahaha, and I love doing this job because we help people. Simple as that. Got to think on your feet, move fast, keep a cool head. It’s a great job. Who’s next? O’Neill? How about you?”

I hesitate, unsure of how much truth to parcel out. “Well, as you just heard, my family is in emergency services, and I thought it was time I joined the herd. Oh, and by the way, I’m, um, kind of surprising them with this class, Bev, so if you see one of them, I’d appreciate it if you didn’t mention this.”

“No prob, O’Neill. Next?”

The other people in class—Henry, Ernesto, Ursula, Pam and Todd—say basically the same thing as Bev: it seems like a good way to serve the community, maybe work in the field professionally, yadda yadda.

“Okay, people, so this first class is an overview of the kinds of things we’re likely to see in the field,” she begins. My toes curl in my shoes. Relax, Chastity. You can do this. Knowledge is power. “Get the lights in back, O’Neill, okay? We’re having a little slide show.”

I obey, dreading what’s about to come. My stomach feels cold. Bad sign.

“Great. Slide number one—compound fracture, tib/fib. Anyone know what that means?”

My mouth dries up in instant horror. There on the screen is a close-up of bone jutting out of flesh, the white, jagged end bloodstained, the fibrous cartilage torn. Look away. Look away! My neck seems to be made of limp spaghetti, my head wobbles, my eyes flutter closed. Happy thoughts, happy bleeping thoughts…uh…let’s see…rowing, that’s good…Buttercup when I took her home the first time…Twinkies…um…Aragorn…Jeter… There. It’s working. I swallow against the bile and pull my head back into position, but I stare down at the desk, averting my eyes from the nasty picture on the screen. My skin crawls in revulsion.

“And next, okay, this is what we call a chronic wound or an ulcerating wound. Old folks, diabetics, bed-bound people are prone to these. Pesky little suckers that take months to heal, if they ever do.”

Don’t look, Chastity. But I can’t help it. My eyes flash to the screen in time to see an open sore on the leg of a very hairy man. Immediately, I slap my gaze back to the desk, but it’s too late. Breathe in, breathe out, slowly, slowly… I can still see the fragile, angry-looking edges, the greenish center of the wound, like some sort of hideous, decaying eye—Orlando Bloom and Viggo Mortenson, both in leather. German chocolate cake, extra frosting. Yo-Yos at eleven o’clock at night, Buttercup’s head in my lap. There. Urge to vomit suppressed.

“And this is a degloving. My God, these are gross!”

I have the sense to close my eyes, tipping my head forward so Bev won’t see, but her voice is inescapable. “You can see how the skin is just pulled right back down the hand. It looks kind of tidy, doesn’t it? Like he just peeled the skin right off, on purpose. Bitch to fix, though. Stitches everywhere. End up looking like Frankenstein’s monster. You okay, O’Neill?”

At the sound of my name, my eyes snap open. Damn it! Now I’ve seen the degloving! Holy crap! Oh, God, this is the worst one yet. A whimper escapes my lips at the sight of those red, red fingers, the yellowish, waxy skin pulled down like fabric, oh, God, she’s right, it’s an oddly precise and tidy injury, and I can see veins and muscle and the fingernails…the fingernails…the fingernails are still on.

“I’m fine,” I manage in a strangled voice.

I spend the rest of the class mentally singing Bruce Springsteen’s “Born to Run,” the last song I heard before leaving the house today, and studying the Snicker’s wrapper on the floor. It’s not easy—I’m still sweaty at the end of class, because despite my best efforts, certain words have trickled through The Boss’s lyrics. Patellar dislocation. “At night, we ride…” Arterial spurt. “Through mansions of glory…” Massive head wound. “In suicide machines.” Bruce’s words have never been more heartfelt, at least in my recollection. Born to run, indeed.

I make a quick stop in the bathroom and assess the grayness of my face. This may have been a mistake. Once I splash some water on my face, I feel a little better. I’ll stick this class out. I’ll try. I even have enough energy to wonder if I’ll see Mr. New York Times next week.

Next week. Ew. I have to come again, don’t I? Maybe it won’t be so bad. Maybe I’ll get better. I did make it through tonight, after all. It’s a start. Sort of.

Chapter Seven

A FEW DAYS LATER, I TAKE A LONG look in the mirror, the only thing that actually functions in my upstairs bathroom, as the boys still haven’t gotten off their asses and done anything about it. I’m going out tonight, and I’m dressed like a girl. So far, so good.

I’ve always been one of those women who takes some pride in my complete dismissal of clothes. My clothes have always been for comfort and survival, not for attracting the opposite sex. For work, it’s always been pants and an oxford, maybe a good-quality wool sweater, solid colors. Around home, it’s sweats of varying age, usually with a Yankees logo plastered somewhere. I also have a penchant for Lord of the Rings T-shirts. Flannel shirts, jeans, those excellent, fleecelined duck boots from L.L. Bean that come in handy ten months of the year.

However, my clothing philosophy bit me in the ass the other day when I was mistaken for Lucky while Elaina and I were out for dinner. Thus, I was hauled against my will to the mall by my friend, who has a propensity for brightly colored, low-cut blouses that show off her fabulous cleavage. As I dragged my feet, Elaina turned on me. “Will you stop whining?” she snapped. “Madre de Dios, shut up! Wearing a skirt once or twice a year isn’t going to kill you, querida, but I might, okay?”

So now my closet contains not just my This Old House flannels and Levis, but also some flowery print skirts, a couple of sweaters (one is pink, please don’t tell anyone), even some skinny little shoes with straps that aren’t nearly as comfortable as my favorite shoes, a worn pair of red hightop sneakers. I tell myself it’s all for the greater good.

And the greater good could be waiting for me tonight at Singles Grocery Night, however dubious this might sound. Stifling the urge to crawl back into my I

My Preciousss T-shirt and go for a nice long run, I give myself the thumbs up, force a smile and tromp downstairs, where Matt and Trevor sit in front of the Yankees game. “I’m meeting someone, boys,” I proclaim optimistically.

“See ya,” Matt says just as one of our own scores. “Yes! Did you see that!”

“Have fun, Chas,” Trevor says. He glances at me with a smile. There is no jaw-drop, no abrupt realization. He just looks…happy. Happy and completely unconflicted—possibly even pleased—that I’m going out to meet (perhaps) my future husband. He just smiles, and when Trevor smiles, his eyes do something that I’ve spent a good part of my twenties analyzing. His face exceeds the sum of its parts or something. Trevor James Meade was simply born to smile, and his appealing, not-quite-handsome face is transformed into utter irresistibility.

I realize I’m staring. “Thank you!” I chirrup.

At least Buttercup seems distressed. She moans, hauls herself up and collapses on my strappy shoes, imploring me not to leave. Then Trevor makes a clicking sound, she lumbers over to him, her razor-wire tail lashing through the air, and I’m forgotten. Faithless cur.

I drive to the grocery store, imagining some gorgeous, financially secure, emotionally stable man being reduced to Singles Grocery Night. “Daddy and I met over the ham hocks,” I say aloud. Yup. Just as I thought. Sounds impossible.

I pull into the parking lot and slosh through the puddles to the entrance, where Mom stands in raincoat and clear plastic hat, impatiently waiting for me. “Come on! They’ve already started.”

“Started what, Mom? ‘Attention, all single shoppers. Ass check, aisle nine.’”

“Mouth, Chastity. You’ll never get a man with the way you talk.”

“Thanks for the encouragement, Mom.” Rolling my eyes, I follow her in. “I do actually need some groceries,” I tell her, taking out my list.

“Oh, for heaven’s sake.” She sighs. “Well, just don’t buy anything that would put a man off.”

“Like what, Mom? A supersize box of condoms? Or would that make me even more popular?” I’m laughing at her back, because she’s squeaking off in her little bitty crepesoled shoes.

I start with the produce aisle. To the naked eye, it seems like a normal night at the grocery store. Are there perhaps more single men here? Hard to tell. There are, as always, more females than males. But yes, my trained journalistic eye notes a furtive tone to the evening. People glance at each other then quickly look away. A woman buying cilantro seems to be taking great pains to inhale appreciatively. I am a sensuous woman, appreciative of life’s little gifts. Ah. Jeez. I grab a bag of apples, plop it in my cart, then move on to Poultry.

There’s a middle-aged man in front of the chicken breasts, holding up package after package, examining each one closely, a thinly veiled metaphor for his true purpose tonight. “I haven’t had a good meal since my wife left me,” he announces loudly. Four women zip over to advise. No one in Chicken Thighs seems to be my age, so I turn down Juices & Bargains. A curly-haired student type darts a look at me, then pushes his carriage quickly past. Don’t bother, I tell him silently. A grown man who drinks Kool-Aid? Please. I’m more of the Gatorade type myself.

To think I wore my new shoes for this. Down to Cookies & Crackers. I grab a few packages of Double Stuff Oreos. Can’t have enough of these around the house. Matt and I eat them like they’re Chicklets. The aisle is empty, as no other shopper is willing to publicly admit they eat cookies.

This isn’t working. I didn’t really imagine it would, of course. Sighing, I turn sharply at the end of the aisle and head up Cereals & Breakfast Treats. I’m out of Choco-Puffs, and Matt ate the last of the Pop-Tarts last night. There, in front of the specially advertised, cholesterol-lowering oatmeal, is dear old Mom, talking to two men. Cripes. Ten minutes in the store, and she’s got two potential dates.

“Chastity! Come over here. Right now.” There’s a familiar militant note in her voice. I obey and join her, towering over her suitors.

“This is Grant,” Mom says, indicating the five-foot-seven man. “And this one…Donald?”

“That’s right!” Donald (five-four) applauds. “Well done, Betty!”

“Hello,” I say. “I’m the daughter. Chastity.”

My mother turns to me and puts her hands on her hips. “Grant and Donald are interested in a threesome,” she announces loudly. “With me.”

“Good God!” I splutter. “Not with my mother, you freaks. Get away from her or I will kill both of you and dump your bodies in the river.” They remain frozen in terror, so I slam my size eleven foot into their cart and send it careening down the aisle. “Go!” I bark. Terrified, they scuttle down the aisle toward the vegetable oil.

“Thank you, darling,” Mom says briskly. “Disgusting! People today! I can’t believe that.”