The Dealer

During the planning stages of tonight’s happy hour, the last thing anyone would have imagined was the current scene; Libby Marlowe, office loner, flailing to some Stevie Nicks song. As she sprang atop the literal bar at Mooney’s, I found myself desperate for popcorn. I wanted to make eye contact with Geoff, my office ride-or-die. I wanted to take blackmail-worthy videos and photos. A small part of me wanted to jump up and follow Libby’s lead, but alas, I was too entranced to budge.

Most mornings at the office watering hole, known to many as a “Keurig”, Libby Marlowe would have recycled one of her standard replies to the small talk classic, “any plans after work?” She’d mumble, “just catching up on my reading.” On a spicy day, she may have gone rogue with, “finishing up a needlepoint project,” or, “watching a little TV.”

Watching Libby was not unlike a train wreck, but perhaps more of a caboose on the loose. Pulverizing the sticky bar with her dainty body weight seemed to be cathartic for Libby. Strangely, it was cathartic for me too. As she released something liberating, she invited her audience to judge or join at our own risk. I couldn’t help but wonder if that something was also somewhere inside me. Classic narcissism, but it felt intense.

Just as I began to consider jumping up on the bar with Libby, the inevitable disaster struck. We should have seen it coming; Libby jumped a little too high, lost her footing, and ended face-down on the floor. Everything was in slow motion until she attempted to push herself up. Blood gushed from her mouth. Geoff and I leaped to help her. Geoff directed the bartender to call 911, and calmly guided me to help roll Libby onto her side.

Geoff loved to remind people that he was an Eagle Scout, and to be fair, he was essential. His steadiness was one of the many reasons I was drawn to him as a work bestie. After working at a lame tech startup for three years, you develop a shorthand with someone or move on.

Geoff and I accompanied Libby to the hospital. Her mortified and shaken silence made us feel needed. It was a responsibility that felt right; this whole scenario was, to be fair, my fault.

*          *.         *

At 9:09 am, I’d rolled into our office - or “coworking oasis,” as our General Manager Gail tried to brand it. This was not unlike Gretchen Weiner’s affinity for “fetch,” and unfortunately for Gail, an “oasis” it was not. Being in constant proximity to members of all teams, especially my own, was daunting and exhausting under the fluorescent lights. My boss could watch my productivity levels, or lack thereof, at any time. The un/diagnosed-ADHDers were constantly moving their transitional desks from seated to standing, office buoys that made me carry around Dramamine in my work bag. I dreaded visits from Aimee, HR’s self-proclaimed gal pal to the least interested gals. 

“Yikes, looks like you’re running behind today. Don’t worry girlie, your secret’s safe with me!” Aimee offered what was meant to be an adorable wink and shushing finger to her mouth. Honestly, I’d rather she flip me off.

How did she always find me at my weakest? I hadn’t even unpacked my backpack or flung my sweater on the back of my ergonomic hellscape for the day. I bolted for the kitchen, making minimal eye contact while mumbling something along the lines of, “Aww, thanks Aimee, have a good one…”

I wouldn’t call myself an early bird, but I typically tried to make it to the kitchen before the vultures came for my Hazelnut-flavored K-cups and Kind bars. On the rare occasion that I made it to the office pre-9:00, I relished the freedom to collect and hoard these lifelines at my desk. Today, I knew that slim pickins awaited me. Fortunately, Geoff awaited me in the kitchen as well.

“Morning,” I smiled, and my shoulders dropped slightly lower than their typically anxiously raised level. I swung open the K-cup drawer, revealing only House Blend and Decaf, my nemeses.

“Got you a present,” Geoff tossed me the holy grail; a shimmering Hazelnut K-cup.

It’s not impossible that I blushed. Geoff had that effect on most people, regardless of gender. He was, to put it bluntly, the actual best. His only flaw, known only by those closest to him, was that he was an absolute nerd who loved to show off his dorky acumen. Geoff played D&D but made it seem approachable. Geoff watched Jeopardy! religiously and dreamed of being a contestant at some point. Me? I had some potential for Family Feud – think like the average American citizen? Check.

I was tempted to launch myself into a hug with Geoff, but we had never done this at the office. It took several cocktails at Mooney’s before I felt confident enough to show Geoff any minor physical affection. And while hugs had always been returned, (and magical) Geoff hadn’t initiated much flirty contact in or out of the office. So, instead of beckoning for the hug I needed, I laid the groundwork to get one post-work.

“My hero! Gotta return the favor – Mooney’s tonight? Can I buy you a drink?” I must have sounded so chill. I waited behind mousey Libby to get my fix from that sexy Keurig.

Geoff’s grin made it clear that he expected no chill from me. “Yeah, I could do Mooney’s tonight. No need to treat.” If this guy didn’t know that I was obsessed with him, perhaps he had no business being on a smart-person show like Jeopardy!

I realized that I should probably acknowledge Libby’s presence, a rare occurrence in these parts. “Morning Libby, how’s it going?”

“Oh, fine,” Libby replied, with a slightly gloomier cadence than usual.

I took a very high, kind road and asked, “Any big plans for the night? Wanna come with me and Geoff to Mooney’s?” It was an empty offer. Libby was unlikely to spend time anywhere but her home and our office, as far as I could tell.

Libby paused. She did tend to speak slowly and quietly, but this pause caught me off guard. I had expected a nearly automatic “no.” When that didn’t come, I made eye contact with Geoff, as if to say, “Sorry?”

After either four seconds or ten minutes passed, Libby said, “Yeah. I think I’d like that. What time?”

Now it was my turn to pause. This…was turning out to be quite the morning. Was it even 9:15 yet? Geoff seemed pleasantly surprised, so I stammered, “We’ll just go straight over at five. You can walk with us, it’s so close we don’t need to drive!”

My discomfort made Geoff almost laugh, but he maintained composure. What a little turd.

“I know where it is, thanks. I’ll see you at five,” Libby said nonchalantly and headed off to her desk.

“What just happened?” I asked Geoff, who finally let out a much-needed chuckle. So adorably annoying.

“Looks like we need to invite a couple more people.” Geoff made a solid point; the more the merrily less awkward. Luckily, we were on the same page on invitees. Unfortunately, they all declined. A plan took shape, and at the end of a gruelingly mundane day, we went to Mooney’s to drink about it together.

*          *.         *

Fast forward several drinks, many uncomfortable moments, and one ambulance ride later, we soon found that Libby had no local friends or family to contact. Whenever she was asked if there was someone to call, Libby shook her terrified head. We attempted to speak for her, which was difficult to do without having heard much from her, you know, ever. Luckily, the broken wrist was on her non-dominant hand. Libby was able to fill out any paperwork that was shoved in her face by well-meaning and overworked nurses.

Geoff and I stayed with Libby, doing our best to cheer her up. This was a catch-22, as smiles and laughter were unbearably painful after knocking out her front teeth. After a while, Libby’s eyes drooped closed. Whether she was genuinely sleeping or not, this gave us a silent cue that she needed space. Geoff and I stepped out into the hallway.

“Holy shit,” I exhaled like an asthma patient, “are you ok?”

“I’m good. How are you doing?” Geoff was always ok, and he knew to ask since I rarely even understood the feeling of ok.

“Yeah? Just like, what the fuck happened? Like, has Libby never had a vodka soda before?” I was drowning in the guilt of bringing someone so sweet and unassuming to Mooney’s. I should have monitored her drinks more. It was like Geoff and I were suddenly trapped, caring for an early-to-mid-forties child we didn’t realize we’d adopted.

“I think she just has a lot of shit she needed to get out of her system. But that was intense. How many drinks did she have?” Geoff’s voice was like a Xanax for me.

“I wasn’t keeping count, she seems like such a responsible adult. I think she was chatting up the bartender for a while, and then suddenly she was up on the bar,” I tried to replay the evening. I remembered that we were all having more fun than anticipated, and Libby had been chattier and wittier than I’d ever expected. What had we even talked about?

Geoff mulled this all over. “Let’s see if we can get her some cold juice, or something other than water to soothe her throat.” I yearned to tell Geoff what an amazing parent he would make one day, but I was definitely sober enough to keep that inside.

Instead, I offered my own caretaking wisdom; “We should get her a notepad and pen, too. Maybe she’ll finally be able to write down a friend’s name to call. Or maybe she’ll tell us to leave, honestly.”

“Good call,” Geoff beamed, and there went my scarlet cheeks.

*          *.         *

It was about 11:30 pm, and my eyes drifted closed while leaning on Geoff’s heavenly shoulder. Libby had been asleep for an hour or so, and Geoff had insisted on staying with her until she woke up. If Geoff wasn’t going anywhere, I sure as shit wasn’t going anywhere either. We both felt badly for her lack of local family and friends. It was pretty miserable to leave someone in a hospital bed, alone, with no one to call. If this meant an overnight, maybe we could squeeze an extra day of PTO out of Aimee tomorrow.

I felt Geoff’s shoulder raise. My eyes popped open, and there she was. Libby Marlowe, awake and alert. Geoff briefly mentioned his plans to find a nurse for an update and took off. I knew he was still determined to find juice, as Libby had been asleep since that initial stroke of genius.

I had already retrieved a notepad and pen. I handed them to Libby. “No need to respond – but I got these for you. So you can write anything that comes to mind. No pressure at all! I might ask some questions, but seriously, don’t feel like you have to answer anything. But maybe give me a thumbs-up if that sounds good?”

Libby gave me a slow, strained thumb-up with her dominant hand.

“Cool,” I replied, attempting to make the least casual night of my life feel more casual. “So, um, how are you doing?”

At the pace of an adorable turtle, Libby scrawled a reply. She turned the pad over, and I read, I’ve been better. Thank you for being here.

“Oh,” I shrugged, bringing my already raised shoulders up to my earlobes, “it’s no problem at all. Good excuse to call out tomorrow, to be honest. I need a day off anyway.”

Libby wrote, growing frustrated with her slung right hand’s inability to stabilize the notepad. I looked around, noticed a little bedside table, and rolled it to the left side of her bed to match her leftie needs. She smiled, grateful. It’s something special as an adult to have another person anticipate your needs, particularly when you feel handicapped.

Eventually, she handed me the pad; Thank you so much for being here. You don’t have to stay. I’m ok.

Any other time, I’d have read this as an introvert’s plea for space and happily obliged. However, tonight I was in this for the long haul. However terribly I needed to mess up my neck was worthwhile for more time leaning on Geoff’s shoulder. Where had he gone anyway? I prayed he was not making small talk with a cute nurse.

I attempted to reassure her. “It’s seriously no problem at all! Geoff and I like hanging out with you. But, are you sure there isn’t anyone we should call? They don’t have to be nearby, but I’m sure that there’s someone who really wants to know you’re in the hospital. Even if they just want to send you flowers!”

Libby didn’t hesitate before shaking her head. She wrote, I waited. I don’t. I’ll be ok. You both need your rest, please don’t use a day off for me!

My heartstrings tugged. I imagined my list of people that I would have to call if I was admitted to the hospital; it was genuinely longer than I could name at the moment. I wondered if Geoff would call me during a hospital stay. “No no, you’re stuck with us! At least until they can discharge you.”

Libby wrote, I watched. That’s so kind. Thank you. Her eyes welled up in gratitude.

Unsure of my ability to keep filling this heavy silence, I asked a desperately silly question. “Hey, what was that song you were dancing to? In the bar? I don’t think I’ve heard that before.” That sounded chill, right?

Now it was Libby’s cheeks’ turn to go flush. She shook her head, embarrassed to have let her freak flag fly at the bar.

“No, seriously, it was a great song. I haven't heard it before and I really want to hear it again. I think the only Stevie Nicks song I know is that one that’s kind of like ‘Eye of the Tiger’? Could you write it down for me?”

Libby sighed and gave in. “The Dealer,” she scrawled in neat penmanship.

“Awesome! What do you say we take advantage of your single room and give it another listen?” I was already searching for the song on Spotify, so this was more of a demand than a request.

I did a Spotify search and turned my phone's volume down to medium-low, as I still had some neighborly respect whilst the clock approached midnight. In this sparse, bright, and sterile environment, it was much easier to hear Stevie’s lyrics than at Mooney’s;

It was my fault, my move, my game,

If I’d known a little more,

I’d run away

It was dark out and I held the cards,

I was the dealer and it wasn’t hard

Tapping my foot, I discovered how witchy this song was. I now saw Libby’s bar thrashing and pouncing for what it was; iconic. I stood up and started to swing my arms and stiff hips to the beat. Libby grinned as wide as her swollen mouth would allow.

I was the mistress of my fate,

I was a card shark,

If I’d looked a little ahead,

I’d run away,

Libby swayed in her bed. I started jumping. Stevie’s words turned me into a living voodoo doll – I was at the whim of this song. My hair flew around my face, I stomped, I spun, I set free my inner diva.

I’d run away,

I was the mistress of my fate,

I gave it all out,

If I’d really known you then,

You’d had to watch out,

Just as I was on the verge of a full-on dancing exorcism, Libby cleared her throat. In the doorway stood Geoff and some tiny nurse, unsure how to proceed with their liquids and pills with this patient’s psychotic visitor. I chose not to feel embarrassed, instead pouncing into Geoff’s arms and pulling him into my glorious dance party as the nurse gave Libby medications. We danced through the rest of the song, and then there was silence again.

I looked to Libby. She beamed. She and I both understood that there is power and responsibility in the role of the dealer. To be a woman and to be a master of one’s fate? We needed it, but we also wouldn’t wish it upon our worst enemy.

*          *.         *

I called out sick the following day, which thankfully was a Friday. A Thirsty Thursday we’d had indeed! After a much-needed three-day weekend, I returned to work Monday to hear the news; Libby had ghosted the company. Geoff and I hadn’t thought to take her personal phone number at the hospital, so we had no way of checking back in.

Coworkers buzzed around the office, pondering the unnecessary labels that are typically placed on a female ghost. Gail called Libby a “loser,” and Aimee boldly painted her as “rude and unprofessional.” Geoff even chimed in, suggesting the intriguing hypothesis that Libby was part of the Witness Protection Program.

While there may have been some element of truth to all the names, nothing was quite right. I like to think Libby preferred it that way. She was The Dealer.