Something She's Not Telling Us - Darcey Bell Page 0,23
on my résumé.
Whenever I read about a gag rule, I think, everyone’s under a gag rule. There’s so much you can’t say. You have to sort out what you want people to know—and what you never want anyone to know. Ever.
Every Friday my coworkers get together at the IT guy’s house. I’m not invited. They watch reruns of The Office for tricks to play on me, farting near my desk, turning everything I say into a dirty joke. They actually encased my stapler in a mound of Jell-O, like they did on TV. It hurts that these guys go to so much trouble just to make me miserable.
Whatever. As soon as I got the job, I found myself a little one-bedroom walk-up in Greenpoint. I made it homey and cute. My grandparents loaned me enough money for the broker’s fee and the rest, since, this being New York, no one will rent you an apartment unless you have enough money to buy it.
I told myself that all that craziness with the baroness was behind me. New house, new life.
EVEN THOUGH IT’S hopeless, I keep trying to please my coworkers. So I threw myself into the discussion about Friday lunch. Guys? I’ve been to culinary school. Three Tuscan grandmothers showed me how to make food that will rock your world.
When they said it was my turn, I should have been on my guard. But I wanted to prove myself and maybe change their minds. Granny Edith says, The way to a man’s heart is through his stomach.
I asked each guy what food he’d been craving. It was surprising how many said kale. I described the Kanji kale salad, and they said it sounded great, especially when I name-dropped David Chang.
They let me go through all the prep work in the open kitchen, chopping all that kale and frying it and mixing it with the raisins, soy sauce, and sesame oil. Delicious!
I was shocked when they wouldn’t eat it.
Sandy said, “If I eat that, I’ll grow a vagina.”
Tears popped into my eyes.
One of the guys said, “I don’t eat this shit.” Another said, “I don’t eat this shit, either.” Then another. I packed the salad into plastic tubs and tossed it into the dumpster behind the building.
But at least I met Rocco. It doesn’t always happen that something good comes out of something bad. For once, I was lucky, though it wasn’t all luck. Planning played a part.
I’d seen Rocco around the Greenmarket. There was something about him I liked. He was handsome and dark and shy, and really nice to his workers. I began to look for him. Low-tech, old-school stalking. There were other stands that sold kale, but I chose his when my office green-lit my salad.
I asked if I could have a discount since I was buying in bulk. But I didn’t care about a discount. I wanted his attention. I never imagined that he would offer to help me carry everything back, or that we’d have a chance to talk, walking up Broadway. Well, maybe I did imagine it, but I didn’t believe it would happen. I gave him my phone number, and he called the next day.
ON OUR SECOND date, Rocco drove me up to his home in Claverack, in the Hudson Valley.
Signs of other women were layered in his house like the circles that mark the age of a tree. I wasn’t jealous. I didn’t care about the past. Rocco’s sheets were freshly washed. We laughed. We had fun.
On Monday I took the train from Hudson back to work in the city, and the next Friday morning, early, I met Rocco in the market. The park was lovely at that hour, with a bright mist rising from the wet pavement. I went up to Rocco, he turned, and we kissed. I still had my arms around him when I said, “This could ruin everything, but could I ask you a question?”
“Now I’m scared,” said Rocco.
“Don’t be scared. It’s just stupid. Can I take a picture of us?”
“Deal breaker. I can’t be kissing a woman who buys ten pounds of kale and takes selfies.”
“It’s not for Instagram or anything. It’s for me. My grandma says, ‘Everyone makes fun of you girls for taking selfies, but I think it’s brilliant. Someday you can look back and know that the person in the picture was you.’”
“Your grandmother said that?”
“She’s a prophet. A prophet and a saint.”
He was warming to my grandma. Everyone does. Especially men.