On September 11, 2001, Don Ciccone’s pregnant wife was at work near the top of the North Tower of the World Trade Center. Two years later, Don is still grieving. In fact, he frequently converses with his deceased wife in his head. Will he not be able to fall in love again until he completes his grieving process? Or is he unable to complete his grieving process because he hasn’t yet fallen in love again? His new engineering coworker may force him to find out. She is empathetic and kind-hearted, an intelligent conversationalist, and her shampoo smells like apples and cinnamon.
A month ago, Rachel Ward was attending her graduation ceremony at UConn with no job offers in hand. Now, she’s starting her new job at Brooklyn Navy Yard Precision Manufacturing, searching for an apartment in Brooklyn, and crushing on a mature Italian coworker. Wow! Life is moving really fast! After her immature college boyfriend broke up with her because she quit the College Republicans, she vowed that her next boyfriend would be a lot more mature. But is she ready to date a man who is eager to start a family?
When my alarm blared harshly at 5:45, waking up didn’t seem like a good idea. But my full bladder would have woken me soon anyway. I had tanked up on water after my evening jog and then slept through the night.
Morning, Connie.
Not bad. I slept through the night again.
Yeah, that’s the second night in a row. I read my book until I couldn’t keep my eyes open any longer. That seems to help. Maybe I won’t need a sleep specialist after all.
I crawled out of bed and looked out my east-facing bedroom window. The Sun was still behind the apartment building across the street, but there was already enough light to see the neighborhood. A jogger, a dog-walker, and a Pepsi truck driving past were the only signs of life.
The south-bound Pepsi truck and a west-bound Coke truck simultaneously stopped at the intersection. I watched to see if the two drivers would accelerate their trucks into the intersection, ram into each other, then jump out of their trucks and start throwing punches. Instead, the two drivers ignored each other as they proceeded toward their destinations. That was my neighborhood in a nutshell. We were a diverse group of inhabitants, but as long as we were able to ignore each other, we usually coexisted peacefully.
I turned back toward the bedroom. It’s another beautiful day in paradise. But what about here in Brooklyn?
Oh, come on. You always laughed at that joke when you were alive.
Well, yeah. It was more of a polite chuckle. Oop! Nature calls.
I rushed to the bathroom, did my toilet time, showered, dressed, shaved, and combed my hair. Then, I retrieved The New York Times and sat down at my little, two-person dining table to eat breakfast: orange juice, a new box of Raisin Bran, and skim milk. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d had Raisin Bran.
The taste of my first spoonful of Raisin Bran flashed me back to the morning of June 9, 1993. It was our first morning in our apartment. I was sitting at the same side of the table as now, eating Raisin Bran and skim milk. Connie was sitting opposite of me, eating multigrain toast with melted butter and strawberry jam. Her hair was disheveled, and I’m sure mine was, too. She was wearing a cute, pink nightshirt that said on the front, “My right to snore is protected by the 1st Amendment.” I was happy and in love.
And then, I returned the present. I was eating alone. Because Connie was dead.
Connie?
Nothing. I just wanted to hear your voice.
Well, yeah. I just wanted to imagine hearing your voice. But I have a very vivid imagination.
I like Raisin Bran. I don’t know why I went years without buying a box of it.
Hmmm. Yeah, I guess that’s true. You were the one who would always buy the Raisin Bran. And the strawberry jam. I wish we had strawberry jam.
No. We have blackberry jam. That’s a completely different flavor.
Yeah, I know I’m weird. But that’s why you love me.
I browsed the news headlines. War in Iraq… War in Afghanistan… President Bush… Mayor Bloomberg… Airline industry recession… Autopsy of the Columbia Space Shuttle disaster.
I grabbed the sports section. I’ll read the news after work.
No, I will. I care about the news as much as you do. Well, almost as much.
I found the Yankees box score. I’d had the game on TV last night, so I knew they had won. It was their first game of a three-game home series with Houston. Five to three. Home run by Posada, his fifteenth. Mussina picked up his eighth win: seven innings, eight hits, one walk, six strikeouts, and two runs. East standings? Red Sox lost… Blue Jays won. So… Yankees had a half-game lead over the Red Sox and a two-game lead over the Blue Jays. Today’s game? Afternoon game, so it would be over by the time I left work.
I grabbed the opinion section.
Yeah, I’m gonna read Kaitlyn again.
I chuckled. Yes, I’m fully aware that I’m not her target audience. Her target audience is young women who are trying to find Mr. Right. But I have plenty of confidence in my masculinity. And she was really funny yesterday. I wanna see if she’s funny every day.
No, you don’t make me laugh. You made me laugh when you were alive. But now you’re just a figment of my imagination, and my imagination isn’t funny.
Well, yeah. I guess you still make me laugh sometimes. I have a very vivid imagination. Alright, I’m reading Kaitlyn.
Dear Kaitlyn,
I have my eye on a sexy guy at work. Every time I’m next to him, I just want to (censored due to sexually explicit content). Am I allowed to date a coworker?
Horny in Manhattan
Dear Horny in Manhattan,
Great question! I think work is as good a place as any to meet men. My sister met the man who would become her husband at work. Actually, it was his work, not hers. He’s a gynecologist, and she was getting a pap smear. He asked her why she was getting her third pap smear in one week, and she said, “Well, if you had asked me out during the first pap smear, then the second and third ones wouldn’t have been necessary!”
But let me address your question of whether or not you are allowed to date a coworker. If the sexy guy that you have your eye on is your boss or supervisor, or if you are his boss or supervisor, then you are not allowed to date him. It doesn’t matter what industry you work in. Dating your boss or supervisor is never allowed. On the other hand, romantic relationships between coworkers are typically allowed if neither is the boss or supervisor. You should review the rules at your workplace, however, because some companies forbid dating any coworker. If there is a rule against it in your workplace, then dating a coworker could be cause for your dismissal. In that case, you would have to make a choice between your job and love. But if I had a coworker who was so sexy that every time I was next to him I just wanted to (censored due to sexually explicit content), I would probably choose love. And besides, unemployment is a great way to lose weight.
Kaitlyn
See? That was funny, wasn’t it? I’m gonna start reading her every day.
No, I’m not ready to start dating yet. I’m just gonna read her because she’s funny.
I don’t know when. Eventually. I can’t pretend like I’m talking to you for the rest of my life. I need a real person to talk to. But I can’t start dating until my grieving process is finished.
I put my breakfast dishes in the sink on top of the unscrubbed supper dishes.
I’ll scrub them after work.
A slob?! That’s a little harsh! I gotta go. I’ll clean them after work.
I brushed my teeth in the bathroom. Then, I put my lunch items in a plastic grocery bag and shoved the bag in my backpack.
Okay. I’m going. Time to go to the best job in the entire world.
No. Why would you think that’s sarcasm?
Bye.
I love you, too.
Thanks. I will.
My one-bedroom apartment was on the second floor. After locking my front door, I went down the stairs to the lobby. As I approached the building’s front door, the doorman held the door open for me, saying, “Good morning, Don.”
Just kidding. My shitty apartment building didn’t have a doorman.
I lived in Crown Heights, on the corner of President Street and Schenectady Avenue. In my neighborhood, the blocks on the north-south streets (e.g. Schenectady) were short, and the blocks on the east-west streets (e.g. President) were more than four times as long.
Outside, it was a beautiful June morning, and the Sun warmed my backside as I walked west on President. My car was parked almost one long block from my apartment building. It was a nice car—a 1996 Mazda 626—and it was paid off.
I always drove to and from work because Brooklyn Navy Yard Precision Manufacturing had its own parking lot with more than enough parking spaces. BNYPM was my only destination in Brooklyn where parking was a cinch. So, why not drive? It was just simpler and quicker than taking the bus.
The drive to work was only about four and a half miles. But it had a twenty-five mile per hour speed limit the entire way with lots of stoplights. So, it took about twenty minutes. I didn’t complain. Many of my coworkers had longer commutes.
It was two short blocks north to Eastern Parkway, two miles west to Washington Avenue, and then two and a half miles north to BNYPM. Washington literally went right past the BNYPM parking lot.
The BNYPM complex consisted of a 20,000-square-foot machine shop on the ground floor, with a thirty-foot-high ceiling, attached to a slender, three-story office building. Our two computer numerical control (CNC) programmers, Calvin and Tim, had their office on the ground floor of the office building. Also, our six machinists—Fred, Rob #1, Matt, DeShawn, Rob #2, and Tyler—had lockers on the ground floor. Our four manufacturing engineers—myself, Tom, Karam, and Troy—had offices on the second floor. Our manager, George, was on the third floor, along with his secretary, Juanita. Juanita, who was nearly twice my age, was the only female in our entire complex. Our purchasing manager, accountant, and human resources manager also had offices on the third floor. Their names were Carlos, Aaron, and Gavin, respectively.
I arrived at my cubicle in my second-floor office room at 7:15. My officemate, Troy, hadn’t arrived yet. My first order of business was always to check my emails. Calvin, one of our CNC programmers, had sent me an email at 4:45 the previous afternoon. As a rule, I never checked my emails after 4:30 because I didn’t want to worry about any work-related problems after leaving.
“Don, I’m ready to discuss Troy’s part,” Calvin’s email said. “Come down here yourself. Don’t send that idiot Troy down here. That pervert is less useful than a sore tooth.”
I’ll provide an example of Calvin’s sense of humor. Five years earlier, when I had returned to work after a one-week, winter vacation trip to Miami with Connie and her parents, Calvin said to me, “Don, why didn’t you invite any Negros to go with you to Miami?”
On the other hand, I don’t think this email was an attempt at humor. I think he sincerely considered Troy to be an idiot and a pervert. I was quite certain that he also genuinely disliked Troy.
Every Fourth of July, Calvin invited his coworkers to his house to eat barbecue and swim in his pool. The previous summer, both of Calvin’s daughters had been wearing two-piece swimming suits. Calvin told Troy to stop staring at his sixteen-year-old daughter. Then, when Calvin saw Troy staring at his twelve-year-old daughter, George, two machinists, and me narrowly prevented a fist fight.
Calvin was usually at work by 6:30, so I headed downstairs to see him. He was slurping a Big Gulp when I entered the CNC office. Our other CNC programmer, Tim, was on the other side of the office staring at his computer screen.
“There he is!” Calvin said.
“Morning,” I said.
“Morning, Don,” Tim said without taking his eyes off his computer screen.
“Morning.”
“Don, what the hell is the purpose of this part?” Calvin asked. He pointed to the printouts of the CAD model of the part that were spread out on his desk.
“Not a clue,” I replied.
He was teasing me. He knew I didn’t know what the function of the part was. As a manufacturing engineer, it was my job to design the assembly line process for manufacturing the part. I could do that without knowing what the part’s function was. It was a stainless steel replacement part for a U.S. Navy cruiser. It was a three-quarter-inch thick ring with an eight-inch outer diameter, a complicated set of grooves cut into both its inner and outer diameters, and it had six evenly spaced holes through its width. Three of the holes were threaded, and three weren’t. That’s all I knew.
Of course, as a CNC programmer, Calvin didn’t need to know what the function of the part was either. His job was to write the computer programs that instructed each lathe, milling machine, drill, etc. to do the correct sequence of positioning and machining for the complete manufacturing process of the part.
This part was actually Troy’s assignment, so Troy should have been meeting with Calvin instead of me. As I’ve already explained, that wasn’t an option. But I was intimately familiar with the part because I had to double check all of Troy’s work since he tended to make a lot of mistakes.
Calvin took another slurp from his Big Gulp. “Alright, then. Gimme the dimensions of the stainless piece that Troy’s ordering for this.”
I was back in my office at 7:50. I needed to help Troy fill out the purchase order for the stainless steel piece for his part, but he still wasn’t in his cubicle. That was late even for him.
I began working on my project, which was a replacement part for a luxury yacht that was built in 1972. It was an assembly of six different machined parts. I had been given antiquated paper copies of the original machine drawings for the six parts and the assembly, and I was drawing 3D CAD models for each part. I didn’t have a clue what the function of the assembly was, but of course, I didn’t need to.
At 8:10, I looked up to see Troy standing in the doorway of my cubicle. The sleeves of his short-sleeve shirt were rolled up, and he was flexing his muscular arms.
“Be honest, Don. Does my right bicep look bigger than my left bicep?”
“No,” I replied with a neutral expression. “They look the same size to me.”
“Are you sure? Look closely. I was lookin’ at ’em in my mirror last night, and I convinced myself that my right bicep is bigger. That fucked me up so bad that I couldn’t get to sleep. I almost called in sick this morning.”
“I’m seeing perfect mirror symmetry,” I said. “They’re the same size.”
“Fuck! I knew it! It’s my mirror! I’ll buy a new mirror after work.”
Our manager, George, walked into our office. “Uh… What are you doing, Troy?”
“I was asking Don if my left bicep looked bigger than my right bicep.”
“Actually, you asked me if your right bicep looked bigger,” I clarified.
“Fuck! Are you serious?! Now, I can’t even remember which one I thought was bigger! I’m a mess. I should’ve called in sick today.”
George didn’t appear to be amused. “Troy, nobody at BNYPM gives a shit about which of your biceps are bigger. We only care about you getting your projects done on time. When I walk into this office, I want to see you sitting at your computer, working.”
“Yessir.” Troy hastily stepped into his cubicle.
And George stepped into my cubicle. “Morning, Don.”
“Morning, George.”
“I just wanted to update you on our search for Tom’s replacement. We interviewed two candidates last week, and they both declined our offers. So, we’re interviewing three more candidates this week: two yesterday and the third today.”
“Okay,” I said. “How were the two candidates yesterday?”
“Meh,” he replied. “They were both straight out of college with no experience. But of course, they can’t get any experience until someone offers them a job.”
“I can’t argue with that logic,” I said.
“Well, we’ll see how good today’s candidate is. Then, we’ll make a decision.” He turned and headed out of our office room. “I’ll keep you posted.”
“Thanks, George.”
I wasn’t on the hiring committee. A year and a half earlier, I had been on the hiring committee to replace my retiring officemate, Larry. We interviewed a young lady who was wearing the exact same perfume that Connie used to wear on romantic occasions, like our anniversaries. The interviewee had probably only put one dab of perfume on her wrist or neck, but I had a very sensitive nose. I began weeping right in the middle of the interview. We ended up offering her the job, but she turned us down, probably because no one explained to her why I was weeping. Instead, we hired Troy.
So, I was kind of responsible for Troy’s hiring. Because of that, I felt like it was my responsibility to help him develop into a productive engineer. His skills were progressing slowly, but his work ethic hadn’t improved.
Although every hiring committee formed at BNYPM included one representative from our engineering department, George hadn’t put me on any hiring committees since my weeping incident. I couldn’t blame him, but I was sure I would be alright now if he did. I hadn’t wept since Christmas morning, and it was now June.
At 8:30, I ran up to the third floor to get a PO form from our purchasing manager, Carlos. His large office was mainly filled with filing cabinets and bookshelves full of catalogues. He was sitting at his desk with his reading glasses halfway down the bridge of his Roman nose. He looked over his glasses at me as I approached.
“Morning, Don.”
“Morning, Carlos. I need a PO for Troy’s part.”
“You got it. Say, Don, is it true that Troy had sex with a nun Saturday night?”
“Uh… That’s what he told me.”
“Do you think he’s telling the truth?” he asked me.
“I guess. He said she went to his high school, and they had sex several times back when they were in high school.”
“So, it doesn’t sound like she’s gonna be a nun anymore,” he said.
“Well… According to Troy, she’s gonna continue being a nun.”
Carlos laughed. “I hope Troy’s telling the truth. Nuns are so sexy!”
Nuns are sexy?! Jesus! Nuns are not supposed to be sexy!
He said, “When I was in fourth grade at my Catholic grade school, I saw four nuns playing badminton. Ever since then I’ve been having sexual fantasies about nuns.”
Dammit! Why did he have to tell me that?! Now every time I come up to his office, I’ll be thinking of him having sexual fantasies about badminton-playing nuns!
I had a decently productive morning. I helped Troy complete his PO and finished the 3D CAD model for the second part of the assembly for the luxury yacht.
At noon, Troy and I joined our other two manufacturing engineers, Tom and Karam, in the second-floor conference room for lunch. I had a glass of water, a yogurt, a banana, carrot sticks, a whole wheat bagel, a jar of chunky peanut butter, a plastic spoon for the yogurt, and a plastic knife to spread the peanut butter onto the bagel. Tom, Troy, and Karam had hot lunches that they had taken turns heating in the microwave. I preferred to eat my hot meal with Connie at suppertime.
I recognized the fried meat and bread balls that Karam was eating, because I had asked him what it was during previous lunches. I sat perfectly still and took in several luxurious sniffs. The exotic aromas almost gave me an information overload: bulgur wheat, ground beef, olive oil, onions, cumin.
I envisioned walking down a narrow market street in Syria. There were rows of fresh produce on either side. Vendors were frying traditional dishes, permeating the air with exotic aromas.
I returned to the conference room and asked, “Is that kibbeh?”
“Yes,” Karam said. “Very good, Don. It’s a traditional Syrian food.”
Tom sat down with a bowl that he had just removed from the microwave. “This is called stew,” he said with a straight face. “It’s a traditional food in my native country, the United States.”
I humored him. “How do you pronounce that? Stew?”
“Yes,” Tom said. “That’s how you pronounce it. Very good, Don. Stew usually tastes pretty good. But Marjorie made this stew, so it tastes like liberalism.”
“Tom, that’s not even possible,” Karam said.
Marjorie was Tom’s wife. I had eaten her cooking several times. She was actually a good cook. Marjorie’s stew was coming into focus now. I could smell the beef broth, the cooked carrots, and tomatoes. It was subtle, but I could just barely detect the potatoes.
I envisioned a 1950s farmhouse kitchen. Marjorie was wearing a checkered apron, placing the pot of stew down on a hot plate in the center of a wooden table. Tom sat at the head of the table with his sleeves rolled up. He had a tall glass of whole milk, which he had milked from his dairy cow that morning.
I returned to our conference room and shoved a spoonful of yogurt into my mouth. Banana and dairy was a perfect combination. I swallowed and then said to Karam, “I hear you guys interviewed two candidates yesterday.”
“Yes,” Karam replied.
“We had lots of applicants for my highly coveted position,” Tom said. “The two candidates they interviewed yesterday were horrible. But either one of them would be better than Troy.”
“That’s just mean,” Troy said.
“He’s joking, of course,” I said to Troy.
“We’re interviewing a female candidate this afternoon,” Karam said.
“If she’s attractive, you should hire her,” Troy said.
“That will not factor into our decision,” Karam said.
“Troy, you say very inappropriate things,” Tom said with a straight face. “And that’s your most redeeming quality.”
“Is that mean?” Troy asked. “I can’t tell.”
“It doesn’t matter,” I said, “because he’s joking.”
I had a fairly productive afternoon, completing the 3D CAD models for the third and fourth parts of the assembly for the luxury yacht. But at 4:15, I started glancing at the clock and planning my evening.
The Yankees had had an afternoon game, so I wouldn’t be watching their game. As soon as I got home, I would immediately change into a t-shirt and shorts and then begin my workout. I would do sit-ups, curls, bench presses, etc. while listening to Pearl Jam. Or maybe Alice In Chains. Then, I would remove the bag of chicken teriyaki and rice from my freezer and heat it in the skillet. I would read the national and world news in the paper during dinner. Immediately after finishing my dinner, I would scrub my dishes and run a cycle in the dishwasher. Then, I would wash my face and brush my teeth. I would not masturbate before bedtime. Instead, I would read my novel in bed until I fell asleep. I would sleep through the night, and in the morning, I would feel like a new man.
That was the plan. It didn’t quite work out that way.
I left work at 5:00. After exiting the BNYPM parking lot, I turned on my car radio to get the score. The Yankees had lost, eight to zero. Yikes!
There was a Royal Fried Chicken on Washington, a couple blocks before Eastern Parkway, and I was particularly fond of their spicy chicken sandwich. I was already hungry, so…
Turning back onto Washington from the Royal Fried Chicken drive-through, I decided to eat one of the spicy chicken sandwiches after my workout and take the second one to work the next day for lunch.
I turned left onto Eastern Parkway. It was two miles on Eastern Parkway to Schenectady Avenue. The spicy chicken sandwiches smelled really good. And I was pretty hungry. I grabbed a sandwich out of the bag, unwrapped it, and took a bite.
I flashed back to April 7, 2001. I entered our apartment and put the Royal Fried Chicken bag down on the dining table. The bathroom door was shut with the light on. I removed a spicy chicken sandwich from the bag and took a bite. The bathroom door opened, and Connie emerged, smiling. “I’m pregnant!"
Whoops! Returning to the present, I realized that I had just driven right past Schenectady.