Christy The Writer

I had just crippled my way to a vacant bench (note to self: trade shows and high heels do not mix) and sat down when another woman plopped down next to me. While I tried to surreptitiously slip my shoes off and rub my feet, she pulled out the trade show’s floor plan.

“I’ve already seen all of that part,” she said, waving her hand toward the left half of the convention center.

“Oh?” I said, more because I felt an answer was required of me than because I was truly interested in what she’d been up to all day.

“Yeah.” She examined me. “Do you have a booth here?”

I told her I did and the name of the company I worked for, a major homebuilder.

“I know them,” she said. “I looked at some of their houses once, but I didn’t find anything I liked.”

She was completely without guile, speaking honestly but not maliciously. The sky is blue, fire is hot and your company doesn’t build any houses I like. How about them Yankees? She introduced herself as Ricki.

I studied her while she spoke. She had to be at least 65. Her brown hair, streaked with gray, was cut into a long smooth bob with straight bangs. She was pleasantly plump, like an aging mom ought to be, and dressed in slacks and a floral appliqued blouse. I’d just recently made my friend Melissa promise to kill me the minute I started dressing that way, yet on this woman it looked exactly right. And I was incredibly jealous of her sensible walking shoes.

“I wasn’t really looking to move anyway,” she went on. “I like the house we live in. We’ve been there a long time.”

“Oh?” Let me tell you, if my witty repartee didn’t keep her there with me, I’d have been amazed.

“I like the kitchen especially, but I’ve been after my husband to build me one of those center islands for years,” she said. “It really needs it. Never enough counter space.”

“No,” I agreed. “There never seems to be enough, no matter how big your kitchen is.”

“I remind him all the time that he promised to build me one,” she said. “And he always says, ‘I’ll do that this weekend.’ But he never gets around to it.”

She shook her head and reflected for a moment on her husband, the big dope.

“I’ll tell you who I wish would buy his own house,” Ricki went on. “My son. He’s been living at home a little too long.”

I pictured a long-haired 22-year-old, living in his parents’ basement, writing emo poetry and reading Nietzsche.

“Well, give him time,” I said. “He’ll meet a nice girl and get married, then he’ll be out of your hair.”

Ricki looked at me dubiously.

“He’s 45 and works at the bowling alley,” she said.

I struggled to find a response to that (“You must be very proud.” “Can I have his number?”) but to my relief it wasn’t necessary - she just kept talking.

“He went to school,” she said. “He has a degree. But he doesn’t want to do anything other than what he’s doing.”

“He must be …” I faltered. “Good at it?”

She shrugged.

“They like him,” she said. “They give him a lot of hours. But my husband and I both wish he’d do something else. Make a real living. Get out of the house. My husband is retired now – he was in the military all his life - and I want to do more with him now that we have time.”

“Military,” I said. “Wow. I have a military family myself.”

“Yeah, he was a career Army man,” she said. “He’s been retired for a long time now. We basically live on his benefits.”

I knew that didn’t exactly afford them a plush lifestyle, but I held my tongue.

“They’re okay, his benefits,” Ricki said, reading my mind. “But I still have to work part-time to help make ends meet. I ought to be thinking about retirement myself one of these days.”

“What will you do when you retire?” I asked.

“I’ve always wanted to travel,” she said, getting that cloudy, distant look in her eyes people always seem to get when they talk about traveling. “My whole life I’ve wanted to see Vienna.”

“Vienna,” I said. “Wow. I’ve heard it’s gorgeous.”

“It is. My whole family knows that when I finally get the chance to travel, I’m going to Vienna. You know Andre Rieu?”

I assured her I did.

“He plays in Vienna sometimes,” she said. “I have tapes of his concerts there. I watch them over and over again.”

“Why did you choose Vienna as the main place you’d like to see?” I asked.

“It’s so beautiful,” she said dreamily. “The history, the art, the music, the architecture …” her voice trailed off.

Suddenly, more than anything, I wished I had it within my power to get this woman a ticket to Vienna. One-way, if she wanted it. As it was, I knew she’d leave the trade show and go home to her husband, he of the mediocre benefits and empty promises to build her a center island, and her son, coming home from his shift at the bowling alley. Her life would continue - good, bad or indifferent - as it always had. Her dreams would always be just dreams, but maybe the gauzy thought of dancing with Andre Rieu in the moonlight beside the Danube was enough to keep her going. We weren’t that different, Ricki and me.

“Well,” she said, hoisting herself to her feet. “I’d better get a move on. It was nice talking to you. When I get to Vienna, I’ll send an e-mail to your company that says, ‘Please tell Christy that Ricki finally made it to Vienna!’”

Bon voyage, Ricki. It was nice talking to you too.