Free The Cubicle Next Door by Siri L. Mitchell Page A

“Computers?”
    I nodded. “It wasn’t fuzzy studies.”
    “Fuzzy?”
    “In computers, things either work or they don’t. And if they don’t, there’s a reason. It’s because you, the person, have done something wrong. In fuzzy studies, from what I remember, almost anything can be right or wrong, depending on what sort of proof you can find.”
    “Or how well you can support your opinion. I guess you’re right. But at least I could always bluff my way through papers. Bet you couldn’t.”
    “I didn’t have papers. At least not as many as you probably did. I had projects.”
    “Lucky you. So you haven’t looked for another one?”
    Another one what? I was starting to get confused. “Church? Oh, I’ve looked…”
    “Well, I’m looking too, so let’s look together.”
    “It’s not—”
    “I’ll pick you up at 7:45 on Sunday.”
    I debated telling him to count me out. But he was so confident, so certain he would actually find one, I decided I wanted to be around when the disillusionment set in. “The early services usually start at eight thirty or nine.”
    “Not for church. For breakfast. We’ll do church after.”
    “What if I had other plans?”
    “At seven forty-five on Sunday?”
    “Then I’ll pick you up. We’ll save at least a gallon of gas if I drive.”
    Grandmother came home that evening humming a Glenn Miller song. She paused when she saw me. “How was your day?”
    “Fine. I’m going to church with Joe on Sunday, just in case I forget to tell you.”
    “Oh. Such a nice boy, that poor lieutenant colonel of yours.”
    “On his salary? Plus flight pay? He’s not poor. And he’s not my lieutenant colonel.” He’s not even that nice. Not really. “Why are you in such a good mood?”
    She turned toward me, smiling. Her eyes were actually sparkling. “Guess.”
    “I have absolutely no idea.”
    “Someone looked at my Rossis.”
    A miracle. “Looked at them or asked about them and touched them?”
    “Touched them and took them off the rack.”
    “Wow.”
    “He said he’d think about them. Come back tomorrow.”
    I lifted an eyebrow. We’d both worked in the shop long enough to realize if you let a customer leave without buying anything, they’d rarely come back. The chances of that happening bordered on never.
    Grandmother looked at me with defiance glinting in her eyes. “I’m only telling you what he said.”
    I hoped he would. I really hoped so.
    She was still humming as she washed the dishes.
    Later that night, the ladies came over for poker. So did Joe.
    I went upstairs and surfed the Internet. Hung out on the message boards for a while. Visited some chat rooms. Posted a blog.
    On Sunday, I picked Joe up at 7:45. He tucked himself into the car. His head hit the roof whenever we went over a bump.
    We ate breakfast at the Waffle House. And then we went to a church someone had told him about.
    Here’s the deal with me and God. My mother was so screwed up that in most cases I tried to do the exact opposite of what she did. I figured that strategy just might give me a fighting chance at Normal Life. Whatever that is. Assuming she’d converted to Hinduism, I took the opposite approach. She had many gods and goddesses; I chose just one. The one who said he was The One. Based on worldviews alone, there was no chance I would ever replicate her life.
    At least not in my lifetime.
    Joe gave me the thumbs-up that Sunday morning as the pastor began to preach.
    I smiled back. No point in dimming his enthusiasm so early in the day.
    He wasn’t quite so chipper after it was all over. And I mean all of it.
    The parade of singers and musicians. The loud music. The loud preaching.
    “Think it would be…any different if we came again next week?”
    “Do you?”
    He grinned. Dimples flashed. “No. One down, tons left to go. We’ll find one.”
    I just took a deep breath. Kept on driving.
    Ignorance is the confidence of fools.
    As we exited onto Highway 24, I saw Joe slouch