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Sylvia, 1987
At my first real job in advertising I was a true novice, while you were at that junior level where you had a lot of pressure and responsibility — but without the title or much money. You worked hard and had a lot of credibility, but you had an unfulfilled artistic side — like maybe you were a poet or a sculptor at heart. You caused an uproar when you abruptly dropped out to become a bicycle messenger, and then I would see you in the elevators in all your gear, looking tanned and fit and happy.
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Linda, 1987
You were in your forties, an account executive of an earlier vintage, and I (at 21) couldn’t figure out why you would still want to work in advertising. So old school, you barked out your last name when you answered your phone, and smoked menthol cigarettes at your desk. At Easter, you gave everyone these special chocolate eggs you made from scratch. I nibbled on it mindlessly through the day, and when you asked if you could have some of mine, saying that you hadn’t saved one for yourself, you were really just checking to see how much I had eaten, and couldn’t believe I had almost devoured it.
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Nicole, 1975
You moved to my town from Trinidad and had hair so blonde it was white. Occasionally, you invited me to your house for lunch on a school day, without any adults to watch over us, and you made us grilled cheese and chocolate milk all by yourself. Your mother was French and strict and worked full time, and I remember you constantly on the phone with her, telling her where you were, asking if you could stay for dinner, or to sleep over. I always felt so serious and tense when you were on the phone with your mother speaking in your combination of French and English, but her answer was usually, Non.
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Paul, 1988
You were my boss at the remote and esoteric library software company where I wrote documentation manuals. I am snoring just writing about this time of my life. But you were interesting, with your pock-marked complexion and your enormously wide-hipped wife (who you referred to as “your bride”), your affected, high-brow tendencies, and the fact that you were having a fairly well-known affair with a young guy who worked in another department. I only lasted there about a year and never learned how any of this resolved itself, but I was pretty sure there was no fairy tale ending for you and your bride (nor for your two beautiful, tow-headed boys).
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Sister Mary, 1979
You were among the dwindling band of nuns who presided over my high school, with your navy blue habits, shapeless clothing and sensible shoes. I can never forget how you tormented me early one morning when I was sitting in front of my locker with my legs extended out into the hallway, studying for a test. You were marching down the hall, tiny and bulldog-like, with your habit framing your oatmeal-colored face. You started to walk toward me and I looked up, expecting you to say something, but you didn’t — you just kicked my outstretched legs swiftly, then moved on without a word or backward glance, your hands knotted into fists at your sides.
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Miss McDonald, 1979
You were my typing teacher and had the most unfortunate physical characteristics. You had eczema, or some inflammation all over your face, so that it seemed you were constantly itching, peeling and flaking. You probably couldn’t bathe regularly due to your skin issue, and you wore your long, greasy hair in a low ponytail down your back. The back of your head I remember best because you walked up and down the aisles of desks, with your hands clasped behind your back as we typed away, tickety, tickety, tickety, ding.
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Lynne, 1984
On the surface, you were everyone’s best friend. You had a talent for sensing people’s hopes and fears, and that made you a natural manipulator. Nobody could ever really know you because you were in constant disguise, effortlessly adapting to the needs of the situation. It was difficult to watch you spiraling out of control because you weren’t a bad person; but you felt no obligation to the truth.
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