BEST PRACTICES by Lori Barrett
"Since then there’s been a blemish growing in my chest, like one of the knots or bolt holes he admires in barn wood."
BEST PRACTICES
by Lori Barrett
The Board stands next to me on the train. They followed me from the meeting, all five of them, sweating in their wrinkle-resistant jackets and trousers. I find a seat and put in earbuds. One of them peers over my shoulder to see what I queue up on Spotify. Is this the best use of your time, he asks. He mentions a podcast about finance and makes a note in his leather binder.
They’re panting by the third floor of my apartment building. Does your landlord own a vacuum, a guy in a mustard blazer asks. I put a frozen pizza in the oven without preheating. Did you read the directions, the only woman on the board asks. I roll my eyes. I think I can bake a frozen pizza, I say. Martha Stewart said you don’t need to preheat. Martha did time, the woman reminds me. She opens her laptop and enters notes in a spreadsheet.
I plate my pizza. While my cupboard is open mustard-blazer guy points out that my dishes don’t match. I take my pizza to the sofa, but the Board is sitting there, so I take the chair in the corner handed down from my brother because it’s covered in dog drool. The Board turns on the TV. It’s frozen on a detective show I’d been watching the night before, a scene where the hungover detective smokes next to a nail salon. I think it makes my apartment smell like cigarettes. They immediately put on a show called Fast Money. The woman admires my coffee table. It’s a beautiful slab of walnut designed by my ex, the sides flowing from each end of the surface to rest on my thrifted carpet. Waterfall, he called it.
I don’t see any coasters, the woman says. You have to be careful about return on investment with a piece of furniture like this.
The only thing I invested was my silence when my ex returned from a furniture expo and spoke in plural first person. Who is this we, I asked. Other furniture sellers, he said. Even when you left the convention to sightsee, I wondered. Even when you ate breakfast?
The guy on TV yells about short term liabilities and an asset light model. Mustard blazer opens his binder and pulls out a sheet of paper that says BEST PRACTICES at the top. Below is a bar chart tracing the number of drinks I had last week. A pie chart shows frozen pizza consumption over the last quarter, with a side tab displaying cold pizza eaten at breakfast. A line graph for performance nose dives to the bottom of the Y axis: physical activity. A biohazard symbol is stamped over each entry in a list of household chores.
More like worst practices, says the guy sweating in a white turtleneck.
We only want to foster accountability, the woman says. If you plan to have dividends one day, you’re going to need to take account of your successes and failures.
A different news program starts, called Mad Money. The host gesticulates in front of flashing screens. The board is transfixed.
I take my plate to the kitchen. I turn on the window fan. Loose pages fly from binders.
We can’t hear the business news, the one in khakis says.
I turn the fan off and go to my room to find a pair of shorts. My ex and I talked about children. He would have been a great parent: patient and creative. In the end he chose to spread his risk. Diversification, the Board would call it.
Since then there’s been a blemish growing in my chest, like one of the knots or bolt holes he admires in barn wood. Some mix of memories, resentment, and words I swallowed as we ate over this coffee table, watching smoking detectives on TV?
I return to my seat in the corner. I lean back and accidentally pull down a string of fairy lights I’d hung with mounting tape. The sticky strip falls to the floor, covered in dust. The lights land over my shoulders like a boa. I reach behind me and plug them in. I’m a superhero.
I stand up to walk them to the door, stopping before my glow loses power.
Lori Barrett still has the trophy she won for being quietest in her high school graduating class many decades ago. Her writing has appeared in Salon, Citron Review, Laurel Review, Maudlin House, New World Writing and Identity Theory. She’s an assistant fiction editor at Pithead Chapel. Find more of her work at LoriBarrettwrites.com.
"The lights land over my shoulders like a boa. I reach behind me and plug them in. I’m a superhero."
Loved this little tale. Many thanks.