I also notice that the nature of the task has changed. The first few were actions: go here, get that, pick up this, as if I was being given gifts in a fun, creative way. This time, there’s nothing to get.
This time, there’s just being. Doing something out of my comfort zone. I trust from my tasks so far that this is not some weird initiation ritual, like joining a cult, and I feel confident that I’m not being trapped. I can stop the madness anytime and move on. But my mind is storming about how I feel. I’m inspired by the challenge. I’m way too scared to try something like this on my own, or even for a friend, perhaps, but the courage I’m feeling about doing something crazy like this for my secret person astounds me. Like, this might actually be the person I want to be, but can’t face it without my secret person, some unknown encourager somewhere out there cheering me on. At the same time, I’m considering deleting the app and walking away from, well, whatever this is. That way, I can just keep being the same, consistent person I always have been.
I also can’t get another thought out of my head: The bookstore task was meant to be a “just go get” adventure, and I turned it into something else. That’s when I started my life of crime. Even though the shame has mostly dissipated, I can’t help but feel different, like some part of me is gently unraveling so I can knit it all back together in a better way. I’m still made of the same old wool yarn, but I’m just seeing the possibilities of what that fabric can be made into. I still can’t express exactly why I took the book, or why I’m not over-thinking my crime, or what it all means for me, but I feel a deep warmth in my core that something, possibly good, is happening. And with the next task being so different, it feels like my secret person knows this too. I’m not worried that the next task will cross a line, likethere will be a demand to rob a bank, or kidnap a celebrity, or send her my severed finger, but in the simple complexity of my life, I feel as if I’ve broken through a similar barrier with consequences just as big.
It feels like I’m at a crossroads. With my secret person. This persistent thought nags away at my brain, mixing the excitement of the possibilities with the fear of what it can bring, of what I might become.
I can’t process it. My eyes flick back to the last sentence, “I believe in you, William.” I repeat the words out loud, maybe so the universe can hear them. The words are truer than I want to admit.I believe in you, too, I whisper to myself. I can do this. For me. And maybe for my secret person, or because of her, I can’t decide. I resolve then and there that my eighty-year-old self will not look back at this moment and regret being “safe.” I’m going to do it. I’m going to be a singer.
There’s so much to think about. And, I need to call Martin.
Several of us have met at Grady’s in Southtown, just for drinks and a few laughs. We aren’t planning to be there long, but you know how that goes. Jeannie and Brad are already there when I arrive and have drinks ordered for us all. Brad is an operations analyst at Pratney and Jarrow and we met unraveling the mess we had last year on the Phillingham account. After we’d put our heads together and had found the source of the problem, we’d started a friendship outside of work because we didn’t ever see each other since that one team effort. He’s a great guy and his girlfriend, Jeannie, does something with box manufacturing. I’m not really sure what, but she’s hilarious.
“Maybe you can help settle this dispute,” Brad tells me as I approach and grab a chair at the bar-height table with them. There’s one empty chair for Martin when he arrives.
“Yeah, what?” I say, settling in.
“Which do you think is better, the sourdough at the Village Bakery or the orange wheat at Barbell Brewery?” Jeannie is looking at me like the my answer matters a great deal.
“Are we comparing beer to bread? How can you even compare?”
Jeannie jumps in: “They’re both made from yeast, so they’re mildly related. Surely you have a preference. Which one is better?”
I look at Brad, his eyes wide like he’s trying to communicate telepathically what my answer should be.
“I like sourdough in the morning, toasted with butter. I like beer in the evening with dinner. They can’t be compared because they’re two different things.”
Martin appears through the door, searches the bar and finds us, heading our way. The waitress arrives simultaneously with our drinks, all beers of various kinds, and shades. Jeannie has the lightest, and Martin has the darkest. “What are we debating?” Martin says, somehow knowing there is a dispute brewing.
“Beer or bread,” I say.
Jeannie gestures at me to stop, addressing Martin: “Which is better, Village Bakery sourdough or Barbell’s orange wheat?”
Sliding into his seat, Martin grabs his beer, levers it toward his mouth and says, “Sourdough,” and takes a sip without missing a beat.
We suddenly know each person’s position on the matter as Jeannie relaxes in her seat, and Brad straightens, raising his arms at Martin.
I take a sip of my beer, watching what will come next.
“How can you say that? Barbell’s orange wheat is the best local brew around. Made with actual orange blossoms!”
“I like sourdough.” Martin says.
“Toasted. With butter.” I add.
“For breakfast.” Martin adds, and suddenly I’m laughing.
Brad is dejected, “Whatever,” he breathes. Martin starts laughing with me, and catches my eye.
“My grandma used to make beer-bread.” I contribute. “I think she just used beer instead of yeast as a rising agent.”
“What’s it like?” Jeannie’s chuckling.
“I actually don’t remember it being any different. I just remember that’s what it was called. She also made cola cake. That was really good.” I’m just throwing words around, but I have Martin laughing. Brad doesn’t seem to be hearing anything we are saying.
Martin throws his glass in the air and makes a toast, “To bread and beer!”
“And cake,” Jeannie throws in.
