McDonald's Marathon -- An Interesting Prospect -- And a Bonus!

One of my favorite writers is here as a guest professor this semester.  Her name is Alice Barrett and she is best known for her short stories and novels, which, as one critic says, “put a feminine/feminist spin on Updike and Cheever.”  Her office is next door to Emily’s.

Emily and I went to hear her lecture.  She is in her early forties and bounces around like a Labrador puppy.  She says “terrific” a lot.  It seems funny to say that she’s cute, but there’s something about her, an exuberance that you wouldn’t expect if you just knew her writing, which is about WASP angst and love affairs and acting out.

Emily thinks she’s neat.  “So many writers are into being all miserable or angry.  But she’s so open and friendly.”

“Do you think she might be a prospect?”

“I don’t know if she’s gay, straight, bi or whatever.  There’s not that much biographical material on her, just short paragraphs at the end of her stories.  Basically, they say that she’s from Connecticut and that she and her two cats are ‘academic migrants’, getting writer in residence and guest professorship gigs.  She’s usually in her office at lunch time.  Come over and I’ll introduce you.”

I’m going to meet an author!

* * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Memories of Joanna

Alice Barrett

Joanna’s beauty was not the kind that “hit you slap in the eye” as his grandfather used to say.  She didn’t wear makeup and her hair hung to her shoulders, often tied back in a tail, the tail of a sensible workhorse, not a spirited pony.  But there was something about her.  It seemed that she was above the tricks women used to attract men, and that gave her an air that one might eventually describe as beauty.

It was only gradually that he noticed her.  She was one of his wife’s friends, a voice on the telephone or a fellow guest at parties.  She listened more than she talked.  Sometimes, hearing his assertively extroverted wife’s end of a phone conversation, he wondered how Joanna, or whomever she was talking to, ever got a word in.

It was a party, though, that brought her to his attention.  He had wandered out to the patio to escape the noise and found her sitting on the glider.

“I suppose we should be mixing,” he said.  “Isn’t that what parties are for?”

Joanna smiled, “I’ve found that people don’t mix much unless they have an agenda -- to make business connections or hook up.”

“Hook up?”  He knew what it meant.

“Get laid.”  There was a slight smirk on her face, as if she knew she’d surprised him.

“So I suppose neither of us wants to do that.”  He had given her an opening, but either she didn’t see it or she was pretending not to.

“Did you ever know or read about people who say the only person at a party they want to be with is their significant other?”  she asked.  “Why bother getting dressed up or using the gas?  You can talk to them at home.”

“Food,” he said.  “And drinks.”  (And the chance to see women in their special occasion clothes, although he only thought that.)

“I’m not into drinking. This is diet soda.  But food, yes.  In fact, I’m going to get some now.  Can I bring you anything?”

“Oh, no thanks.”  Later when she didn’t come back, he realized that had been a mistake.  He would have liked her to come back.

After that, she kept popping up in his life -- her voice on the answering machine with a message for his wife, a chance meeting with her husband at the drug store.  And her name keep recurring.  An investigative reporter was (it seemed) constantly being interviewed about her latest book on a celebrated murder.  The convenience store clerk’s nametag said “Joanna” next to a unicorn sticker.  He started keeping a Joanna count and briefly wondered if he should include JoAnnes, but decided not to.

And then, damn her, she got into his head, a place where she had no business.  He was happily married with four children and two dogs.  But there she was.  He imagined having conversations with her – well not really conversations, because she didn’t say anything.  He could always imagine his wife’s replies, which he supposed was a good thing.  Joanna was probably (he couldn’t say for sure, of course) the kind of woman who, in his grandmother’s words, “wouldn’t say boo to a goose.”  Joanna would probably just look at the bird, as if daring it to say “boo” to her.

He even dreamed about her.  That was annoying.  He disliked dreams,  the good ones as much as the bad, since they offered happiness that didn’t exist.  And they came uninvited.

He would wait it out.  It had happened before. The last time was with his wife, and he’d fixed the situation by marrying her.  That was not an option.

So he went to the mega bookstore that also sold music as well as coffee and books, feeling oddly nervous and a bit guilty, but pleased with himself, like a child who has thought up a clever bit of mischief or a teenager sneaking the first cigarette or beer.

“May I help you?” asked the young clerk, probably an English or history BA, who told people she was “in retail.”

“I was looking for a Bob Dylan album.  Would that be in Folk or Rock or Alphabetically by Artist?”

“Are you looking for a particular one?”

“Well, the one with ‘Memories of Joanna.’”

The young woman went to the computer behind the desk.  After several minutes of frowning and shaking her head, she finally smiled.  “Oh . . .  Here it is.  But it’s Johanna and ‘Visions of’, not ‘Memories.’”

He bought the CD anyway, but didn’t open it for weeks.


Alice Barrett grew up in various Connecticut suburbs.  She currently lives with her two cats in various academic and literary institutions.  Her works include the short story collections Rather Bad Behavior and Meeting for Drinks, Going to Brunch and novels The Cod and The Wit of Our Words.