"Seven Cubicles" by Anahita Kalianivala

I was born in Ohio. I like to flaunt it when the Buckeyes are winning. I don’t want to make excuses when they’re not. Columbus, Dayton, Akron. These are all cities people always ask about when they find out, but my pride washes away when I break the news: I only lived in Cincinnati for one year. They smile, turn their heads, and think to themselves “She’s not from Ohio.”

* * *

Whenever Dad is home before me, I know. I know because his car is in the driveway before 5:32pm. I know because he’s still in bed at half past eight. I know because the classifieds from six days ago have been dug up and are sprawled across the kitchen table open to “Employment.” Once, noticing the car wasn’t even relevant; he had a full day of work. But the boom-box sitting in the entryway against the cherry wood cabinet gave it away. There’s no reason to bring your belongings home from your office cubicle unless you were to go back tomorrow and find the cubicle is no longer yours.

He’s lost seven over my lifetime.

* * *

Blaming it on the economy makes sense but the Bush administration is a bigger enemy than I can muster the strength to fight. Every boss he’s had has been a friend or said “I really don’t want to do this to you.” But they did. I can’t fight people with two faces. Who else is there to blame? Being laid-off isn’t the employee’s fault. Do I run after the contractors who pulled out of jobs? The corporations who bought land but didn’t build on it? Where would my energy best be spent?

My dad has had a new job since March. For the first time that I can remember, he’s actually happy, not just going through the motions. And with his office just one block away from my mom’s school, they caravan to work everyday, side by side—leaving early enough for her and late enough for him. The running joke of the family is that my mom’s forgotten how to drive with all that exercise she gives to the passenger seat. Every so often they drive separately if Mom has a conference at another school or has to be a chaperone for the 8th grade dance.

* * *

I called my mom Tuesday afternoon to take a break from my studying. We exchanged “How was your day?”-s and our respective answers. She mentioned I should call my dad because the mechanic had news about my car in the shop. She was getting antsy on the phone and then explained it was because she was driving—straining her neck to hold the phone without hands.
“Why are you driving?” I asked, knowing I hadn’t forgotten a special activity for the day.
“I’ll explain later. My neck is really hurting right now.”

* * *

My dad answered the phone short of breath that didn’t seem to be recovering. “Hu-hu-hello?” he said.
“Dad? Dad?! Are you okay? What are you doing? Where are you?” In between all my questions were small moments of silence in which I supposed he was trying to muster the strength to answer. Now I know he wanted to decide which question to use to break the news.
“I’m on the-the treadmill. Let me. Call you. Back,” he puffed into the receiver.
“You’re at home? Okay. Geez, Dad, you scared the shit out of me.” I whispered to keep my voice down in the bookstore.
“Sorry. Sorry.”
“Yeah. Okay. Call me later.”

* * *

“What the hell is going on?”
“What are you talking about?” she said.
“What. is. going. on?”
“Anu, I don’t know what you mean.”
“You’re driving. Dad’s at home. What’s going on?”
Why I asked, I have no idea. I knew.

She asked me later how I knew. I asked her why she didn’t tell me sooner.

I said I called Dad to ask about my car like she told me to. She said she didn’t want me to have to deal with it on my own.

* * *

Where are you from?

…Cincinnati, Ohio.
…Ocean City, Maryland.
…Memphis, Tennessee.
…Fort Worth, Texas.