Chain, chain, chain, I was singing to myself, chain of foo-ools. I sang this song pretty much every time I got up to the Aguajito Way stoplight, if it was red, on the way to work. That day, Friday of last week, I had already looked in my rear view mirror to see what the beast in the car behind me looked like. If I had to stop at the stoplight, and especially if I was the first car at the red light, things would be bad. I was always afraid of the pressure to go the instant the light turned green. The never-ending row of cars behind me made me think of that dreaded relay game I was forced to play in the third grade. That game, where everybody used to scream at me, "Come on, dumbass! Come on, dumbass!" My teacher, Mrs. Gurdy, tried to reassure me that the other kids were only displaying encouragement and teamwork, and that I should stop taking things so seriously. She kept telling me they were really saying, "Come on, Gomez," which is my last name. But I never believed it. I wonder if she believed it. Not likely. I knew they all hated me and my slowness. People still do. 

I looked up ahead. The light was yellow. Darn. And it was really too far away for me to make it, going the 45 mile per hour speed limit. I hesitated, but stopped. Apparently, the beast behind me had not expected me to. I watched his body jerk forward, coffee spewing out of the to-go cup he was holding. He starting shaking his hands frantically, his face all red and contorted, the muddy liquid slowly coating the windshield. I sank down in my seat, hoping to avoid the discomfort of rear view mirror eye contact. Then, I sneaked a glance. The guy was wiping off his steering wheel with a piece of fabric. It looked like a tie. Imagine having a spare tie in your car. He must've been rich. There it was, there it was. It was going to be green any second. The other light was changing, I could just see the golden hue on the edge of the metal. I was ready. I adjusted my buttocks in the seat, sat up straight and grabbed the steering wheel at ten and two. The light changed and I pushed on the gas, releasing the clutch. Too quickly. The car stalled. I fumbled with the keys. Come on, come on, come on! Dumbass. I heard coffee man behind me yell and I froze, staring at his angry face in the mirror. 

"What are you looking at?" his red face screamed. I thought only gangsters in mob movies really said that.

I finally got the car started again and got going, just as the light changed from yellow back to red. I left the screaming mob beast behind. Now, I would have to come in early to work all next week to avoid the chance of being stuck in front of him again. Surely he would remember my white Nash Rambler station wagon. I would have to watch my back. 

Luckily, it was casual day at work, being that it was Friday, so I was able to take my sweaty blue oxford off from under my light yellow v-neck sweater. As long as the absence of the shirt didn't cause my wiry chest hair to appear in the lower part of the v, which would be very unprofessional, not to mention highly unsavory, I could wear it alone. My wardrobe had become a consideration ever since we no longer had to wear medical frocks at work. I almost always wore two shirts though, so I was prepared for the sweaty emergency. Elementary school had taught me to be discretely resourceful by layering clothes. I endured many overheated years, but I had learned early that you never know when an especially successful wedgie will force you to throw away your underwear at school. Or when you will find yourself with gum in your underarm or on the seat of your pants. It’s just part of growing up, I guess. 

My day got a lot better, in part because of the sweater, the one I am now calling my lucky sweater. That day is when I found Mary-Beth Nielsen’s day planner, afterall. Retrieved it, more like. I was at Starbuck’s on my morning break. Starbuck’s is in the outdoor mall where I work, at the Pearl Vision Center down at the end, by Macy's. I work in the back, that’s why you haven’t seen me. I grind the lenses for glasses. Well, I saw her -- Mary-Beth -- get up and leave. She was wearing a beautiful suit and beautiful white stockings. Her suit was the exact same color as my baby chick yellow sweater. I wanted so much to comment on it, but couldn’t bring myself to go talk to her. She looked so important. A suit, a day planner. A woman like that doesn’t care for mall workers, I know. From behind the window at Pearl Vision Center, I see women like that all the time. They always come in on their lunch hour, or right after work. They treat all the people that work in there like kids who work at McDonald’s. So, when she, Mary-Beth, got up and left, I noticed she left her day planner, and I decided to use the opportunity to talk to her. So, I ran over to the table she had occupied, picked up the purple rectangle, and started to chase after her. I found myself paralyzed, wouldn't you know it. I mean really paralyzed. I just stood there, wondering if anyone was watching me. Come, on, dumbass, I sang to myself, but there I was, holding this soft purple day planner. Nobody seemed to notice, so I carried it out of the shop and walked along the stone path to the fountain in the middle of the Mira Vista shopping center, thinking maybe I’d see her and give it back. I didn’t see her. So I sat down and opened up the book. Ms. Mary-Beth Nielsen, it said on the first page, in thick purple ink. How perfect. There was no area code before her phone number. I hoped that meant she was local. Otherwise, I’d have to call every area code-555-1212, and that could take a very long time. There were some pictures of little boys in plastic pages in the back. One was in soccer, the other in a wheelchair. The wheelchair kid had thick glasses and a pearl of drool, or maybe lip gloss though doubtful, on his lower lip. 

When I came back to work, I went into the back before Jennifer saw me. I picked up the phone and dialed Mary-Beth Nielsen's number – well, six digits of her number – four times. Each time, I couldn’t go through with dialing the last digit. The third time I thought, third time's a charm. But it wasn't. This is it, I said to myself the fourth time. Still, I couldn't press that last button and face the ringing tone. What was I afraid of? She couldn't possibly be home already. Defeated, I came back out to the front of the store to make an appearance. 

Jennifer was there. Perky Jennifer, who looks like she walked straight off one of those must-see twenty-something sitcoms. I sometimes think her shiny black hair is almost liquid. She wears different glasses everyday. Good advertising, she says. I know she got them all for free. I also know they all have clear lenses in them, because guess who had to put in those free lenses. That’s right. 

"Oh hi, William," Jennifer called to me in her usual mocking tone. I had told her at least twenty times that I'd rather be called Bill. She just said that I was too prim to be a Bill. That’s the word she used: prim. Jennifer likes to strut around like a catwoman, her tight outfits clinging to her curvy body. She's so at ease with herself, it makes me ill. And so confident; no, abrasive. Sometimes, after she's told an inappropriate story, she rubs my head, and says things like, "Oh William, are you offended?" I'm not usually offended, just annoyed that all the time I have spent carefully combing my thinning hair has gone to waste in an instant. I think she sees me as a cartoon character or a prop. That day, she was wearing a tight little black dress. She was probably going out for cocktails after work or something glamorous like that. 

"Oh hi, William," she said way too slowly, teasing. 

I cleared my throat. "Oh hi, Jennifer."

"William, are you drinking evil coffee?" she asked. What did that mean, evil coffee? I was no good at small talk, which is why Jennifer was my nightmare. I tried to avoid her. She reminded me of that tiger from Winnie the Pooh. So in-your-face, in-your-business. I'm a private person, that's all. 

"Just a coffee, that's all," I stammered, sounding less normal than I wanted to. 

"Oh William, why do you have to go to Starbuck's?" she went on. "There's that cute little place at the other end of the mall, owned by those two brothers. The younger one's kinda cute." She made the word cute too long and looked up and down with her eyes widening. I wondered if she thought I was gay. I hated my yellow sweater for a moment. My lucky yellow sweater that I love today. That magical fabric that brought my wonderful Mary-Beth into my arms. Would she have even noticed me if we hadn't been wearing the same color? I doubt it, but I guess I'll never know. I'm not going to ask. It could make me sound very insecure. Which, I'm not. Not anymore. 

While I helped Jennifer wipe the lenses on the display glasses, I wondered if the two boys in the day planner were Mary-Beth's sons. I wondered if Mary-Beth liked chicken parmesan, and whether she preferred red or white wine. I didn't think she was married, because her food diary behind tab two listed many Weight Watcher’s frozen dinners. It had paid off. She was so beautiful in her yellow suit. It did say Ms. Mary-Beth Nielsen on the front page, though. I supposed she could be married. Maybe she ate alone because her husband was a successful attorney who worked late every night. Or maybe he was away on a secret mission for the FBI. Why did I do this to myself? Maybe she was single, and certainly she would like to have her day planner returned, and I may even be a hero in her eyes for having found it. It contained some very important information. Her bank statement, her dentist appointment card for next Thursday, her social security card. I picked up the phone receiver and set it back down again. How would I explain that I now had the day planner and why I hadn't left it at Starbuck's? What if she had already gone back to Starbuck's to look for it? I panicked. I would have to invent a different place to say I found it. But how could I without knowing where she had been that day? Oh, this was definitely not good. 

"Hey William," Jennifer called out, "will you cover the front for me? I'm going to Macy's for a second. Thanks." I hated covering the front. I'd have to talk to people. And, I'd have to tell them my name was Bill. And then they'd look suspiciously at my nametag that said William, because Jim the store manager never changed it. It was only a little after ten, and I hoped it wouldn't get busy before Jennifer got back. I asked her to hurry, but I don't think she heard me. 

Then, something amazing happened. I was windexing the self-standing acrylic photo frame that displays the colored contacts advertisement, when I heard the ding of someone walking through the door. I looked up and it was her! Mary-Beth Nielsen! I did some positive self-talk I had learned, though I had to talk very quickly, you can imagine. Claim your power, I told myself. 

I cleared my throat, quietly this time, and said, "How are you this morning?" She didn't look up from the prescription sunglasses she was eyeing. Get it, eyeing? Oh, sorry. I waited a few seconds longer, and took the opportunity to say to myself, Bill, help this woman. Be confident. She will appreciate it. 

Just as I was about to allow myself to consider how she might show her appreciation, she said, "Excuse me, how late do y'all stay open?" I was at a loss. I completely forgot how late we stayed open. I worked until six everyday. That high school kid, Brian, usually filled in for me after that, but I had no idea until what time. I stealthily looked at the sign on the door and found the wits about me to read backwards. 

"We stay open until nine," I said, and was quite pleased by how smoothly it came out. "Yep, nine o'clock," I heard myself repeating. 

"Okay, thanks. Bye," she chirped, and she was gone. So fast. Just like that. I threw away the shredded, sweaty paper towel I had been using. Mary-Beth had a delightful southern accent. The way she said "y'all" made me feel warm, as did the way her "thanks" had nearly two beautiful song-like syllables.

My warm feeling soon turned to disgust with myself for having let yet another opportunity go by. Come on, dumbass! How many chances did I need? Was I really going to let my entire life go by while I watched Jennifers and Brians and everyone else I knew find dates and happiness? Would I always be restrained and tentative? About everything? I was pretty sure I was harmlessly inconspicuous now, but would I turn into one of those creepy silent old men nobody looks in the face when they pass by? I tried to recall a time I had stood up for myself, to use as fuel to get enough courage to find and then approach Mary-Beth. I couldn't think of a single one, unless I counted the day that kid at Burger King told me my free refill would cost fifty cents, and I just left the soda there instead of giving him the money. I couldn't count that, who was I kidding? 

When Jennifer came back she asked, "So William, what are you doing this weekend?" That dreaded question of every Friday. 

"Um I don't know yet. You?" Halfway through Jennifer's excited story of all the glamorous expensive things she was going to do, it occurred to me that I could now tell Mary-Beth she had left the day planner at my shop, I mean the shop, you know. Of course. 

I don’t know if it was Jennifer's increasingly annoying chatter chafing my ears, or the recollection of how good I felt when Mary-Beth was in the shop and how bad I felt when she left the shop, but something pushed me to tell Jennifer I was going out for a break. I didn't ask her. I told her. I grabbed the day planner determined not to return without having found Mary-Beth, or at least having called her full number from the pay phone at Starbuck's. 

"Nice purple notebook, Willy" I heard Jennifer say as I walked out. 

I still had the day planner when I got to Starbuck's. I hadn't seen Mary-Beth. This time the place was filled with mall shoppers. I liked going earlier in the morning, before the shops had opened, because it was usually full of people who worked there taking a break after getting things set up. Less hectic. Although, my late morning break did allow for some interesting people watching, that's for sure. I sat at a table in the corner, drinking my coffee and thought of Jennifer, who once said, "Oh William, why do you even go to Starbuck's just to get plain old boring coffee?" She always had some fancy drink with three shades of brown and a foreign name. 

"That's like going to a restaurant to order oatmeal. I bet you even get the mild blend, don't you?" she said. I never admitted it. Smug Jennifer. Live a little, my eye. 

An overweight lady in line was ordering some muffins and drinks and trying to get money out of her purse with one hand while her other hand gripped a little boy who had made his body completely limp and was practically lying on the floor. This made his arm look mangled, like it was about to detach from his shoulder. The little boy looked like he had one of those Fred Flintstone five o'clock shadows because some stickiness all around his mouth had attracted a gooey brownish dirt. Behind them, a young woman smiled at the boy, but he just grimaced, making a low growling sound. I leaned over to get the newspaper someone had left on a chair at my table, and what should I see floating by my head but a piece of yellow fabric. It was definitely Mary-Beth Nielsen, smelling of flowers, about to go stand in the line to get coffee. A skim latte would be her preference, I guessed. Or, maybe she would drink something more delicate. Maybe a raspberry iced drink, or an apricot tea with Sweet 'n Low. She did have class, that was for sure.

Determined not to wait for her to get her coffee, and risk losing my resolve, I straightened up quickly and called out to her, "Excuse me, miss?" 

She kept walking. I scrambled to my feet, grabbing the day planner and leaving my coffee. Just a few feet from her, I tried to say Excuse me, miss again, but no sound came. I tapped her shoulder. I felt horrid the very moment I did it. She turned around startled, but not annoyed, I don't think. 

"Oh, um, yes?" 

Straighten up, dumbass! "Miss, I'm sorry, but, you, uh, you," I held up her day planner on the flat part of my hand as though I were a waiter carrying a tray. She looked over at it and her face lit up. I allowed myself to quickly imagine it was a jeweled necklace I had just given her for our third wedding anniversary. 

"Oh! You are a lifesaver, you sweet thing!" Mary-Beth's glorious southern drawl washed over me. How lovely. 

"Oh, yes. Well, here you go." I felt the roots of my hair burn and get hot and I prayed sweat wouldn't drip down my forehead. 

"Oh, I was so worried. I would've been lost without that thing! I just moved here. It is impossible to fill out job applications without my addresses and phone numbers. And, I didn't think I'd ever get it back if someone found it. It doesn't even have the right phone number or information for me in there!" I wondered who I might have reached had I dialed the full number one of those four times this morning. And this news that the address information was incorrect instantly made me feel less voyeuristic. I didn't know that much about her, after all. 

"Oh, darlin' can I buy you a coffee? I've got a minute." She glanced at her watch. "Oh, do let me, OK, … " she hesitated, and I actually jumped in. 

"Bill. I'm Bill," I said too proudly. 

"Bill." She smiled, all sugary like my Mrs. Gurdy. "Let me buy you coffee."

"Alright, that's very kind of you." I had miraculously managed to get it out in one seamless sentence. I didn't care that I already had a cup of coffee sitting on the table. Normally, I put my empty coffee cup in the tub before I left, but not this time. I would ignore it. Let the aproned help clear my table. I wasn't blowing this for anything. 

"Oh, of course." She looked me over and smiled again. "What do you know, we have the same taste," she said, pinching the sleeve of my yellow sweater between her pink fingernails. And there we stood like two lemons, or more like two baby blankets I guess, in the coffee line. When we got to the front, she motioned for me to order first. "Go ahead, Bill."

"Ladies first," I insisted. I rehearsed the words, I'll have a grande latte silently. Bill Gomez drinks bold drinks. Bill Gomez is not afraid to claim his power. 

"Can I get you a mocha frapuccino?" the girl at the counter asked Mary-Beth. "They're on special today."

Mary-Beth brought her pretty pink nails to her lips. "Oh, goodness no. I don't know about all those fancy drinks. I'll take a mild blend regular coffee with room for cream, please."

"And I'll have a grande latte," I said, much too loud. 

That seems like so long ago, though it was just last week. It's Friday, and I can't wait for Jennifer to ask me what I'm doing tonight.