[Editor’s Note: The name Katie Newberry is a name we selected at random. We selected this name to protect the identity of the subject of this essay. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, named Katie Newberry is entirely coincidental.]
A co-worker of mine shot me a “you don’t have a shot in hell” ray, the other day at the gym. I did not deserve this. I waved at her. That’s all. I pulled my earbuds out as she approached my elliptical machine and waved at her. I was prepared to have another polite conversation with her about the nonsense things we discussed. Her body language suggested she wanted to be left alone, and I expected her to return the wave and move on, but I didn’t expect the “you don’t have a shot in hell” glare I received when she made it half of the way to me. I was a good friend.
She used to talk to me about the issues that bothered her, and I listened, and I was an active listener. Some of her conversation topics bored me, but I made sure she never knew it. We used to talk about some of the guys she was hoping to date. I was jealous. I wanted her to speak about me in this manner, but I never pushed it. I was a good friend. We worked in the same department for three years. We even sat by each other for about three months. We talked all the time. I waved hello to her one day at a gym, and boom she shoots me a “you don’t have a shot in hell” ray that crippled me in an embarrassing, psychological manner. I was a little I was a good friend!
She did return the wave. She fulfilled her portion of polite protocol, but she did so in a guarded manner. It was an annoyed wave, and I’m not being sensitive when I write this. The most casual observer could have read her body language and determined that she didn’t even want to give me the wave, but she was polite, and then she followed that up by shooting that ray at me. Why would she do that? I was such a good friend that that seemed unfair.
I saw her at work the next day, and she gave me an over enthusiastic hello. She did everything but hug me. She knew what she did. She felt guilty. She knew I was a good friend.
Setting her internal phaser on “you don’t have a shot in hell” may have been reflexive, but I was just waving. I was the buddy. I didn’t enjoy the limitation, but I abided by it just to have her talk to me on our otherwise innocuous afternoons. I was the one who listened her stories, and her honest confessions, without once looking at her breasts. I looked at her breasts. We all did. They were two, compact missiles set to stun any onlooker, but I wasn’t looking at them when she went into her deep, meaningful moments. I was a good gawdamned friend!
I’m the one who joked with her, listened to her complaints about the job and our co-workers without an eye to a future dating world, and she treats me like a hungry dawg whimpering for table scraps? I hate to sound like a seventh grade girl, but I’m done with her. I won’t go beyond the polite protocol with her from this point forward. How dare this girl, with incredible breasts, give me anything less than a polite ‘how do you do?’ I was one incredible friend.
The thing is she is a nice girl, and she may have just been having a bad day. It’s possible that others flirted with her a couple times before she saw me, and I sympathize with the idea that the constant barrage fatigued her, but I couldn’t help but stew over the matter. I couldn’t help but arrive at the somewhat petty decision that I was going to make example of her. It’s my hope that my decision to defriend her will teach her, and the rest of her fantastic looking girlfriends, with fantastic breasts and apple-shaped bottoms, a little lesson in decorum when she posts this moment on her exclusive “great looking girls” website. I want her to tell them that good friends don’t deserve the “you don’t have a shot in hell” ray no matter what the circumstances are at that time.
I realize that she may have seen the enthusiasm with which I waved to her, and mistook it for my desire to do unspeakable things to her, and her adjective-defying breasts, her apple-shaped bottom, and curves that would have the Pope giving her second look, but this was not the case with her former friend and confidant. I’m sure that the constant barrage of men hitting on her so often has led her to hone her defense mechanisms, but I was such a good friend. Perhaps, she has had even had good friends hit on her, and she’s had those friendships dissolve as a result, so it’s best to have the “you don’t have a shot in hell” ray set whenever you leave your home. Well, I don’t play by those rules, and I won’t abide by them in the aftermath, so be good anonymous girl and have a good life. You won’t have this friend to kick around anymore. You just lost one fantastic friend missy!
If you enjoyed this piece, please read the sequel: Katie Newberry II: “We’ll Call her Katie”