COLUMN: Teresa

My friend Teresa died last week.

The obituary in the paper was rather small. There will be no services. She lived alone, in a rental house about the size of my garage. She didn't have much of a social life. She mostly kept to herself.

But for about a decade, Teresa sat in the chair next to mine here in our newspaper's advertising department. She was a cherished member of our work family, and it's tough to accept that she's gone.

Did we get on each other's nerves? Heck yeah, we did. Like any family member you spend years with, we knew EXACTLY how to push each other's buttons. But was she one of my favorite people in the world? Absolutely. Teresa could make me laugh like few others could. Sometimes all it took was a glance. Good times or bad, we had each other's backs. 

Wherever she is right now, I guarantee she's mad as heck. Her obituary the other day may have been small, but it contained the one piece of information she never wanted any of us to know: her real age. She hid that number from everyone on Earth, and she hid it well. Once we had a work outing to a bar, and I begged the door guy to card her just so we could catch a glimpse of her ID. She straight up said she'd turn around and go home, and she meant it. That was nobody's business but hers.

We never knew her real age, but we had clues. One time, a Hendrix song came on the radio and Teresa out of nowhere just said, "Oh, he was so good live." And I was like, "Wait, what? You saw Jimi Hendrix in concert?" and she just casually replied, "Sure, yeah, a couple times. He was talented." And then she'd nonchalantly go about the rest of her day as if she hadn't just raised her level of coolness exponentially.

She didn't talk much about her past. She was married once. It didn't take. She seldom told stories of those days, but occasionally they'd slip out. Once, I was retelling a weekend adventure of driving back from Chicago on a starry night and pulling over to stare at the Milky Way. "Oh yeah," she replied, "That sounds like the night my ex and I went mountain climbing in Colorado." Again, we were all like, "Whaaat?" Teresa lived some exciting years -- she was just selective in who she let in to learn that side of her.

Another reason why she's probably mad as heck right now is that she shuffled off this mortal coil without getting to learn who wins this season of Big Brother. Teresa loved reality television with a fiery passion and just assumed everyone else did, too. I'd come into the office bleary on a Monday morning and she'd greet me with, "Could you believe what Jen said to Rob last night? I thought Cody was going to lose it!" She was on a first-name basis with every contestant on Survivor and Big Brother. Eventually, she wore me down and I started watching, too, mostly so we'd have something to talk about. A year later, she'd ask me, "Could you believe what Jen said to Rob last night?" and I'd spin and be like, "I KNOW! CODY WAS GOING TO LOSE IT!" I still watch Big Brother to this day, and it's all her fault.

With her gone, I also worry about the future economic stability and fiscal solvency of Asian restaurants in Moline. I remember when she was laid up at home with a bad back and I asked her if she needed anything. "Umm," she replied, "egg foo young?" I learned much about egg foo young from Teresa. What it consists of, which local restaurants make it the best, and even how to make it at home. Thanks to her, I am a walking encyclopedia of egg foo young knowledge. Note: I do not like egg foo young.

The only things Teresa hated more than red meat were spiders. She would never leave for break or lunch without first picking up her coat, examining it thoroughly, and shaking it violently to dislodge any potential 8-legged hitchhikers. Once when she was at lunch, I thought it would be funny to change her computer's desktop background to a big ol' spider because Shane's a funny guy, ha-ha-ho-ho. When she came back and that picture popped on her screen, she SHRIEKED. Not in a ha-ha-ho-ho way. In a horror movie way. In a way that all work in the building stopped and people came racing in from other departments assuming to find a murderer and murderee. In a way that I never messed with her again about spiders.   

Occasionally, she'd make amazing everything-but-the-kitchen-sink casseroles and bring them to share. The first time she brought in a casserole (and every time that followed), there was a Post-It note attached to one side that said, "SHANE'S CORNER." I was a bit confused as to why the casserole had assigned real estate.

"Duh," she explained, "I remember you saying you don't like onions, so I made sure to leave onions out of that one corner." True to her word, there was never an onion in Shane's Corner. I miss those casseroles. I miss those corners. I miss my friend.

The last year we worked together, she was having back issues worse than usual and it was her birthday. I thought I'd surprise her, so I got her a birthday shout-out video from Fessy Shafaat, her favorite contestant on Big Brother. Before he recorded the video, he sent a note asking how old she was turning. "Not sure," I wrote back. "Maybe 71. Maybe 51. Maybe 101. Maybe 21. No one knows for sure, and she'd like to keep it that way."