I’d be lying if I said I didn’t think of Beverly, the management consultant who laid me off from my last job, often. In fact, I think of her almost daily. Valtteri and I both do, actually. We invoke her name whenever the other is acting like an insufferable know-it-all or just masquerading as one – which is to say, constantly.
“Beverly” has become our go-to—a one-word insult, accusation and conversational checkmate all rolled into one. We use it any time one of us claims to know something that we most certainly do not. Things like: When the supermarket closes on Sunday; the proper temperature at which to wash bed linens; the current date.
Respond to a helpful suggestion with the phrase “I know,” or try to one-up the speaker and you will get called out for being what you are: A total effing Beverly.
Since both Valtteri and I are in the habit of claiming to know more than we actually do, the B-word gets thrown around a lot in our house. In fact, we use it so frequently and so consistently that we now have a Pavlovian sort of response any time one of us says the phrase, “I know.”
Already committed the new apartment’s zip code to memory and don’t need prompting? Beverly.
Pretending to remember your sister’s birthday without being told? Beverly.
Already thought about moving the houseplants onto the balcony but didn’t because they might get too much light? That’s a Double Beverly and honestly there’s no higher form of being.
Perhaps the worst experience a know-it-all could suffer is someone pointing out that they are behaving Beverly. For this reason, Valtteri and I have now begun to preempt the Beverly, cutting ourselves off and admitting our own Beverly-ness so as to deny the other person the pleasure of pointing it out. Because time is of the essence in such cases, our delivery has become frantic, almost breathless—a literal race to the Beverly, if you will.
In the confines of our home, our Beverly routine has become, well, routine. We say it so often and in so many contexts that it has now become part of our vernacular. But outside the house it’s another story. No other functioning member of society understands why we’re spitting all over ourselves to call one another by the name of a middle-aged woman.
Just the other day, when we were at an apartment viewing, Valtteri merely began to point out the hook-up for a washer-dryer, before catching a glimpse of my face in the bathroom mirror. “Beverly,” he hissed, spinning around and sticking a finger in my face. “Don’t you deny it, you were about to Beverly. I know you and that was a Beverly.”
Speaking from experience, it’s better not to try to explain such references to outsiders. A code word is rarely interesting, no matter the back story. And, much like a private joke, one is not funny if it needs to be explained.
The reason why I’m telling you all this is because two weeks ago – on Saturday, July 3 at 11 p.m. Pacific Time – otherwise known as a holiday weekend – I received a Facebook friend request from none other than Beverly. Ever since then, instead of having a light laugh at her expense whenever my husband claims to know what countries border Syria, I am thinking about her almost daily for completely different reasons.
Was her request intentional? Why Facebook? Should I open that channel of communication? If I do, will she come splashing through with suggested edits to my photo captions and a complete history of the Dalmatian? Entertaining as that may be, is it worth it?
Ultimately, I decided that, yes, it is worth it. Even though I have gotten so much material out of Beverly already, one look at her picture—an image captured by an early model Blackberry and then cropped so as to give the appearance of only having one arm—and I knew she still has more to give.
So I accepted the request and waited. And waited. It has now been two weeks and it is beyond disappointing that Beverly has not done or said a single thing. For a woman whom I have never known to be without words, I am somewhat impressed with Beverly’s sudden dignity. Since when has she been able to hold her tongue any better than I am able to control my pen?
“Maybe she wants to apologize,” a friend suggested, to which I let out a guffaw that Beverly herself probably heard all the way under her double Sunsetter Retractable awning in San Francisco.
“Gossip?” she asked.
“Warmer,” I said.
“Complain?” she guessed.
“Most likely tattle,” I said.
Immediately preceding Beverly’s Facebook request, I had just posted an update on LinkedIn announcing that my work and residence permits had been extended for four years—which is actually quite a vote of confidence in my business from the great country of Finland. If I know Beverly at all, then her real motivation is to do some light-level reconnaissance about the timing of my freelance career—just to make sure I did not violate my non-compete agreement or the terms of my severance. I don’t think she’d take legal action so much as she just wants to know. And really, isn’t that just the most Beverly thing ever?
I love this! Our mother’s name was Beverly and we use Bev as code for being ridiculously organized and taking charge – the General, if you will.
oh no! this is always the risk when you make up a fake name for a composite character… you besmirch others by the same name. so two things: 1. My Beverly isn’t actually named Bev… it’s just the name I came up with based on all the people I needed to feed in. 2. No offense to your mom, but Beverly works because, well, Beverly has a brand. I’ve never met a chill Beverly yet and I probably won’t. It’s like Karen, but more business. She doesn’t ask for the manager because she only makes a habit of speaking to people who are part of management. (I once had to suffer through a cab ride with one component of my Beverly as she told me that her executive-level dinner had a lot of no-shows but that ultimately, she didn’t want to invite more people (aka me) because she wanted to “keep a certain level.” I’ll tell you what – I’ve never been to a party that I didn’t elevate. I said what I said. (But also I’m sorry to smear your mom.) xx – thanks for reading. if you meet ray before me, give him a kiss and tell him he feels like a loaf of bread.
Wonderful post. We have several code words of various names (of special character traits) for various annoying habits (anal, forgetful, whiny, nosy). It helps that I’m a magnet for weird people and weirdness in general, as we never run out of people’s names.
thank you! and glad to hear there are other people who share our shorthand. it really is effective (albeit confusing to outsiders.) thanks for reading, from one weirdo magnet to another.