Problems with People by David Guterson Page B

time.”
    “Great,” she said. “Nice seeing you.” And went her way.
    What do you do after such an encounter? After walking another 1.6 miles with a falling feeling of social remorse? And having lied about timing yourself? You go home and Google “Hamish McAdam.” Which is what she did, and got, in order, a Hamish McAdam who lived in New Zealand, Hamish McAdamses with Facebook pages, a Hamish McAdam in Canada, a young Hamish McAdam who played lacrosse, and eventually, on page two, there was the Hamish McAdam sheknew but wished she didn’t. He had a photography Web site, which she didn’t go to just yet, opting instead for a look at him in Google Images—in the third row, a picture of a flabby, sunburned Hamish sitting on the edge of a deck lounger beside a pool with a drink and a newspaper on the little table beside him, and behind him were those jacarandas? She realized, A, that it didn’t matter if they were jacarandas, and B, that she felt really bad for having blown him off. She’d been mean, which was ironic, because she wasn’t mean, she moved through the world trying not to be mean, mainly because it was better in the moral sense, but also because it was easier. Making a big deal about things, taking a stand, getting emotional, getting assertive, insisting, reacting, making someone else’s problem your problem—she felt she was good at avoiding all of that, but this time, with Hamish, she’d slipped and, without meaning to, basically just blown it when it came to a social encounter. What to do? There was nothing to do except to relearn a lesson she wished she didn’t have to relearn but had already relearned a number of times: never do anything that might make you feel bad. That was all. So simple and obvious. She let it sink in. She was hungry now—walking made her hungry—but still felt bad about Hamish McAdam, bad enough that leaving her laptop didn’t make sense yet, she could still take a look at his Web site, at the photography he did, maybe that would yield something, hopefully some sort of confirmation that in fact she was not a bad human being—except maybe first she should start a carbonara and boil water for some farfalle, interweaving that with looking at the photographs Hamish took. Except that she’d made a deal with herself not to multitask, adeal she found herself breaking not only often but even daily, even hourly, even minute by minute. It was only when she realized it—that she was multitasking again—that she found herself able, briefly, to do one thing at a time, but then it was back to fiddling with her Web page on one side of the screen while building a spreadsheet on the other, or talking on the phone while Googling, which reminded her of something: that she should call or e-mail, who would be best, Les Gross, Dane Snow, John Herringer, all three? Guess what? I ran into Hamish McAdam in the park, he’s gained fifteen pounds and has a lapdog! No. She wouldn’t write that. Anyway, here was his Web site, a little on the cheap side—not tacky, just threadbare, not embarrassing, just bare-bones—bare-bones such that, in a stretch, you could decide that it was the product of an intentional minimalism instead of—this was probably what it really was—lack of funds. No audio, no video, links to four galleries, Home, News, About, Contact, and the photos themselves, divided into portfolios—The Natural World, Portraits, Projects, Fine Art, Candid Lifestyle. She looked under Candid Lifestyle. Kids leaping through a sprinkler.
    News? That seemed laughable. How could there be news about Hamish McAdam, other than old news—that he’d lost his teaching job because of whatever it was with a student? She clicked on News. Bare but for the italicized announcement that Hamish’s show, “Feedback,” was “on view” at the Nash Gallery. She knew the Nash Gallery. A hole in the wall. Time to start the carbonara, but not before forwarding this page to Les Gross, Dane Snow, Gail