The Jennys

The Jennys

It was getting late that day, the Post Office closed at five. I knew Jenny Tiges would lock that door at five o’clock even if I was right there! I got my hand on the handle just as she got to the door, but I had pulled it enough so she couldn’t lock it unless I let go. I wasn’t letting go.

“I made it!” I yelled, and she yelled, “We’re closed!” We glared at each other through the door.

Jenny and I had history. We met the first day of first grade. I was wearing a pink dress, a flower barrette in my hair and shiny black shoes. She walked in, pink dress, flowers in her hair, and shiny black shoes. Everybody thought we were twins. We’re not, but my name is also Jenny, and so for the next twelve years we were referred to as “The Jennys.” There was over a decade of resentment standing on each side of that door, becoming adults hadn’t changed anything.

“WE ARE CLOSED,” she yelled, pulling harder. Even if I hadn’t needed to mail my letter, I wouldn’t have let go, I was in the right! “I MADE IT!” I yelled back through gritted teeth.

It got a bit embarrassing when the police arrived. Worse when they had to pry our fingers off the handles because we were both so stubborn. By then the local paper had sent a reporter, with a photographer.

After everyone left, Jenny and I were left sitting on the front steps. We were mortified at how out of control we’d been. Finally looking at one another, we both burst out laughing.

We’ve been best friends now for over forty years. Finally, through, or perhaps in spite of, mutual pigheadedness, we had actually become “The Jennys.”