On The Verge

“Some stuff can be spared.”

“Right, and when I come out the lights are dim and he’s got what I assume is the thirty-disk changer going with some R&B ‘make love to your woman’ music and he’s lying on the couch in his Calvin Klein briefs, well, you know the boxer brief things, and Mr. Pokey is struggling to get free.”

“Wow! The bod?”

“Well, let’s just say he should have gotten the wax.”

“No!” She practically shrieks into the phone. “How bad?”

“Shoulder hair.”

“Mother of God.” She is really excited now. “You are lying!”

“This is a story I could not make up, and you should take it down a notch before the Big C talks to you about volume control.”

“Shit, you’re right. She just scowled at me—doesn’t do much for her crow’s feet. I’ll call you back in two. Must smooth this over. Don’t go away. I gotta hear the rest.”

She hangs up on me.

Two minutes turns into three hours and finally I get up to go to the bathroom. I run into the big boss, my boss, on the way back to my desk. Herb Reynolds, the man who handles all the editorial work for the magazine. He has the smug look of a man who has never had to work too hard for anything. A man who believes in the integrity of his writing and honestly believes his “work” (that is, detailing his struggles to find independence on the open road, just a man and his bike, the importance of physical activity for the American Spirit, et cetera) is somehow furthering American journalism. I find Herb a tad ridiculous and intimidating at the same time, but he’s a good contact to have.

If I even entertain the idea of him publishing my reformed biker doctor story (it sounds like a B-movie, doesn’t it?) or anything else, I’ll have to kiss his ass more than I do already. I am supposed to be his assistant, but he has a corner office on the other end of the floor. Our phones aren’t even connected. My only true contact with him is when I make his travel plans or when I need to get someone’s expense report signed.

“Hello, Eve,” he says with his usual pompous smile. “I was meaning to stop by.”

“You were?” Did someone finally tell him that he has an amazingly gifted writer whose talents are being virtually wasted in a thankless position? Finally, on the verge of my big break. A testament that a little sex puts the world in a whole new perspective.

“Yes, can you check my schedule and put together a meeting with Lacey Matthews?” He gives me her card.

“Oh,” I say, “and what is this about?”

“She’s a freelance writer. We’re going to see about her doing some work for us. Appeal to the lost female demographic.” (Well, it is called Bicycle Boy, after all.)

“Great,” I say as I consider ripping up her card. “I’ll call today.”

“Yes, when you have some downtime.” As if my job isn’t defined by downtime.

“Okay, great.”

Great is how I usually answer all requests. A hypothetical:

Person of dubious authority: “Eve, why don’t you count all of the paper clips in the entire department and then divide them into seven equal piles.”

Me: “Great. I’ll get right on it. That’ll be great.”

Sometimes, when I feel I’m being especially artificially cheery I run into the bathroom, stare into the mirror and alternate between smiling my fakest most “entry level” smile and making my face as ugly as it can possibly get. I rival anyone in the ugly face department. I have lots of ways to make myself look absolutely monstrous. You probably think that’s really weird and freakish, but believe me, it makes me feel a lot better about being so low on the corporate/creative food chain.

When I get back to my desk, my red light is blinking; a message from Tabitha. She is annoyed that I wasn’t there and insists we go to The Nook, our company cafeteria, so she can hear the rest of the story. I call her back and we plan to meet in twenty.

Of course she’s late. I have to wait at the designated meeting spot, just outside The Nook and fend off the advances of the lecherous security guard. He likes Tabitha better, but today my less womanly body will do. As he asks me if my husband (I made one up) knows how to make love to me, he gets a call on his impressive walkie-talkie. He scans the area and assures the other concerned party that it’s all clear out here.

“Except you of course,” he smiles, flashing his ugly teeth at me.

“Yeah, I’m a real danger.” I study my Employee ID intently, hoping he will stop talking to me.

“The big guy’s coming out.”

“The big guy?” Is he being dirty?

“You know,” he points up to the sky. Is the second coming happening here in The Nook? Then it clicks, it’s even better. Tabitha is going to be so jealous. Sure enough, within seconds, none other than The Prescott Nelson turns the corner with an assistant and a few beefy bodyguards. He is limping, which everyone knows is from the time, as a young man, he bravely saved three people in a mountain climbing expedition gone wrong. Other than that, he looks quite spry for a man over seventy.

Then, something amazing happens. It is so amazing it almost happens in slow motion. Our eyes meet and I smile and he smiles back and walks by and gets on his elevator up to the top floor. Almost immediately after his elevator door closes, Tabitha gets off an elevator coming down. I try to compose myself to protect her, but I can’t.

“Wow,” says Tabitha, “you’re really glowing from it.”

“It wasn’t that,” I say, “it was him.”

“Who?” I put my hand on her shoulder. She is going to take this really hard.

“Him.” I point up.

“Him?” She’s confused, but then realizes. I know because her lip starts to quiver.

Tabitha is on the verge of hysterics all throughout our tortellini salads. Apparently the real travesty is that she wore her Hermes scarf today and the great Prescott never got to see it. She keeps asking me the same questions.

“Are you sure he was smiling at you?”

“Our eyes met. If he was thirty years younger it could have been magical. Scratch that, it was magical anyway.”

“You know, it’s her fault, don’t you?”

“Is it?” I ask, knowing that the Big C is indeed the root of all evil.

“Yes, she had me printing out all this stuff for her ‘supposed’ power lunch. Now, it’s common knowledge that unless it’s on my SchedulePlus, it ain’t happening. I suspect an afternoon tryst at the Marriot. It’s DKNY today, a dead giveaway. But she has to have these documents and she keeps making changes and what the fuck? Is she going to read them while her whoever is going down on her?”

“Well, that’s probably how she got so far.”

“Anyway, I’m just happy for you, Eve, even though you aren’t as big a fan as I am and it’s hard for me to be so charitable.”

“Tabitha, you’re doing an admirable job.”

“Thank you.” She is quiet for a while. I wonder if she’s going to be okay about this. I really want to tell her the rest of my story, it’s so rare that I have something juicy to tell her. This and the Prescott thing are almost too much. When it rains it pours.

“So about the primate…” Now, that’s the Tabitha we love.

“Yes,” I say, leaning closer, it’s not exactly lunch room gossip. “Where was I?”

“The sex music on, he’s half naked and hairy.” She really does listen. I take a dramatic sip of my iced tea.