The Fussy Virgin

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by McGarvey Black


  It was totally inappropriate but Callie was a soft touch. “I’m really not supposed to, but why don’t you give me your number and I’ll try to give you a call later in the week when I take a break.”

  “That would be so nice,” said the old woman. “But don’t you already have my number? You called me?”

  “No, they’re all blind calls,” said Callie, “randomly dialed from a computer in another part of the country.”

  “That’s some fancy technology you’ve got there,” said the old woman as she rattled off her phone number.

  This Valentine’s Day Eve, Callie had a six-hour shift which meant she needed to get at minimum six fully completed surveys before she could leave to meet Jess and her friends at O’Toole’s. Sometimes, she had to stay beyond her shift hours in order to reach her quota. She hoped tonight that wasn’t going to be the case, because she was supposed to meet Henry.

  She reached for her writing pad where she kept all the notes for her new book, The Fussy Virgin…a guide to happily ever after, and jotted down a chapter idea that had popped into her head. Breakup or Makeup? Putting her iPhone on vibrate so she could concentrate on work, she noticed one of her Gmail accounts had a new message.

  After spending two years writing her first novel, The Bridge and Tunnel Crowd, about a family of brothers growing up in Brooklyn in the 1980s, she had sent out over a hundred query letters to prospective literary agents. Only one had asked to read her manuscript. It had been four months since she sent it and she hadn’t heard a peep.

  When she saw the email was from that same agent, her pulse quickened. Holding her breath as if exhaling would make it disappear, she clicked on it.

  Hi Callie,

  Thank you for letting me have a look at your novel, The Bridge and Tunnel Crowd. While there are some wonderful elements to your manuscript, I’m afraid it isn’t the right fit for me at this time. Another agent might feel quite differently. I do appreciate you contacting me and please feel free to reach out to me with other manuscripts as you complete them. We wish you much success.

  Best,

  Danielle Noonan, Associate Literary Agent

  Huge teardrops pooled and sprung from her eyes making tracks down both cheeks. All those months waiting and it was for nothing.

  She had poured her whole being into her novel, meticulously bringing each character to life and it turned out—no one cared. I suck as a writer. I must be terrible or 117 agents wouldn’t have rejected me. I have absolutely no talent.

  Jess poked her head around the divider that separated them.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “The agent who was reading my novel told me I sucked.”

  “They actually said you sucked?” asked Jess, mouth open.

  “That’s what they meant,” said Callie, fresh tears springing from her eyes and running down the side of her nose.

  “Forget about them. I read your book and it was great,” said Jess matter-of-factly.

  Callie blew her nose and smiled gratefully at her loyal friend. Whether Jess was right or not, those were the exact words she needed to hear. “Thanks, Jess. You’re the best.”

  “I am, aren’t I? Forget about the book and get busy with your calls so you can get out of here on time. Tomorrow is Valentine’s Day and love is in the air, sister,” said Jess doing a little belly dance in her chair.

  Callie forced a smile and turned back to her phone board, picking up her first call of the day. It was a hang-up, as was the next and the next and the one after that.

  3

  “The Fussy Virgin:

  A Guide to Happily Ever After”

  by Caledonia Swan

  Fairy tales always end with a happily ever after, but I wonder if those people stay happy. What happens to their relationship after the story ends? Does Prince Charming still love Cinderella after she has a few babies, stretch marks, can’t squeeze into her ball gown, and thinks shaving her legs takes up too much time? Does the Little Mermaid regret giving up her watery kingdom for the prince when he develops a severe gambling problem, loses his hair and no longer closes the bathroom door?

  Many modern romantic expectations and behaviors can be traced back to these classic stories. Prince Charming needed a glass slipper to identify his true love? Really? Wasn’t Cinderella just a little peeved when P-Charm didn’t recognize her in second-hand street clothes? What about the prince who used Rapunzel’s hair to scale the walls of a tower and make love to her. IMO, that is so not romantic, and actually sounds extremely painful. Think of the hair extensions one would need after some man pulled a stunt like that. In almost all of these stories, the woman is always imperfect. Cinderella is a poor orphan, Ariel is a half-fish, and Sleeping Beauty is, well…unconscious. But the man is always, you guessed it—a prince.

  Growing up, we’re fed ideas about how to achieve love and happiness. We’re taught that if we wait long enough, our prince will come. But here’s the deal. There are no princes. If you want your happily ever after, you’re going to have to work hard for it.

  Finishing school and starting your grown-up life can be overwhelming. Until this point, you’ve always been told where to be and what to do by parents, teachers—adults. Then one day, you turn around and look in the mirror and you are the adult, or at least that’s what people tell you. You’re expected to know what to do about everything. You’re supposed to do your own taxes! What if I’m not ready for adulting?

  As I go on my journey to find my partner, a fantastic career and ultimately achieve my own happily ever after, I want to share my experiences so that others of my generation can take a cue from the things I get right and steer clear of the things I get wrong.

  I’m twenty-nine years old and I’m not really sure how I feel about being a grown-up. In my mind, I still feel like a kid, which is how my parents say I act when I ask them to drive into New York City from Connecticut to hang a picture in my apartment, or when I ask my mother to show me how to do my laundry, again. Truthfully, I don’t really want to learn how to do my own laundry or my own taxes. When my mother visits I secretly hope she’ll offer to take my bag of dirty laundry home with her and bring it back clean and folded the following week. Will that desire ever go away? Probably not.

  In an effort to streamline my journey into adulthood, I’ve identified the major goals for my life. I’ve given them a lot of thought, gotten rid of some and added others and I think I’ve finally nailed it. One thing I do know, if you don’t decide where you want to end up, you’re going to find yourself in the completely wrong place. If my goals are in line with yours, then hopefully this guide will help you. Join me on my journey as we make mistakes and solve problems—together.

  4

  Standing in the shower with his eyes closed, thirty-four-year-old Patrick Walsh reached around for the shampoo. Lathering his wavy brown hair, he turned up the hot water ever so slightly, letting it run over his head and body for several minutes. Inhaling the steamy air as the warm water engulfed him, he hoped it would wash away some of the questionable decisions he had made at work that week.

  He hadn’t been forced to leave the job he loved at The Legal Aid Society several years earlier. No one had held a gun to his head to move to one of the biggest personal injury law firms on the east coast. It had been entirely his decision but sometimes he had second thoughts.

  “You want to make the big bucks, kid?” said fifty-five-year-old street-smart Anthony Pagliero, a senior partner at Pagliero, Arkin & Sawyer during Patrick’s final interview. “Personal injury law is about getting the most money for our clients. We only get paid when we win and we do whatever it takes to make that happen. We lose, we get zip. Huge judgement in our favor—we all get big Christmas bonuses. I like my holiday bonus, Patrick. My wife would be extremely unhappy if I didn’t get one. If the wife’s unhappy, she makes sure I’m miserable. You don’t want me to be miserable, do ya? You know what I’m saying?”

  Patrick had nodded but not because he agreed with Pagliero�
�s tactics. The young attorney had over $150,000 in student loan debt. He was drowning financially while working for almost nothing at The Legal Aid Society, a job he loved.

  “You think you can hold your nose and fight for our clients? Sometimes you have to put your moral compass away in a drawer. It’s not easy in the beginning,” said Pagliero. “But trust me, after a few months bringing home big bonus checks, you won’t even think about it. When you pull your luxury SUV into the garage of your beach house in Montauk, all you’ll be thinking about is how many lobsters you’re going to get at Duryea’s for dinner. You know what I’m saying?”

  “Sounds really good, Anthony,” said Patrick, nodding and wondering what he was signing up for. “I’m confident I can win big settlements for your clients.”

  “Hey, kid,” said Anthony, “let me be crystal clear. We don’t break the law here at Pagliero, Arkin & Sawyer, but we do massage it a little.”

  “I understand,” said Patrick, “and I’m ready to start winning cases for you right now.”

  “I see something in you,” said Anthony. “You remind me of me when I was your age. We could use someone like you here. You’re going to be great, kid.”

  That conversation happened five years earlier and it turned out Anthony Pagliero had been dead right about the young lawyer. Since joining the firm, Patrick had done a stellar job and brought in tons of new business, winning judgement after judgement in their clients’ favor. Each year, he had received huge bonuses and finally paid off all of his student loans. Now financially free and clear, he had a sizable amount of money in the bank, a large one-bedroom designer apartment in a luxury building on the Upper West Side of Manhattan and a black Mercedes coupe parked in a garage underneath his building.

  He turned off the shower and reached for a plush oversized red bath towel. Drying himself, he wrapped the towel around his waist and looked at his face in the bathroom mirror.

  “You need a haircut,” said Patrick to his reflection as he ran his hands through his hair. “You look tired, old man, but you can’t skip Renzo’s birthday.” He let out a breath, put on his watch and went into his bedroom to dress for the party that would start in two hours.

  Dressed in jeans, a white long-sleeved T-shirt, a gray fleece pullover and a pair of dark blue suede sneakers, Patrick went into his sleek, modern, gray-and-white kitchen to make a cup of coffee. He opened a cabinet and carefully examined the selection of espresso pods. He picked one with gold foil because of its high caffeine level which he thought he’d need to stay awake that night. After frothing some milk, Patrick stretched out on his black leather living room sectional sofa with his iPhone to check his messages and some sports scores.

  “Alexa,” he shouted into an empty room, “play jazz music.” Notes of blues filled the air. “Alexa,” he said again, “turn on silver lamp.” The light across the room magically lit up. Looking down at his phone he made a face, a few of his basketball teams had a rough week. An alert popped up—a text from Farah, one of a handful of beautiful women Patrick regularly escorted to one party or another.

  This month, he was seeing several women on a semi-regular basis—nothing too heavy, a little fun. Vanessa, a blonde former swimsuit model who worked in publicity at Radio City Music Hall; Sylvie, a flight attendant who lived in Paris but spent a week or two every month in New York often spending the night at Patrick’s when she was in town; and half-Egyptian and half-Irish aspiring actress Farah, with a flawless complexion and long dark hair so thick his hands would get tangled up in it. Eleven years younger than Patrick, Farah was gorgeous and giggled at everything he said. She wasn’t the brightest but he didn’t care. She made him feel good, was great to look at and most importantly, other guys were jealous when they saw him with her which he kind of enjoyed.

  He clicked on Farah’s text.

  Bad news—can’t make party tonight. At audition now. Have to meet my agent later so I can get some face time with a hot new director. Give Renzo a big kiss for me. Sorry. Talk soon. Xo

  “Farah, you’re such a busy girl,” said a nonplussed Patrick as he went back to his sports scores and took another sip of his latte.

  5

  Still at her desk on that Friday night, Callie desperately tried to complete the remaining opinion polls she had promised George, but hadn’t made much progress. She could never predict how fast they would go. Typically, she averaged one or two fully completed marketing surveys per hour. Maybe it was the full moon or maybe it was because it was Valentine’s Day weekend, almost all her calls were hang-ups. It was a numbers game, so she kept going and picked up another call.

  “Hello.”

  “Good evening,” said Callie. “I’m calling from a National Opinion Poll Forum, we’re doing a random survey about the upcoming elections in your state and I was hoping you might give me your thoughts on a few issues. It will only take a few minutes.”

  “Sure.”

  “Fantastic,” said Callie, surprised but grateful that she had a live one. “The first thing I need to know is, are you registered with any political party?”

  “Yes.”

  “Wonderful. May I ask which one?” said Callie, making a note on her paper.

  “Let me ask you something.”

  “Sure,” said Callie.

  “What are you wearing tonight?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “What have you got on?”

  Another pervert, she thought as she disconnected the call. After a few more hang-ups, she got a legitimate person and began her series of questions.

  An hour later while completing another survey, from the corner of her eye Callie saw Jess stand and get ready to leave. Jess tapped Callie on the shoulder.

  “Don’t forget O’Toole’s—eight thirty,” mouthed Jess with a wink.

  Callie nodded while continuing to take notes from her call as she watched Jess exit the bullpen. By seven fifteen there were still two more surveys to finish or she wouldn’t get her weekly bonus, and she desperately needed the money. Focus, Callie. She picked up another robo-call. It was a hang-up. She tried another. Hang-up. Sixteen calls later, she let out a sigh of relief when a woman agreed to answer her questions.

  With her fifth survey completed, she needed only one more to get her bonus. Then she could leave, find Jess and meet the “fabulous Henry” that Jess had been raving about for weeks. She looked at the clock: it was already after eight. Technically, her shift was supposed to end then but she couldn’t go until she got that last questionnaire completed. Callie groaned.

  “I hear you,” shouted a young man with a goatee who sat on the opposite side of the bullpen. “It’s been brutal tonight, right? Nobody’s talking to nobody.”

  Finding the right person and then getting them to talk meant a single survey could take as little as twenty minutes or as long as three hours. It was a matter of luck. Callie picked up the calls more quickly. Hang-up. Hang-up. Hang-up. She tried again.

  “Hello,” said a disinterested male voice.

  “Hi,” said Callie in as cheerful a tone as she could muster, “I’m calling from a marketing research company. We’re conducting a national opinion poll and I was hoping you might share your thoughts on the upcoming elections.”

  “I never give out personal information over the phone. Sorry,” said the man about to hang up.

  A lump formed in Callie’s throat. It was eight thirty and at this rate, she was going to miss the whole Gal-entine’s party at O’Toole’s and the fabulous Henry.

  “Please do my survey. I’ve had this really terrible, awful day,” said Callie. “This morning a writing group told me Hemingway was a hack. A literary agent rejected my manuscript after having it for four months and said I had no talent. I’m supposed to meet friends at a party tonight and get introduced to somebody named Henry, who is supposed to be amazing. I can’t meet him unless I get one more survey done. If it’s not completed, I won’t get my bonus. Then, I won’t be able to pay my rent and I’ll end up homeless, sad and
alone. So, I’m begging you, please take my survey.”

  There was a long silence.

  “Hello? Are you still there?” asked Callie.

  More silence.

  “I’m here,” said Patrick, slightly amused while lying back on his black leather couch. He pushed a button on his landline to put Callie on speaker while he checked more sports scores on his iPhone. “That was rather melodramatic,” he continued. “I have a little time to kill before I head out to a party, so I’ll answer your questions on one condition.”

  “What’s that?” Callie asked, squinting her eyes. “Do you want to know what I’m wearing?”

  “Not particularly. I’ll answer your questions providing you tell me your opinion first.”

  “But, we’re not supposed to do that,” said Callie. “That’s against the rules and—”

  “Those are my terms, take it or leave it,” said Patrick, half listening, still playing with his iPhone.

  “It’s highly irregular. If my boss found out—”

  “Deal or no deal?”

  Callie looked over at her vibrating phone on the desk and let out a deep breath. “Deal,” she said through gritted teeth.

  “Good. What would you like to know?”

  Callie opened her questionnaire, wondering how long it would take for this caller to flake out or go full-steam perv on her. Her iPhone vibrated again—another text from Jess.

  Where are you? It’s eight forty-five. Henry’s here. Hurry up.

  Callie ignored the text and read the first question. “Do you plan to vote in the next election?”

 

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