by Tara Sivec
It’s a well-known fact Jon Stewart has the best cleavage. GOD, it’s like you’re not even trying.
You don’t sound like you have shit in your mouth. It’s more like marshmallows, maybe. A giant pillow? What’s big, soft, fluffy, and something you would put in your mouth? Oh, I know. Your over-the-shoulder boulder balls. (GIGGLES) Professional advice: Try sitting closer to the microphone. And E-N-U-N-C-I-A-T-E.
Ember “I Own a Shit-Ton of Guns and Know How to Shoot Them” Hastings
P.S. Let’s say you’re on death row. What would your last meal be?
CHAPTER 4
Snort My Way to Happiness
“…and then I booked us a helicopter tour over the city for tomorrow night, and on Sunday, he’ll get to be a dolphin trainer at the Shedd Aquarium all day. Ember, are you listening?”
I blink a few times at Brandon before nodding at him as he stands in my doorway, droning on about all the fancy, over-the-top things he’ll be doing with our son this weekend. I’ve gotten to be a pro at tuning him out when he does this. It’s better to pretend like I’m politely paying attention than punch him in the kidney and tell him to stop spoiling our kid so much. It was also easy to lose focus on what Brandon was saying, and that’s all because of Shit Mouth.
Why hasn’t he replied back to my email? It’s been four days.
“Lincoln, why don’t you say goodbye to Mom and head on out to the car?”
I bend down and wrap my arms around my little man, squeezing him tight and peppering his face with a hundred kisses before he starts laughing and pushes me away.
Did I cross the line with the whole wipe his own ass thing? I thought he had a sense of humor, for fuck’s sake.
“Ember, I was thinking…” Brandon starts once Lincoln is out the door.
Maybe he was drunk when he sent that first email. And then when I replied, he was all, “What the fuck did I do last night? Goddamn you, tequila!”
“…so make sure you check your email, because I really think that article could benefit you,” Brandon says, to which I smile and nod.
Maybe he’s catfishing me. Maybe him hiring me as a transcriber was all a ruse, and he somehow manufactured the glitch with Just My Type, just so he could talk to me. Oooh, on the show Catfish, how many times is it someone the person already knows in real life? Oh shit. What if Brandon did it? What if Shit Mouth is Brandon?
“Who has better cleavage, Dan Rather or Jon Stewart?” I ask Brandon with a skeptical raise of my eyebrow as I study his facial features for any kind of guilty look.
“Seriously, Ember, are you okay?” Brandon asks, pushing his black frames up the bridge of his nose with his finger.
Never mind. Brandon has no sense of humor. He wouldn’t even be able to fake it that well. Shit Mouth is just a shitty correspondent. Who clearly didn’t appreciate my email and has probably already started the process of finding a new transcriber. Damn, that would have been good money.
“Yep, super. Okay, well, good talk. I need to… do some things,” I tell Brandon lamely as I point my thumb over my shoulder at the plethora of things behind me I do not have to do.
“Just… read the link in the email I sent you. And have a good weekend,” Brandon tells me with a sad, pathetic smile.
Because he thinks I’m sad and pathetic.
And I am. Christ, I am. I just stand here in the open doorway, watching him walk away without saying a word, like I do every single time we make this Lincoln hand-off and he looks at me with pity.
Pity, because I won’t take his money. Pity that I’m “making our son suffer by raising him in this hovel.” Pity, because I hate this city, and all the noise, and all the people, and I’m homesick, and there’s not a goddamn thing I can do about it. Pity that it’s Friday night, and I clearly haven’t showered, I’m still wearing the same messy bun from yesterday, because the ponytail holder got stuck and it’s just too much trouble to try to get it out at this point, and it’s obvious I have no plans.
The old Ember would have told him to fuck right off with the pity. She would have told him nine months ago to stop trying to buy his son’s love and just fucking love him.
But I’m not the old Ember. I’m the new Ember, who changed to make a man happy, and continue to stand here taking his pity and not doing anything about it.
“God, I suck,” I mutter to myself as I slam the door closed, lock the deadbolt, and slide the chain across.
Walking over to the couch, I grab my cell phone from the coffee table before flopping down on the cushions as I make a call, putting it on speaker and setting it back on the coffee table.
The only time I ever feel like myself, and like I can be myself since I moved to Chicago, is when I’m talking to Brooklyn and the rest of my family.
And in one stupid email to Shit Mouth. Who could be a serial killer. And doesn’t email back in a timely fashion. And most definitely got me fired as his transcriber. I’ve never been fired before. My approval rating will probably go down, which means less money.
Son of a bitch.
Sliding my laptop closer to me on the coffee table as the phone rings, I pull up my email and absolutely do not refresh it five times in annoyance because there still isn’t a reply from Shit Mouth. Or even from JMT telling me I’ve been fired from the project. Just this stupid email Brandon forwarded to me that makes me even more annoyed I didn’t tell him off, when I read the subject line.
“What’s up, fucko?” Brooklyn finally answers.
“I hate everything right now. Brandon sent me a link to a pharmaceutical study article.”
“Doesn’t he always send you those stupid links? Wasn’t that like, foreplay for him?” she asks as I refresh my email one more time.
“Don’t make me vomit. And this one was passive aggressive,” I inform her.
“Is the subject line of the email Passive Aggressive Pharmaceutical Study, or are you just assuming its gender?”
“The subject line of the email is FDA Approves Ketamine Nasal Spray to Treat Depression,” I reply in annoyance, moving Brandon’s stupid email to the trash.
“Oh, shit,” she mutters. “Well, maybe he was just being nice. Maybe he sent it to everyone on his contact list.”
“Or maybe he feels sorry for me and wants me to snort my way to happiness,” I reply sarcastically.
“See, now it doesn’t sound so bad when you say it that way.”
Refreshing my email one more time, I let out a shocked gasp when I see there’s a new email from JMT, with Shit Mouth’s customer I.D. in the subject line. I quickly open it and see I have a new file that’s been added to my account by him, for me to transcribe.
Holy shit, he didn’t fire me.
“I gotta go. Shit Mouth finally replied,” I tell Brooklyn, having kept her updated since I decided to take her advice and reply to him.
“Awww, yeah. Ember’s gonna get her some big muscle, tiny dick lovin’!” Brooklyn shouts with a whistle.
“Fuck off. I’ve had one email exchange with the guy. He could live halfway across the world for all we know. I’m just making sure he isn’t a serial killer before I continue to work with him, since he knows my damn name. I’ll call you tomorrow.”
We say goodbye, and I end the call, grabbing my headphones and sliding them on as I get comfortable on the couch and set my laptop on my thighs. He didn’t reply to my email, and that’s fine. At least he still wants me to do this job that pays really well and I desperately need. I thought maybe we could have a little friendly banter back and forth while I worked on his project and gave him some more super helpful audio recording tips, but clearly he wants to keep this professional now. Totally fine with me.
Opening up the file, I adjust the volume just in case Shit Mouth didn’t listen to my enunciation advice. All of a sudden, a voice is speaking in my headphones that’s the same voice I heard on the last recording, but… not.
“I am sitting closer to the microphone for interview number two, and I promise to e-n-u-n-c-
i-a-t-e. Don’t shoot me with your shit-ton of guns.”
This voice isn’t full of shit and talking so low I can barely hear him. It’s the same voice as last week, but now it’s deep and raspy and confident, instead of quiet and mumbly and awkward. And if a smirk had a sound, his voice would be it.
I hear him shuffle and get even closer to the microphone. He lowers his voice, and hell, if it doesn’t sound like he’s sitting right next to me, speaking softly in my ear.
“Purple, purple, purple. See? Nothing like burnt hole, God. Please make sure you transcribe this masterpiece post haste, Ember.”
This voice is… goddamn melted honey in my ear holes, especially when he says my name.
“Why is your name Baker?” Skanky Giggler suddenly asks, her nasally voice completely ruining the eargasm I was having.
“My mom saw the name Baker in a baby book, and my dad approved. That’s about it.”
Okay, I get the name Baker now. I get it when I hear him say it. He makes it sound like a hot guy name. Too bad I’m picturing a big, muscly, oily guy with a tiny head, who walks around in a Speedo thong, with an orange Jersey Shore tan. He shouldn’t have a voice like this. It’s not fair. Whatever. I know I’m stereotyping again, but I can’t help it. I’ve been to gyms before. I’ve seen the guys who frequent them, standing in front of the mirror, kissing their tree trunk arms. I would assume a guy who owns a gym would be even worse.
“Why did you open your own gym?” Skanky Giggler asks.
“Because I wanted a place to squeeze fresh orange juice with my biceps, and wipe my own ass.”
I snort and laugh out loud at the same time Baker replies, which causes me to choke a little.
“Ooooooh, show me, show me!” Skanky Giggler shouts excitedly, and I’m pretty sure I hear her bouncing up and down in her chair.
“I immediately regret this decision. Tell me she’s referring to the oranges and not wiping my ass,” Baker whispers as quietly as possible, closer to the microphone.
It makes me laugh again, and also makes me shiver a little. It feels so… intimate, him whispering like this when he knows he’s talking to me.
About wiping his ass.
Jesus Christ, what is wrong with me? Brooklyn’s right. I need to get laid. A hot voice shouldn’t suddenly wake up my vagina that’s been in a coma with no sign of life for over a year and a half.
I listen to the rest of the hour-long recording of Skanky Giggler asking stupid question after stupid question, never once giving me any kind of real information about who this Baker guy is, like why he’s being interviewed. I don’t even know why it matters. This is just a client I’m doing a job for. A client who made me laugh for the first time in a long time and has a voice like he should spend his time reading erotica from mountain tops, while birds circle him, and a gentle breeze ruffles his clothes and his hair.
Pulling my headphones off, I quickly type up an email to him. You know, just a friendly “thank you for not firing me” sort of thing. Very professional. It’s the least I can do, since he kind of answered my last email with this new file for me to transcribe. Again, it would be rude not to reply. Very unprofessional.
To: [email protected]
From: Ember Hastings
Subject: Re: Shit Mouth Transcription
Congratulations! Your mouth is officially shit-free!
I have consulted the judges, and we have determined that your answer of Field of Dreams when asked what your favorite movie is cannot be accepted. Because it’s cliché as fuck and what every guy who owns a gym would say. Don’t make me stereotype you again. (I TOTALLY AM, BTW)
Great work today, team. Maybe encourage Skanky Giggler over there to try asking a little more hard-hitting questions. While I appreciate knowing you prefer angel hair pasta over fettuccini noodles, no one else cares. Literally. I polled the entire world, and not one person cared. I’m assuming you, I don’t know, want people to read this interview. I’m bored. Entertain me.
Your completed and transcribed file will be sent to you within the hour. Thank you for your business and, please, make sure to fill out a comment card, since we noticed you still haven’t answered the question regarding death row and your last meal.
Ember “Busy Cleaning My Guns and Can’t Talk Now” Hastings
Hitting send on the email without bothering to reread it or second-guess it, I click my cursor over to the trash bin and pull out Brandon’s email with the pharmaceutical article in it. With a quick Fuck off typed above the link to the article, I send that email as well without second-guessing it. I even take a shower and put on a clean pair of leggings and a T-shirt fresh from the dryer after I finish typing up Baker’s interview and mark it as Complete. It only takes me an hour before bits and pieces of miniature Reese’s Cups are melting into the cotton over my boobs, but whatever. Baby steps. The old Ember is stirring back to life.
It could go really well, or I could wind up in prison.
CHAPTER 5
Goddamn Spray Tan
To: Ember Hastings
From: [email protected]
Subject: Re: Shit Mouth Transcription
Due to your repeated need to tell me about your surplus of weaponry, along with the death row question, I’m just going to come right out and ask it. You think I’m writing to you from prison, don’t you? Wow. WOW. Just when you think you know a person. I’m attaching a picture of my current view, just to ease your mind.
And not that I’ve ever thought of this before in my entire life, but my death row last meal would be waffle fries from Chick-fil-A, my sister’s biscuits and gravy with a large glass of 2% milk, a Sonic blue raspberry slush—but from the drive-thru, not the car-side service, because it doesn’t have time to melt—a medium rare filet from Hyde Park Steakhouse served with a double side of truffle butter dipping sauce, four KFC biscuits with butter and honey, and two boxes of Little Debbie Christmas Tree Cakes, and not the stupid Valentine hearts, or the Easter Butterfly Cakes, or those nasty-ass Zebra Cakes. Christmas Tree Cakes only. You know, if I’m just throwing it out there off the top of my head.
I continue to stand by Field of Dreams as the best movie of all time. “Do you wanna have a catch?”
Do I want to have a catch???? You’re goddamn right I do. (SNIFFLES)
Continued thanks for your dedicated hard work on this project. It must have been exhausting polling the entire world, but you did it for me. Alas, all that work was in vain. If we’re being honest, I don’t even know if I want anyone to read this when it’s finished. I think it’s an asinine idea. Who the fuck gives a shit about me and what I’m doing? I’m nothing special. (This is where you should say something really great about me to boost my spirits.)
I’d really like to know who hurt you at a gym. It’s okay; you can tell me. Was it the Stairmaster? He can be a total pain in the ass when he forgets to eat lunch. Oh, please, please tell me it was a Zumba class. I’m picturing a pissed off woman standing in the middle of the room, refusing to dance, and possibly tripping a few perky people who smacked her in the face with their ponytails. I can see that ruining your opinion of gyms and the people who go there. Just because I own a gym doesn’t mean I’m a stereotypical gym rat. I do not own a Speedo, or baby oil. I have never gotten a spray tan.
Fine. I got a goddamn spray tan once, but it was for my sister’s destination wedding in the Bahamas, and I just wanted to fit in, ALL RIGHT?
Tell me about your most interesting transcription job. (*COUGH* ME *COUGH)
Entertain me. I’m bored.
Baker “I Don’t Wear Stretched Out Tank Tops To Show Off My Guns”
To: [email protected]
From: Ember Hastings
Subject: Re: Shit Mouth Transcription
Did you really think sending me a picture of someone in a prison cell would set my mind at ease that you are not, in fact, emailing me from prison? It was a nice touch sending me a stock photo with the words Stock Photo stamped all over it. Unless that was your plan all along
to throw me off track. Maybe that really is a picture of you in a prison cell, and you photoshopped the words Stock Photo on it. Do people have access to Photoshop in prison? That doesn’t really seem fair. I’ve never murdered anyone (allegedly), and I don’t have access to Photoshop. But, I’m fairly confident this is not you. While the elderly, grandma-looking woman behind bars holding a cane with needlepoint in her lap is quite lovely, I’ve heard your voice. And unless Thug Grandma 4 Life has a deep, raspy, manly voice, the jig is up.
Instead of a photo, you could always tell me your last name. I promise I won’t google you. (That’s a lie) And I swear I won’t tell anyone. (There’s a 134% chance I’ll tell my best friend, so she too can google you). It seems only fair, since you know my full name and you’ve probably already googled me, which isn’t creepy at all. (Totally creepy)
I’m really sorry you’re not feeling this whole interview thing. I’m not saying it has something to do with Skanky Giggler and her refusal to ask you anything even remotely interesting, but it has something to do with Skanky Giggler and her refusal to ask you anything even remotely interesting. (SHRUG) It sucks doing something you don’t want to do. You’re right; you really aren’t anything special. What’s another word for really, really below average?
(That was me, saying something really awful about you to boost your spirits. I’m pretty sure I didn’t get your instructions wrong.)
But seriously, I’m sorry. I know you said this interview wasn’t your idea, but it was someone’s. So, someone thinks you’re something special. (Hint: It’s not me). I wish I could help you out more with this, but see above re: Skanky Giggler. I don’t know anything about you, aside from trivial things. I can’t give you any advice when I don’t know why. Why were you asked to do this interview? Why did you say yes to it? Why do woodpeckers peck, and more importantly, why do they call the little candy bars “fun size”? Shut up. These aren’t trivial questions. It brings no one joy to eat less chocolate. #fact