by Sara Ney
“Must be nice not to be in any rush and have nowhere to go in the middle of the workday,” I smart at her, annoyed.
The young woman smiles. “It really is.”
She’s being sarcastic and I don’t appreciate it, mostly because suddenly, I can smell the rancid cheese caked on my breakfast unwelcomely wafting into my nostrils. Notice for the first time the crust crystalized on the edge of one dollop.
Fuck.
The girl gives me a knowing smile—she fucking knows I know.
Her smile is megawatt. “Is something amiss?”
Amiss? Yes, something is a-fucking-miss.
“Nope.”
She sips her juice again, slurping loudly and smiling over the brim of her cup. That knowing knowingness.
It’s infuriating.
But I can’t just chuck the damn bagel in the trash—cannot give her the satisfaction of being right, this girl I do not know and have never met.
She needs to go away so I can throw this thing in the trash and figure out what I am going to eat. Because I’m still starving.
“Do not follow me to my office,” I tell her sternly.
“Follow you to your office? Get over yourself.” Now she’s snickering. “Actually, I would do that,” she murmurs to herself. “You may need my help in a few minutes.”
I take her in again. Take in her dark wavy hair and sharp blue eyes. The dress she’s wearing is long, with a bold floral print practically down to the floor. It’s belted off, making her waist appear tiny. Large boho hoop earrings I catch a glimpse of when she tosses her head to laugh at me again.
She thinks I’m ridiculous; I can see it in her mocking eyes.
I narrow mine. “What department are you in?”
A brief hesitation. “Marketing.”
So she does work here, in one of the creative departments, which makes sense because she comes off as the creative type—you know how some people just have a look about them that gives you small clues about who they are?
“What’s your name?” The question comes out a bit blunt and slightly rude, but I’m hungry goddammit and haven’t eaten breakfast—no bites from the bagel in my hand that’s no doubt going to kill me if I ingest it.
“What’s yours?” she counters, evading the question with a question of her own.
I relent. “Phillip.”
“Hmm.” A few sips of her orange juice through pursed yet smiling lips.
“Okay, well.” I hold up the napkin, bagel wrapped inside, taking the coffee mug from the counter, pointing toward the door. “Back to work.”
“Good luck with that.” The young woman points at my snack. “Holler if you need me to hold your hair back when you’re on your knees puking in the bathroom.”
“Sure. If you say so.” I scoff at her one last time before heading back to my office; I’ve spent far too long dicking around in the breakroom—not that anyone but Paul will notice since my supervisor typically works from his vehicle and barely makes appearances.
Twenty steps and I’m almost in the clear, out of view.
Ten more and I can dump this bagel in the trash, scavenge for something that’s not going to make me hurl my—
“Did you get the memo?” a voice asks just as I’m passing through the main reception area.
Paul.
He startles me and I almost drop the loosely palmed bagel in my left hand.
Fuckin A, Paul, don’t sneak up on a dude like that.
Of course, I don’t say that out loud because he’d probably tell someone I was being offensive and get me written up—I might be great at my job, but I have a tendency to be late; the last thing I need is him tallying a list of transgressions. Like: not opening company emails.
I hesitate, stopping in my tracks, still procrastinating. “What memo?”
Paul sighs, inconvenienced, despite the fact that he’s the one who stopped me and not the other way around. “They’re ripping the carpet out in this side of the building and replacing it.”
We literally just spoke—he couldn’t have shared this news before?
“Okay.” I’m not quite sure what he’s getting at. Little slow on the uptake since I am withering away to nothing; I haven’t even had breakfast yet. “When?”
“Tomorrow. Which means you won’t be able to use your office tomorrow through Friday.”
Tomorrow? Through Friday? That’s almost the entire work week! “Shouldn’t they have given us a heads-up about that?”
“Uh, hellooo—I just mentioned the memo?”
He doesn’t have to sound so snooty. “Yeah, but who actually reads those?”
Paul rolls his eyes, our earlier banter so easily forgotten in light of my brain fart. He sighs again, though I’m convinced he enjoys lording information over me and being in the know. So much for bonding over my dog this morning.
“Janitorial staff are moving desks around overnight and grouping people together so we won’t have to work from home.”
“What does that mean—grouping people together?” That doesn’t sound promising—or private.
“It means you’re sharing an office with someone, so play nice.”
Play nice? When am I not nice? I might not be up Paul’s ass and overly friendly, but I’m not an asshole, either. Mostly.
“Why can’t we work from home?” Humphrey would be beside himself to have me home this week. Although…to be fair, he is a ridiculously loud breather and usually doesn’t leave me alone when I’m home. He with his large body and ability to squeeze into spots he shouldn’t be—like under my feet at the table, and on my lap when I’m trying to do shit on the computer. It’s unlikely that I would accomplish anything from home; I’ve tried in the past and failed.
“The rooms on the north end are large enough to double up on desks, and the execs want everyone to continue working and not slacking off, so HR will email you today with the office you’ll be squatting in.”
Translation: they don’t trust us and are holding us hostage during the renovation.
Great.
Juuust great.
I get to share someone’s office space.
Suddenly, my asthmatic, allergy-ridden mutt isn’t looking so bad after all. Suddenly, a few days at home with Humphrey don’t sound so miserable.
Absentmindedly, because it’s in my hand and I’m suddenly tense, I stuff the bagel in my face, biting off a hunk, and chew.
Gag.
Jesus Christ, this thing tastes terrible!
“Trash can,” I wheeze through choking sounds, the congealed cream cheese festering on my taste buds and making me want to fucking vomit. “Trash can, now!”
Paul stands abruptly, thrusting the bin into my chest. “Oh my gawd, do not puke on my clean marble floors.”
He gags a little, sympathy reflex triggered.
I gag.
Paul gags.
I vomit into the garbage, then dry-heave like a pussy, trying to breathe through my nose and failing miserably, the wretched aroma of expired dairy filling the metal bin and my lungs. I toss the bagel in along with the curdled, half-chewed chunk.
Sputter, wanting to scrape my tongue off.
Beside me, Paul continues gagging.
I gag some more.
Raising my eyes, I find the last person in the world I wanted to see watching me. Perfect, judgmental brows raised, lips curled. Dark brown hair framing her shrewd, snickering gaze.
I set the garbage can down on the ground next to Paul’s desk and rise to my full height, wiping my mouth and puffing out my chest.
“Don’t. Say. It.”
Her lips part. Close. Part once more to emit a soft, “I told you it would make you throw up.”
My nostrils flare, partly because I can’t smell anything besides rancid cheese and barf, partly because she insists on vexing me.
“I just asked you not to say anything.”
“No, you asked me not to say ‘it’, presumably ‘I told you so.’ Which I didn’t—not technically.”
Why is she still standing here? She needs to walk away.
This is humiliating enough without her as an audience. Paul is going to hate me after this.
I stiffen my spine, mortified, turning my back and starting toward the technical side of the office floor, the side where we get our hands dirty and make decisions about concrete and wiring and building codes. Not the fluffy side where they design logos and brochures and signage.
Her side.
Good—I could use the separation. If I had to bump into her all day, I’d do the unmanliest thing I could think of and curl up and die.
“Aren’t you going to wash your hands?” her voice says to my back, taunting me some more. “It’s pretty gross.”
She will not let this rest.
But she’s right—I should totally wash my hands.
“You’re gross,” Paul repeats, as if I wasn’t well aware.
I feel gross, my mouth feels gross, my stomach is in a curdled knot.
“Thanks, man.” I check the watch encircling my wrist before making the bathroom my next targeted destination. Eight forty in the morning and my day has already gone to shit.
“Um, hellooo,” Paul calls to my retreating form. “You can’t just leave your puke in my garbage can!”
I need a drink, and there is one way to make this shitty day better: the Bastard Bachelor Society.
2
Phillip
Bastard Bachelor Society.
What is it exactly?
It’s a gentlemen’s club of sorts, like the dignified men of the past used to have—except we’re not gentlemen, and we’re not dignified. Three ineligible dudes who are bored, jaded, and not looking for relationships. Quite the opposite, actually…
We’re so committed to being single, we’ve created a high-stakes bet to see who can remain single the longest. Rules are involved.
Rule 1: No member of the society shall date the same person exclusively while an active member of the society.
Rule 2: No seeing the same woman more than three nights a week. Mix it up.
Rule 3: No giving gifts.
That’s an easy one for me—I’m a cheap son of a bitch who never buys anyone anything, let alone a woman, unless it’s my mother. In fact, when I was younger—think college—I broke up with my girlfriends before every Christmas, Valentine’s Day, and birthday just to avoid spending money on gifts.
Rule 4: No marriage or babies.
Duh.
Rule 5: We don’t speak of the BBS.
Rule 6: Never let a girl wear your BBS smoking jacket.
That’s right. We have blue velvet smoking jackets. Don’t ask, don’t judge. Look away when you see us gathered in our finery and we won’t judge you for going to the bar in jeans and a button-down shirt.
Rule 7: If you want out of the BBS, it has to go to a vote. Same goes for adding new members.
The whole club was meant as a lark, started by my best friend Brooks Bennett when he was coming off a bad day at the office. Also, his girlfriend had recently broken up with him; it was a breakup he couldn’t quite shake. (I know, I know—Brooks is a completely douchey name, but then again, Brooks is a complete and utter douchebag, so it suits him the way red lipstick suits a stripper.)
I’ve been celibate as a monk for the past few months, so I figured what’s the harm in engaging in a little fun? Besides, we each got a sweet club jacket as a reward, compliments of my sister. Brooks had to surrender his the day he confessed to having a girlfriend.
No, that’s not what he did—he didn’t confess to having a girlfriend, he confessed that he’d fallen in love. He hadn’t even told her about it before he told us, because the weasel was trying to keep his club membership. Wanted us to bend the rules.
As if. Not when there was a bet to win and prizes on the table.
What do we win if we’re the last man standing?
Season tickets to the Jags, our local minor league baseball team. A timeshare for a vacation rental. One all-terrain vehicle, which was my contribution. Granted, we all live in the city and I don’t know why I own one to begin with, but I intend to keep the dumb thing, along with the rest of the swag.
Those season tickets will be mine.
So who is left? Who are the two Bastards still in the game?
Me and Blaine.
Is it childish that we’re doing this? Yes.
Does it go against everything our parents taught us about love and relationships? Also yes.
Do we care? No.
Did we take pity on our friend Brooks when he fell in love and came crawling to us on his hands and knees, begging us to let him keep his beloved season tickets? The tickets his grandfather left him when he passed away?
Also a big, fat no.
I dial Brooks first; he answers in a hushed tone, greeting me by asking, “Sup.”
I add Blaine to the call, and a few seconds later, he dings in, too.
“Hey.”
Sup. Hey. Bunch of cunning linguists we are.
I grunt, not wasting time with idle chitchat since there’s no telling when someone will have to hang up, considering we’re all at work.
“I blew chunks in the waste paper basket at work.”
There’s a silence. A long, exaggerated pause before Blaine asks, “What’s a waste paper basket?”
“Jesus H,” Brooks mutters. “It’s a damn garbage can.” I hear him take a bite of something then spit the remnants into the trash, most likely a pistachio shell because those are his favorite. He chews thoughtfully. “Why’d you barf?”
“I ate expired cream cheese.”
Murmurs of understanding all around; eating expired food is a guy thing—one they both understand.
“What’s the big deal?”
“A girl in my office saw me.”
Another pause. “And?”
“She’s going to lord it over me.”
“So what, big deal, she saw you heave in the trash,” Blaine says nonchalantly, and I hear his keyboard clicking in the background. “Do you have a crush on her?”
No.
“Wait.” Brooks halts the conversation. “Is this the girl from the accounting department who watches you over the wall of her cubicle?”
“No.” Thank God.
Brooks lets out a hmm. “Is it the chick from sales who walks by your office four times a day pretending to be looking for your boss?”
Yeah, she’s weird, too. “No, it’s not that woman.” I pause, not sure how much of my day I should share, then inhale. “There’s more to this story.”
“There’s more than a woman at work watching you toss your cookies?”
“Yes,” I groan, watching through the window of my office to make sure no one is walking by—my door is open and the last thing I need is one of my colleagues overhearing me gossiping about myself. “I barfed in the trash can…of the guy who answers the phones…and then…he started gagging, too.”
The line is silent.
“Kind of like a pity gag?” Blaine’s question is cautious, as if he’s weighing his words.
“Yeah.” I stare up at the ceiling. “Exactly like a pity gag.”
More silence—which is so unlike my friends. They love nothing more than to mock me and make fun of the stupid things I do, and puking at work—in front of other people—is as good as it gets if you’re looking for roasting material.
They take pity on me. Sort of.
“Hold up.” Blaine laughs. “Are you telling us that not only did this chick see you puke, she watched as the other dude was gagging, too?”
“That’s exactly what I’m saying.” Haven’t they been paying attention?
“Is she good-looking?”
My long hesitation is the only confirmation these two dipshits need.
“Yeah, she’s never going to let you live that down.”
One of them bites into something, swallows. “It’s a good thing you can’t date anyone, because that’s one woman who isn’t going to want a
nything to do with your stinky, gag-inducing ass.”
“Gee, thanks.”
Brooks’ implied shrug echoes through the phone. “Just calling it like I see it.”
“No offense,” Blaine adds, “but no chick from your office is ever going to date you now with barf breath, and unfortunately, you haven’t gone out enough lately to meet any other women. Zero dates.”
“Ha ha.” Not funny. I know plenty of women, and hello—who even meets people in real life anymore? That’s what dating apps are for, duh. “I never said I wanted to date anyone from the office.”
They don’t believe me, and I wonder why the hell I called them in the first place. Rookie mistake.
“Bet she could write up a fun little slogan about the puker in office B.” Brooks laughs uproariously, pouncing on the idea.
“Oh, you’re a comedian now?”
“Stating facts, that’s all. If I were her, I’d report you in the company newsletter.” Brooks thinks he’s so goddamn clever.
“You have a company newsletter?” Blaine asks. “We don’t.”
“We have a company handbook,” I tell them.
“What does it say about fraternizing? Not that it matters because no one there wants to date you.”
“Once again—thank you for pointing out the obvious.”
“Hey, that’s what we’re here for.” Blaine is chuckling at his lame jokes. “We’re also here to help you lose the bet, so date away. Let her fall in love with you. Lay on the charm—oh wait, you already laid it in the garbage can in the form of ralphing.”
Brooks cuts in. “Speaking of losing the bet, what I want to know is…is this girl cute? The one who saw you blow chunks.”
I ignore that last part of his sentence, shrugging even though they can’t see me. “I guess so.”
“He guesses so.” Brooks laughs into the phone. “Uh-oh, boys, we know what that means. Another one bites the dust.”
“What did I say? What?” I sound defensive, even to my own ears. “I said I guess so—that’s it. I didn’t call her hot or smokin’ or pretty. I said I guess she’s cute. Big freaking deal.”
“As Shakespeare once said, thou doesn’t protesteth too much, my lady,” Blaine scoffs.