32AA

by Michelle Cunnah

  Plus, I have a date tonight. With Helmut. I still think it’s a bit early to start dating again, but Rachel got me Helmut to say sorry for our little fall out. According to Rachel he’s tall, blond, gorgeous, and completely fuckable. He’s also a scientist, so he’s intelligent as well as gorgeous. But if he’s so gorgeous, why hasn’t someone else snapped him up? Why isn’t Rachel sleeping with him? Hmm…

  Anyway, just after I arrive at work Adam calls me into his office.

  This is what happens.

  Adam is seated once again behind his impressive desk. I am seated once again at the other side of the desk in the lower seat, so that I have to look up to him. He looks healthy and fit and relaxed, and I can’t help but wonder how much sex he and Stella had this weekend. I also can’t help but wonder if I am about to be raked over the coals for (a) ruining his sofa and rug with his good wine, (b) stealing his good wine, or (c) the goat incident. And if, indeed, I will be joining the ranks of the unemployed.

  Instead of any of these nonattractive options, he does a complete about-face.

  “Emmeline,” he says, flashing me a “let’s be reasonable” smile.

  I don’t smile back, because to tell the truth, I feel totally unreasonable at this point.

  And he’s calling me Emmeline again. Interesting. Maybe he and Stella had a fight. Maybe he misses me and wants me back…

  No, I’m not being weak and pathetic. But it’s always good to have the chance to reject someone after they dumped you and then realize what a good thing they had after all. Of course, if he really did want me back, I wouldn’t have him.

  Not in a million. Never.

  “Did you have a good break? Family all okay?”

  “Yes.” Get to the bloody point, Adam.

  “Good. Good. Well, I just wanted to clear the air between us, you know, to make sure there are no hard feelings.”

  I don’t say a word. I have a lot of feelings, and hard is definitely one of them.

  “I think that I might have appeared to be a tad insensitive last Monday at the restaurant.”

  A tad insensitive? A bull in a china shop has more delicacy. But obviously I don’t say this as I wait for the point of the conversation.

  “Well, I just wanted to say that I’m really sorry if I hurt you. And that I forgive you for the scene you caused in the restaurant. And for ruining the sofa and the rug.”

  Oh, God, this is awful. I’ve never received such a lacking-in-remorse apology before, and his pity is so condescending that I feel like shit. Hard feelings, inexplicably, make me think of the pink vibrator and before I realize what I am going to do, I mentally transfer it to Adam’s head. Voilà! There he is.

  A talking penis!

  “I just hope that we can continue to work together in an adult, reasonable way,” Penis Head says, and I smile.

  As his mouth opens and closes, as he blathers on and on about something or other (can’t remember—too busy trying not to laugh) I imagine the vibrator pumping up and down, up and down, climaxing in a spout of verbal semen…

  “So what do you think?”

  “Sorry?” What did he just say to me?

  “Emmeline, what do you say we scrub the past and start anew with our professional relationship?”

  And then he does the strangest thing.

  “Emmeline, it’s good to meet you,” he says, and holds out his hand. “I’m sure we can work very well together.”

  The man is an idiot. An idiot. Was he always like this, or was I just so lust-crazed that I didn’t notice?

  And I know, in that instant, what a lucky escape I had. What was I thinking, imagining I could be happy with such a completely self-obsessed jerk?

  Stella can have him!

  Monday evening

  All I can say about Helmut is stinky plants and worms!

  Actually, I have rather a lot more to say about Helmut than that, and as you may have already gathered, our evening together is not a success.

  As organized by Rachel, I meet him in a rather charming restaurant in Little Italy. Helmut has already arrived. At first, as the waiter leads me to the table, and to Helmut, my first impression is, well, to be frank, I really do wonder why Rachel has set him up with me and is not sleeping with him herself. Blond, tanned, well-dressed…Okay, something is definitely wrong with this picture.

  As he stands, I look up. And look up. And look up some more. Helmut must be at least six feet seven inches tall. I wonder what the Germans put in their water.

  Okay, so he’s a little tall for someone who is only four feet eleven, but I won’t hold it against him, I think, as I crane my neck to smile up at him. I’m the last person to have sizeist issues.

  He doesn’t smile back.

  “You are Emma,” he says, holding out an incredibly large hand.

  “Helmut?” I wince as he crushes my hand.

  “Sit down,” he tells (orders) me.

  So I do. And then an awkward silence descends. And then the conversation really gets off (not) to a flying start.

  “Rachel tells me you’ve broken up with your boyfriend, ja?”

  “Ja. I mean, yes.” I wonder what else Rachel told him. Come to think about it, she didn’t really tell me much about Helmut.

  “I just broke up with my girlfriend too.”

  Oh, so that’s why he’s so unsmily and quiet. I must give him a chance.

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Nein, sorry is not necessary. I am bored with her, so this is a good thing. The sex was not so good. Shall we order food?”

  Instant feelings of inadequacy re: my sexual performance. I have not yet read the book about sex that Peri bought me for my birthday and worry that Helmut will find me lacking.

  Hold on, I tell myself. Get a grip. This is a casual dinner. A first date. I have not committed myself to a wild night of complicated sex. Food. Yes! That would be good. The quicker we eat, the quicker I can get out of here.

  He orders spaghetti Bolognese. So I order spaghetti Bolognese, too, because this is a truly good way to put a man off you on a first date. Once he watches you slurp spaghetti, he’ll never want to see you again. Plus, this morning the scales told me that I’ve dropped two pounds since my split with Adam and the half-starved skeletal look is not a good one for me.

  I also order a large glass of wine, because I need alcohol to cocoon me. Helmut orders tequila. Worm-infested drinks are a sure sign of Bad Things to Come. And I should know this, but instead, I try to give Helmut a real chance, and not make snap decisions about him.

  “So, Helmut,” I say. “Tell me about yourself.” Yes, I know this is a boring, clichéd thing to say, but at least it will pass the time more quickly. “Do you have any hobbies?”

  “Ja. Many interests. In fact, a friend of mine is involved in a fascinating study. Very exciting—he thinks that they have discovered a new species of centipede in Central Park.”

  “Oh? So you like insects, then?” This, also, is not a good sign. More worms.

  “A centipede is not an insect,” Helmut lectures me. “They are chilopods.”

  “Sorry.” I’m not really sorry at all.

  “It’s completely fascinating. To discover a completely new species. Think about it! It’s thought that they came from East Asia in a tropical plant maybe a hundred years ago. They are small and yellow, with eighty-four legs and pincerlike jaws.”

  At this point our food arrives, and I think a swift change of subject is in order because I do not want to discuss worms or chilopods, or any other sort of wormlike creature while eating spaghetti.

  And when the waiter brings the Parmesan cheese, I nod my head vigorously (good protein) and search my brain for something else we can talk about.

  “Are you going on vacation?” I ask him brightly. This is inspired. This is definitely a safe subject.

  “Ja. I went to England in May.”

  Silence descends again, so I try harder.

  “And did you have fun?” I take a gulp of wine.

>   “It was highly interesting,” Helmut tells me, slurping spaghetti in a very unattractive way. “I go to Kew Botanical Gardens to view the flowering of a very rare plant—Amorphophallus titanum.”

  I didn’t quite get the whole name, but the phallus part definitely registered. Must be my lack of sex.

  “Does it look like a penis, then?” Oh, good question, Emmeline.

  “Ja. A giant red phallus is a very good way to describe it. It’s extremely difficult to propagate, but you know the most fascinating thing about it?”

  “No.” But I’m sure you’re about to tell me.

  “It blooms only very rarely, but when it does, it gives off a pungent smell. Like the smell of feces and the dead carcass of an animal. And it’s so strong you can smell it a kilometer away.”

  “Fancy that!”

  As Helmut goes on to tell me even more about his stinky plant, and as he shovels huge quantities of spaghetti into his mouth, I realize that I’ve lost my appetite.

  Worms and stinky plants do not go well with spaghetti and stinky cheese.

  After we’ve finished (and after Helmut has finished my food), we leave the restaurant and hail a cab.

  Just before I climb in, Helmut turns to me.

  “So now we have sex, ja? Your apartment or mine?”

  I wonder what the German is for “not in this lifetime”?

  Tuesday morning

  “I hate him. I bloody hate him,” I hiss down the phone to Tish.

  Yet again I am in the restroom. I should just move my desk in here and be done, because I’ve spent more time in the restroom over the past few days than in my cubicle. Daphne-the-ivy has become my new best friend, and the other women on my floor suspect that I either have a strange bathroom fetish, or that I am the cleaning woman. Or possibly that I’ve become a lesbian because of my disillusionment with the male sex, and am trying to meet new potential partners.

  “Calm down, sweetie,” Tish says. “If you need a stronger curse, just say fuck. You’ll feel better—it’s so liberating, I promise. What exactly did fucking Adam say?”

  “He’s made me Lou Russo’s fucking nursemaid! Talk about adding insult to injury. He’s given Lou Russo complete power to order me about at will.”

  “Or maybe he’s given you the hangman’s noose.”

  “Come again?”

  “He wasn’t specific about what exactly you have to do to help Lou?”

  “No.”

  “Well, don’t you see? Give Lou enough rope and he’ll hang himself. Be nice, be pleasant, but stick firmly to your job guidelines.”

  “You mean like don’t work late, don’t do any extras, just do my job?”

  “Not exactly. Cause disruption. If Lou needs something, let it take precedence over Adam’s work. That kind of thing.”

  Actually, she has a good point. I swing myself up onto the counter as Angie comes out of the cubicle.

  “Hmm…You might be right,” I say, chewing glumly on a fingernail. “I’ll have to think about it.”

  “I’ll think about it, too. I’m sure we can come up with something. Oh, gotta go—a divine man’s just coming into the store. See you later.”

  As Angie washes and dries her hands, I chew on the fingernail more aggressively as I mentally chew on Tish’s words.

  “You should take your friend’s advice,” Angie says, catching my eye as she reapplies her lipstick.

  I am so shocked that Cruella has spoken to me without prompting, I can only stare at her with open-mouthed surprise.

  “You give ’em hell, do you hear?” she tells me as she pauses at the door. “We girls have to stick together.”

  Before I can absorb her words, my cell phone rings.

  “I hate him. I detest the motherfucking bastard,” Rachel hisses down the phone to me.

  Her night was as bad as mine, it would seem. I think better not to mention Helmut to her right now, though.

  “Oh. Would this be Hugh?”

  She launches into a spleen-venting bout of cursing, and it’s obvious that last night’s date was not a success.

  “What happened, sweetie?” I soothe her.

  “I just don’t get it. I mean I just don’t fucking get it. I’m pretty, aren’t I?”

  “You’re gorgeous, hon,” I tell her, because she is. “Was last night that awful? Did you have a terrible time?”

  “We had a—quite a nice time. He’s not too bad away from work, which was a surprise. He was fairly charming and funny. So, we have dinner and he’s making me laugh, and we’re getting on like a house on fire, and he’s sort of flirting with me. And I’m kind of flirting back….”

  “So what’s the problem?” I prompt her.

  “So how come he didn’t so much as make a tiny pass at me?” Rachel switches back to rant mode. “I mean, the guy offers to drive me home. He insists on walking me to the front door, even after I’ve told him about my black belt and that muggers are not a problem. So I assume he wants to, you know, come in. For a nightcap. Followed by sex.”

  “But you don’t want to have sex with him. Do you?”

  “No, of course not, but a girl has her pride. It’s always nice to be asked, just so you can say no. Anyway, Emma, you’ve made me lose my thread. Where was I?”

  “Front door. Nightcap followed by sex.”

  “Yes. So we get to the door, he takes the key from me and opens it for me, and then—God, this is so humiliating.”

  And she’s off again, cursing and generally suggesting Hugh should do physically impossible things to himself.

  “Yes, but what did he actually do?” I ask, to get her back on track.

  “He hands me back my keys, shakes my hand, and tells me what a pleasant evening he’s had, and how he hopes we can do it again sometime. Hell, Emma, the man shook my hand. Not even a peck on the cheek.”

  “But that’s…” Unbelievable, but I don’t say that because it will only make matters worse. But it is unbelievable, because a guy would have to be dead a week not to hit on Rachel. Think about the most gorgeous woman you’ve ever seen, then double it. That’s how stunning she is.

  “That’s…very civilized of him,” I say, as I desperately grapple for the right words. “Think about it, Rachel. You two don’t exactly get on that well. And you still have to work together, so maybe he’s trying not to complicate things. Maybe last night was just a way to try to get to know you better, so the two of you can get along in the lab without throwing test tubes at each other. I mean, I’ll bet leaving you last night was the hardest thing he ever had to do, I’ll bet he took a cold shower as soon as he got home. But you’ve got to see it from his point of view.” Whew.

  “You know, maybe you’ve got a point. Maybe I should torture him a little.”

  I have visions of handcuffs and whips.

  “Er, maybe not.”

  “Oh, I don’t mean in a bad way,” Rachel says, and she sounds very cheerful indeed. “I mean in a sexy way. You know, brushing against him, stuff like that. To make him suffer. By the time I’ve finished, he’ll be begging me to let him fuck me. Thanks, Emma, you’ve been really helpful,” she tells me, and hangs up.

  Oh God, I’ve created a monster.

  When I get back to my cubicle, Lou is waiting for me.

  “Emma, can you get me some coffee?”

  He has walked all the way across the office, away from the coffee cubicle, to stand and wait at my desk for me. His mission complete, he now strolls all the way back across the office to his desk.

  I spend the rest of the afternoon plotting my strategy.

  Wednesday afternoon

  This morning, the scales told me that I have dropped another pound. So in desperation I tried one of the bodybuilder shakes that Katy and Tom so kindly bought me for my birthday. And you know what? It tasted like shit. But I drank it anyway, because it’s also supposed to stimulate my appetite.

  It’s definitely working.

  When Lou sent me to get him a doughnut for his morning snack,
I walked the extra six blocks to the really nice pastry shop. The alternative shop, only a half block from the office, has awful cardboard-flavored doughnuts, so the extra five-and-a-half-block journey is definitely worth it. Besides, it’s such a lovely July day, I really didn’t mind the walk. And I got a doughnut for Adam and me, too.

  Then, when Lou sent me to get him a lox and cream cheese bagel for lunch, I was hungry again, so I killed two birds with one stone and got one of those for me, too. Adam didn’t want one—he had a lunch meeting. But I still (obviously) took my full-hour lunch break. I usually just eat at my desk, but today I am trying out my new work-to-the-rule-book campaign. I spent my time in the park enjoying the summer sun instead. I think it’s going rather well.

  “Emma, can you type this for me right away?”

  “Sure, Lou.” I smile, putting aside Adam’s urgent cost report to type Lou’s really urgent letter to Requisitions. He needs many things, including a new computer (this is fine, because the spare computer is about ten years old and its RAM isn’t what it used to be), a new desk (I do not understand this, because my dearly departed ex-boss’s old desk is lovely), and a multitude of other miscellaneous items. His letter of explanation (I need a new trashcan because…) is terrible. How Lou graduated from college I will never know (Daddy has friends in high places?), because the guy cannot string two sentences together. But I will faithfully type his report. I will not actually change it, I will only correct his (many) spelling mistakes.

  “Emma, can you get me some coffee?”

  “Sure, Lou,” I say. “No trouble. Adam?” I pop my head around his office door for at least the tenth time today. “I’m just getting coffee for Lou. Can I get you another?”

  “More coffee?” Adam looks up from the papers he’s studying and frowns. “At this rate I’ll have caffeine poisoning before dinner. No. Thanks.”