by Jamie Knight
“Everyone is already here,” Mari said as I came into my office.
“Of course they are. Which room?”
“Babble on 5.”
“Thank you, Mari,” I said, leaving the caramel éclairs I knew she loved on her desk.
Babble on 5 was an in-joke no one under 35 really got. Conservatives would have called it ‘Board Room 5,’ though this was as likely to get a chortle than a respectful nod from a sizeable number of the ‘lifers.’
The gang was indeed all there. Despite being nearly twenty minutes late, I got nary a side-eye as I came in and sat down, casually unbuttoning my suit jacket.
“Right,” I said, instantly taking command of the room, “where would we like to start?”
“Contestants would be the obvious answer.”
“Yes, Tom, it would. Do you want to be obvious?”
“Makes sense to me,” Tom said, his level of self-awareness being in the negative numbers.
“How are the applications?”
“Flood levels,” Maria said, scrolling through the phone always welded to her hand.
“Good, I like the be spoiled for choice,” I said, trying to get to the good side of the situation.
“We have the interns on it,” Samantha said, stopping just short of actually waving her hand.
“Do you?”
“Yes?” Samantha’s confidence mask slipping, if only a couple of inches.
“Who ordered that?”
“I-I did,” Adam said, bracing for impact.
“That’s not part of their job,” I pointed out.
“I know but -”
“You thought you would dance on the line between a legal intern and blatantly illegal exploitation.
“We never really thought about it that way,” Samantha said, trying to take the blame for both of them as she often did.
“I thought it was his idea,” I said.
“It was initially, but I went along with it. We should have asked you first.”
“Yes, you should have. Let that be a lesson, yeah?”
“Yes, sir,” Adam and Samantha chorus in perfect unison.
“Take the interns off the selection process immediately and send all files to my direct email. I will handle it myself.”
“Yes, sir,” they chorused again, sounding like cult members to a nearly spooky degree. It probably had something to do with them being siblings.
“How are we doing with the dating end of things? Do we have enough men for the dating section of the schedule?”
“Nearly. We just need a couple more and we’re good to go,” Maria said, as efficient as ever.
“Have they all been vetted?”
“Yes. Most of them are professionals. Doctors and lawyers primarily. All under 35.”
“Criminal record checks?”
“All clean,” Maria said, scrolling down.
That only made me feel a little better. I was all too well acquainted with how easily members of a particular social strata could get around a criminal record. Especially if they were guilty as sin. I made a mental note to be there with the camera crew on every date the winner went on just in case things went pear-shaped.
“Get on the selection process and I will get us a female contestant by the end of tomorrow,” I said re-buttoning my jacket as I stood, officially and symbolically bringing the meeting to a close.
Samantha and Adam did their job admirably, my phone buzzing with their message while I was still on the elevator back up to ten.
“Put the coffee on,” I said to Mari, hanging up my jacket on the hook by the door.
“Big project?” Mari asked, having started on the second of the eclairs.
“Oh yes.”
There were hundreds. I supposed that’s what happened when you offered both love and money with a side of hot sex. People were people, after all. I had to transfer the files from my phone to my desktop just to get a better view of the entirety. As well as to make the process a bit more efficient and quicker.
“Thank you, Mari,” I said as she silently put the mug on my desk before slipping back out.
It was like an interesting sort of treadmill. The names, faces and vital statistics rolling by created a self-imposed fugue state. It was almost meditative in a way. Partly because I tried to get into the zone before I started.
There had been some glances when I first said to relieve the team of interns and give all their work to me, and even more when I said I could get it all done in two days. I didn't really take it personally. I could understand their scepticism.
Most of them had never seen me work nor really understand my prices. The only ones who had ever actually seen it first-hand were Mari, who was quite used to it by that point, and Maria, who had walked in on me once with something important while Mari was away from her desk and therefore unavailable to stop her.
It was like slamming the breaks on a speeding train. I did my best to hold on and not let my thoughts run off the proverbial rails. I could almost hear the grinding between my ears, the one other than my teeth, as I tried to refocus. Three clicks back. Yes. I had seen what I thought I had.
Adelaide Harris. ‘Addie’. According to numerical birth date, she turned 40 a month ago. It shouldn't matter but she didn't look it, at least not how society dictated that she should. Everyone, of course, being an individual.
The actual facts were usually laying somewhere between the established extremes, which is why standards could seem so contradictory. There was no inherent reason for anything to be the way it was. Definitions were often functional rather than inherent and values were often personal rather than universal.
I didn’t know exactly what combination of elements came together in that moment. What I did know, as well as I knew my own name or that gravity did indeed exist by fixture of the fact that we weren't all orbiting space, I knew she was the one.
I scrolled down further, more as a formality than a decision maker, coming across her secondary photo option. A scintillating beach shot of Addie in a quite revealing bikini. It wasn't a deal maker. That was already done. I would be lying if I said a certain instinctive portion of my neurology was not awakened, lighting up like the burning Christmas tree I found one grave December morn when the candles had been left out.
The sweeping was as distinctive as it was immediate. My pants, which hand been expertly tailored to fit perfectly, suddenly felt several sizes too small. Particularly in the crotch region. The call was clear, but still I avoided it. It seemed somehow wrong to indulge such desires while at the office, particularly with Mari so close, wall notwithstanding. I doubted she would even bat an eye. It would hardly be the most shocking thing she had seen that week, but still I’d rather avoid the embarrassment if at all possible.
Even more than that, there was the morality of the thing. Not religious. Not for a while by that point. The qualm was entirely philosophical, having more to do with wanting to be the driver of my own bus than what anyone else expected me to do or be. Pardon my French, but fuck convention. What has it ever brought but misery and two world wars?
As such, I endeavoured to be as much myself as logic and the law would allow. Part of which meant forgoing the vices that had kept me down for so long. It had been nearly fifteen years since I'd had encountered any sort of pornography or imbibed any drugs stronger than aspirin. It wasn't really a moral issue, or even a health concern. It was a matter of autonomy. Personal habit was the enemy of free thought as much as, if not more than, external expectation.
For a moment I wondered if I was hitting a quarter life crisis, being 35 at the time of my absurdist epiphany. In retrospect, it seemed unlikely.
I always said that if I even had a mid-life crisis it would be obvious. No sports cars or college-aged girlfriends for me. I planned to go proper rebellious and live alone in a cabin high up in the mountains and study philosophy and magick full time while living off of my pension. I could imagine the same thing would apply to the earlier incarnation of socially pres
cribed self-doubt without the guaranteed assurance of government-provided income.
Typing a missive to all concerned parties, aside from Addie herself, I finished off the lukewarm latte and headed for the elevators. Mari let out a gasp of surprise as I passed her desk.
“Oh! So, you're done then, Tobias.”
“Indeed, I am, Mari. Strike up the band and ready the marchers. I sense a parade coming on.”
“Metaphorically, right?” Mari asked, completely unflappable, though I did try.
“Exactly.”
“Goodnight, Tobias,” Mari said, gathering her coat and purse.
“Goodnight, Mari,” I said, opening the door for her before following her out into the gathering night.
Chapter Three
Addie
It was worse than I remembered. My weekend with Mercy almost made me forget all the shit. My shit job. My shit ex. My shit situation with Duncan seeming to prefer being with his dad more than me, even though I loved him so much.
That’s really what turned the knife the most. I had always done my best for my baby even after that term stopped applying in the social sense. He would always be my baby, no matter how big he happened to get or how much he grew.
I could only hope that it was a phase. One day he would be mature enough to realize what his dad really was. It felt paranoid but I couldn’t help but wonder if Dave had turned up when he did, demanding visitation as a way to turn Duncan against me. A sort of twisted, Shakespearian vengeance. In many ways I would have preferred a poisoned goblet, getting it over with fast.
I focused on the machine, a severed appendage the last thing I needed at that point. Especially if I did get accepted on the show. It was a pipe dream that seemed to be getting further all the time. It could have just been the way Mercy was talking it up, but it really sounded like it could be really great.
Then again, she made her phone sex job sound like a barrel of monkeys as well. The longer I knew her, the more it became clear that she had missed her true calling in public relations.
“Addie, can I see you for a moment?”
“Sure, Mr. Jensen.”
Shutting down the machine, I followed the foreman to his little office above the factory floor, where he could see everything that was going on.
The thin plywood door closed like punctuation. At least that was how it sounded to me. I ride to pretend that I didn’t know what was coming.
“Coffee?” Mr. Jensen asked, minding his well-learned, yet fraudulent, manners.
“No thank you, sir,” I said, resisting the urge to say ‘master.’ Even though it would make me feel a bit better, it would do little to improve my situation.
“I like to think life is full of opportunities,” Mr. Jensen began, a tidal wave of clichés clearly forthcoming.
I did my best to tune him out. I honestly believed that he thought he was helping, but that’s not how it seemed to me. From my perspective, he was just prolonging the inevitable and adding empty platitudes to injury, which in a lot of ways was even worse.
“It really wasn’t my decision,” Jensen said, doing a sterling impression of Pilate.
“Oh?”
“No, it is the owners, you see. Certain concerns have been raised about your safety. Not with the machines, you understand. We all know you are perfectly proficient there.”
“Thanks?”
“It has more to do with the other workers.”
“The fact that they hate me and drop lewd notes into my locker?”
“Yes, among other things.”
“What other things?”
“Certain, uh, threats have been made. Against you. By them. Most of them, anyway.”
“Death threats?” I asked, appalled.
“Not exactly.”
“Oh, I see. They’ve threatened to fuck me to death. With or without my cooperation.”
“I -”
He was clearly shocked. Mr. Jensen was the type to blush when forced to say, ‘breast of chicken.’ I felt a bit bad about it later. Like he said, it wasn't his decision and I seriously doubted that he was one of the ones who made the threats. I really was embarrassing the messenger. However, I wasn't thinking about that at the time. In the moment, I was just really mad about losing my only real source of income at the time.
“So, the long and the short of it is I can't work here anymore.”
“Yes," Mr. Jensen said, relaxing back into his wheelhouse, "we will give you severance pay, of course.”
I didn't cry. Not in the office. Not in the locker room, which I had to myself since starting there. Not in the exit tunnel.
I refused to let a single, solitary tear fall until I was back in my own clothes, in my truck, driving along the alarmingly empty streets. The usual traffic seemed almost like a comfort.
I couldn't really identify a singular cause. I was upset about losing my job because I needed the money. The rape treats were certainly upsetting, but no more than the notes or the graffiti. There was little chance any of them would have actually taken the risk.
But I could still understand the caution of the owners. Logical as the reasoning was, the last fifteen minutes of my life had only added to the avalanche of shit I was already dealing with.
I really wished I had Mercy here with me. She would know exactly what to say to help me feel better. Whether or not it was actually true was completely incidental.
My phone started to ring. Finding a place to pull over, I eased to the side of the road. I really expected to see Mercy's name displayed on the caller ID screen, but no. It was another name. A man’s name. Not Dave, thank Christ, but also not Duncan.
It was a name I had never seen or heard before. Fairly certain I would have remembered coming across a Tobias Ford.
“Hello?” I said, going for the more traditional salutation.
“Hello, is this Addie Harris?”
“I-it is.”
“Hello, Ms. Harris. My name is Tobias Ford. I am a producer at Avalon studios I am calling to inform you that you have been selected to be on the debut season of our exciting new reality TV show called Second Chance Bachelorette.”
“Oh.”
“We begin shooting on Monday. I can see you are on Long Island. We can send a car if you don't have one.”
I was speechless. Even his voice was beautiful, not at all like I thought it would be. For starters, I thought they would have some intern or secretary call to give me the news, not someone who sounded like he was the lead producer on the show.
Apparently, Mr. Ford, a designation on which he would very soon correct me, took a hands-on approach to running his shows. From what I had heard, a lot of producers also took a hands-on approach with female staff and performers. There was something in his tone that made me doubt that Mr. Ford was among their number. I had been around the truly unscrupulous before. He did not strike me as one of them.
“I'll be there,” I said.
“Shall I send a car?”
“Please,” I said, knowing full well that I would never be able to find parking downtown. The company cars probably had their own parking garage. Goodness knew that Avalon studios would have enough money.
I did not squeal or pump my fist or whoop-whoop until the phone was already hung up and I was sure Tobias couldn't hear me anymore, saving us both the embarrassment.
I was worried about leaving, just in case Dave decided he was sick of having Duncan around and decided to bring him back. It seemed unlikely, though, and it was a risk I would have to take.
The far bigger threat was that Dave would find out I was doing the show and decide to make a stink about it to the courts, using it as proof that I wasn't a fit mother. The more I thought about it, the more absurd the whole thing seemed.
Not that he would try to do such a thing. It was definitely within his capacity for petty cruelty. What seemed outlandish was the idea that anyone, let alone an experienced judge, would in any way take his mad ravings seriously. It seemed like a bit of a stretch.
The car was there exactly when he said would be. An intense looking young woman in a form-fitting black suit, with a bulletproof stare got out of the driver's side. I was to the car by the time she had the back door open.
It was almost like she was shielding me as I got in the back. The door closed with a crisp click and the car pulled away from the curb like a gilded carriage, whisking me away to what I hoped would be a better life.
My excitement grew with our proximity. I was born in Ithaca and lived on Long Island since I was a teenager, yet I had never actually been to the big, scary city. Not even for a visit or on vacation. Manhattan was as distant and exotic an island to me as Ireland or Bora Bora.
I did my best to contain my excitement and wonder as we crossed the bridge affecting an air of cool detachment, trying to match the one radiating from the driver. She tried to hide it behind the collar of her crisp white shirt, but I knew a scar when I saw one. I had more than enough of my own. Hers was an angry red ropy thing marking most of a circle around her otherwise creamy neck. Only the vary back of it. It looked like a burn, but it was an odd pattern. Rope. It was a rope burn. Someone had tried to hang her.
“Later, darlin’,” she said, letting me out in front of the massive building, her Virginia twang unmistakable.
It looked like a supervillain’s lair. The towering black glass reflected the world back at itself like a very tall inverse of the Fortress of Solitude.
Taking a breath to calm myself, I went through the sliding glass doors with what I hoped came off as a confident stride. There was a desperate lack of mirrors in the beautiful white marble lobby, which made it impossible to check.
“Yes?” asked the security guard, his cut-glass accent clear and clipped, standing like a Beefeater behind the desk.
“Hi, I'm Addie Harris.”
“Oh yes, go right through, Ms. Harris, you are expected.”
It took a moment for his words to sink in. Finally, they did, and I went toward the elevators, shocked at how easy it had been. Then again, who the heck would pretend to be me when they weren't?