by Jim Hodgson
"Drugs taste best that way!" Geoff called at Phineas' retreating form.
A nearby style blogger stood up in her cube to see who was doing what with drugs, her phone held to her head. She regarded Geoff.
"What?" he asked. "They do."
#
Phineas found Dave Thomas in his office. Also in there was Barton Densworth slouching on Dave's couch like a glob of chewing gum in a child's hair. Densworth smirked his insipid slicked back smirk.
"Shh! Here he comes! Stop talking about him!" Densworth said, in the shittiest stage voice ever staged.
Oh Jesus yes, let's please keep that joke going, Phineas thought. "Talk to you a minute?" he asked, ignoring Barton.
"Yap," Dave said. "Ya mind, Barton?"
Barton heaved himself off the couch. "I'll shove off. You guys rub tits."
Dave chuckled. Phineas tried to forget he was hearing the chuckling as Barton slicked away. Phineas considered shutting Dave's door but figured it wasn't that serious a topic.
"What's up?" Dave asked.
"You know what Losscraft wants to see me about?"
Dave's face went blank. He knew. "You know, Phineas, if it's okay I'd rather not talk about it."
"And if it's not okay?"
"I'd still rather not."
"Why not?"
Dave pressed his lips together. Phineas got the distinct impression that he wanted to say "Because I've discussed it with you a million times already." And that meant that it was about the lack of views on his headlines. Shit. Geoff was right.
"It's my views isn't it?"
Dave let the question hang long enough to make it clear the answer was "yes" without saying so. "We're going to have a meeting about it soon enough, okay? Just, you know, calm your tits."
Phineas collapsed on the couch. He wasn't able to keep himself from sounding exasperated. "Calm my tits, Dave? That's how journalists talk to one another?" He put a hand to his head. It felt hot. His whole body felt hot. The acoustic tile had a brown stain in a corner of one tile. It was round. Like a breast.
"I thought all you guys said that kind of thing."
"We're professionals. We craft language."
The couch made leathery fart creaks as Phineas sat up. Dave was arranging things on his desk in the way a person who was profoundly uncomfortable might do to occupy themselves until the person who was creating the discomfort went away. Phineas was surprised, and a bit proud, to realize he wasn't quite finished creating discomfort.
"Don't we craft language, Dave?" he asked. It sounded a bit like a plea.
Dave sighed. He was still exasperated. "I don't know, man. Maybe. Yes. Sometimes. But we also have to sell ads. You know how the game works. What do you want me to say?" Dave was about to create some discomfort of his own now. Phineas could feel it.
Out in the cubicle farm, a commotion was building. There were shouts and whoops.
Dave stood, walked out his office door, and scanned the room. "What's up?" he called.
Someone yelled back, "Aphrodite nip slip! We got the photo!" The Greek goddess of love and beauty had been caught by one of the paparazzi with her toga too far down, exposing her breasts. One of them, at least.
"Nice!" Dave called back. "Blur it a little and we'll run it on digital. Not too much blur!"
"Why not front page tomorrow?" Phineas asked to himself.
Dave turned and stuck his head back in the room. He'd heard. "We're done here, Phineas." Not a question. A statement. Nothing to say.
Chapter Five
Phineas left Dave's office feeling like an irritating grain of sand rattled out of a shoe. He hated the feeling because it was so... what? So insignificant. That was it. He felt insignificant. What would an effective person do right now? he wondered. The answer came immediately. Go to the source. He'd go to the epitome. He'd find Barton Densworth.
It wasn't hard. Densworth was in his office. Why the fuck does he get an office? No, no, fight that thought down. Now's not the time.
The office was a contrived-looking mess, as though Densworth had read on a refrigerator magnet somewhere that a messy office was the sign of a well ordered mind and taken it to heart. Papers stuck out of this and that at odd angles. Who printed this much stuff out?
"Hey, Barton?" he said.
Barton turned from an image of Aphrodite getting into a car, her toga-inspired dress falling away immodestly, to look. He seemed a bit surprised to see Phineas.
"Hey, the tit rub's over, I see. What can I do for you?" he asked.
"I have something to ask you if you don't mind."
"Shoot."
Phineas hadn't given enough thought to how he'd planned to please his question. He'd only just realized it was a question. He finally settled on, "How do you do it?"
"Do what?"
"You know, get views on your articles."
Densworth looked taken aback. Phineas had never seen it on him. He seemed to consider the question. "I just give the people what they want," he said, finally.
"Well, yes, but how do you know what they want?" Barton looked blank. The silence stretched a bit, so Phineas added, "and anyway, isn't it our responsibility to give them what they need?"
Densworth smirked. "Aw, you don't believe that flat tit of a lie, do you?" Phineas stared now. Densworth went on. "We're not artists, Phinny. We're scaffolding for advertisement. If it bleeds, it leads. Love thy neighbor don't sell papers. All that."
The two clichés bounce off Phineas with an irritating clang like rocks off a street sign. He searched for the words to convince Densworth it shouldn't be so. "But," he said, then faltered. He flung out for something effective to say. Something with punch. "That's just such bullshit."
Densworth's smirk disappeared. "Bullshit?" A snort. "That's like saying a snake is bullshit. Fine, but it'll still bite you. People want news. I give them the news they actually read." He emphasized the last two words, looking significantly at Phineas.
"But don't you feel like a phony?" Phineas heard himself say. Densworth's eyes widened in disbelief. Oops. Wrong thing to say.
"A phony?" he repeated. "Me? A phony? You dumb tit. No. Do you know why? Because I was hired to do a job, and I do it. You walk around all day with your sensitive feelings and your New Yorker subscription." He gestured with a hand to indicate he'd toss both aside. "You cash checks, but you don't earn. That is a phony. I'm holding this paper up. I'm a pillar."
Phineas felt hot but kept his mouth shut. He'd done enough for this conversation. He should just leave. This was a bad idea.
Nope, he couldn't help it. "I'll just let you get back to looking at someone's breasts then, Mr. Pillar," he said. De
nsworth waved him out with a formless raspberry of sound.
Chapter Six
Phineas walked back to his desk. On the far end of the cubicle farm people were gathered in one of the graphic designer's cubes making jokes and nudging one another.
Phineas looked at them as he walked. These are my peers, he thought. Grown men and women. Congratulating one another because they're seeing a nipple. Even though, presumably, each of them has two nipples. Some of them have even seen each other's nipples, if any of the office party rumors are true. And yet, here they are.
He stopped walking and stared at a white column that supported the upper floors of the building. It was covered in some sort of textured vinyl. At the base, it had a black piece of rubber molding meant to dress up the transition between column and carpet. The carpet's design had always put Phineas in mind of dog vomit spread into geometric patterns. The piece of molding had pulled away from the column. Phineas could see a squiggle of glue behind the pulled away molding. It looked like creamy peanut butter.
What am I doing? What do they have? I thought I was going to be a writer. Am I wrong about what a writer is?
Barton Densworth appeared in a doorway. He emitted a wordless whoop of celebration across the cubicle farm that was met with a cheer from the crowd in the graphic design cubicle, then shouted
"Carpe nipulum!" and hurried to join the cubicle group. Some of them laughed at "carpe nipulum," even though he'd said it a thousand times before.
Phineas slouched back to his cubicle and sank into his chair. Jesus. Nipulum isn't even Latin for anything.
His phone buzzed. Text message. Karlyn: "Time for lunch?"
Good. He could confide in her. She'd kiss his cheek and tell him how he should handle it. Reassure him about her father and his job.
He replied. "Sure. Meet you on curb?" She almost never had her swipe card to the parking deck, preferring instead to make her father meet her at the deck to swipe her in. Since she and Phineas had started dating, he'd been on swiping duty.
"Meet u on side street." The side street? Peculiar. But whatever, probably just wanted him to hop in so they could grab some lunch. He could talk to her when they were alone in the car. Better than trying to have a private conversation at a busy lunch place.
He headed down the stairs and pushed through the security door at the rear of the building. It had a wooden doorstop stuck into the hinge side so it wouldn't close and lock. The building's smokers gathered on the loading dock, including Geoff.
Geoff had recently quit smoking but didn't want to give up everything about it. He'd said, "As a smoker, I have gone down to the loading dock up to six times a day without anyone saying a word. I'm not giving that up." He'd tried eight smoke breaks in one day, but Dave had gotten wise, calling that many trips "excessive."
Geoff had taken up yo-yoing instead. He'd bought a purple plastic beginner yo-yo and was chatting with the smokers and attempting various tricks. He waved with his free hand when he saw Phineas. Phineas waved back but stood next to the curb waiting for Karlyn.
After a few moments of standing, he started to feel awkward. Geoff was probably wondering why he didn't come say hello. But Karlyn would be here any second. Geoff and the smokers were laughing about something. Would it be better for Karlyn to see him laughing with some friends rather than standing by himself at the curb like a lost puppy? Maybe. Probably. And he'd see her from over on the loading dock anyway.
He called "Hey, how's the yo-yoing going?" but a horn honk sounded over the word "yo-yoing." It was Karlyn. She pulled her car over to a stop, blocking the bike lane. A cyclist rode up behind her car and gave a huff of disapproval as he stopped. Phineas waved at him to say "sorry, this'll just take a minute." The cyclist glowered.
Phineas trotted around the front of Karlyn's car, but the passenger seat was full of stuff. Magazines, a sweater, boots. She was moving them to the back seat. Karlyn was reluctant to put boots on top of a scarf that she'd just discovered in the passenger floorboard.
"Hey, man. This is a bike lane!" called the cyclist.
"Yeah, sorry. This'll just take a moment." A trash truck was coming up the street as well. "Can you go around?"
"Well yeah but this is a bike lane, you know? There aren't that many of them." The cyclist wore a bright yellow vest with reflective stripes on it. The trash truck pulled up next to Karlyn's car, blocking the street. Men jumped out and began kicking recycling containers out of the way of the dumpster so they could get their truck to it.
Karlyn rolled down the window. "Let me just get out of this guy's way," she said. She began to pull forward slowly. Phineas walked along beside the car.
"Where do you want to go for—" Phineas began but then spotted his watch in a cup holder. "Hey, is that my watch?"
"I finally remembered to bring it to you!" He'd left it on her dresser one of the nights he'd spent there. He missed having it to wear, but he liked the idea of one of his things being at Karlyn's house. Like a beachhead into her life. Someday all their things would be together, of course, but for now he liked his watch being there.
"Oh, uh, thanks," he murmured. She handed the watch to him through the window. He took it, unsure. Why was she handing it to him? "I thought we were going to lunch?"
Behind the still-moving car, the cyclist called "Okay, you are still in the bike lane. You're moving now, but you're still in it."
Karlyn rolled down her window and yelled back, "Sorry! It'll just be a minute!"
There were still a few magazines on the seat. Phineas tried the door handle, but it was locked. Awkward to attempt opening a barely-moving car's door. The smokers and Geoff all watched the unfolding scene from the loading dock.
"Listen Phineas, I think you're really great," Karlyn was saying.
His guts bobbed inside his body, cold. No. He absolutely hadn't heard that. "Wh- huh?" he stammered.
"I just don't know if this is working out," she finished. She dipped her head to look at him out the passenger side. Bangles caught the sun on her finely shaped wrist. They dangled against one another and made "ting" noise. Phineas couldn't make his body do anything but keep walking alongside the car.
"To reiterate," the cyclist called, dinging a bell mounted on his handlebar twice, "bike lane!"
"But... you're. You're breaking up with me? Can you just stop?"
"I don't know, I—" She sighed, looked out the windshield, then back at him.
"I mean the car! Can you just stop the car? You're breaking up with me from a moving car?"
"I'm sorry, Phineas. I know it's not perfect." The three of them were almost to the end of the street now, where it joined back up with Peachtree, a main thoroughfare. She'd have to speed up. She'd be gone.
"Can you just stop?" he asked again. It sounded like a beg. He wasn't begging, was he? Was he the kind of person who begged?
"I have to go," she said. "I'm sorry."
"Biiiiike! Laaaaane!" called the cyclist, drawing the syllables out. Ding ding ding.
Phineas grabbed the passenger door with both hands, forcing him to crab his legs along sideways. His right hand closed around his watch. "But you can't leave it like this! Karlyn!"
She looked ready to cry. "I have to go," she croaked.
They were at the stop sign now. Phineas had to let go of the car and step back to avoid being scraped off by the sign. His watch dangled in his hand. There was no traffic on the main street. Karlyn made a right. She was ten yards away, then twenty. The lights headed north were all green, all okay with her just driving away.
The cyclist pulled up to the stop sign and regarded Phineas.
"Whoa, man, did she just break up with you... like that?" he asked. His face was obscured by a pair of sunglasses and a long goatee, but he looked empathetic.
"I think, I... muh. Yeah," Phineas said. She broke up with him from a moving car. God. She didn't even... she didn't even stop the vehicle. But he wasn’t entirely out of options. He had a meeting with her father. Dr. Losscraft would listen to reason. A moving car!
"Wow, man," said the cyclist. "In a bike lane." Phineas looked at him again. The man shook his head. "That's seriously fucked up. Happens to the best of us, though, I guess. Welp, take it easy!" He rode away, looking over his shoulder for oncoming cars.
The garbage truck pulled up. A man was riding on a step on the back of the truck and holding onto a metal bar welded there. He wore sunglasses and an unreadable facial expression. He'd probably never been broken up with in his life. Certainly if he had, it was by someone stationary, not a drive by.
Phineas looked down at his hand holding the watch then put the watch into his pants pocket. He considered putting it on, but that felt wrong, like he'd be admitting to a reality where his watch wasn't at Karlyn's and he was single now.
He waited for the garbage truck to pass then crossed the street in a cloud of its stink. He walked to the back door and pulled it open without looking at Geoff or the smokers. They probably wondered what that was all about. They probably knew exactly what that was all about. He didn't want to talk to them right now.
Chapter Seven
Phineas felt detached. Loose. His guts might slip out of his body like uncooked chicken breasts out of a ripped shopping bag. He climbed stairs, just like any other stairs. He lifted one leg, then another. He could feel his pants against h
is legs, and the slight bulge of his wallet in a back pocket.
He wondered how to best use his time to prepare himself for his meeting with Dr. Losscraft. He had so much to say. Sir, I need your help. Your daughter and your paper are my life. Isn't there room for mentorship in the world anymore? How could he get Dr. Losscraft to take an interest in him? Perhaps he should prepare some selections from his recent work of which he was most proud. No, that would take too long. Just some clever turns of phrase, maybe. Not whole articles. Presumably the publisher had read all of those already. Of course he had. He published the paper!
He'd meant to go to his desk, but he found himself on the floor Dr. Losscraft's office was on. He was a few minutes early. He ducked into the men's room and checked his appearance. Brutal honesty time, he thought: I look like I just got punched in the dick. Or broken up with in a bike lane. Okay, okay, whoa, don't have that thought. Only brings on the panic. All right. We're getting shit together. Settle down.
He washed his face, smoothed his hair a bit, and then looked again. Better. He slapped himself on either cheek, and it brought some color back. Now we're talking. I can do this.
He marched into Dr. Losscraft's office waiting area, realized he shouldn't be marching, and then forced himself to nonchalantly greet Bernice. He watched her face for a sign that he was behaving oddly but saw nothing of note there. She smiled a business smile at him and gestured at the seating area.
He nonchalantly picked up a magazine. It had a photo of a car in it. Okay, good, he thought. That's a car. It's a real thing that I have seen before. I am living in the real, normal world. It has cars. Here's a photo of a car to which I can relate.
The man behind the wheel of the car was rugged looking. A heavy and expensive watch peeked out of the sleeve of a dark blue sweater. He looked relaxed, but both his rugged hands gripped the wheel. He was in control of the car. In control.
Phineas willed his heartbeat to slow and prepared himself to be called. This way, when he was called, he wouldn't shriek or leap to his feet. Smooth, in-control movements were what he'd use.