It's Raining Men

by Jennifer Stevenson

  My phone rang, and I answered listlessly. The number was from Syracuse. Probably someone complaining about the report on my last banana liqueur demo. Well, if they gave me any guff about the conversion rate, I had a few things to say about their marketing plan, oh, and the big idea behind trying to sell a tropical-fruit-flavored liqueur in summertime.

  It wasn’t my supervisor.

  “Ms. Danvers? This is Boshy Boshnievesk.”

  I gave a gasp.

  “Am I interrupting anything?” he said.

  “No, sir,” I said, feeling my heart give a bump and then, for some goofy reason, settle right down again. “I finished my demo a few minutes ago. Just packing up now.”

  Now I knew why my heart wasn’t trying to leap out the top of my head. He might be the owner of my company, capable of firing me in a second, but he wasn’t Archie.

  At that thought, my blood pressure dropped another notch.

  “I think you can guess why I’m calling,” said the boss de la bosses.

  “Um,” I said, screwing the cap on the last sticky empty and dropping it into its pocket in its box. “You don’t like the conversion rate on the banana liqueur campaign?”

  My heart was already in my shoes. I was still focused on Archie. I loved you. Is that any way to break up with a girl? I felt suddenly annoyed with all these men who knew why they were calling but couldn’t be bothered to call. Turns up in my kitchen naked one day, won’t answer my calls the next. Dammit.

  “Well, I can explain that, sir,” I said, my voice sharpening.

  “Oh,” he said sounding taken aback. “Sure, I’d love to hear an explanation of that.”

  “Two words. Bimbo. Summer.” I kicked the case of empties under the demo table and went to the restroom to wash my hands. “First of all, the bimbo in the ads sells drinks to men, not women, and men don’t drink banana-flavored anything. Second, it’s summertime. You sell tropical drinks in the winter, when everybody is sick of the cold.” I got in line for the potty. “I can think of four images that would appeal to a female customer better than that bimbo, right off the top of my head,” I said, looking at all the moms in line, “although there are too many kids present for me to go into that here.”

  “C’mon,” Boshy said. “Don’t tease.”

  “Let’s just say,” I said, eyeing a woman with two under-six tots in the cart in front of me, “every girl likes a guy with a big banana.”

  “Peeled or unpeeled?” he said, not salaciously but thoughtfully, as if he were picturing it. You’re not the idiot I thought. Something of this may have been audible in my reply, but I didn’t care. Let him fire me. I could always tend bar again. Although not in Ravenswood Manor.

  “There you go,” I said. “Unpeeled. But you do a series of shots, white guys, brown guys, all ripped torso from the waist down, but get the six pack in there. Button fly jeans, of course,” I said, lowering my voice as the woman ahead of me went into the bathroom, a kid in each hand.

  “Stop, stop,” Boshy said. Now I’d done it. He was going to fire me. “I don’t want you getting arrested in Target.”

  “It’s a grocery store, but thank you,” I said. “They’d like it even better if I didn’t wear the suit with no shirt on under it, per company dress code, but hey.”

  I’d been complaining to my supervisor for a year about the new demo uniforms. I’d warned him that what flies after eight in a penthouse upscale bar in the loop is unwelcome in a neighborhood suburban grocery store. I was suddenly fed up with my supervisor too.

  So I took it out on the owner of the company. “If my tits look better to the customer than the bimbo on the box does, either the bimbo has to go, or I’m in the wrong business. We’re trying to lure the customer to the product, not away from it.”

  “Oh, I don’t think you’re in the wrong business,” Boshy said. “I’d like to continue this conversation some other time, but I called to let you know,” he said, and paused. The crusty old taunter. Since when did the big boss call to fire a girl? “I called to tell you that your entry in the Venus Dreams contest is a knockout. We’re using it in the product rollout.”

  The woman with the two kids came out of the bathroom, but I didn’t move. I squeezed the phone with sticky hands. “It did?”

  “I love it. It’s classy, it’s evocative, it’s got great point-of-sale potential, and at the same time it’s cheap to produce. I think you’ll like what marketing has done with it.”

  I swallowed.

  Go ahead, I could imagine Archie whispering in my ear. Ask him about the promotion.

  Great. Now I was profiting from his ideas just like his tutor.

  “So you’re flying me to Syracuse for the rollout?” I said boldly.

  I was eager to be done with this conversation, so I could leave a gloating voice mail on Archie’s phone.

  “Monday, yes,” Boshy said. “I look forward to meeting you. You can look over your new office while you’re here. Pick out some new office carpet, Ms. Vice President of Marketing Danvers.”

  “Great,” I said, not listening much, but wondering what they had done with Archie’s adorable little temple drawing. I remembered him sketching it impatiently, talking about moon pools and looking distracted and sweet and fizzing with ideas.

  “Arlene will send you a code for your tickets. Great to have you on board,” Boshy said. The phone went dead.

  I shouldered the bathroom door shut, turning the phone over and over in sticky fingers. I didn’t want to call him. I wanted to see him. I was tired of leaving messages on his phone.

  Then I realized that today was Wednesday, and “Monday” meant, like, Monday. I had four days to get my best suit to the dry cleaner, lose five pounds, and buy a pair of red shoes.

  I bought the shoes.

  I called Archie four more times the next four days. Every call cost me twelve hours of hesitation, agonizing indecision, rage, heartache, tears, and approximately four hours of sleep. I ate two entire bags of Oreos with extra filling. My power suit, when it came back from the cleaners, fit a little snug.

  Of course he never answered or called back. To be fair, he probably didn’t realize I was big with news. Every time his voice mail came on, I choked. It’s hard to convey “Your brilliant idea won the contest. I’m getting a promotion and going to upstate New York on Monday. Have a nice life,” into two cranky words: “Call me.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  SATURDAY AFTERNOON, BEFORE I LEFT TOWN, I went over to the Ribfest for the sheer thrill of attending an outdoor street fair without having to wear the low-cut suit and get sticky.

  I was immediately sorry. You couldn’t move on Lincoln Avenue for people jostling each other, spilling one another’s beer, and scoping each other’s sunburn. A few families grimly pushed strollers like knee-high battering rams into the calves and shins of fellow rib-eaters, but the majority were young and hip. I wanted to slay them all.

  I was about to flee when I saw Lido jumping down off the back of an outdoor stage with his ax in his hand. He waved to me. I stepped over the yellow tape. The noise level had dropped momentarily. The next band was setting up on stage even as Lido’s boys were tearing down.

  “Thank goodness you’re here,” he yelled in my ear. “We need to talk.”

  The band members shoved their road cases down a side street to where their van was standing open. Lido let them load it. He drew me into a doorway where we wouldn’t get trampled.

  “Archie’s in a bad way,” he said.

  “Good,” I said savagely. “I hope it chokes him. He dumped me. If he doesn’t like it, he could, like, answer some of my phone calls.”

  “He thinks he’s protecting you,” Lido said.

  “He’s driving me out of my mind,” I said. “Next topic.”

  “No, but seriously,” Lido began.

  “Oh my God!” A woman with bronze hair and a tan the same color leaped into our doorway. She gushed, “It’s really you! That was an awesome, awesome set! You guys are the be
st!”

  Lido smiled weakly. “Uh, thanks.”

  She grabbed his hand. “I think it’s so wonderful that you donated your time to the AIDS Ball. You people have such wonderful solidarity.”

  “You people?” I said, looking at him, wondering if he could have showed his face at a synagogue in the past seven days.

  “Would you sign the article? It’s not for me. It’s for my son. He’s gay, too, and he’s a huge fan. He lives in San Bernardino.”

  She thrust a tattered copy of last week’s Reader at Lido.

  Lido backed into the doorway. His eyes rolled. “Uh—”

  His fan was hunting in her purse. “I have a pen somewhere.”

  I took the Reader from her. Cover of Section Three, there was a big picture of Lido in all his tattooed glory, shirtless, ax in hand, talking or singing into a microphone. The headline read, “Out and Proud: Lido Arabescu Rocks the AIDS Ball.” Frowning, I started reading the article.

  “Piddlies guitarist and lead singer Lido Arabescu rocked Chicago but scarcely shocked it by coming out at the AIDS Benefit Ball at Michelle’s Ballroom Sunday.” I checked the date. Yup. This was printed almost ten days ago. “Speculation has surrounded the smoldering sexuality of this metallist since the Piddlies first burst on the scene,” blah blah blah.

  They’d outed him. They couldn’t possibly have known, but they’d done it.

  Lido was looking over my shoulder now.

  I thought fast. I said to the fan, “Do you mind if he keeps this? He doesn’t have a copy.” I took the Sharpie from her and handed it to Lido. “Sign her arm, there’s a good musician.” I stuck the paper under my arm. “She can send her son a photo.”

  Lido looked dazedly after the paper, but he signed her arm.

  She started to tell us more about how much she adored him.

  Just then, the door of the apartment building behind us opened. As a guy in a Cubs shirt stepped out, I pushed the door open farther and pulled Lido inside.

  Thank goodness, the glass in the door was one-way. We watched the fan admire her Arabescu autograph and then walk off.

  The lobby was a lot quieter than the street.

  I pushed Lido down on a beat-up leather sofa and handed him the newspaper.

  He read the article. “This is two weeks old,” he said. His dazed look turned to one of deep thought.

  I said, “Did you give this guy an interview? He seems pretty sure you’re gay.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “So, then, did he actually just assume you’re gay because you performed at the AIDS Ball? What a douchebag!” I sputtered.

  Then I remembered. That was the night I’d slipped him the rain-of-men charm. The night he’d met Marc.

  I supposed if the reporter had seen Lido with stars in his eyes, talking to flaming Marc, he was entitled to make a few assumptions.

  “I’m really sorry, Lido,” I said, not admitting why. “Do you think there have been any repercussions?”

  “No.” He bit his lip. “Or maybe yes.”

  “I’m sorry,” I said again, feeling helpless.

  He looked at me. “Bookings have almost doubled.”

  “Whoa. You’re serious?”

  He nodded.

  Impulsively I put a hand over his tattooed fingers. “Is that why you won’t talk to Marc? Because you’ve been in the closet?”

  He turned color. I felt like a jerk for intruding.

  “I know I shouldn’t butt in. Just—he likes you, you know. You could have a real chance if you didn’t, you know, hide.”

  “Chloe. I appreciate your support. I really do.”

  “But you want me to butt out, okay, yeah. Just—” I felt my eyes tearing and forced myself to man up. “Oh, forget it.”

  “Back to Archie,” he said. “We have a problem.”

  “Right, Archie’s tender heart, ha ha. Do you think he still wants me?” I said mournfully. “That sounds so selfish. Oh, God, I’m an awful person. I don’t even care if it’s bad for him. I just want to know he loves me.” I buried my face in my hands. “He won’t answer my phone calls. He won’t serve me when I show up at Cheaters. That’s humiliating, believe me.”

  “There’s more,” Lido said. At his dead tone, I looked up. “There’s been a memo.”

  I remembered the memo that had burned itself to ashes in my back pocket. “What?”

  “It turned up yesterday.”

  “Home Office or Regional Office?” I asked.

  “Both. It named Archie.”

  “What, in the CCs?”

  “No. It’s about the Ravenswood Project. Specifically, it’s about the victims’ compensation program. They’ve noticed the love charms.” Lido cussed in eighteenth century Hungarian or Yiddish or something. “They’re sending a task force.”

  All the hairs on my arms stood up at once. “A what?”

  “Both offices.” He turned his big somber brown eyes on me. “You realize what this means? The Regional Office and the Home Office have heard about the victims’ compensation program, and they’re coming to get Archie.”

  “But there is no Ravenswood Project or victims’ compensation program. Archie said.” My voice rose. “So how could they have it in, like, their computers in hell?”

  “Beats me, and that scares me, too.” Lido shuddered. “They didn’t name me in the memo. I have no idea why not. I’m the one who designed the charms for you. He barely touched them. I’m going frantic, trying to figure out what they know and how they know it, and Archie’s being stoic and pretending it doesn’t matter. That scares me even worse. We’re all worried. Last time, he burned the whole—”

  “Yeah, yeah, I know about last time. What can I do?”

  “If they approach you, try and figure out who you’re talking to.”

  “I don’t know any angels or demons. Besides you guys.”

  “I mean,” he said, “see if you can tell, are they from the Home Office or the Regional Office? You can figure that out. It shouldn’t be too difficult. They all wear those stupid badges now, like radiation badges, so they can tell how much humanity they’re soaking up and when to run back to the office.”

  “What?” I said, dazed with panic.

  “Never mind. Just try to figure out who you’re talking to. If they’re from the Home Office, tell ’em victims’ compensation is working great, and all the damage done by the Ravenswood Project is completely washed away for you. If they’re Regional Office, try to give ’em the impression that the victims’ compensation program was just Archie’s little joke, and you’re as miserable as ever.”

  I bristled. “Great. How helpless and stupid should I act?”

  “They don’t care about you,” he said impatiently. “It’s all about quotas and interoffice disciplinary measures and shit.”

  I decided not to tell him I’d already had visits from fake caseworkers. Lido had enough on his mind.

  If they were indeed fake. For once Archie’s paranoid theory comforted me more than the thought that real angels and demons were on his trail.

  “Think about talking to Marc, will you?” I knew I was pushing it, but I had no idea when I might see Lido again. I felt responsible for them. If I hadn’t kept slipping those charms to Lido, he’d still be in the closet, eating bacon, scratching his crotch and spitting, and—but no, the damage had happened at the AIDS ball. That stupid reporter might have assumed he was gay even if he hadn’t spotted him with Marc.

  Then I remembered my news. “Will you tell Archie I went to Syracuse?” That ought to be enough to explain it to him. If he even remembered helping me out with the contest.

  I just wanted to see him. Even if he told me it was over, all over again. I felt like an addict who hadn’t had a fix in four days. My body was beginning to curl up at the edges, and my stomach hurt.

  “There’s no reason for everybody to be miserable,” I said, pleading with my eyes.

  Lido seemed to be weakening, or so I fancied.

  Then
someone rapped on the door. We looked up. I saw the Piddlies’ drummer trying to peer through the one-way glass.

  Lido leaped for the door. “Talk to you later.” And then he was gone.

  Time passed.

  I didn’t feel any better.

  I spent the weekend after my Ribfest encounter with Lido feeling completely miserable. I couldn’t eat. I couldn’t sleep. I went to work only because I was too big a coward to kill myself, and I was curious, in a sick kind of way, how much more miserable I would be in a suit and heels, pouring flavored brandies, than I was in my PJs in my apartment, glaring at the soaps.

  I stayed away from Cheaters.

  Saturday night I took the charm he had made for me, which seemed to be an ordinary canister of baby powder, down to the dog park behind the Montessori school at the railroad tracks, and sprinkled it carefully and thoroughly over the trampled grass and the dirt and broken glass and concrete, covering every inch of ground. A lot of single people brought their dogs there. Maybe it would make somebody happy.

  I remembered how confident I’d felt that last day and laughed bitterly at myself.

  I still wanted to fight for him.

  But the fear in Archie’s eyes as he talked about Aphrodite had got through to me. He was convinced that one or the other of us would die, or something much worse, if we ever saw each other again.

  Much as I hated to admit it, he ought to know.

  My stomach churned day and night. I felt light-headed and heavyhearted from wanting him. I almost made chocolate mousse again.

  Then I remembered his fear. And Delilah saying, The body burned. Every time I thought of it, I got the shivers. He’d claimed she wasn’t a demon at all, that she was Aphrodite in disguise, but he hadn’t denied the body-burning part.

  I was sick with anxiety and despair and hunger and longing.

  In fact, I felt exactly the way Bubbie had said. Miserable. Possessed. Lost. Confused. Desperate.

  I accepted an assignment for Friday afternoon, miles away at a suburban hotel grand reopening, running a demo station in the remodeled bar.

  Halfway through the demo, Kama breezed in, looking absurd in his Akademiks and Wu Tang ghetto chic.