by Andre, Bella
If I had echolocation I could map out the terrain of ab muscles through sheer force of will. His cut body is meant to be relief mapped the way Braille is meant to be read.
With my fingertips.
Parts of my body that have been in suspended animation since I dated Steve spring to life. Some of these parts, as I watch him reach out and shake hands with Mark J. and see the taut lines of sinew at his wrist, the sprinkle of sandy hair around a gold watch, haven’t risen from the dead since my party days at UMass.
And then he opens his mouth and asks Mark J., “How’s your morning going?”
Liquid smoke, whiskey, sunshine and musk pours out of that jaunty, sultry mouth and all over my body like I am standing under a waterfall of oh, yeahhhhh. Everything goes into slow motion around me. My world narrows to what I see, and I can’t stop staring at Mr. Sex in a Suit.
Mark J. says something to the man in what sounds like Klingon, and they share a laugh. Beautiful, straight white teeth and cheeks that dimple—dimple!—make me fall even more in lust with Mr. I Will Make You Omelets in the Morning Wearing Your Suit Jacket and Nothing Else.
I look down and nearly vomit, because my torn t-shirt may actually have remnants of omelets on it. From yesterday. I sniff in that secret way people try to surreptitiously look like they are not so hygiene-deprived that they don’t know whether they’re offending half the eastern seaboard.
Damn. I am.
My phone rings. People around me look as I stare at it, slack-jawed. I can see my open mouth in the glass and realize my hair is still in a loose topknot on my head. Is that my nephew’s My Little Pony scrunchie?
I really sprinted out the door this morning, didn’t I? Being made an honorary Brony by a seven-year-old with two missing front teeth meant I’d been named “Thparkly Thunthine Auntie Thannon.” I smile at the memory.
“Hello?” No one calls me. They always text. And the phone number is new. I don’t know this person.
“Shannon, it’s me.” Amanda. My co-worker. My best friend. My thorn in my side. A ringing phone is an anomaly these days. Most people just zombie text. Me? I have a twenty-four-year-old friend who uses her phone like it’s 2003.
“Why do you have a new number?”
“Greg made me get a cheaper plan.” Greg is our boss. He makes those crazy coupon queens who buy $400 worth of groceries for $4.21 with 543 coupons look like people from Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous.
“Huh. Well, you could have answered the phone when I called this morning and taken some of these bagel hell assignments, you know,” I whisper. “I am going to name my reflux Maple Horseradish Amanda after you.”
“Oh, thank God! You picked up the jobs.”
A very attractive college guy walks in, donning a lacrosse team shirt and a pair of legs that make me wish I were wearing my good underwear instead of my safe underwear. You could go fly fishing in these granny pants.
My eyes can’t stop flipping between college dude and Christian Grey. Eight bagel shops, and on the ninth, God gave Shannon a smorgasbord of hot men.
“You took them all?” Amanda’s voice is somewhere between a dog whistle and a fire alarm. She shakes me out of my head just as Mr. Sex in a Suit walks by, making me sniff the air like an animal in heat. Which I kind of am, suddenly.
He smells like a weekend in Stowe at a private cabin with skis propped against the back wall, a roaring fire in a stone fireplace that crawls from floor to ceiling, and a bearskin rug that feels amazing against all your naked parts.
Even the dormant ones.
Especially the dormant ones.
“On the ninth one right now, but you’re blowing my cover,” I hiss. “And you so owe me. I’m making you pick up those podiatrist evals next month.” Podiatrist shops don’t exactly feed a sense of sexual desire, so my mind makes me go there. Feet. Hammer toes. Eww. Mr. Sex in a Suit leaves through the main doors, coffee in hand.
But wait, I want to cry out. You forgot to let me lick your cuff links.
“You can’t make me do the bunion walk!” Amanda protests. Yes, mystery shoppers evaluate podiatrists. Doctors, dentists, banks, and even—
“Then you can do all the sex-toy shop surveys,” I say, biting my lips after. I can feel the heat from her blush through the phone. Or maybe that’s my own body as I lean to the left to search for a glimpse of Mr. Sophistication.
“Bunions it is,” she replies curtly. “Come to the office after. We need to talk. Clinching this huge account hinges on how well these bagel shops go.” She pauses. “And I am so not doing those marital aids shops!” Click.
Chapter Two
Nineteen questions compel me to wrap up the rest of my sandwich, throw my half-full latte away, and walk with confidence toward the restrooms, hands shaking from too much caffeine. So what if, in my rush out of the house, I’d forgotten to change out of my yoga pants and torn t-shirt?
I look down. I’m wearing two different navy shoes. Which wouldn’t be a problem, except one of them is open-toed.
Whatever. I am fine. This is my last shop of the day. So what if I look like something out of People of Walmart?
Thank goodness Mr. Omelet Cashmere Jacket is gone. He didn’t even look at me, which is fine. (Not really, but…) Living in my own head has its privileges, like pretending I have a chance with someone like that. What would he see if he looked at me? Crazy hair, a full figure in an outfit so casual it classifies as pajamas, tired but observant brown eyes, and the blessings of good genetics from my mother, with a pert nose and what Mom calls a “youthful appearance”, but I call a curse of being carded forever.
And the whole two-different-shoes thing, which could be a fashion statement, you know? It could. Don’t question it.
The coast is clear. Tap tap tap. I knock softly on the men’s room door, assuming it’s a one-seater like all the other stores I’ve been in this morning. No reply.
Sauntering in, I do a double take. Damn! Two urinals and two stalls instead of the big old square room. Someone could walk in on me. A guy could come in here and whip it out if I’m not careful.
Then again, it’s been so long, I’m not sure I remember what they whip out.
Last year, one of my shops for a gas station chain made me count the number of hairs on the urinal cakes. That was, I contend, the low point in my secret shopping career. Fortunately, this particular chain does not have an obsession with hirsute urinators.
How progressive.
I tap on my phone and open the app, scanning the questions. Enough toilet paper? Check. Faucets in working order? Check. Paper-towel dispenser full? Check.
Toilets and urinals in operating order? Hoo boy.
If you’ve never been in a men’s room, and have only set foot in the ladies’ room at most fine (and not so fine) establishments, you need to know this: store owners hate men. No, really—this is the one area where women get treated better. We may earn seventy-seven cents on the dollar compared to men, but, by God, our public bathrooms don’t look like something out of a Soviet-era prison.
Or worse—a Sochi hotel during the Olympics.
My mind wanders as I try not to touch anything I’m not required to touch in order to do my job and get out of here. I recall the scent of aftershave and man on Mr. Perfect Blue-Gray Suit from a few minutes ago, instead of the acrid odor of moldy cheese, urine, and chemical deodorizer that smells like poison-ivy pesticide. How would it feel not only to touch a man so put together, so confident, so in control—but to be allowed to?
The overwhelming pleasure of being in a relationship isn’t the actual affection, sex, and companionship. It’s the permission to be casual, to reach out and brush your hand against a pec, to thread your fingers in his hair, to hold hands and snuggle and have access to his abs, his calves, the fine, masculine curve of a forearm when you want.
On your terms.
By mutual agreement. The thought of running my palms from his wrists to his shoulders, then down that fine valley of sculpted marble chest to
rest on his waist, to slide around and embrace him, makes my mouth curl up in a seductive smile.
That no one will ever see. So why bother?
Besides, I have toilets to flush.
I check the back of the bathroom door for the cleaning chart. You know those pieces of paper on the backs of the doors, with initials and times written on them to verify that the restroom has been cleaned? Someone verifies that verification.
Me. That’s who. Of course, I have no way to verify that JS (the initials down the line for the past four hours) has actually cleaned the bathroom. Only a video camera would be able to tell for sure.
And while modern society loves to videotape everyone in public, mostly for the purpose of catching Lindsay Lohan in an uncompromising crotch shot, corporations haven’t begun videotaping bathrooms.
Yet.
And thank goodness, not only for privacy reasons, but because cameras put people like me out of a job. As much as my job drives me nuts on days like this, it’s a paycheck. I have health insurance. Paid time off. A retirement plan.
At twenty-four, that’s like being a Nobel Prize winner in today’s economy. Most of my friends from college are working part-time at retail stores in the mall, being evaluated by secret shoppers like…me.
Question number thirteen stops me cold. “Is the bathroom aesthetically pleasing?” Um, what? It still makes me cringe, even for the ninth time. The walls are a pale gray, with tile running halfway up. Chips and stains on the tile make me wonder what men have done in here. How does taking a pee translate into broken tiles? And those yellowed stains. I shudder. Is it really that hard to aim?
Whoosh! Whoosh! I flush both urinals, then rush over to toilet #1. Whoosh! I stand in front of the stall to #2 and get ready to flush that one.
I’m in my own little world and let my guard down to ponder the question. I am also exhausted and most definitely not in top form, because I let a few seconds go by before realizing that someone is coming in the bathroom. Out of the corner of my eye I see a business shoe, and that becomes a blur as I scurry into one of the stalls and shut the door.
Heart pounding, I stare at the dented back of the stall door. Then I look down. Chipped red nail polish peeks up at me from my open-toed navy shoe. Aside from being outed as a transgendered man in here, there’s no plausible reason why any men’s room stall occupant should have red toenails.
I quickly scramble to perch myself on the toilet, feet planted firmly on either side of the rim, squatting over the open bowl like I am giving birth. Because I am genetically incapable of balance—ever—and as my heart slams against my chest so hard it might as well be playing a djembe, I lean carefully forward with one arm against the back of the stall door, the other clutching my phone.
The unmistakable sound of a man taking a whizz echoes through the bathroom. I can’t help myself and look through the tiny crack in the door.
It’s Mr. Sex in a Suit, his back to me. Thank goodness, because if I got a full-frontal shot right now then how would I answer the “aesthetically pleasing” question from a strictly professional standpoint?
The tiny bit of shifting I did to peer through the crack makes my right foot slip, and I make a squeaking sound, then lose my grip on my phone as my arm flails.
Ka-PLUNK!
You know that sound, right? I know, and you know, that I’ve just dropped my smartphone in the toilet, but he thinks the man—he assumes it’s man—in here just delivered something the size of a two-hundred-year-old turtle into the toilet.
I look down. My phone is still glowing, open to the question “Is the bathroom aesthetically pleasing?”
Staying silent, I struggle to remain perched on the toilet and in balance. One palm splays flat against the stall door, one hand curls into a fist as it poises over the toilet water.
Four-hundred-dollar phone
or
Arm in nasty men’s room toilet water.
I have the distinct disadvantage of seeing every dried stain on the inside of the rim that my feet occupy, and I know that launching my hand into that porcelain prison means gangrenous death in three days after male pee germs invade my bloodstream and kill me.
But it’s a $400 phone.
A company phone.
Closing my eyes, I lower my hand into the ice-cold water and pretend I’m Rose in the movie Titanic, bobbing on that miraculous door as my hand fishes blindly around the bottom of the toilet for my phone.
I get it not once, not twice, but three times as it slips and catches, slips and catches, and then—
The stall door opens toward me, sending me backwards with a scream, my arm stuck in the toilet as I fall down slightly, my back pushing against the toilet-flush knob.
Whoosh!
Chapter Three
Mr. Blue-Gray Suit springs into action, jumping into the stall with me and planting nice, big, beautifully-manicured hands under my un-deodorized armpits and lifting me off the toilet. It’s like we’re in a toilet ballet, my body leaping up above his, suspended for a few seconds, and all I can think is My arm is dripping toilet water all over a cashmere suit that costs more than my student loan balance.
My second thought: This will be one hell of a story to tell at our wedding reception.
Our eyes lock as the toilet roars, and if we were anywhere else I could imagine this was a waterfall on a deserted island in the middle of the South Pacific, the two of us the only people inhabiting the island, forced by pure survival to have sex like monkeys and procreate to save the human race.
A sacrifice we both suffer through.
Except I’m not on an island with this man, whose arms don’t even seem to strain under my size-sixteen weight. My breasts bob as he makes split-second calculations without looking away from me. Somehow, he moves my entire body, which is now on fire from his sure touch and pure, animal strength, and sets me down without either foot falling directly in the toilet.
The pain of the toilet handle digging into my shoulder blade when I fell back is making itself known, and my arm is dripping, but—but!—Mr. Death by Toilet Rescue is looking at me with concern, and almost as good:
I am clutching my phone.
This all took about five seconds, so I’m panting, and the top knot of my already unruly hair has come undone, leaving a curtain of long waves framing my face. The ends of some of it are wet.
Oh, gross. Toilet arm, toilet phone—toilet hair?
The first words we share finally fill the air. He initiates with a grin.
“We have better seats out in the dining room, you know.”
“My phone needed a bath,” I reply, combing my hair with my dry hand, and now it’s wet, too. I wonder what I look like right now, but I’m afraid if I look in a mirror I will crawl back into the toilet and try to flush myself out of this mess.
“What, exactly, have you been doing with your phone to make it so dirty?” he asks with a leer.
He steps back out of the stall with a gentlemanly sweep of his arm, green eyes filled with a mixture of mirth and guardedness. As he moves, he reveals a full-length wall mirror, giving me my own nightmare.
Oh. That’s what I look like. Anyone have a spare coffee stirrer? Because I could stab myself in the eye and maybe bleed to death right here.
Or embarrassment will kill me. No such luck. If embarrassment could kill, I’d be dead nine times over by now.
I study myself in the mirror. Time seems measured by increments of incredulity, so why not make Mr. Toilet Rescuer think I’m even crazier by looking at my reflection like a puppy discovering “that other puppy” in the mirror? Long brown hair, wet at the ends in the front. Split ends, no less. Who has the money for a decent cut after I needed new tires for my ancient Saturn? My torn pink t-shirt and gray yoga pants make me look like your average college student, except my shoes bring me to a screeching mental halt.
Yoga pants and one loafer, one open-toed shoe make me look like Mrs. McCullahay down the street, dragging her trashcans out to the road at 5 a.
m. with mismatched shoes, a mu-mu, and curlers in her hair while an inch-long ash hangs out of her mouth.
“At least I don’t smoke,” I mutter. Then I remember where I am, and look slowly to my left.
Mr. Smirky Suit leans casually against the scarred, dented stall wall, his face settled into a look of amusement now, but he’s not going anywhere. Feet planted firmly in place, I realize he’s giving me that look.
No, not that look. I’d take that look from him any time.
I mean the look of someone who will not let me out of here without an explanation.
An explanation I am contractually obligated not to give. Outing myself as a secret shopper is verboten. Unheard of.
Grounds for termination.
See, the first rule of mystery shopping is like the first rule of Fight Club: don’t punch anyone. Oh. Wait. No…it’s that you don’t talk about it. Ever.
Though, sometimes, that not-punching rule comes in handy, because there are some really weird people in stores.
And Mr. Suit looks at me like I’m one of them.
“Let me introduce myself,” he says, taking the lead. His body moves effortlessly from leaning to standing, then he takes two steps forward and I retreat until the backs of my calves hit the toilet rim again. I’m backing away from him and I don’t know why.
“Declan McCormick. And you are?” Instinct makes me reach my hand out, and he’s clasping mine before we both realize it’s the toilet-contaminated hand.
He pretends it’s perfectly normal, keeping strong eye contact and pumping my hand like it’s the handle to a well. Except his fingers are warm, soft, and inviting, the touch lingering a little too long.
His eyes, too. They study me, and not like he’s cataloging my features so he can file a police report or have me Section 35’d for being a danger to myself and others.
I am being inventoried in the most delicious of ways.
As a professional whose job it is to inventory customer service in business, I have acquired a set of unique skills—but more than that, I now have a sixth sense for when I’m being detailed.