The Bob Watson

by Greg Bardsley

  We huddle around my phone, and Tyrone says, “Swee lee’il mama.”

  Diana says, “You like the all-natural type.”

  Tyrone pulls back, looks at me with surprise. “This pretty girl go with you?” His giant, round face contorts into a tapestry of confusion. “She owe you money?”

  I stare down at Audrey’s pic—that sweet face and long, lustrous hair. Those eyes looking back at me. “You guys know I like her special.”

  Keith steps back, giving Audrey some respect. “That’s cool, dude. She’s a really pretty girl—”

  “—that you have no business dating,” Diana adds.

  We all laugh, and Keith grabs my shoulder, gives it a shake.

  Tyrone is studying my face. “You like her lot.”

  I smile and nod, looking away.

  Keith says, “She’s got a really pretty face, dude.” He sighs to himself, turns to Tyrone, and explains, “I’m a sucker for pretty faces.”

  Diana adds, “Keith’s a face man, Tyrone.”

  Tyrone’s lips form an O. “Face man?”

  Keith says, “You know what we’re saying, Tyrone? I like women with really pretty faces. We call that being a face man.”

  “Ahhhhh.” Tyrone smiles and nods. “Keith like face.”

  I turn to Diana. “I think I know what your fancy is?”

  Diana smirks. “No you don’t.”

  “Big, strong arms?” I ask.

  She laughs.

  Tyrone says, “You need large—how you say?—genitals?”

  “A nice smile. It tells me everything.”

  This seems to bore the guys.

  Keith says, “I also like butts. The big ones.”

  Tyrone looks at us and makes the O with his lips again. “Big bottom? Kim Kardash bottom—can snap bones and crush rock.” He smiles and nods. “That good. Every person diff’rent.”

  Diana says, “What about you, Tyrone?”

  “No no no.” Tyrone looks down, shakes his head. “I don’t share.”

  “Come on, Tyrone.”

  “You a big-bottom man, Tyrone?”

  Tyrone frowns. “Big bottom expensive to feed. And not healthy.”

  “He’s a titty man,” Keith announces.

  Tyrone swats away the idea with the back of his hand. “Okay, okay, I tell you. I like lady with nice leg.”

  “I love a woman with great legs,” Keith says. “Sexy as hell.”

  We sit there nodding, until Tyrone looks to me. “What about you?”

  Diana folds her arms. “Rick’s a mystery, Tyrone.”

  Tyrone studies me, thinking. “You face man, too.”

  “Nah.” I sit on the edge of Keith’s desk, look down. “I’m a bit different.”

  “You no different. You man.”

  “You see.” I shift my weight and fold my arms. “It’s just that every person has their own preference.” I motion to Tyrone. “You’re a leg man. Keith here is a big-ass man. Diana’s a smile woman. Me? . . . Well this is just me, but . . . Aw, forget it.”

  Diana and Keith moan and complain. “C’mon, dude.”

  “Is okay,” Tyrone says. “I don’t judge. Diversity good for planet.”

  I look at them. “Okay, fine. This is just me. But me?” I look at them and press my fingers to my chest. “Me? Me—Well . . . Me, I’m a vagina man.”

  Tyrone steps back and squints as if he’s made a great discovery. He whispers to himself. “Vagina man.”

  “But that’s just me.”

  Diana and Keith play it straight, not even a smile.

  Tyrone scrunches his face. “Is normal here? Vagina man?”

  Diana says, “There’s nothing normal about Rick, Tyrone.”

  “I call you, Vagina Man.” Tyrone releases a deep and hearty oh-ho-ho-hoooo belly laugh. We all laugh hard. After a while, Tyrone announces, “Vagina Man come with us tonight.”

  I’m already leaving the cube, waving goodbye. “Sorry, guys. Hot date tonight.”

  Truth is, I’m not a vagina man. I mean, of course I can appreciate a good vagina. But really, I’m a feelings man—meaning, if I’m really honest with myself in a way I’d never be in front of the guys (or anybody), what really gets me is the woman who makes me feel that special way. When I’m with Audrey, I get this very rare feeling. She calms me, and I get this sense that things are going to be okay. And this smile builds within me, from the inside to the out, and I feel like I am the coolest, luckiest dude around—just because she’s paying attention to me. Just because I think she kind of likes the real me.

  One time I caught Audrey watching me at a barbecue, her arms folded, her face softening. “You’re a funny guy, Rick Blanco,” she said. “But, you know, you don’t have to be funny for me. It’s okay.” And she looked at me with the warmest smile, like she knew—like she knew exactly why it’s easier for me to crack jokes and be a goof than to drop it all and stand beside the cold reality of my past and present. “But funny’s good, too.”

  She’s right; funny is good. Funny medicates and redirects.

  I do like the idea of not having to cover things up—with someone I could trust. But that’s the last thing Keith wants to hear when we talk about girls. Hell, it’s the last thing I’d want to hear from another dude. I mean, I’d respect the hell out of that honest dude. And I do care about my feelings more than I do about legs and vaginas (barely). But to talk about those feelings with your office buddies, it’s not gonna fly.

  So I’ll just be a vagina man.

  * * *

  I call Audrey and say, “Okay.”

  “Okay,” she mimics.

  “It’s about cavemen.”

  “A self-examination?” she says, playing it straight.

  “For Collin.”

  “You’re going caveman for Collin?”

  “I’m gonna teach him how to pull a Bob Watson.”

  “A what?”

  “A Bob Watson—an escape—and I’m gonna take him on a Neanderthal adventure.”

  “Oh, Neanderthals.” Her voice softens. “Collin loves those.”

  I think of the time Collin tried to interview a heavy-browed San Franciscan on the Marina Green. “We have a good time.”

  “He’s been talking about putting trackers on ‘specimens.’”

  “I don’t have trackers,” I say.

  “Yeah, but he might. Last week I found him on the phone with the U.S. Fish and Wildlife. He was asking where he could buy trackers.” Audrey sighs. “Collin gets focused.”

  “I’ll make sure no one gets tagged.”

  She pauses, like she’s thinking about it. “A Neanderthal adventure. Not bad.”

  “Audrey likey?”

  “Audrey do likey.”

  “Audrey likey enoughy to go to the Greeky tonighty?”

  Long pause. “You’re going to do something special, right? You know, more than the normal people watching. Something special, right?”

  “Special?”

  “You know, something he’ll always remember.”

  I stare into space as my brain freezes.

  “It’s his last day in the States, Rick Blanco.” Audrey’s doing this happy whisper—kind of a sexy-fun tone. “It’s gotta be special, dude. More than spying on big-boned people in Golden Gate Park.”

  I hear myself announce, “Of course I’ve got something special brewing.”

  “Good,” she says. “Lay it on me.”

  Thick, scratchy silence as my mind grinds to a halt.

  “Well,” I say. “I’m checking on a few things.”

  “Uh-huh.” Long pause. “Let me know once you finish the checking, and maybe I’ll cancel my yoga.”

  “You’ll love the Beat.”

  “I know I would. I saw them live in Santa Cruz. They’re amazing.”

  “We’ll have a good time tonight.”

  “You’ll have a good time tonight, Rick Blanco. Not sure if I can join you.”

  I offer a playful sad voice. “I’m supposed to have a
good time by myself?”

  Long pause. “Something tells me you’re quite good at having fun with yourself.”

  “Well, what about you, Audrey Diamond?”

  “Me?” She seems to lower her voice. “What do you think, Rick? You think I have fun with myself?”

  I’m getting a boner, and my voice turns weak. “Where are you?”

  “I think we’re getting a little ahead of ourselves, Rick Blanco.”

  “Wherever you are, I can be there in minutes.”

  “I’m sure you could be.”

  “Audrey-babe. C’mon. What are you doing to me?”

  “I need you to do it special.”

  I think of what Donna always tells me: Sweet girls have needs, too.

  “Rick?”

  I need to buy rubbers.

  “Rick?”

  Or, maybe she’ll let me watch. And nothing more. I can do that.

  Audrey’s vagina floats before my eyes.

  “Rick.”

  The vision intensifies, and I blurt, “I’ve wanted you for so long.”

  “Rick. The Neanderthal adventure. I need you to do that special. Not me.”

  “Of course it will be special,” I pant. “I swear.”

  “Good. Ping me when you’re ready to share.”

  Bob Watson Step No. 5:

  Make New Plans

  I sit at my desk thinking, What the hell is she doing to me?

  I take a pen and a piece of scratch paper and scribble, “Something special.” And I stare at the words. It’s like the music of my mind (lots of organ pipes and circusy flutes) grinds to a halt. It’s like Audrey knew this would be something I just naturally cannot do, not unlike telling a raccoon he can eat all the crawfish he wants . . . so long as he writes and choreographs an opera.

  Does she simply enjoy teasing me?

  And then it hits me, and I sit up and clap my hands.

  Mama. I throw a fist into the air. Mama knows a dude.

  A minute later, I have Mama on the phone.

  “Dickie,” she chirps, her squeaky old-lady voice more fragile than ever. “Finally decided to come back to me and the boys?”

  “Mama-babe. You know I can’t do that.”

  “Dickie. C’mon, honey. Don’t talk that way.”

  “You and me? We’re like fire and gas,” I say. “It wouldn’t be good for the boys.”

  Here’s the thing about Mama: She is not my ex, nor did we ever mate and have children, no matter how much she might argue otherwise. But she is a friend. And she’s cool. And she’s lonely—an elderly empty nester who can’t seem to fully accept that her husband (perhaps a guy named Dick, perhaps not) left her with two boys some thirty or forty years ago. She insists I am her Dickie, the prick who abandoned her so long ago, but I don’t think she’s really that senile. I think she just likes screwing with me, teasing me for looking like Dick Rayborne, the head of Human Resources at my own Robards International—and I admit that I kinda do, unfortunately.

  My resemblance to Dick is the only reason I ever met Mama.

  It was about a year ago, and I had pulled a Bob Watson to embark on one of my find-me missions, meaning I was putting myself “out there,” physically, in hopes that maybe the woman who will change my life—and I have to believe she’s out there—would discover me. Because maybe I’m not supposed to find my girl. Maybe she’s supposed to find me. This fantasy girl who will light me up just like Audrey does. This girl who makes me feel that way, who will take away all my pain. But unlike Audrey, this girl who will at least give me a shot.

  So I decided to go to Menlo Park and sit near the fountain outside Cafe Borrone and Kepler’s Books and Magazines. Lots of cool women there. And good energy, too, if you’re into that kind of thing—and I am. So I sat there sipping a vanilla latte and enjoying the people watching, the sun and water fountain medicating my soul, a smile spreading as I looked around and enjoyed everyone talking and reading and eating. And I closed my eyes and resolved to make myself open to this woman, this woman who just has to be out there.

  “Dickie,” a frail voice warbled. “There you are, you little . . . shit.”

  I jolted and opened my eyes. Standing before me was a tiny old lady, oily hair pulled into a gray ponytail, her body twisted into a permanent hunch, her shoulders turned in. She looked about eighty, with long, frail limbs, a heavy midsection, and yellow polyester pants revealing a massive “camel toe.” Blue-veined hands worked slowly as they reached into a giant blue fanny pack that hung off her hip. She lifted her chin to inspect me through low-riding eyeglasses, her eyes enormous behind the thick lenses.

  “Sorry, sweetie.” I smiled and showed her my palms, gave her my innocent eyes. “But I’m not Dickie.”

  “Like hell you aren’t,” she snapped. “I’ve been to the library, coverboy. I’ve looked you up in the trade periodicals. And I’ve seen your pictures in there, read the articles, saw the covers.”

  “Covers?”

  “Headcount. I’ve read it all, mister. Both spreads. Saw all those stupid pictures of you in your mansion. Saw you in the office with your ‘conployees.’ We all know exactly who you are, Mr. Paperwork.”

  Headcount?

  Conployees?

  “And plus . . .” She nearly said it to herself as she gazed into space. “You think I wouldn’t recognize my own husband?”

  I studied her face, looking for clues. “Are you okay?” I asked gently. “Are you lost?”

  “Lost?” she snapped and glared at me. She reached into her fanny pack and pulled out a folded set of papers. “I followed you all the way from that shithole you call work.” She unfolded the papers and tossed them onto my lap. “Take a look at these, Dickie, and let me know if you think I am lost.”

  I looked down at my lap and saw my face staring back at me. It was a color photocopy of a magazine cover—Headcount, its masthead slogan declaring, the premier journal for human resources professionals worldwide.

  What is this? A joke?

  And then I realized it was actually a photo of my workplace twin, Dick Rayborne, executive vice president of Human Resources at my very own Robards International. I gazed at the cover shot of Rayborne and sighed, defeated. God, I did look like him. That puffy face, those brown, narrow-set eyes. That receding hairline with the pronounced widow’s peak. That same weak chin.

  And yet in this photo he looked a lot happier than me. He had this sly grin—this look that seemed to say, I’ve got it all figured out, bub—as he posed for the camera, standing in the center of a large, tightly clustered group of “conployees,” his deep blue, pin-striped suit popping against the backdrop of their seafoam-green jumpsuits. The headline announced, the father of consourcing. I began to finger through the photocopies and discovered yet another Headcount cover featuring Dick Rayborne—his eyes nearly crossed, a forced smile revealing an enormous set of teeth as he tried to seem casual in the ornate living room of his peninsula mansion. The headline proclaims, dick rayborne’s new target: the bloated u.s. salary.

  I pulled away from the articles and looked up at her. “Who exactly are you?”

  “You can call me Mama.”

  “And why do you have a problem with me?”

  “Don’t play games with me, Dickie.”

  I looked around the plaza. Is this a prank? But all I saw were dozens of people eating, reading, and chatting. No one was even looking at us. She pointed to the fanned-out pages on my lap. “Two Headcount covers in five months? You’re their little douchebag darling.”

  I put my palms out again. “Listen, ma’am. My name is Rick Blanco.”

  She shuffled closer, panting, and took the seat beside me. “Do an old lady a favor and just read those stories.”

  I looked over at her, and I could see the sincerity in her tired, moist eyes. I imagined how hard it must have been for her to follow me, park, and find me here by the fountain. She looked like maybe no one really checked in on her—her clothes a little too dirty, her hair a little
too oily, her breathing a little too labored. Worried eyes. And I found myself saying, “Okay. Fine. You want me to read these?”

  She nodded, still panting.

  “And would you like a bowl of soup or something?”

  She seemed embarrassed. “That would be nice.”

  And so I got her a bowl of chicken soup and read the Headcount articles. The first cover story, from September, told how Dick Rayborne had turned his dream of “consourcing” into a very real and profitable practice at Robards. It was Dick’s “trailblazing idea” to hire ex-cons, parolees, and furloughed criminals into low-paying jobs at Robards, where he stationed them in a “maximum-security” building on campus. By laying off 37 percent of the regular workforce and consolidating the survivors into “ultrahigh-density work environments,” Dick was able to vacate one of the buildings on campus, equip it with new security features, and locate the incoming conployees there.

  Yet as Headcount noted, the real genius of Dick’s plan was that he rejected the widely held belief that all convicts are low-skilled, high-risk employees. It turned out a substantial number of skilled ex-cons were eager to work; the problem was, employers didn’t want them because they were criminals. That made them “bargain-basement cheap,” Dick told Headcount, “and willing to work for lower wages and fewer benefits.” The result? Dick had reduced payroll costs at Robards by 22 percent, and he was planning to open a new “cell block” within the next ten months, thanks to a fresh round of layoffs targeting employees with clean records. “We’ve found that offshoring is problematic,” Dick told Headcount. “The labor supply can be unreliable, because other companies can—and will—hire away your headcount with better salaries and benefits. Outsourcing is no different. But with consourcing, there is no competition for my labor. And that allows us to really squeeze our human capital for maximum ROI.”

  Mama seemed to enjoy watching me absorb the articles. “You’re a real swell guy, Dickie. Is that why you come here? So no one will recognize you?”

  “You’re right, I do like it that no one will recognize me here. But not for the reasons you think.”

  “You don’t want anyone to recognize you and pour a hot coffee over your head.”

  “It’s a childhood-memory thing,” I snapped. “I don’t like people staring and pointing, like I’m some community charity case. I’m done with that shit.”