Flush

by Sky Curtis

  “Yes, Shirley. I understand,” I said quickly. Please God, let this be over now.

  Doug turned on his heel and purposefully strode back into his office. Shirley waited a minute and then followed him, tossing over her shoulder, “It’s a great article Robin. Well done. Should be on the web by tomorrow.”

  Wednesday. Great. The day before my date with Todd. Maybe I should just cancel the damn thing. I watched Shirley’s bum wriggle down the aisle as she negotiated the desks before reaching the open door of Doug’s office. Such a girlie girl. When the door shut and the blinds were louvered down, I dragged my fingers back to typing about snapdragons. Part of my mind was occupied with what Shirley had said. As I inserted the compelling information that snapdragons come in fifty-six different shades of pastel, I didn’t know whether I should laugh or cry.

  I looked over at Cindy. She was unbelievably upset. Was my hardy friend actually crying? Well, no wonder. I guess the events of the morning were beginning to sink in. She’d almost lost her job. And truth be told, she should have. You simply didn’t plagiarize. Not at the Express.

  What a damn close call.

  I tried to catch Cindy’s eye by clicking my tongue and clearing my throat but it was no use. She was determinedly focused on the computer screen, minding her own business. So I sent her a text: Shirley and Doug are in his office. Your job is safe. Shirley knows you’re honest. That it was me using you. No worries. I pressed send and then heard Cindy’s phone chime.

  Cindy reached into her bag and read the message. She smiled briefly and although she didn’t look at me, I could tell the message had hit its mark. Her shoulders dropped down from being around her ears and she twisted her head this way and that, releasing the tension.

  Doug’s door opened and Shirley sailed back into the newsroom, adjusting her scarf so that it billowed over her erect nipples. As she glided past Cindy’s desk she held up her hand in a stop-like gesture, as if she were directing traffic. She said, “Don’t do that ever again.” Cindy didn’t look up to meet her eyes but nodded once. With these parting words Shirley then floated into her own office, leaving a tail of smoky estrogen behind her.

  When her office door shut Cindy finally looked up from her computer. She smiled at me and mouthed, “Thanks.”

  I gestured with my head towards the exit and got up. Time to get out of here. Two discrete minutes later Cindy followed me. We met at the elevator door and both of us let out pent up breaths. Cindy repeatedly stabbed the down button.

  The elevator doors swooshed open and as soon as they shut I pouted, “The stupid date is on Thursday. Two days. The article will be in print by then. Tomorrow on the web.” I pushed the button for the cafeteria floor.

  The doors slid shut and it felt as if the elevator floor was falling beneath our feet as it abruptly descended.

  My stomach lurched with the elevator, “I hate going down.”

  Cindy laughed, “Not much risk of that on Thursday.”

  My stalwart friend had completely recovered.

  8.

  EARLY WEDNESDAY MORNING MY ARTICLE, now titled “Everwave Never Wave,” was bumped a few hours by the sports reporter, Derrick Johnston’s breaking news piece about a shocking bus accident that had happened late Tuesday night involving an entire baseball team. Kids from Newmarket. Everyone lived and there were no major injuries, but buses were yet again slammed for not having seatbelts. Statistics were cited and fingers were pointed. Then on Wednesday, around noon, the Everwave article was further sidelined by Avril Deepa’s risky exposé that some chemotherapy drugs actually caused cancer. Well, duh. And right before midnight on Wednesday and stretching into the early hours of Thursday, a lion escaped from the zoo and terrorized the northeast corner of Toronto for five hours until it was stun-gunned by a marksman on the SWAT squad. All this bad news was good news for me. The Thursday paper, the D-Day paper, D for Date, would be safe—no article until Friday.

  So, oh lucky me, I was free and clear for meeting Todd. No awkward explanations needed, no hemming and hawing. Well, at least about my article. Cindy and I were joking about my close call in the fifth floor washroom of the Toronto Express building as we checked our makeup in front of the mirror Thursday morning.

  “You got lucky,” laughed Cindy, giving me a hug and a placing her hand low on the curve of my right bum cheek.

  “Not lucky with you, Hornella.” I laughed back, removing Cindy’s palm off my bum with two fingers. That woman just didn’t give up. “Listen, I gotta dash.”

  “Knock him dead, I mean it! The guy’s a jerk-off.”

  “That’s bad karma, Cindy, tut tut,” I chastised her with my forefinger. “I’m going to have a fabulous time. He’s pretty great to look at.” I was trying to convince myself.

  Cindy rolled her eyes. I raised my palms upwards as if I were helpless. We both knew the date was a waste of time.

  At five sharp I rushed home from work, then fed and lugged Lucky around the block, tugging at his leash when he stopped to pee on bushes. I wolfed down a measly salad for dinner hoping to lose fifty pounds in twenty minutes and then had a shower, fluffing up my hair afterwards with my hairdryer. I tried not to look in the mirror at those tell-tale lines around my lips as I put on my eye makeup.

  It had been decades since I had been on a date and it was all flooding back to me: the butterflies in the stomach; the trepidation; the self-doubt; the bad hair. Plus, I already knew I didn’t like him. So why was I going? I decided it showed how much I wanted a new partner. Besides, it was good practice. I watched myself in the mirror as I puckered my lips in a trial smooch and then ran from the bathroom in horror. I needed Botox now.

  I sat on the edge of my bed and had a skirmish with my nylons. I hauled the one-size-fits-all over my lumpy thighs, stood up and then yanked the panty hose up to my waist. The lip of cellulite hanging over the top was not a pretty sight and I tried to tuck it under the waistband. It had a mind of its own, however, scoffing me by bouncing back. At first I thought it was funny, but after three tries of manhandling the disobedient flesh I gave up and flipped through the hangers in my closet, finally picking a long flowing jacket that would cover up this unfortunate situation. I threw on what I’d hoped was a flattering black skirt and raced downstairs. I had taken too long.

  I felt like throwing up.

  I glanced quickly at my watch. Seven-thirty. Half an hour to get from my house in Cabbagetown to Bloor and Avenue Road. Easy peasy. I knocked back a full glass of wine in three big gulps and savoured the warm glow drizzling through my veins. I would be fine! I would be hilarious! I would be attractive!

  I would smell like a wino.

  While stuffing some gum in my mouth I opened the door. I would be late if I didn’t get my skates on.

  I arrived at the Starbucks five minutes early after madly dodging through downtown traffic and parking my rattletrap in an actual garage on Yorkville. I pulled open the huge glass door of the coffee shop and searched the throng. Was he here? No. Good. I spied two empty chairs far in the back and battled my way through the crowd, smacking aside patrons with my purse and dodging ahead of a lost Queen Street type sporting tattoos and a lip ring. He or she was heading towards the same two chairs. It was a race.

  Being shorter and able to duck under people, I arrived first, planted my self on a chair, and smiled a victory smile. In response, and like so many of that generation, he/she, hard to tell with the dreadlocks and boots, muttered “Whatever” and sauntered to another table that had come free. I tucked my purse close to the chair on the floor and did my best to look relaxed. First impressions were so important. So then I put my purse on my lap, trying to hide my state of affairs. This made me feel perched on the chair like a little old lady waiting for a train. So then I stuffed it beside me. Everything was too squished. Okay, okay, back on the floor it went.

  I looked through the sea of people and caught the eye of the kid
who I had decided was a thugette, not a thug. I had seen a hint of small breasts under the frayed blue jean jacket. The impudent punk was observing me and writing in her notebook. Great, I thought, the next Margaret Atwood is dissecting me. I winked at her. A fleeting smile pulled up the left corner of her lips and disappeared as rapidly as it had come. We understood each other. Misfits.

  And suddenly there he was, the handsome Todd. His greying hair was parted on the side and he wore rimless glasses. Seagull blue eyes. He was sporting casual Sperry topsiders, Khaki pants, an aquamarine tie, and a pastel blue oxford cloth shirt, cuffs rolled up. A navy blazer was folded over his arm. No socks. Yikes, I thought, I’m having coffee with an advert for Marcus Neiman.

  I glanced over at the journaling kid and got a what-the- fuck questioning look. My kids had given me that look many times, like when they thought I was out of touch with reality. I twitched my right shoulder forward in an imperceptible shrug and flared my nostrils while raising my eyebrows, every so slightly. Whatever. I knew and the kid knew this was a total screwup. But hey.

  Todd’s head was tipped quizzically to one side. It was an exaggerated gesture; he recognized me. “Hi. Haven’t we met somewhere before? You look familiar.” He sat down and draped his jacket over the back of the chair. While scrutinizing me through his glasses, he ran his fingers through his hair, smoothing the flyaway wisps down. He was smiling like a wolf would at a little rabbit.

  My polite gene trampled my he’s-an-asshole thought. I wasn’t going to play this game. “Sure,” I smiled, “I was at your convention, the valve opening ceremony of Everwave.”

  Sounded slightly pornographic to me.

  “That’s right,” he chortled, “The reporter. You were with the lesbo. But you look like a pretty lady.”

  Big mistakes. Lesbo? Lady? Man oh man. “The lesbo is my colleague and good friend. And I am a journalist, not a pretty lady.” I leaned forward aggressively.

  The kid surreptitiously checked out the exchange and took notes. When she looked up, I gave her a small shrug.

  Todd sat back, looking chagrined. “Sorry. I’m kind of out of practice at this dating thing. My wife left me a year ago, for my best friend actually, not to mention with the kids and half the house, and I haven’t been in the game for long.”

  My brain hummed. Didn’t we just meet? For the first time? Isn’t this third date material? Why is he telling me all this? Why did it sound so pat? But what did I know? Poor guy, imagine the betrayal. The losses. But he called it “the game.” What era is this guy from? Cindy would have a fit.

  “That’s okay,” I said. I crossed my legs. It’s only practise I said to myself.

  Not sensing how deep the hole had been dug, Todd continued, “Nice legs.” He smiled at me knowingly and leaned back comfortably in the chair.

  Something inside me contracted.

  “Are you living permanently in Toronto now? I read that you were educated in the States.” And maybe that’s where you got the sexist attitude. Fuck you about the legs. Although I had to admit I did like the compliment, considering what I knew was lurking under the panty hose.

  “I’ve got a condo by the waterfront, King Street West, King and Bathurst.”

  “Oh, I’m over in Riverdale—well, not quite that far—more the central east end. Have you been to Cabbagetown?”

  “Been here for a few years now and have settled in. Sailing at the RCYC. Squash at the Granite Club.”

  His navy blue blazer probably had gold buttons with the Royal Canadian Yacht Club imprint on them. I was supposed to be impressed? I was a socialist. I’d try again. “Pretty close to the Riverdale Farm. Nice place to walk, through the brickworks and all. Do you have a dog? I do. Lucky.”

  “I enjoy the restaurants along College. Have you eaten there? Maybe we could go for dinner early next week.”

  Not bloody likely. “Sure, why not?” Maybe he was anxious. I gave up offering information about myself. He wasn’t interested. “How long have you been at Everwave?”

  “Tuesday, then. About seven? About three years. From its inception. Me and the vice prez. Stick-handled it to the opening of the valves, although I’m going to be at the helm for another few weeks or so.”

  Perhaps he had ADD. “So, did you want a coffee? Tea?”

  Todd jumped up, “How rude of me. I’ll get it. What would you like? And what’s your name, by the way?”

  “Robin, and tea. Mint if they have it, otherwise chamomile. Thanks.”

  I studied him as he stood in line, biting his lip and shifting his weight from one foot to the other. His fingers were fidgeting in his pocket, looking like he had a trapped rat in there. I could hear the rustling all the way back to where I was sitting. What was he playing with? Cellophane? He was anxious. Now that was heart-warming, despite his stupid comments. Maybe I’d give him another try. He was unbelievably handsome, with his muscular shoulders straining against the material of his shirt, and so tall. A thrill uncoiled in the centre of my being. He seemed to like me. Lumps and all. Yeah, I’d see him again. If only for the eye candy. Marry him. Stop it! Get real, Robin. He’s a jerk.

  Done her coffee, the kid at the corner table was collecting up her stuff into an Aztec sort of bag with a braided handle. As she walked past me her boots clicked on the floor with a definite authority. This was the youth speaking, her stride said. She cocked her head at Todd in the lineup, looked at me and gave him a thumbs down. “Dishonest” she hissed as she sidled by. Just the one word and loud enough for only me to hear.

  I wasn’t sure I had heard correctly. There were tons of people milling about, creating a low thrum of noise. Dishonest? How can you read that off a guy in five minutes? Nah, he was nervous. I watched the girl’s dreadlocks swing back and forth across her back, the little beads braided into her hair clattering as she strode out the door.

  Dishonest, huh?

  “Here you go. They had mint.” Todd placed the paper cup of steaming tea in front of me and then sat down. “Do you always drink herbal teas?”

  His curiosity about me was dazzling. First my name, now herbal tea. “No, only after four in the afternoon. Caffeine keeps me up.”

  “Not me,” he smiled as he took a gulp of his foam-covered coffee. “I drink it all day long.” He patted his breast pocket as if looking for something. “Whenever I have a coffee, I want a smoke.”

  “You smoke?” I asked, incredulous. His profile had said he was a non-smoker.

  “Doesn’t everyone?”

  “Well, no. I don’t. Your profile said you were a non-smoker.”

  “Oh, who tells the truth in those things?”

  I do. Sort of. I laughed. So he was dishonest. Well, to be fair, I had written I was a non-drinker. “You planning on quitting?” I was. So that made it honest. Right?

  “Nah, love the things. I chew gum to control the urges.” He dropped his arm and tapped the jacket pocket behind him. I could hear cellophane crinkling. “Always carry it in my pocket. I don’t smoke much, five or ten a day.”

  “Is that a lie?” I asked sharply.

  Todd jerked back his head, “Why? Is it important to you? How much I smoke?”

  No, how much you lie. “I don’t think I could get involved with a smoker. My first husband died and I sure wouldn’t want to go through that again.”

  “Sorry to hear that about your husband. What did he die of? Lung cancer?” He was smiling awkwardly.

  “No. Car accident. Drunk driver.”

  “Murdered, then.” Todd’s blue eyes were sympathetic.

  “You think so?”

  “I know so. My mother was an alcoholic. That’s why I don’t drink.”

  “Your father?”

  “The sweetest man you ever could meet. He was loyal too. Never left her, right up until she died. Cirrhosis. I was just eighteen.”

  Oh God, maybe he’s attracted
to me because he somehow knows I drink too much and you know what they say: men marry their mother.

  “I drink too much.” I blurted. It was a warning. “But I’m stopping.”

  Todd looked at me over his coffee cup. He had a little bit of foam stuck to his upper lip. I watched carefully as he licked it off. “You started after your husband died?”

  I dashed to far safer ground. “My kids are grown now and no one lives at home.” Free and single, that was me.

  “My kids are grown too. But they all live in Toronto.”

  “All? How many do you have?”

  “Just three.”

  So, finally an answer.

  I poked my chest with my thumb. “Four.”

  “Looks like two to me.”

  What was with this guy? “Todd. Enough.”

  He snickered. I relented and gave a half smile back. He said, “So you are mischievous, like you said.”

  Too personal. “What’s your career plan after Everwave?”

  “What? Is this an interview or something? Am I going to be in the paper?” His eyes twinkled behind the polished lenses.

  If only he knew. “Just curious.”

  “Well, my specialty is cooling systems, so I’ll stick with that. A food company. Ice cream, it looks like. Van Horner and I are partners in the venture.”

  His eyes darted around the room. What was that about? Lying about a career path? He was lying about something.

  Abruptly he crumpled up his coffee cup.

  “Listen, Robin, everyone lies on those profiles. You drink. I smoke. Let’s have dinner next Tuesday and take it from there.”

  We stood up together. The first meeting was thankfully over. He held the door open for me and we stood somewhat awkwardly in the cooling night air of August. A kiss? No, a handshake. An undeniable current flowed between us. As we were walking away from each other, I turned around to look. So had he. We both gave a shy wave.