Flirtasaurus

by Erin Mallon

  Burly man stands and finally opens his burly mouth to speak.

  “Bruce, hi.”

  Nope. Definitely not Alf. Could this possibly be this guy’s real voice?

  “Am I… in the right room?”

  “Depends.”

  “On?”

  “Which rooooooom are you looking for?”

  Is it me, or is this guy being super smarmy? Don’t worry. I’m well acquainted with smarm. Best way to counteract smarm is with prim professionalism.

  “Orientation for The Trix and Monty Project.”

  “This here be that room then. The others should be here shortly. Unfortunately.”

  Oh no, he didn’t. This punk just looked me up and down!

  “Bruce, was it?”

  “I don’t know. Was it?”

  “Speak to me in that suggestive tone one more time or dare to drift your eyes lower than my nose, and I’ll report you to your superior.”

  “Oh no, you’ve got it all wrong.”

  “Do I?”

  “Totally. I was trying something new when it comes to making friends.”

  “Yeah, whatever that was, it doesn’t work.”

  “Damn. Remember the bookstore scene in The 40-Year-Old Virgin where Seth Rogen tells Steve Carrell he should—”

  “Yeah, I’m going to stop you right there. Don’t take advice on women from a Judd Apatow movie.”

  “No?”

  “No. Though I think we can all agree that movie is the friggin’ bomb. I’m Calliope, hi. Nice to meet you. “

  “Cuh-LIE-oh-pee?” He sounds my name out like we’re in a phonics class, and I have déjà vu to every other frustrating time I’ve introduced myself to someone over the course of my relatively short life.

  “Yes. Calliope.”

  “How do you spell that?”

  Patience please.

  “C-A-L-L-I-O-P-E.”

  “Oh wow, I’ve always thought that name was pronounced…”

  Here it comes…

  “Cally-ope.”

  Yeah, this never gets old.

  “You’re not alone, Bruce. But it’s not Cally-ope, so I’d appreciate you not calling me that. Consider it this way, people whose names are spelled P-E-N-E-L-O-P-E… do we call them Penny-lope?”

  “Well, yeah! Don’t we?”

  “No.”

  “Wait a damn second. Are you telling me it’s pronounced Puh-NELL-oh-pee?”

  “That’s what I’m telling you, yes.”

  “My mind? Consider it blown!” He proceeds to make all sorts of explosion gestures emanating from his skull.

  “I can tell this is a shocker for you, yeah.” Time to shift gears with this dude. “So. What are you doing on the—”

  “Yo, check this out. I had these Sesame Street encyclopedias when I was a kid? And in the book for the letter P, there was this little story called ‘The Perils of Penny-lope.’ Well, I guess ‘The Perils of Puh-NELL-oh-pee.’ I fuckin’ loved it. Bert dressed like a girl named Penny-lope. Damn… Puh-NELL-oh-pee—wow, it’s gonna take me a minute to adjust to that—anyway, Puh-NELL-oh-pee slash Bert is always getting into these situations where Ernie needs to save her. Trapped in a high tower, tumbling over a rocky cliff, tied to some railroad tracks while a train steadily approaches. It was awesome!”

  “Awesome,” I say with almost zero enthusiasm. “So, Bruce...”

  “Yes, Cuh-LIE-oh-pee! And in case you were wondering, you got my name right. It is pronounced Bruce.”

  “Um. How else would you pronounce Bruce?”

  “I dunno. But if I was trying to be difficult like you, I might ask to be called, gosh, Brussy maybe? Broo-chay?”

  “How the hell am I being difficult? I am simply asking you to pronounce my name the way it’s—”

  I cut myself off and take a breath. I’ve learned very quickly during my brief time in the science world—where I am way too often one of the only people of my gender in the room—that misogynistic annoyances abound and not every instance of insanity requires that I fly off the handle or preach the merits of gender equality. Sometimes, you just gotta pause and breathe until the stupid stops.

  Ahhh, see? A little more oxygen and I feel a bit better already.

  “So! Bruce! What are you doing for this project?”

  “I’m the brawn.”

  “Huh?”

  “The muscle?”

  “I have no idea what you’re—”

  “I’m the main builder for the exhibit.”

  “Oh, great.”

  “Yeah, I’m a proud member of the International Alliance of Theatrical Stage Employees, aka IATSE.”

  “Wonderful.”

  “How ’bout you? I’m guessing you’re catering?”

  “Catering?! Why the hell would you think I’m with catering?”

  “I dunno. Because you’re so young and cute and innocent? Assumed you were pouring our coffee or circulating the strudel.”

  “Call me cute and innocent one more time and I will end you.”

  I don’t even recognize the sound of my voice right now it’s so incensed.

  “Whoa! Easy!”

  I launch into him like a verbal velociraptor on a harebrained herbivore—no offense to herbivores.

  “A person can have freckles on her face and elasticity to her cheeks and still have a functioning brain in her skull. Crazy, huh? And get this! A person can be young and female and not automatically bow down to serve your needs as a man, coffee-related or otherwise. Whaaaat? That’s insane. Oh, and just so we’re clear, there is absolutely nothing wrong with catering. God bless the caterers and waiters and baristas of the world. I’ve been there, and I salute you! I have just worked extremely hard to get on the path I am now on, and I am incredibly proud to be here in this capacity. You are looking at the newly crowned education intern at The Museum of Natural Sciences in Philadelphia. I came here to slay, and I am not letting anyone get in my way. Also! You mentioned strudel! Where the fuck is the strudel?!”

  “Plenty of strudel to the left of the fruit salad Miss FitzGerald,” a rich female voice vibrates from the doorway. I whip my head in its direction, and I. Am. Shook.

  Dr. Eileen Knowles, the entire reason I wanted this position in the first place, stands perfectly still. She’s flanked on both sides by two men who must be the other scientists on our team, and her eyes are trained on me. Dr. Eileen Knowles, one of the only female paleontologists getting any level of respect today, the current head of paleontological studies at this here museum, and the lead excavator on an absolutely thrilling dig in North Dakota this summer that I desperately want to be invited to assist. Dr. Eileen Knowles… my new boss who is currently looking at me like I am a microorganism swirling in a petri dish.

  “Dr. Knowles! Good morning!”

  “Good morning, Miss FitzGerald. Enjoying your time with us so far?”

  “Wonderful, yes,” I squeak.

  “Your resume and recommendation touted you as a consummate team player.”

  “True. Yes. I love being a part of a team!”

  “Fantastic. So why don’t you and your crown…. slay your way over to the strudel, then join us at the table where we’ll begin our work together. Preferably without shouting profanities at your team members this time.”

  Dr. Knowles smiles like a prehistoric primate about to pounce, perfect white teeth bared, but eyes set like lasers.

  “That sounds… yes. That sounds great, thank you.”

  I swipe a strudel and slam my ass into a seat.

  So much for first impressions.

  Chapter Three

  Later that afternoon, I find myself lounging in a massive wooden tub filled with warm beer while holding a cold mug of beer in my hands and cheers-ing my friend Sasha. Yup, you heard all that correctly. I,
a fully grown professional woman, am reclining in a tub of Budweiser. Well, actually, by the increasing smell of my skin, I’m guessing it’s gotta be something way hoppier than Bud. Spa treatments these days are hella weird.

  “Cheers to your first day on the job, button. I’m so proud of you,” Sasha says with a wink from her own bubbling tub of beer.

  “What the hell, Sash?”

  “What? Hop in the Barrel is the place to go to unwind and relax after a hard day.”

  “Yeah, I feel so relaxed,” I say with no small amount of sarcasm. “Whatever happened to a good old-fashioned mani-pedi situation?”

  “Oh, don’t give me that.”

  “Give you what?”

  “Don’t act like you would have been perfectly fine with an old-fashioned mani-pedi situation. The last time I took you for champagne and a pedicure, you threatened to call PETA and get the place shut down.”

  “You mean Bubbles and Nibbles at 12th and Walnut? Yeah, there was nothing old-fashioned about Bubbles and Nibbles on 12th and Walnut. They were forcing non-consenting Garra rufa fish to eat the dead skin off our feet while we sipped prosecco. It was inhumane, humiliating for me and for the poor fish, and frankly not at all relaxing. Tickled my toes like crazy.”

  “Alright, but how did your feet feel afterward?”

  “Fucking incredible.”

  “See?”

  “But my animal-loving soul died a small death that day. Not worth it. They did eventually get shut down, didn’t they?”

  “I believe so, yeah. Last I checked, the corner of 12th and Walnut was now a Chipotle.”

  “Mmmmm. Chipotle.”

  “Bleh. If you value your digestive tract, you’ll stay far away from that establishment.”

  “I don’t have a tender little tummy like you, lady. I could down a fleet of gas station hot dogs followed up by a side of Sour Patch Kids, then finish things off with a bag of barbecue pork rinds and not even flinch.”

  “Your pride blooms around the most bizarre things.”

  “What’s bizarre are these ridiculous spa treatments popping up these days. Drives me batty how so many of them arbitrarily pair activities just to be kitschy and fun.”

  “Like what?”

  I search my brain for examples. “Like… Pedi and Spaghetti.”

  “Italian food and pedicures?”

  “Subs and Rubs.”

  “Hoagies and Massages?”

  “Scoops and Poops!”

  “Ice cream and colonics!? Where are these brilliant places, and why have I never heard of them?”

  “Because they don’t exist, dummy! I’m making them up as we speak.”

  “You’re gifted in so many ways, friend. Truly.”

  “Thanks. But the ones that really get my goat are the ones that count on animal labor to relax and beautify us. I mean what the hell is going on there? Bird poop facials? Bull sperm hair conditioning? Snake massage?”

  “Eh. The bull sperm hair conditioning isn’t all it’s cracked up to be. I’ve gotten better results with Pert Plus. But I’m sure the bull wasn’t complaining about his part of the labor, so no worries there. Wink, wink, nod, nod.”

  “Gross, Sasha. Just gross.”

  “I like to try new things! And we, as women, deserve to be pampered once in a while. Especially when we do incredible things like land a killer job, in an extremely competitive male-dominated field, at a highly respected establishment like The Museum of Natural Sciences. Even if your first day didn’t go quite as planned. Now tell me exactly what the hell you’re doing there? I want to wrap my head around your brilliance.”

  My heart rate picks up instantly with the opportunity to talk about what I love most.

  “Well, it's this mind-blowing new exhibit we’re putting together called the ‘Trix and Monty Project.’ Get this. The museum acquired two amazing skeletons: a Tyrannosaurus—aka Trix—and an Edmontosaurus—aka Monty. They were excavated in South Dakota last summer, almost fully intact and together. Together!”

  “Is that unusual?”

  “FUCK YES!”

  “Okay! Simmer down, baby girl! What do I know?!”

  “It’s highly unusual! I mean, why in the world were a carnivorous, fierce-as-hell, solitary tyrannosaur and an herbivorous, duck-billed, migratory hadrosaur together, as in just the two of them, at the time of their deaths?”

  “I dunno. You tell me! Were they fighting? Fucking?”

  “Um, no. Tyrannosaurs and hadrosaurs didn’t fuck. That would be like… an alligator screwing an antelope, a wolf humping a squirrel, a lion boinking a chicken.”

  “Holy judgment! Hashtag love is love, Calliope.”

  “Anyway… there will be a big unveiling at the end of the month at the museum’s annual gala. Until then, we’re working our butts off to get the exhibit ready and creating all sorts of educational programming around it.”

  “Killer! I’m so proud of you. Come here, girl. Clink me again.”

  “Thanks, Sash.”

  We clink and drink. I splash around in my beer bath for a moment.

  “My beer bath doesn’t happen to be sponsored by Spencer’s Spirits, does it? Because I think I’d feel a bit weird if I was nearly naked in one of your dad’s concoctions.”

  ”No, girl. Our company is liquor, not beer.”

  “Right, I knew that, sorry. Hey, I didn’t mean to bitch before. I’m psyched to be here. I don’t say it enough, but I love the shit out of you and I appreciate everything you do.“

  “Aw. Ditto, boo.”

  “You’re certainly the best damn thing that came out of my time at Our Lady of Sorrows, I’ll tell you that. Gosh, that’s some terrible marketing right there, isn’t it? How can you name an establishment, religious or otherwise, Our Lady of Sorrows and expect anyone to be happy there?”

  “I guess blasphemous young ladies like us weren’t their target audience.”

  “My poor mother nearly died of shame every time we were sent to the chapel to atone for our sins.”

  “Poor Mama Sue! Could we help it, though, that we had inquisitive minds and craved actual discussion and discovery in theology class?”

  “No. No, we could not. But Mama Sue has never really been up for healthy debate when it comes to her boy J.C., either. Do you remember the day when Sister Marta nunsplained that the entire universe, including humans and dinosaurs, was created a mere six thousand years ago and in the span of a week?”

  “How could I forget?”

  “That was the day I lost all respect.”

  “That was also the day you lost your damn mind and delivered your ‘God Meant for You to Use Your Mind’ Manifesto over the loudspeaker when you were supposed to be making dismissal announcements.”

  “I wrote that beauty during a single study hall that afternoon, and to this day, I still stand by it. The title needed some work, but the contents? Solid.”

  “How is your secret writing project going?”

  “Secret.”

  “Come on, shady. You ever going to tell me what it is?”

  “Uhhhhhhhhhhh…” I sing about an octave too high.

  “Whatever, it’s fine. I’m not going to push you.”

  “Thank you.”

  “You know, I gave up on Sister Marta too, but it was the day she proclaimed that my past life as a sheepherder in Australia was preposterous and an assault on the faith. You know what I have faith in, Marta? My affinity for Aussie accents and my deep love of the bloomin’ onion! You and me, Lopey? We’ve always known what’s up!”

  “Damn straight, we have! And don’t call me Lopey.”

  “Alright, alright.”

  We clink our glasses again and knock back some more brew. Surprisingly, I actually start to feel relaxed in my bubbly barrel. I take a moment to breathe in the scents wafting around me. �
��So what is this hop treatment supposed to do to me?”

  “Beer baths are hardly a new concept. They date all the way back to ancient Egypt and China. They’re huge right now in Prague and Iceland. Portland too. You know how Portland can be. Oregon, not Maine, of course.”

  “Of course.”

  “I’m psyched Philly seems to be upping its bouge cred lately.”

  “Bouge cred?”

  “Hell, yeah! Don’t fear the bouge, Calliope.”

  “What? I don’t fear the bouge.”

  “You totally fear the bouge. You know why?”

  “No. Why?”

  “Oh, I’m gonna tell you.”

  “You always do.”

  “So much of the bouge involves treating yourself to sweet and unnecessary indulgences. You resist those sorts of things because you think they’re girly. And you equate being girly with being weak.”

  “Thanks for that analysis, doctor.”

  “You’re very welcome.”

  I sniff my arm.

  “Do you imagine we’re going to smell like a frat party for the foreseeable future?”

  “I expect so, yes. And to answer your earlier question: ‘Beer baths are known to normalize blood pressure, heighten the immune system, regulate sweat production, improve digestion, hydrate the skin, shine your hair, reduce visible cellulite and generally remove harmful toxins from your body.’”

  I’m staring at my friend, who is suddenly speaking like a human Wikipedia page.

  “What?” she says. “I had time to study the brochure while I was waiting for you. You’re the only person I know who would find a way to work overtime on day one of orientation.”

  “Yeah, sorry about that. I was trying to salvage my already besmirched reputation.”

  “Besmirched. Good one.”

  “Thanks.”

  “So? What the hell happened? I’m dying for the deets.”