Forget About It

by Caprice Crane

  And as soon as I’d finished, there was Lydia, feigning a smile.

  “Hi. I’m Lydia. I came to visit you in the hospital. Remember?”

  “Yeah, I do. That was so nice.”

  “Let’s go to your desk,” she said carefully . . . slowly. It seemed she was back to the slow talking. And she led the way. As I followed, I looked back at the receptionist and smiled a thank-you.

  “This is where you sit,” Lydia said. “We call it the pit. And not because it’s the ‘pits.’” Great humor there, Lydia. “Your desk is that one—the one with the Hasselhoff poster. You’re a huge Baywatch fan.”

  “I remember the desk. But, Baywatch . . . I am?”

  “Sure,” she said.

  “Is that show even still on?”

  “I don’t know,” she said.

  “Is there any chance that I was poking fun at the whole thing?” I asked.

  “I don’t know,” she said irritably. She was done talking about my love of a show that I’d actually never seen one episode of in my entire life. “My office is right in there. We’re working on a campaign for VibraLens. The specs are on your desk so you can get acquainted with them.”

  “Great. I’ll take a look at them,” I said. And I looked around my desk. Nothing had changed really. I don’t know if I expected it to, but everything was the same.

  “Do that. We’ll meet later this afternoon to talk about our big pitch Friday with the marketing VP of VibraLens.”

  “Okay,” I said.

  “Okay,” she said.

  “Okay,” I said.

  “Okay,” she said again, her brow furrowing.

  “Okay,” I said again, noticing that she wanted to be the last one to say the last thing. I was finding it f’n hilarious not letting her do it.

  “Okay!” she said, this time with a look on her face like a young child rejecting Brussels sprouts.

  “Okay,” I said again, trying my hardest not to grin the Cheshire cat grin that was welling up inside. Enjoying our last-word face-off much more than I should have been.

  “Are you having an episode?” she said with venom. Now I was grinning. And this pissed her off even more. She turned and started to walk into her office.

  “So I’ll just look at those files then,” I said. And she slammed the door behind her.

  Todd saw me jump online and instant messaged me.

  URAWANKER: Jordy!!

  Jordalicious: Hey, babe! I’m at work. So far, so good . . .

  URAWANKER: Somebody left bagels with TOFU cream cheese in the conference room—disgusting. Way to ruin a perfectly good bagel.

  Jordalicious: Tell me about it. Sorry.

  URAWANKER: It is what it is. Nauseating.

  Jordalicious: Lydia just told me that I love Baywatch. Who knew?

  URAWANKER: Irony isn’t her strong suit, I take it?

  Jordalicious: Backstabbing is. Gotta go.

  URAWANKER: See you later?

  Jordalicious: Yeah. Call me after work. xo

  Just then Art, the mail guy, walked past me. He put up his hand to high-five, and I almost did it, catching myself mid-arm-raise and running my fingers through my hair instead. Then I looked off distractedly. I didn’t know if he knew about the accident, and I felt bad. We didn’t have a verbal relationship, so he just walked away instead of explaining our unspoken inside greeting.

  Once again, Lydia’s ideas for VibraLens were totally uninspired. I started jotting my own ideas down, keeping the whole thing very secret this time. I’d promised myself that I’d take better care of my property, now that I’d forgotten how not to.

  * * * * *

  I was this close to making it into my apartment when I heard the booming voice of Tiger Schulmann’s Manhood bellowing through the hallway.

  “Jordan!” he exclaimed, startling me into dropping my keys onto my teddy bear–themed welcome doormat. I reluctantly turned to face him.

  “Oh, hi,” I said, with as much enthusiasm as a girl greeting her most recent ex in a chance meeting on the street when she has no makeup on.

  “Sorry about that. Didn’t mean to startle you. But you should always be aware of your surroundings.”

  “True indeed,” I said.

  “Speaking of . . . how about that self-defense lesson?”

  “Yeah . . . how about it?”

  “How about now?” he said, not understanding that when I said How about it? I really meant, Oh, you mean the lesson that I never said I’d take in the first place?

  “Now?” I hesitated.

  “C’mon in,” he said, and waved me over.

  This was just the kind of bullshit that I’d expect from a creep like him. Taking advantage of some poor girl who’s lost her memory. And he was going to pay for it.

  “Great!” I said, and followed him into his apartment.

  Even though he’d lived there as long as I had—longer even—there were boxes everywhere and it was sparsely decorated. He had a lot of karate paraphernalia and some kind of tarp covering most of one of his walls. There was a very small TV and a couch but no bed. I decided not to ponder where or if he slept.

  “You can set your things down here,” he said, and motioned to the top of a large Staples box as if it were a table. I put down my things and took off my jacket. “Now the first rule of self-defense is awareness. Always be aware of your surroundings and never allow yourself to be caught off guard. You want to always remove yourself from a dangerous situation if possible.”

  Like now? I thought, but what I said was, “Sounds reasonable.”

  “Now the only wrong move is no move at all,” he said as he sidled up behind me and moved in close. Too close. “So if someone came at you from behind . . .”

  He was coming at me from behind, all right, but not in a way I’d expect an attacker to touch me. He placed one hand on my right shoulder and the other gently on my stomach. I’d always wondered what that penis would feel like. And my knee was about to find out.

  I turned around to face him and, in one swift motion, braced him at his shoulders and hurled my knee into his big fat crotch.

  “Unghhhhhhhh!” he roared as he doubled over.

  “Oh, I’m sorry!” I exclaimed, like I had no idea what had just come over me. “Knee-jerk reaction, I guess.” Hello, Jerk. Meet my knee. He opened his mouth to say something, but nothing came out. I grabbed my things and walked toward the door. “Oh, I should go. I’m so, so sorry about that!” I said almost merrily as I dashed out of his place and into my own.

  Sneevil was singing some kind of aria, which I heard from at least three doors away before I got inside. I walked in and frowned at him.

  “Sneevil, I hope you haven’t been doing that all day,” I gently admonished. He cocked his head to the side and continued to sing. I knew it was a problem—and not just because there was another note taped to my door.

  “What’s it going to take?” I asked him. “How ’bout I sing in your face for a few hours. See how that grabs you?”

  And I did. I tried everything: talking to him, singing to him, playing loud music, covering his cage . . . nothing worked. Although when I started Kansas’s “Carry On My Wayward Son” I could have sworn I saw him wince.

  I was going to go from that to “Dust in the Wind,” but my phone rang.

  “Recognize my voice?” It was Dirk.

  “No, I’m sorry. Should I?”

  “It’s Dirk. Your—”

  “My boyfriend, right?” I said, finishing his sentence.

  “Exactly,” he said. “What are you doing?”

  “I just came in from my first day back at work.”

  “How was it?”

  “It was okay, I guess.”

  “You want to get together?” he asked tentatively. I didn’t really, but I was so furious with him for cheating on me that I wanted to fuck with him.

  “Sure,” I said. “Why not?”

  It would be my first “date” with Dirk since the accident. I pretended I was unsure
of my surroundings so he’d be forced to pick me up instead of meeting me somewhere. I couldn’t even remember the last time he’d come to pick me up before a date. Then again, I couldn’t remember the last actual date we’d had.

  True to form, Dirk picked me up and brought me straight back to his apartment. The place was all too familiar, but I was trying to look at it with fresh eyes. As far as he knew I was seeing it again for the first time, so I tried to actually do that—really look at my surroundings and all that was Dirk’s place. He opened the door, ushered me in, and opened his arms gesturing to the “opulence” that was his apartment.

  “This is the love palace.”

  “Wow,” I said as I looked around at all the empty beer cans. This was not a love palace—it was a dorm room. I looked at the familiar Farrah Fawcett poster and, of course, as I had been trained to do, I noticed her nipple. I tried not to, but once you’ve had someone repeatedly point something out to you, it’s where your eyes go by rote.

  “You’re lookin’ at the nipple, aren’t you?” he said, nodding proudly. What had I been thinking all that time? I was dating a simian. How did I let myself get away with it? He watched me, looking around, taking it all in. “Remembering anything?”

  “No, can’t say that I am.”

  “Remember this?” he said as he leaned in and started tonguing my ear. No warning. No warm-up. Not even a kiss or a touch. Just all of a sudden Dirk’s tongue was thrashing around in my ear. It was revolting. I jerked away from him and his tongue, and looked around desperately for a Kleenex, which was obviously not going to materialize.

  “What is that? What was that?” I practically shrieked.

  “You loved it—used to at least. It was the patented Michael Dirkston Ear Extravaganza.”

  “You don’t say.”

  “Nice, huh?” he said, nodding again. Pleased with himself. Someone had to do something. This man had to be stopped. All men had to be stopped. I was going to clear up this misconception right here, right now. I steeled myself.

  “You know what? I know that guys probably do like that, the whole tongue-in-the-ear-thing, but I think I can speak for the entire female sex when I say that a tongue in the ear is not as erotic as you may think it is.”

  “You never said anything before. You liked it.”

  “I don’t remember before, but I’ll bet there’s a good chance that I was just being polite.” I was always polite before. But, dammit, enough was enough. Why should I tolerate beef tongue in my ear? I think I was actually nice about it, considering. I could have spoken volumes on the matter. I could have attacked his sexual prowess in general—which, I assure you, was lacking. Suffice it to say that Michael Dirkston thought that the clitoris was an ancient temple in Greece and mutual orgasm was a life insurance company.

  Dirk was definitely thrown by the ear trick’s not working. He looked down and twisted his mouth for a second, pulling at a loose thread from the rip in his jeans. I felt bad. I knew he meant well. No I didn’t. I channeled the image of this “sweet boy” zeroing in on Hot Blonde at our restaurant, and I remembered Dirk was concerned with only one thing: Dirk.

  As if reading my mind, he got up and walked over to the kitchen. Then he held up a box of De Cecco pasta.

  “So should we make dinner?” he asked. “I have all the stuff to make that pasta primavera that you like.”

  “Okay,” I said, knowing full well what the natural progression of this would be. I decided to head him off at the pass. “Go ahead.”

  “No,” he said. “I meant you. You’re the one who usually cooks.”

  “Really? I’m a good cook? Cool. But . . .” And here’s where I put on my own little-girl pout and looked up at him with apologetic eyes. “I don’t remember how to cook anything. Sorry.”

  “Oh.”

  “Why don’t we just order takeout?” I offered. “Or better yet, maybe you should take me somewhere fancy for dinner. You used to do that, right?” It was getting fun again. Dirk looked frustrated. He rolled his eyes. Right in front of me. I’m supposed to have amnesia. I’m not blind, moron.

  “Yeah. Right,” said a very annoyed Dirk. “I took you out all the time. Really nice places.”

  “Great. Then let’s go to one tonight.” I could tell he wasn’t the least bit interested in wooing me again.

  “I don’t know. I’m kinda tired.” Thought so.

  “Well, maybe you want to make that pasta then?”

  “Nah, never mind,” he said. “I’m not that hungry.”

  “You were a second ago.”

  “Well, I’m not now.”

  “Well, I am. So maybe you can make some for me, then.” He was getting totally annoyed.

  “Forget the pasta. Let’s just order in.”

  “Great,” I cheerily said as he rolled his eyes again and pulled out a stack of menus.

  16.

  reinvent your job

  I woke up with one of those optimistic feelings that I guess normal people wake up with every day, but I just wasn’t accustomed to it. It was so nice that I lay in bed for an extra ten minutes. Just because. And if I was ten minutes late for work? So be it.

  When I got in, there were three yellow Post-its on my desk. All of them said, “Call me.” All of them were from Lydia. This gave me pause. Three? I tried to re-create in my head what had gone on: She walks out of her office and down to the pit and sees that the person she wants to talk to—me—isn’t at her desk. So she leaves me a note asking me to call her. What I can only imagine is two minutes later, she walks out again just to check if I am there yet. No, I’m not. But, what the hell, she’s already standing, so why not leave another note saying the exact same thing. Then perhaps three more minutes pass—Christ, an egg could be cooked in that time. So up she goes to see if I have arrived yet. Again, I am still absent, so she decides that it would be an excellent idea to leave yet another note. Saying the very exact thing once again. Lydia gets paid a lot of money. This astounds me.

  Then the phone intercom buzzed loudly.

  “Are you in yet?” she hissed.

  “Yes, I’m here.” I looked at the clock. It was 9:07. I was only seven minutes late. All this dramatic note leaving took place within seven minutes. Lydia truly was a hideous beast.

  “Why didn’t you call me?”

  “I just got here and I was reading all your notes,” I said. “I didn’t want to miss any. Were there more than three? I only saw three.”

  “No. That’s all there were. Can you come in here, please?” All this was unnecessary by the way. One: Her office was two feet from my desk. Two: I could hear her equally well with or without the phone pressed to my ear. And three: She already had me on the phone, so why couldn’t she just say what she wanted to say?

  I got up and walked the two steps into her office. Her lips were pursed into such a tiny, wrinkled mold of bitter, I almost laughed at the sight of her.

  “Hi. Good morning,” I said.

  She looked at her watch and then at me. “Gandhi said that lateness was an act of terrorism.”

  “Pardon?”

  “You’re late,” she said. “It’s terroristic.” I wanted to burst out laughing but didn’t. Again I was amazed, wondering how I managed not to react to that crap before.

  “Are you sure that’s what he said?” And are you sure that terroristic is a word? “I mean, I apologize for being late,” I said, “but that’s a little extreme, no?”

  “Yes, I’m sure,” she said as she googled Gandhi and then almost violently turned her computer screen to face me, reading aloud, “Punctuality is nonviolence. Tardiness is a theft of another’s good time and therefore does violence.’”

  I stood there and looked at her for a moment, not really sure how to respond to the sudden storm of fury. “Well, I’m very sorry. In the future I’ll make it very clear when I’m doing violence.”

  “Fine,” she said, brushing it off. “So I assume you went over everything?” Lydia raised her eyebrows. I raised mine ba
ck.

  “Yup. Sure did.”

  “Good.” She sighed. “I’m having a hell of a time with this one. The inspiration just isn’t coming . . . ” She looked up quickly with a pained smile. “Funny. You used to like knowing what was going on with the creative. Do you remember trying your hand at it?” she asked, almost admitting that I used to do her job for her but not actually saying it. What she was doing was trying to butter me up. A compliment before she asked me to do her job for her once again. “It’s for VibraLens. I’m not sure about what I have, but maybe you can make them better.”

  “Sure,” I said. “Lay ’em on me.”

  “Okay. What I have is ‘VibraLens . . . The Eyes Have It.’” She looked at me to gauge my response.

  “Very . . . clear,” I said.

  “Okay,” she continued with mild annoyance, “and then I have ‘Vibra-Lens. Eyes Are the Prize.’ Which I don’t know if that’s the kind of thing you’re having trouble remembering right now, but it’s a take on ‘Keep your eyes on the prize,’ which is a pretty universally known phrase.”

  Yes. It was universally known. One of Martin Luther King’s more famous phrases and totally inappropriate for a colored contact lens campaign. She sure was bringing the great spiritual leaders to the party today . . . Gandhi . . . MLK . . . I half suspected after lunch we’d be pitching birdseed with St. Francis of Assisi and a new brand of water skis with Jesus.

  “Hmm,” I said. And then there was a long pause. Normally, this is when I would have chimed in with all my ideas. Correcting hers but without seeming to. Making her shine. (“Ha,” I’d laugh. “That’s so great! It made me think of something else that I’m not sure if it’s worth anything but I’ll throw it out anyway . . .” I’d been the exact opposite of passive-aggressive. Was there a name for the act of manipulation in which you’re trying to help someone but need to make yourself look like a bumbling idiot in the process so they don’t feel guilty about taking advantage of you? I’d have to find the word so I could make a plaque declaring myself former world champion.) She was used to that kind of behavior from me. She was waiting for it. She leaned forward even. Cocked one eyebrow hopefully. Yeah, I had a couple of ideas. And if she thought I was handing them to her, then she was absolutely nuts. Those days were over, baby. But I waited an extra minute, just so it looked like I was percolating. And just when she was really chomping at the bit, I spoke up. “Those sound good to me! But I don’t know what kind of a judge I am.”