Fifty Shades of Shade - The Fifty Shades of Grey Parady

by E. Jay Lames

“Chastity, you’ll be exhausted.”

  “I’ll be fine. It’s only a cramped hardware store with heavy machinery all around.”

  I’ve worked at Ricklin’s since I started at WSU. It’s the largest independent hardware store in the Portland area, which somehow includes Washington state. I’ve been here for years and I still know nothing about hardware.

  I’m glad I’m there because it’ll keep me from thinking about Sebastian Shade. We’re busy—it’s the start of busy season and local folks are looking for all sorts of crazy, quirky items, such as “tools” and “equipment.” We have such an eccentric customer base.

  Mrs. Ricklin looks glad to see me.

  “I’m glad to see you,” she says.

  “I can do a couple of hours,” I assure her.

  When I get home later, Melissa is wearing headphones and working on her laptop. The foot-and-mouth disease seemed to be gone. She has her teeth into a story (cliché #4) in an intense manner.

  “You’ve got some interesting stuff here,” she tells me, taking off her headphones. “Why didn’t you let him show you around? He obviously likes you likes you.”

  My heart rate came back again. Don’t know where the hell it went. Shouldn’t it always be there?

  “I think I’ll make a decent article out of this. Shame we didn’t have any stills. Good looking son-of-a-shit, isn’t he?”

  “I suppose so,” I say, trying to sound disinterested.

  “Oh, come on. Even you have to get a girl boner from his good looks.”

  Crap cheese! I feel my cheeks heating up again. I try flattering her to get off this topic. “I’m sure he would’ve had a boy version of a girl-boner for you, if you had gone.”

  It didn’t work. “What did you really think of him?”

  “I can understand the fascination.”

  She snorts, a tiny snot bubble popping in her nostril. “You? Fascinated by a man? Hah!”

  “Why did you want to know if he was gay? I was mortified.”

  She slaps her head. “Is that what I wrote? I meant to ask his opinion on the entrepreneurial spirit. Whoops.”

  “Well, it doesn’t matter. I’m just glad I’ll never get to see him again. I’ll-never-get-to-see-him-again.”

  “Why did you say it twice, and slower the second time?” Melissa asks.

  I thought about it. “Y’know…I’m not sure.”

  For the rest of the week I throw myself into studying and doing whatever it is I do at the hardware store. Melissa was busy, too, compiling her last student newspaper as editor.

  I call my mom in Alabama. The one in the South. She starts talking to me about her life or some crap and I get bored. My mother. Always doing life stuff.

  “How are things with you, Chastity?”

  I hesitate. “I’m fine.”

  “Chastity,” she notices, “have you shot a bear recently?”

  “Um…no.”

  “Oh,” my mother pauses, thinking. “Then have you met someone?”

  How does she do that?

  “Mom, it’s nothing.”

  “Chastity, you really need to get laid more.”

  Oh, moms. Later I call my mom’s second husband, my stepdad Rick. I consider Rick more of a non-stepdad dad. In other words, a dad. But he didn’t really say anything back. In fact, he hung up while I was in mid-sentence. Rick always gives me the best advice.

  Friday night came and Melissa and I needed a break. Suddenly, our friend Ramiro showed up at the door with a bottle of champagne.

  “Ramiro, come in.” I give him a completely nonsexual hug.

  Ramiro was the first person I met at WSU. He’s studying engineering. His passion, though, is photographing. Pictures.

  We were kindred spirits. Lost and alone on the first day of school. We were both curled up in the “Lost & Alone” section of the orientation room.

  “Guess what?” he says to me.

  “Who?”

  “No, what?”

  “What?”

  “The Portland Picturegraph Gallery is displaying my work in an exhibit.”

  “That’s amazing!” We hug again. Non-sexually.

  “Let’s celebrate. You’re invited—both of you,” he gestures to Melissa.

  Melissa has asked me about Ramiro, why we haven’t gone anywhere. Ramiro is more like a little brother I never had, but that I’m currently having.

  And I’m sure Ramiro harbors no suppressed romantic feelings for me. Straight guys that are friends with a girl almost never want to become anything more than that. I look at Ramiro. He’s all muscle, perfect body, one of the hottest guys I’ve ever met…but he still doesn’t do it for me.

  Sometimes I think my expectations are too high. So what if I want better than perfect from a guy. Just call me a romantic. Nobody’s met my expectations.

  What’s that? My subconscious is speaking to me again. Until now! What, with Shade? No. Never. My subconscious just won’t let the thought of him go. It’s being kind of a dick. Are you gay, Mr. Shade? I cringe remembering. Chastity, he said. That’s my name. It echoed in my mind.

  Ah, but it was probably nothing.

  Crapburgers! Saturdays at Ricklin’s are busy as crap. Do-it-themselvers wanting to do things themselves. Mr. and Mrs. Ricklin, me, and the two part-timers, Billy and William, are being eaten alive by customers.

  During a break, Mrs. Ricklin asks me to check on some rusty nails left lying around loose on one of the shelves under the register. As I was feeling through them with my bare hands I look up.

  Double crapburgers! It was him. Of all people, it was him. Mr. Shade, in the flesh. Standing before me at Ricklin’s hardware store.

  Heart failure.

  “Mr. Shade,” I mouth, without any sound actually coming out.

  He looked at me with that smile that’s not really there. Like he’s making fun of everyone in his mind. Which isn’t very nice, but he’s hot, so it’s fine.

  “I was in the area,” he says, by way of explanation (also known as ‘explaining’). “I need to stock up on a few random items of little interest. It’s a pleasure to see you again, Miss Stool.”

  I shake my head furiously, like a Looney Tunes character that just got hit on the head with a comically oversized mallet. What is it about this man that charges my blood and speeds up every organ in my body, even the messy ones? The very sight of him standing in front of me is enough to make me explode with various sticky love oils. He’s not just hot and beautiful, he’s sexy and gorgeous. He’s the epitome of male beauty. Even more than William H. Macy. And he’s here, in Ricklin’s. Right now. I finally gather up my basic life functions and speak words out the front of my head.

  “Chastity. My name is Chastity,” I mutter (or murmur, whatever). “How can I help you, Mr. Shade?”

  He smiles. His teeth sparkle. And the sparkle itself whispers a word to me: intriguing. It was a weird moment.

  “To start, I’m looking for the most jagged strangling wire you have.”

  “I don’t think we sell anything like that here.”

  “Okay. I’ll take some cable ties.”

  Cable ties.

  “Sure,” I say, voice quivering. “Follow me.”

  Keep it together, dumbshit.

  “They’re with the electrical cords. Aisle eight.” My voice is prepubescent.

  “After you,” he gestures, with his smoked, cured, and honey-glazed hands.

  With my heart giving my throat Indian burns and purple nurples I head down the aisle. Why is he here? In Portland of all places.

  And then I think, crazily, he’s here to see me. The thought puts me in a headlock and noogies me. No way! Why would this perfect, beautiful beauty of a man come to see me?

  “Are you here on business?” I ask. My voice is glass-splittingly high.

  “I was visiting the farming division in Oregon. Checking on soil solvents.”

  “Being eco-friendly?”

  “Something like that.” His lips smirk at me in a smirky w
ay. My heart is aflutter. Like a centipede.

  “Anything else I can get you?”

  “Masking tape.”

  Masking tape.

  “Yes, masking tape,” I repeat to my subconscious. “Why do you need masking tape?” I turn and ask him. “Redecorating?”

  “No, not exactly.” He’s laughing at me on the inside. I can feel it. Mostly because he’s laughing at me on the outside too.

  “Well, right this way. It’s in the decorating-slash-suspicious activities aisle.”

  As I bend down and grab the masking tape we stock, I can’t shake how awkward and nervous I feel.

  “Have you worked here long?” he asks.

  “Oh, well it’s six ninety-nine per roll,” I say, holding out the tape.

  “No, I asked if you’ve worked here long.”

  “I agree. It’s gotten much colder out.” I hope he doesn’t notice how nervous I am. Our fingers brush as I hand him the masking tape. The electricity is sent through my body down between…well, whatever it is I have down between my legs.

  “Anything else you need?”

  “Five yards of natural filament rope.”

  “It’s right here, in the same suspicious activities aisle,” I casually point out. I take out a knife and cut exactly the amount of rope he needs.

  He’s watching me cut. “Were you ever a samurai assassin, Chastity?”

  “No.”

  “A girl scout, then?”

  “Organized group activities are not really my thing.”

  “What is your thing, Chastity?” His smile is cool, his voice deep and husky, like a suave wolverine in a smoking jacket would be, if it spoke human language.

  My subconscious is having an epileptic attack! You are my thing, I want to say. But instead I murmur, “Books.”

  “What kind of books?”

  “British literature. Also literature from England, Wales, and Scotland.”

  He rubs his chin and looks at me. Chin-rubbing must mean he’s brain-thinking.

  “Anything else I can help you with?”

  “How’s it coming along?”

  “What?”

  “The article.”

  “Oh, well, I’m not writing it. Melissa—Miss McCallahan, she’s writing it. She’s happy with it but she wishes she had some photos.”

  “What kind of photos does she want?”

  “I don’t know,” I shrug. “The kind of photos that are, um, graphed?”

  “I’ll be around tomorrow.”

  “A photo shoot, you mean? Melissa will be thrilled.”

  He hands me a card. It’s made of glass and steel. “Call my cell. It’s on the back.”

  “Chastity!” I hear from the other end of the aisle. It’s Doug, Mr. Ricklin’s youngest brother. Home from DeVry. I didn’t realize. He walks over and gives me a big hug. Shade looks on, watching us like a hawk watching an eagle watching us.

  “Doug, I’m with a customer. You should meet him. Sebastian Shade.”

  Doug raises his eyebrows. “Not the Sebastian Shade, of Shade Enterprises?”

  Shade nods the coolest little nod ever. Doug is practically in awe.

  “Is there anything I can help you with?” he asks Shade.

  “No, thank you. Chastity’s been very attentive.” I don’t get him. His words don’t sound like words when he speaks. They sound like letters put in small groupings, formed to express his thoughts.

  “Cool…nice to meet you.” Doug turns away. “Catch you on the flipside, Chastity.”

  “Bye, Doug. Is there anything else I can get you, Mr. Shade?”

  “Just these.” He put the everyday items that could easily be used as torture devices down on the counter.

  “Great. That’ll be forty dollars, please.”

  I look up at Shade. I shouldn’t have. He’s staring at me intensely, mouthing the words, “I’m looking at you.”

  “Would you like a bag?”

  “Please, Chastity.” His tongue molests my name in a way that wouldn’t be frowned upon. “You’ll call me if you want to do the photo shoot?”

  “I’ll photo shoot you if I want to call. Got it,” I respond nervously.

  Before he leaves, he turns to me and says, “Chastity, I’m glad Miss McCallahan couldn’t do the interview.”

  He smiles, then leaves. I’m standing there watching the door he just exited out of. I don’t know for how long I was staring blankly, but apparently a huge line formed at the register and people started cursing at me.

  “What are you staring at? I want to buy this already!”

  “Okay—I like I him,” I say to the angry customer.

  “What?”

  “Oh, sorry, my subconscious was supposed to say that.”

  Okay—I like him.

  CHAPTER THREE

  The Wealthman Hotel is in the heart of downtown Portland. Its brown edifice is like a shaven-down, upright turd towering into the sky. It was completed just in time for the syphilis outbreak of the 1930’s. Ramiro, Chad (new character alert!) and I are travelling in my Beetle. Melissa took her Mercedes, since we all can’t fit in my car and also because I’m going to eventually need an excuse to be left behind here later on, plot-wise.

  Chad is Ramiro’s lighting guy and fluffer. Wait, is that what they’re called?

  Anyway, Melissa managed to secure the use of a luxury hotel room at the Wealthman in exchange for credit in her little, tiny student newspaper. Makes sense to me.

  When we get there we tell them that we are using the room to photograph Sebastian Shade, big-time CEO. Once they hear his name, the entire staff present tremble with erotic desire. They then upgrade us to the second-largest suite in the hotel. The largest is, of course, occupied by Mr. Shade himself. They offered him the entire hotel at first, begging for his mercy and grace. But he just told them he needed a single room. So, reluctantly, they gave him just that.

  We are shown to the suite by an eager young marketing executive we just met who is already in love with Melissa. Halfway up the stairs he actually proposed to her. She said, “No.”

  As soon as we got to the suite, Melissa started giving orders.

  “Ramiro, I think we should shoot against this wall, don’t you think?”

  “That’s the shower,” Ramiro points out.

  Melissa starts organizing the shoot there anyway. While Ramiro begins moving all the stuff to an actual wall they can shoot in front of, Melissa continues the orders:

  “Chad, clear the chairs and dust the legs on the end table. Chastity, could you tell housekeeping to get refreshments and install more ceiling fans? And tell Shade we are here.”

  Whatever you say. She can be so bossy. I roll my eyes six times at her. After the resulting headache subsides I proceed to do as I’m told.

  Half an hour later, Sebastian Shade walks in.

  Holy craptoids! He’s wearing a white shirt, open at the collar. His chestflesh gleams with hotty hotness. His gray slacks hang from his hips and curtain his scrotum area perfectly. Somehow, a breeze comes through this totally enclosed room and hits only his hair, rustling it in a sexy way. Shade is followed into the suite by a mean-looking man in his mid-thirties with a buzzcut and a tattoo of Shade’s face on his own face. His face, as well as the face on his face, looks at us impassively.

  “Miss Stool, we meet again.” Shade extends his hand and I shake it, rapidly, with both of my hands and feet. As I touch his skin I feel a current run through me. It lights up my innards like a Christmas nativity scene, except with slightly more sexual innuendo involved. I’m sure my heavy breathing and donkey-like noises are audible.

  “Mr. Shade, this is Melissa McCallahan.” She stops giving orders to a floor lamp and comes forward to meet him.

  “The tenacious Miss McCallahan. Nice to finally meet you. I trust your terminal illness is gone?”

  “It is, thank you, Mr. Shade.” She shakes his hand. I can tell by Melissa’s ability to shake a hand that she went to the best private hand-shaking sch
ools in the Northwest. She’s grown-up, confident, and sure of her place in the world.

  “Thank you for taking the time to do this.” She gives him a professional smile.

  “It’s a pleasure,” he answers. Turning his gaze on me I go flush again.

  “This is Ramiro Ramirez, our photographer,” I say. Ramiro smiles and licks his lips at me. He stops when he turns toward Shade.

  “Mr. Shade,” he nods.

  “Mr. Ramirez.” Shade’s expression changes too, as he looks at Ramiro.

  “Mr. Shade.” Ramiro nods at him again.

  “Mr. Ramirez,” Shade coolly answers, again.

  “Mr. Shade—” I step in and prevent the back-and-forth from continuing.

  “Where would you like me?” Shade asks Ramiro.

  Melissa answers for him. “Mr. Shade, can you sit here please?” She points to a standing vase.

  “He can’t sit on that,” Ramiro tells her.

  “Right. Then stand here.” She points Mr. Shade to the part of the wall where all the lights and camera were already set up.

  Once Shade is ready, Ramiro is snapping away. First he takes a few handheld shots, then he puts it on the tripod and takes a few more, then he does a handstand and takes a couple. Then he holds the camera in his mouth and goes two inches from Shade’s face. The flash causes Shade to blink. As the top lid meets the bottom lid, I feel my heart race.

  It’s the first chance I get to stand back and look at Shade, not counting all the other times where I was standing back and looking at him. I admire him from kinda far, but not so far, but still a little far away. Twice our eyes lock. And twice I fall back on the floor from the force of our connection. Now I have a headache again. What was I saying? Oh yeah, he’s supernaturally hot.

  “I think we have enough,” Ramiro announces, holding the camera between salad tongs while standing on top of a bucket.

  “I look forward to reading the article, Miss McCallahan.” He turns to me. “Will you walk with me, Miss Stool?” he asks.

  “Okey dokey pokey,” I say, trying not to sound stupid. I glance at Melissa. She just shrugs at me. I look at Ramiro who’s making stabbing motions at Shade’s back. I don’t think Ramiro likes Shade.

  “Good day to you all,” says Shade as he opens the door, standing aside to allow me out first.