by Molly Harper, Stephanie Haefner, Liora Blake, Gabra Zackman, Andrea Laurence, Colette Auclair
“I did love Lulu the Life Jacket,” Kelsey told me. “For a talking inanimate object, she managed to come across as caring without being condescending.”
“Dorie Ann did all the work. She came up with a dozen different sketches of talking life jackets before we settled on one,” I said. “I just came up with clever ways to say, ‘Try not to drown.’ ”
Ray put file folders in front of us. “Charlie is going to design a survey to determine what people want in a new Sammy. But the key feature will be a contest—written and distributed by the two of you—in which you ask respondents to redesign Sammy. We’ll use the survey results to best judge the winner. And then, of course, the conservation board’s lawyers go over that image with a fine-tooth comb for any subliminal penises.”
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Kelsey make a note: Possible band name: Subliminal Penises.
“I have complete faith in you two,” Ray told us. “Now, get out there and give me a completely genderless, sexually nonaggressive cartoon character.”
We offered him a little salute and he waved us off like the impudent overgrown children that we were. The three of us sat in the conference room, staring at Sammy and his recently revealed endowment. Kelsey started the job sheet for the survey and had already made some notes about using Info Monkey, an online survey distributor.
Josh scrubbed at his eyes, as if that would allow him to go back to a time when he wasn’t contemplating Sammy’s junk. “You know, I’ve been doing this for a while. And this is the weirdest thing that has ever crossed my desk.”
“All of my memories of Sammy visiting our school and telling us to ‘Share that special part of us with the world’ are forever tainted,” I said, shuddering.
I looked at Josh. He looked at me, and we both started laughing. We hee-hawed until tears rolled down our cheeks and our faces flushed beet red. Kelsey was wiping at her eyes and griping about the “effects of hilarity on my carefully constructed eye makeup.”
“I went to college for this.” Josh giggled. “I’ve got a degree in marketing and I’m using it to cover up a cartoon squirrel’s pretend penis!”
“We’re going to devote the next month of our lives to discussions of that squirrel penis!” I cackled.
“God, that’s sad,” he said, swiping a handkerchief across his eyes.
“How are we going to fix this?” I sighed. “Not just the PR nightmare, but designing a cartoon squirrel so that people forget they ever saw the previous Sammy and his unfortunately placed foot?”
“My first thought is that we put some pants on him,” Kelsey said. “Why don’t cartoon characters ever wear pants? Donald Duck, Winnie the Pooh, Porky Pig, Squidward. Not a pair of trousers in the bunch.”
“It disturbs me that you came up with your pantheon of pantsless cartoons so quickly,” I told her.
Kelsey waggled her eyebrows and stood, straightening her skirt. “I do what I can.”
As Kelsey walked out, Josh stood, jostling my arm. “I’ve got a few things to double-check for my state fair campaign, but I’ll meet you back here in an hour for a brainstorming session for that survey?”
“Promise me chocolate, or I can’t guarantee my participation.”
He snorted, walking out of the conference room and calling, “Brat” over his shoulder.
“Frat boy!” I yelled back.
I broke out a legal pad and pen. If Ray had taught me anything, it was that any public perception problem could be fixed. You just had to narrow the problem down to the three most important issues. Normally, it was something linear, like:
1. Campers view the Bear Creek Campgrounds as unsafe because of concerns about bears.
2. There are no actual bears at Bear Creek.
3. The community needs to be educated about the lack of bears at Bear Creek.
But right now, the only list I could come up with was:
1. Subliminal cartoon penis
2. Subliminal cartoon penis
3. Subliminal cartoon penis
This was not a helpful list. I’m pretty sure it was a list that would land me in therapy if someone saw it without context.
Kelsey stuck her head in the door. “Okay, good, he’s gone.” She snatched my pen and disturbing notes out of my hands. “What’s going on?”
“Sorry?”
She tossed my stuff on the table and crossed her arms over her chest. “Don’t play coy with me. I locked the two of you in a closet hoping you would behave civilly toward each other. You overshot and landed on ‘annoying UST.’ ”
“UST?” I repeated as Kelsey flopped into the chair in front of my desk.
“Unresolved sexual tension. You two have more UST than you can shake a stick at.”
“You know, I’ve never understood that expression. Who walks around indiscriminately shaking sticks at things?”
“I can’t believe this conversation is actually taking place.” Kelsey sighed, dropping her head to the table.
“We’re not friends, exactly. He’s a nice guy, under the smug, defensive exterior.”
Kelsey was my best friend, but she would find out about the Fred Astaire kiss. I hadn’t figured it out myself. And as much as I loved her, Kelsey’s opinion would only muddle things further for me. Also, she would mock me. A lot.
“I’m not saying I want to date him. But I think under normal circumstances, we might have gotten along really well. We’ll try to tone it down.”
“It will make the rest of us a lot more comfortable,” Kelsey said. “But if you wanted to help me out, Melody set up an office pool to bet on when you would either sleep together or kill each other. I had Tuesday.”
“For which option?”
Kelsey shrugged. “Either one.”
In Which Josh Is a Tease
7
By the next Tuesday night, I was neither dead nor naked. I was spending the evening in my office working, rather than going home like a normal person. Mr. Leavitt’s grandkids were in town, which wasn’t exactly conducive to creative work. They tended to gather on the porch, four feet from my door, and play card games that involved smacking each other.
Josh and I had already submitted our proposed redesign contest materials to Ray. While Josh had rejected my title, “Give Sammy the Squirrel a Tail-Lift,” we had agreed on “A Whole New Squirrel: Help Us Make Sammy Brighter-Eyed and Bushier-Tailed.” With Dorie Ann’s help, we came up with a printed brochure to distribute at campsites and state parks. We did another kid-friendly form for camps and daycares. And using Kelsey’s knowledge of Info Monkey, we designed an online submission tool to allow artists to submit their updated Sammys to the conservation council via e-mail. It was clever, colorful, and coherent—Ray’s favorite c’s. At the moment, the legal department was reviewing the forms for hidden genitalia or illegal language.
On a more personal front, I was not quite as productive. I’d scrapped all of my original state fair campaign ideas because they seemed sort of blah. I didn’t know why I didn’t like them. I just knew they weren’t right yet, so I chucked all the materials into the trash bin.
I’d never had this much trouble with any project. I didn’t know if it was the pressure of possibly losing the director position or the fact that my Derby campaign had been scrapped entirely in favor of Josh’s promotion. But every time I sat down to work, my brain seemed to spin uselessly, spitting out ideas that didn’t lead anywhere—or just generally stank.
I needed a new idea. I was standing in front of my office’s clean whiteboard, using magnets to tack up index cards inscribed with potential campaign themes. And they all sucked. But that was part of my process. It usually took me about twenty sucky ideas before I stumbled upon a good one. The question was, did these ideas suck sufficiently to get me to the next stage of development?
One of the cards read, “Jams and Jellies of the Bluegrass.”
“Yeah, that’s pretty sucky,” I told myself. I stared at the blank whiteboard, waiting for inspiration to come. And it was d
ue at any time.
“Any minute now,” I muttered, tapping the dry-erase marker against my chin.
Just more blank space.
The board was not speaking to me.
I hated the board.
“Really?” I muttered, casting a look toward my forehead. “The brain that came up with ‘A Drive-In-Movie Tour of Kentucky’ has nothing?”
One by one, I plucked the cards from the board and tossed them into the trash, all the while bashing my forehead against the whiteboard. I heard Josh’s voice behind me, asking, “What are you doing?”
“Brainstorming.” I sighed.
“Does your brainstorming usually involve head trauma?”
I flopped into my desk chair and massaged my aching feet. Thirteen hours in four-inch heels was just plain stupid, no matter how cute they were. “Unfortunately, this brainstorm seems to be more of a gentle, balmy breeze. The Weather Channel would giggle at my brainstorm.”
“I can’t tell when you’re kidding.”
“Oh, how I wish I was.”
He sighed. “Come on, come on.”
“Where are we going?” I grumbled as he pressed my purse and jacket into my hands. “I’m not going into any closets with you. I’ve learned my lesson.” Shutting off the lights behind us one by one, Josh led me out of the darkened offices and into the parking lot. His truck and my little Honda Civic were the only vehicles there.
“What are you even doing at the office at this time of night?” I asked.
“Same as you, working on my state fair idea.” He opened the door and gave me his hand to help me climb in.
“Was yours working out as well as mine?”
He leaned against the door frame, chuckling. “Do you really want to know?”
“Not really. Is this the part when you take me out to the woods to kill me?” I asked. “Because I think I just established that it’s not necessary to eliminate me from the running. I can do that on my own.”
He shut the door and jogged around to the driver’s side, sliding into the seat next to me. “We’re going for a drive.”
• • •
Josh stopped at Double R’s BBQ on the way out of town, grabbing pulled pork sandwiches and all the fixings. We turned off the radio, lowering the windows and driving out of the city in silence. Josh knew some back road to a bluff overlooking Elk Horn Creek, bouncing over the uneven gravel with ease. Parking with the tailgate facing the water, we spread out a moving blanket in the back of his truck and ate the sloppy, delicious food as best we could in our office attire. I kicked off my shoes and Josh stripped down to his undershirt to avoid his own okra catastrophes.
Despite an unfortunate incident involving fried okra and my blouse, I was happy. The crickets were singing summer music. I’d been liberated from my panty hose. And I had a tummy full of classic Southern comfort food. We were so far from the city, the light pollution was nil and we could actually see the stars dancing over our heads.
Sipping ice-cold Coke from an actual glass bottle, I asked, “So why are you being nice to me, when the best thing for you to do would be to let me stew in my own failure-juices? And maybe film it and post it on the Internet.”
He gave me a long, speculative once-over. “Because I like you. I can’t figure out why, but I do.”
I tossed a balled-up napkin at his head. “That is not a compliment.”
“I do like you, despite your violent tendencies. I like your sense of humor. I like the way you take care of people at the office, bringing Melody her treats and making sure Charlie gets some social interaction every day. I like annoying you, because you make these awful, adorable faces and start spouting nonsense. I know I’ve made fun of your being too earnest and rooting too much for the underdog, but it comes from a good place. You don’t believe in hearth and home and the power of road trips to Jesus-themed mini-golf courses because you think it makes you look good. You just do, even when it makes you seem naive and somewhat unprofessional.”
“Also not a compliment,” I mused.
“It’s a great compliment. You’re the last of the great cockeyed optimists, Sadie Hutchins.”
I snorted, leaning against the still-warm metal of the truck bed and tilting my head toward the sky. A long, silent moment later, I realized Josh was staring at me. “Yes?”
He sounded slightly wounded. “Do you like anything about me?”
“Is this why you brought me out here?”
“Oh, come on. I said something nice about you. It’s rude not to reciprocate,” he insisted.
I sighed. “You’re smart. You’re confident to the point that it’s a little bit irritating. But every once in a while, when you drop the act, you let me see the naked baby bird of emotion hiding deep inside the shell. And I really like that, because I feel like I’m finally meeting the real you. And the real you is . . . far less annoying than I originally thought.”
“Less annoying?” Josh placed one of those large, tanned hands over his chest. “Oh, the praise, it warms my heart, really.”
“From me, that is a compliment.”
Josh packed away the meal trash and scooted next to me in the truck bed. “So, why aren’t you out on the town?” he asked. “Why aren’t you going on dates and socializing instead of lurking in our office like a scary cat lady?”
“You are really pushing the boundaries of this whole new ‘being nice to each other’ thing, aren’t you?”
“Come on. I’ve worked with you for months and I’ve never seen any sign of a social life except for hanging out with your coworkers. When was the last time you were on a date?”
“How is this any of your business?” I demanded.
“Excuse me, but did I not tell you every little detail of my personal life?”
“It’s been a while,” I admitted. “But that’s okay for me. I don’t have time for dating. You know, I love the people we work with. They’re all the family I need. ”
“Please don’t tell me you actually believe that, because that would be incredibly sad.”
I chuckled, rubbing a hand over my face. “I know. You’re right. It’s just something I tell myself to feel less like a loser. But I really haven’t met anyone I’d want that kind of relationship with. Or really, any relationship, period.”
He grinned, his white teeth shining under the bluish light of the moon. “All those public events we go to and you can’t find a single guy that doesn’t turn your stomach?”
I shuddered, thinking of C.J. Rowley. “Well, what about you? You work just as many hours as I do. You’re not exactly burning up the social scene.”
“I’ve explained the whole ‘almost-engagement that nearly destroyed my life and my credit rating’ thing, right? I’m a little gun-shy.”
I scoffed. “No, you’re not. I’ve seen you at these work functions. You’re a flirt. You hit on anything with a pulse.”
“I do not!” he exclaimed, his cheeks flushing so brightly I could make them out, even in the dark.
I sucked my cheeks into an approximation of “Blue Steel” again and shot him a smoldering look. Josh groaned and buried his face in his hands. “I know. It’s just that you get used to being ‘on’ like that while you’re working and you don’t even realize you’re doing it. And what’s worse is that I have no intention of following through.”
“So, you’re a tease?” I snickered.
“I’m not really in a good dating place right now. What am I supposed to say to some woman, ‘Hi, I’m in full-on Dave Ramsey debt-payoff mode. I’m staying in a tiny rathole apartment. I’m living out of cardboard boxes. And I may be losing the job that I have within the next few months, depending on the outcome of some insane state fair contest. But how about we go out for drinks sometime?’ ” he scoffed, his voice becoming tinny and a bit panicked. “I’m sure that would really turn a girl’s head.”
I took his face between my palms and pressed my lips to his. He froze, spine stiffened, for a moment and then exhaled. I could feel the warmth
of his breath against my lips, in my mouth. His hand slid along the length of my rib cage, pulling me closer. I settled into his lap, threading my fingers through his hair. I bit down gently on his bottom lip and he groaned.
“What was that?” he murmured.
“Me, calming you down.” I bumped the tip of my nose against his. “It was either this or slapping you. I may still slap you.”
“I prefer this.” He nodded, surging forward and kissing me again. Several lovely kisses later, he pulled away. “Wait, wait, wait.”
I rocked back on my heels, nearly tumbling back on my butt. “Wait?”
“We haven’t really had The Conversation about the last time we did this,” he said.
“Isn’t that my line?” I asked. “And pardon me, but was ‘The Conversation’ capitalized?”
“Yes.”
I sighed, settling back down in the truck bed. “You really are a tease.”
“Hey!” he grumbled. “I’m just saying there should be some ground rules, so when Ray and the higher-ups make their decision, we can avoid hurt feelings. Or try to, at least.”
“That sounds very reasonable. I predict it will fail spectacularly,” I told him.
“Humor me,” he said. “I don’t think we should date.”
“Well, I’m not going to be your coworker with benefits,” I told him, pulling away to the other side of the truck bed. “I’m not that desperate.”
He pulled me against his side, shifting around so we rested our backs against the cab of the truck. “No, no, I don’t want that, either. I’m just saying that I don’t think we should date or make out or get trapped in any small spaces together until after the state fair. I don’t want to start something with you only to have it fall apart when one of us doesn’t get the job.”
“So you think it would be better for us to get pissed at each other after the state fair and never get started in the first place?”
“I’m saying that I want you. I really, really want you. And I’m having a hard time keeping my hands off you in the office, which could lead to major violations of our workplace behavior policies. But we don’t know each other well enough to just throw ourselves into something that could seriously affect our jobs. I’m saying that when two very different people clearly enjoy each other despite all the big clues that they shouldn’t, they should do everything they can to make the differences work. I’m saying that we can keep getting to know each other between now and the state fair, and when the pressure is finally off us, if we still think we have something, we date the hell out of each other.”