Pulpy and Midge

by Jessica Westhead

  ‘Don’t pay attention to my wife,’ said his boss. ‘She gets like this.’

  ‘Like what, Dan? Why don’t you tell them what I’m like?’

  ‘Maybe I will.’

  ‘Here, Beatrice.’ Midge thrust a spoon and a white jar at her. ‘You can put some of this mayonnaise in a bowl if you like.’

  ‘You know what? Never mind,’ said Dan. ‘I was going to say something serious but now is not the time for serious. Now is the time for fun, and I think we all know what kind of fun I’m talking about.’

  Midge and Pulpy looked at each other.

  ‘Snakes and Ladders!’ said Beatrice, and she pointed her spoonful of mayonnaise at Midge hard enough that a dollop landed on the side of her head.

  Midge reached up, slowly, and gave the creamy glob a tentative prod.

  ‘Oops,’ said Beatrice, and the spoon clattered into the sink.

  ‘Are you all right, Midge?’ said Pulpy.

  ‘No, no, it’s fine. Excuse me for a minute.’ And she rushed down the hall to the bathroom with her hand over her hair.

  ‘So, like I was saying,’ said Dan, ‘what’s more fun than Snakes and Ladders?’

  ‘I believe that’s what I was saying,’ said Beatrice, returning to the living room.

  ‘That sounds great,’ said Pulpy, ‘but we don’t have Snakes and Ladders.’

  ‘Then it’s your lucky day,’ said Dan, ‘because we brought it with us!’ He jumped up and reached for the plastic bag.

  ‘Make some room for me, Pulpy,’ said Beatrice. ‘I don’t want to sit beside my husband.’

  Pulpy moved over and Dan pulled out the board game just as Midge came back from the washroom, one of her asymmetrical half-scallops now gone bristly with the dried grease.

  ‘All clean?’ Beatrice asked her from the loveseat. ‘Sorry, Midge, that was me getting overexcited.’

  ‘I got it out,’ she said.

  ‘Now, tell me,’ said Beatrice. ‘There’s definitely something different about you. Your hair is leaning more to one side, isn’t it? What an interesting look.’

  Dan opened up the board on the coffee table and started shaking the dice in his big, square fist. ‘Sit next to me, Midge,’ he said. ‘Let’s mix it up a little!’

  Pulpy woke up the next morning in an empty bed. He looked around, stretched and checked the time. ‘Midge?’

  No answer.

  He yawned and got up, and found Midge in the kitchen. ‘Good morning,’ he said.

  ‘Good morning,’ she said. ‘Would you like some toast?’

  ‘Yes, please.’ He sat down at the table.

  Midge put two slices of bread in the toaster and stood there, waiting.

  ‘Did you have fun last night?’ he said.

  ‘Would you like jam on your toast?’

  He looked over at her. ‘Jam sounds tasty.’

  The toast popped up and Midge took the slices out one at a time. She buttered the toast first, then spread on the jam.

  ‘Thank you.’ He nodded at it. ‘It looks good.’

  ‘It’s toast.’

  ‘All the same.’ He took a bite. ‘Yum!’

  ‘You didn’t say that about the artichokes,’ she said. ‘You didn’t say anything about the artichokes.’

  Pulpy swallowed. The toast was dry. He looked around for something to drink. ‘Could I please have some juice?’

  ‘It’s in the fridge.’

  He stood up and got a glass, and opened the fridge.

  ‘You didn’t even finish it,’ she said.

  ‘What?’ He looked down at the juice he’d just poured.

  ‘The artichoke I made you.’ She was standing with her back to the toaster, and her pink robe was reflected in the chrome.

  Pulpy sat down. ‘It was good.’ He drank some juice. ‘I just wasn’t all that hungry, I guess.’

  ‘You said you wanted me to make them.’

  ‘Yes, I said that. But you made them differently than usual. We usually just eat the hearts. I didn’t know how to eat it the way you made it last night. I didn’t know what I was supposed to do.’

  ‘You dip the leaves. I showed you. You dip the leaves in the mayonnaise and the lemon butter, and you scrape off the artichoke meat with your teeth.’

  ‘Midge, I didn’t know.’

  She turned toward the fridge and moved their real-estate-agent magnets around. ‘But I showed you.’

  ‘I guess I was nervous around Dan and Beatrice,’ he said.

  ‘Then why did you invite them over in the first place?’ She peeled off one of the magnets and scowled at the photo of the real estate agent, who was giving the thumbs-up. ‘It was supposed to be our night.’

  ‘I told you, he invited himself.’ Pulpy felt the acid from the juice rise up in his throat, and he forced it back down.

  Midge slapped the magnet back on the fridge. ‘Well, next time you can un-invite him.’

  ‘But, Midge –’

  ‘I have to get ready for work,’ she said.

  There was a man standing at the receptionist’s desk when Pulpy arrived.

  ‘I’m telling you,’ the man was saying to her.

  ‘I know it,’ said the receptionist.

  Pulpy walked past them to the closet and realized that the man was Gary, who used to work in Packaging.

  ‘My personal thing is, I don’t create unhappiness for other people,’ said Gary. ‘That’s my own thing. I do not go around creating pain. I mean, sometimes it happens, you don’t intend it, but it happens. That’s fine. I mean, it’s not fine – you didn’t mean it, but that’s the way it goes sometimes. But my own personal agenda is not to deliberately set out and make people miserable. Which is what some people do, and the way I feel is that the people in positions of power are the most insecure people, because they go after that power because they’re insecure and they need to control the world around them.’

  The receptionist was nodding at everything he was saying.

  ‘It’s the people who don’t care about power, those are the ones who are the most secure in themselves and what they’re doing. Because they don’t need to assert themselves in that way. They don’t need to go around creating misery. And that’s me. I make it my policy not to create it. And that’s what I go by and that’s my motto. I feel really strongly about that.’

  Pulpy put his coat away and walked over to them. ‘Hi, Gary,’ he said. ‘What are you up to these days?’

  ‘Pulpy! Long time no see.’ He flipped a hand palm up and palm down. ‘Some of this, some of that – I’ve gone freelance. I’m a consultant now.’

  Pulpy strolled over to the staircase and leaned against it. ‘Who do you consult?’

  ‘No, no.’ Gary shook his head. ‘They consult me.’

  ‘Who’s “they”?’

  ‘Whoever I’m working for.’

  ‘You’re your own boss,’ said the receptionist.

  ‘That’s right.’ Gary stuck out his chest. ‘It’s a whole new world when you’re working for yourself. And if you ask me, a better world.’

  Pulpy looked down at his starchy golf shirt. He didn’t play golf. Why was he wearing a golf shirt?

  Gary was wearing jeans and a sports jersey. ‘Yep. No more watching the old clock for this guy, no sir.’

  ‘Sounds like the life for me,’ said the receptionist.

  ‘It is the life,’ said Gary. ‘It is the life. It’s a whole new perspective when you’re working for a client instead of a boss. And if you ask me, a better perspective.’

  Pulpy looked at the receptionist and then back to Gary. ‘I bet it’s complicated to do your taxes,’ he said.

  ‘Oh, I have an accountant for that.’

  ‘You have your own accountant?’ said the receptionist.

  ‘Uh huh. We do a trade: I consult for him, he does my taxes.’

  ‘I do my own taxes,’ said Pulpy, a little louder than he meant to.

  ‘I used to do my own taxes,’ said Gary, ‘back when I worked nine
to five. But now I have so many different sources of income, I can’t keep track of them all. Ha, ha!’

  ‘Ha,’ said Pulpy.

  The receptionist had her elbows up on her desk and was resting her chin on her hands, staring at Gary. The overhead fluorescents glinted off her glasses.

  ‘Hel-lo there,’ said Dan, from the stairs.

  They all jumped a little at his voice, and looked up.

  Dan hopped down two steps at a time, winking at Pulpy as he passed him. ‘Hi. I’m Dan, the new supervisor,’ he said to Gary. ‘I don’t think we’ve met.’

  ‘This is Gary,’ said Pulpy. ‘He used to work in Packaging.’

  ‘Packaging, eh?’ Dan crossed his arms. ‘Well now.’

  ‘But now he’s a consultant,’ said the receptionist.

  Gary cleared his throat. ‘I just came by to see if you might need any help around here.’

  ‘Oh, well,’ said Dan, ‘I think we’re doing fine, thanks.’ He looked at Pulpy. ‘Who’s in Packaging now, what’s his name?’

  ‘Jim.’

  ‘Well, we’ve got Jim now,’ said Dan. ‘So I think we’re good.’

  ‘Oh, ah,’ said Gary, ‘I meant do you need any consulting? I’m a consultant now.’

  ‘A consultant, eh? Hmm. No, I think we’re fine. Like I said.’ Dan extended his hand. ‘But it was nice to meet you, Gary.’

  Gary’s hand rose to meet Dan’s, and he wiped the other one on his jeans. Then he looked around like he didn’t know where he was. ‘So I guess I should –’

  Dan nodded and headed for the stairs. ‘Yep, back to work.’ He smiled at Pulpy and the receptionist on his way up.

  The receptionist glared at Dan and slowly took her elbows off her desk.

  ‘Back to work.’ Pulpy watched Gary walk out the door.

  The receptionist swivelled in her chair to look at the clock.

  ‘Those buses, you know,’ said Pulpy quickly. ‘Those bus drivers on those buses. You think you leave the house with plenty of time to spare and then, boom, the bus sits in the station an extra twenty minutes.’

  ‘I always give myself at least twenty extra minutes in the morning to get to work,’ she said. ‘On top of the time I think it’ll take. On top of that. That way I’m never late.’

  ‘That sounds like a good system.’ Pulpy moved past her and peered down into the fishbowl, at the rainbow-coloured pebbles on the bottom. He was pretty sure the fish looked up at him.

  ‘Pulpy!’ Dan called from upstairs. ‘Can I see you a minute?’

  ‘Coming!’ He smiled at the receptionist. ‘I’d better get up there.’

  She typed something on her keyboard and kept her eyes on her monitor.

  Dan grinned at him at the top. ‘What’s going on down there?’

  Pulpy squeezed the railing. ‘What?’

  ‘Keeping tabs on unwanted visitors, I like that. How’s the potluck coming along?’

  ‘I posted the sign-up sheet,’ he said. ‘And I put a string next to it, with a pen tied on. So if people don’t have a pen with them they can still sign up.’

  Dan strolled into his office. ‘Did you tell me this already?’

  ‘I think I mentioned it last night.’

  ‘Ho-ho, last night! Your wife’s a real snake charmer, isn’t she?’ He pointed at Pulpy and leaned back in his chair.

  ‘Ha, yes. You won the game.’

  ‘We did indeed!’ Dan handed him a slip of paper. ‘I need you to go back downstairs and get this file for me.’

  Pulpy looked at the outline where Al’s couch had rested on the carpet. ‘All right.’

  ‘Just ask the receptionist to find it for you. And watch out for those ladders – they’ll get you every time!’

  ‘I will, thanks. Ha.’

  ‘Come over here and look at this,’ said the receptionist when Pulpy went back downstairs. She pointed at her screen. ‘I’m paying my bills online!’

  Pulpy’s eyes widened. ‘What if you get caught?’

  She pushed her mouse around in a tight circle on its pad. ‘Who’s going to catch me? He doesn’t know what goes on around here. I run this show, in case you didn’t notice.’

  ‘But what if Dan finds out? Maybe he’s monitoring things. He could’ve installed special software and we’d never know. You don’t want to lose your job over this.’

  She laughed, hard. ‘Big deal.’

  Pulpy gave her the slip of paper. ‘Dan sent me to – I need to get this file for him.’

  She frowned at the paper, and then scrunched it up and tossed it into her recycling bin. ‘Get the file yourself,’ she said. ‘You think I’m getting it? I’m not getting it.’

  ‘I’ll get it,’ he said. ‘Let me get it.’ He headed for the filing cabinet.

  ‘It’s not in there,’ she said. ‘It’s in that pile.’

  He nodded and moved toward the tower of files on her desk.

  She jerked her head at them. ‘They pile up. I used to have someone in here to do the filing, but not anymore.’

  He went through the colour-coded folders, careful not to move anything out of place.

  ‘I haven’t had time to do my work today,’ said the receptionist. ‘I’ve been busy all day doing other people’s work and I haven’t had time for any of my own.’

  ‘There’s never enough time.’ Pulpy was halfway down the pile now.

  ‘I mean, I’m only one person. I’m just one person here.’ She unscrewed the cap on a bottle of correction fluid and started painting little white streaks on an important-looking document. ‘Filing is for temps. I had a temp in here and they took her away. And how do you think that made me feel? I’ll tell you how it made me feel, it made me feel like saying, “Fine, then you can go and get your own damn files.”’ Her hand sped up and the tiny brush zipped across the page, leaving bigger and sloppier streaks in its wake.

  ‘I remember when she was here.’ Pulpy found Dan’s file and eased it out carefully. ‘Aha. This is the one.’

  The receptionist frowned and stopped working. ‘I used to have peanut shells all over the floor from her. They never got cleaned up. I said to her one time, “Must be a nice job where you can sit and shell peanuts all day.” And she said, “I do not shell peanuts all day. I have them for my snack.” So I told Al about it and that was that.’

  Pulpy blinked. ‘But I thought you said –’

  She straightened in her chair. ‘They could have brought in someone else. But they didn’t.’

  Pulpy handed the file to Dan. ‘Here you go,’ he said, and put his hands in his pockets. There was a bit of fluff in the left one, and he balled it between his fingers.

  ‘Did she get it for you?’ said Dan. ‘Or did she make you get it yourself?’

  ‘Well.’

  ‘I knew it.’ Dan leaned back in his big chair and crossed his arms.

  ‘It’s the file you wanted,’ said Pulpy.

  ‘That’s not the point.’

  ‘She’s really busy.’

  Dan snorted. ‘She’s useless, is what she is.’

  ‘They used to have a temp in for the receptionist. She’s all by herself out there now.’

  ‘I heard the temp wouldn’t stay with her. I heard she ate the temp alive.’ Dan lifted the file and gave it a shake. ‘She needs supervision. She needs quality control, is really the thing. She’s a loafer.’ He slapped the file down on his desk.

  Pulpy stared at him. ‘She has a lot on her plate.’

  ‘Uh huh. Well, Beatrice’ll get things sorted out soon enough. She’s around here somewhere – she said something about liaising with Building Maintenance. She’s doing a few spot checks today and tomorrow she’ll start nine-to-fiving proper.’

  ‘Oh.’ Pulpy glanced over his shoulder. ‘I haven’t seen her.’

  ‘Well, she’s around, like I said.’ Dan coughed, and pulled the file toward him. ‘You and Midge have plans for tonight? Because Beatrice and I don’t have any plans, and we thought maybe we could all do something.’
r />   ‘Well –’

  ‘Great! It’s settled. You’re coming to our place for dinner.’

  Pulpy warmed both quarters in his hand before he dropped them into the pay-phone slot.

  ‘Hello?’ said Midge.

  ‘Hi, Midge.’

  ‘Oh. Hi, Pulpy.’

  He watched the blue digital message scrolling across the pay phone’s little screen, telling him to press the diamond button to start a new call. ‘Did anything interesting happen on your route today?’

  ‘Not really.’

  He took a breath. ‘I’m really sorry about last night.’

  She didn’t say anything at first, but then she said, ‘Well, there was this one woman. She was wearing this horrible top – the kind that shows off your middle. She just answered the door wearing this short top, and without warning she’d move and expose her stomach. Where there was a shirt one moment there was skin the next. I suppose there are people who like that sort of thing. If you like women who show off their stomachs in that way. Myself, I prefer modesty.’

  ‘That sounds pretty interesting,’ he said, then cleared his throat. ‘Dan and Beatrice want to have us over for dinner tonight.’

  ‘Oh,’ she said.

  ‘They want to thank us for last night.’ He closed his eyes and rubbed his forehead. ‘It’ll be fun. We’ll bring them a gift.’

  Midge sighed. ‘What kind of gift?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘We’ll think of something.’

  ‘It says on the flyer, “Control what you can control,”’ said the receptionist when Pulpy came back from lunch.

  ‘What does that mean?’ Pulpy put his coat on the closet floor.

  ‘It means, “Don’t look for easy answers to hard questions.”’

  ‘Hmm. Have you seen Dan’s wife today? I heard she was doing spot checks.’

  ‘Oh, I saw her, all right. Poking around. She kept her distance from my desk, though, which suits me just fine.’ She reached for her highlighter. ‘Do you think I should mention my seminar to the new management?’

  ‘You mean you haven’t told him about it?’