Pulpy and Midge

by Jessica Westhead

  ‘Hello,’ she said.

  He looked over, but she was on the phone. He decided not to get his coat.

  The decor of Coffee Paradise was similar to the Coffee Island’s, but fancier. Instead of one inflatable palm tree, there were real-looking mini-palms in every corner of the room, their broad green fronds waving gently in warm, coconut-scented gusts of forced air.

  Pulpy stood in line and took deep breaths through his nose. The smell reminded him of Midge. She used a lotion called Tropical Mist.

  Up ahead, the man at the cash appeared clasped together, like he was sucking in his face and holding it there. He had a name tag that read ‘Your Barista: Claude.’

  The customer in front of Pulpy stepped aside and Claude said, ‘Can I help you, sir?’ to Pulpy, who was still sniffing.

  He stopped. ‘Yes, please. I’ll have one house blend in this mug.’

  ‘And how will you take that?’

  ‘Oh –’ Pulpy swivelled his head and realized there was no help-yourself area for coffee fixings. He relaxed a little. ‘Cream and sugar, please. Lots of both.’

  Claude nodded. ‘Anything else?’

  ‘Yes. Do you have any Roco-Coco here?’

  The barista sucked himself in further. ‘What’s that?’

  ‘It’s a kind of coffee. Roco-Coco. They have it at the Coffee Island?’

  ‘Well, this isn’t the Coffee Island, is it? This is Coffee Paradise. We have Coca-Loca. It’s probably the same thing.’ Claude pointed to one of the dispensers, with a sticker showing a wild-eyed coffee bean in a Hawaiian shirt.

  ‘I don’t think it’s the same,’ said Pulpy.

  ‘Well,’ said the barista, ‘it’s your call.’

  Pulpy looked around Coffee Paradise, at the tall businessmen occupying tall mahogany booths. He turned back and concentrated hard on the blackboard with its prices. ‘I’ll have a large jalapeno-pumpkin, please,’ he said, feeling suddenly bold.

  ‘What?’ said Claude.

  ‘The jalapeno-pumpkin. It says right there.’

  The barista turned around, slowly. ‘That’s our lunch menu,’ he said. ‘That’s a soup.’

  ‘Oh.’

  Claude smirked at a customer in line behind Pulpy. ‘If you want soup, I’ll give you soup.’

  ‘I don’t,’ said Pulpy. ‘I want coffee.’

  ‘Well, then,’ said the barista. ‘Maybe you’d better decide what you want. What kind of coffee, I mean.’

  Pulpy heard a few snorts behind him. He shuffled in place. ‘Large,’ he said.

  ‘Large what?’

  ‘Your house blend again. Or Colombian? Something easy.’

  ‘Nothing is ever easy,’ said Claude.

  ‘Aren’t you cold?’ asked the receptionist when Pulpy walked back in.

  He stopped in a pose that shielded the two coffees from her. ‘Sorry?’

  ‘You’re not wearing your coat. That’s not very smart in this weather.’

  ‘Oh, that.’ He gave a half shrug and continued walking, his body buffering the coffees.

  ‘Hold on,’ she said. ‘Let me see something.’

  ‘What?’ he said. ‘I have to get upstairs.’

  She sat back in her chair. ‘Fine.’

  He passed by her with the scalding mug and his own hot cup pushed against his chest, and started up the steps.

  ‘You really think you know what goes on around here?’ she said.

  ‘No.’ He paused with his back to her. ‘I don’t.’

  ‘You don’t know anything about the way things work. I see everything that happens. People don’t think I notice, but I do. I’m the eyes and ears of this place.’

  He nodded and kept going.

  ‘Thanks,’ said Dan when Pulpy handed him the mug. ‘What did you think of Paradise?’

  ‘It’s all right.’

  ‘You’re right it’s all right. I love that place.’ He tilted back his head and poured in coffee. ‘Ahh. You still haven’t gotten yourself a mug?’ He took another long drink and then gave the receptionist’s duck a kiss. ‘I’m telling you, they’re the only way to go.’

  Pulpy frowned while Dan wasn’t looking. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘I’d better get back to work.’

  Dan rubbed his hands together. ‘We’re still on for tonight, right? You and me, out on the town?’

  ‘Yes. Boys’ night.’

  ‘Boys’ night!’

  ‘Yes,’ said Pulpy. ‘What are we going to do?’

  ‘I don’t know yet. We’ll eat somewhere.’ Dan coughed. ‘Have a seat, Pulpy.’

  Pulpy sat.

  ‘I want to tell you something, and that is this. The way things work around here,’ he said, ‘is that there is a thing that you do, and there are the things that we do. It’s all connected, and interwoven. But if a stitch slips, then the whole cog is going to fall apart, and it is just not going to roll.’

  Pulpy tightened his hold on his Styrofoam cup.

  ‘I think that’s pretty straightforward,’ said Dan. ‘But the way things are going around here, I just don’t know. Because typically, people don’t have a whole lot to offer an organization. It’s up to the organization to take from its people what it sees fit. To impart on them the requirements that they are expected to fulfill, and to follow through on making sure that those requirements are met and that the expectations are delivered.’

  Pulpy squeezed his cup some more and the Styrofoam crumpled, spilling hot coffee onto his lap. He yelped and jumped up.

  Dan handed him a tissue and then opened one of his drawers. He took out a small black pager and slid it across the desk. ‘This is for you.’

  Pulpy smacked at his new brown pants with the Kleenex and looked at the pager’s shiny silver clip and neat little screen. ‘Oh, well –’

  ‘Go ahead, take it.’

  ‘Hmm. It’s just that, would you be paging me at home at all? Only because I have a feeling that Midge – she probably wouldn’t be too keen on that.’

  ‘Take it.’

  ‘Okay.’ Pulpy picked up the pager and slipped it into his coffee-stained pocket.

  ‘Have you been touching your love line?’ Midge asked when Pulpy called her at lunch.

  He reached up and poked his chest. ‘I have.’

  ‘I knew it!’ she said. ‘I sensed you were thinking about me. Guess what?’

  Pulpy smiled. ‘What?’

  ‘A lady on my route today had fruit on her shoes. Each shoe had a little bunch of miniature plastic fruit on the toes. A tiny lemon, an orange, a lime and cherries. Or maybe they were apples. I couldn’t tell because the size ratio was off. So what are you and Dan doing tonight?’

  ‘I don’t know. I think he wants to go to a restaurant or something. Have you heard from Beatrice yet?’

  ‘She wants to meet at the mall at six.’ She sighed. ‘So when will I see you? I don’t plan on being home later than eight. Or nine. Nine at the latest.’

  ‘I’ll probably be home around then too.’ He cleared his throat and lowered his voice. ‘Dan gave me a pager this morning.’

  ‘A pager? Why would he give you one of those?’

  ‘So he can page me, I guess.’

  ‘But why does he need to page you? At home? You better tell him I don’t want him paging you at home. Tell him your wife said that. Tell him I do not want any beeping going on during our private time.’

  ‘I’ll do what I can, Midge.’ He looked down at the coffee stain on his pants – the area was a slightly darker brown than everywhere else. ‘That’s all I can do.’

  When Pulpy came back, Beatrice was sitting next to the receptionist at her desk.

  ‘Hello, Pulpy!’ she said. ‘Look, I’ve joined the ranks!’ She waggled her ID badge at him and the receptionist glared at her. ‘I’m teaching the secretary about ergonomics. But now it’s time for my lunch break so I’d better get going!’ She stood up. ‘I talked to Midge, did she tell you?’

  The receptionist reached down to readjust the height of her
chair, her gaze moving from Pulpy to Beatrice and back again.

  He cleared his throat. ‘She did, yes.’

  Beatrice clapped her hands. ‘I’m so excited about our girls’ night!’ She turned to the receptionist, who was busy with the back of her chair, removing a beaded net that Pulpy hadn’t seen before. ‘Did you have any questions?’

  The receptionist didn’t say anything.

  ‘Perfect! So I’ll get that survey from you after lunch!’ Beatrice smiled at both of them and headed down the hall toward the staff kitchen.

  ‘What was she talking about?’ said the receptionist. ‘Isn’t Midge your wife?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘I mean yes, Midge is my wife, but I don’t know what Beatrice is talking about.’

  ‘She gave me this stupid back support but I’m not using it.’ She dropped the beads into one of her drawers. They rattled loudly. ‘The first thing she does is, she comes over here and she tells me, “You shouldn’t cross your legs like that. It’s bad for your back and it’s bad for your circulation.” So I said, “Well, how do you cross your legs?” And she said, “I don’t.” And I said, “I’m comfortable this way.” And she said, “I haven’t crossed my legs in years.” And I thought, maybe she wants to sit there with her thighs all spread out over her chair but I sure as hell don’t. I almost said that to her too. But I didn’t. I just kept on crossing my legs.’

  Pulpy’s eyes went to her legs as she spoke. The thigh underneath was distributed across the seat of her chair, and the one overtop appeared smaller. They were both fleshy triangles, starting narrow at her knees and widening further up.

  ‘What are you looking at?’ she said.

  ‘Nothing.’ His face went hot. ‘I was just –’

  She ignored him. ‘The thing is, you trade one evil for another. You either have your thighs all squashed out on the seat or you get varicose veins. You pick your poison. Then she tells me I’m supposed to have my arms in the neutral position when I type. I don’t know what she’s talking about – my arms are just fine, thank you very much.’ She blew out a long breath and put her hands on her desk. ‘And my mug is missing. Have you seen it anywhere?’

  Pulpy took a small step back. ‘What mug do you mean?’

  ‘My duck mug. You haven’t seen it?’

  He creased his forehead and pretended to think for a moment. ‘A duck? Like a nature scene?’

  ‘No! The duck with the glasses on.’

  ‘Sunglasses?’

  ‘No! Glasses like mine. It’s on my desk every day.’

  ‘Ah.’ Pulpy put a finger on his nose. ‘Yes, okay, yes, now I know which one you mean.’ He looked at the floor. ‘I’ll keep an eye out for you.’

  ‘Thanks.’ She smiled at him. ‘You know something? You’re the only one around here who gives a damn about me.’

  ‘Oh, I’m sure that’s not the case.’ Pulpy reached over and gave her shoulder a tentative pat. She closed her eyes and leaned into him, and he pulled away quickly and put his hand in his pocket. ‘I should get upstairs.’

  Pulpy sat at his desk and lifted his knees. His keyboard tray rattled.

  ‘Stupid tray,’ he said.

  ‘Did you say something?’ said Eduardo.

  ‘No.’

  Lift. Rattle.

  ‘Stupid,’ he whispered.

  ‘Now, before you go looking at the menu,’ said Dan, ‘I think I should tell you that the wings here are killer.’

  ‘Killer?’ said Pulpy.

  ‘You can’t go wrong with the wings at this place.’

  ‘All right.’ Pulpy put down the menu, which had sketches of sports equipment on it. ‘You’ve convinced me.’

  ‘You’ll get the wings?’

  ‘I’ll get the wings.’

  ‘Yes!’ Dan smacked his palm on the table.

  Pulpy jumped a little in his chair, which had domed pleather padding on the seat and the arms.

  Their waitress appeared and smiled at them. Her T-shirt was tight. ‘Are you ready to order?’

  ‘You bet we are!’ said Dan. ‘We’ll each get a three-pounder of wings, volcano-style.’

  The waitress started to write on her order pad. She had long nails with a fleur-de-lis pattern on them.

  ‘Volcano?’ said Pulpy.

  ‘They’re hot.’ She stopped writing.

  Pulpy looked at Dan.

  ‘Anything less than volcano and you don’t get the whole experience,’ he said.

  ‘I’m fine with volcano.’ Pulpy smiled at the waitress, and her pen descended again.

  ‘You want another pitcher here?’ she said.

  Pulpy looked at the half-full one already on the table.

  ‘Just keep ’em coming, sweetheart!’ Dan winked at her.

  ‘I’ll be right back.’ She tucked her order pad into her apron and walked away.

  Dan watched her. ‘Now that,’ he said, ‘is something.’

  ‘What?’ said Pulpy.

  Dan grinned at him. ‘Come on.’

  Pulpy focused on a small rip in the red plastic tablecloth.

  The waitress returned with their pitcher and set it down between them. ‘Anything else?’

  Pulpy couldn’t look at her.

  ‘No thanks, sweetheart,’ said Dan. ‘I think we’re perfect.’

  She nodded and left them again.

  Dan leaned forward, putting his arms on the table. His suit jacket was hanging over the back of his chair and he’d loosened his tie. ‘So, Pulpy, what kind of trouble do you think our women are getting into tonight?’

  ‘Trouble?’

  ‘You know.’ Dan reached for the half-finished pitcher. ‘Spending our hard-earned money and all that.’

  ‘Oh, well. Midge earns her own money.’ Pulpy watched the level rise in his glass as Dan filled it up.

  ‘You know what I mean.’ Dan took a long drink of his beer. ‘Damn, this is good beer.’

  Pulpy took a small sip. ‘It’s pretty good.’

  ‘What makes you tick, Pulpy?’

  ‘Pardon?’

  Dan emptied his glass and poured another. ‘What goes on, you know –’ He tapped his own forehead. ‘Up here?’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know.’ Pulpy drank more beer.

  ‘Well, we’re all enigmas, I guess.’ Dan topped him up and raised his own full glass in a toast. ‘Clinky-clink,’ he said. They were onto the next pitcher now.

  ‘Clinky-clink,’ said Pulpy. He was starting to feel a bit unsteady.

  A while later Dan said, ‘You all right?’

  Pulpy wiped his forehead and looked at the dark design his blotted sweat made on the napkin, which had a cartoon of a basketball player slam-dunking a chicken into a vat of sauce. ‘I’m fine, thanks.’

  ‘You didn’t eat that many wings. Look at your bone pile compared to mine.’

  ‘Yours is bigger.’

  ‘I’ll say it is.’ Dan swallowed some beer and then belched softly into his hand.

  Pulpy picked up his glass and pushed his finger through the ring of moisture underneath. ‘This beer stays cold,’ he said.

  ‘It’s a new pitcher.’

  ‘Oh, I forgot.’

  ‘Ha! But who’s counting, right?’ Dan slapped Pulpy’s shoulder, hard enough that Pulpy worried he might spill his beer. He put his glass back down, firmly, and faced his boss across the table. ‘Dan, about the pager, I’ve been thinking about it, and –’

  ‘Pulpy, I need to say something to you. And I’m not saying this to come down on you in any way.’

  Pulpy leaned back a little. ‘Okay.’

  ‘I’m just saying it to get at something else I want to tell you.’

  ‘Sure.’ Pulpy drank some beer.

  ‘Your punctuality is not the best, Pulpy.’

  His stomach made an unruly sound. The wings had been very hot. ‘Yes, you’re right, I’m sorry. Yes, I know that.’

  ‘And most employers would frown upon that. Most employers would, in fact, not condone it.’
r />   ‘Al did,’ said Pulpy in a quiet voice.

  ‘What was that?’

  He cleared his throat. ‘Al didn’t really mind so much, as long as I made up the time at the end of the day.’

  ‘Uh huh. Well, like I was saying, most employers wouldn’t condone it.’ Dan poured more beer for both of them. ‘But I am not most employers, as I’m sure you’ve figured out by now.’

  ‘I have, yes.’

  ‘And I like you, as I’ve said. As I’ve said many times. And when you get right down to it, punctuality doesn’t matter.’

  ‘It doesn’t?’

  ‘No. What matters is that you and I are men of action, and men of action make their own schedules. Pulpy, as of now, you’ve got flex hours.’ Dan selected a mostly eaten wing from his bone pile and put it in his mouth. ‘As of right now.’

  Pulpy watched his boss remove the wing, cleaned of meat, and replace it on the mound. ‘Flex hours?’

  ‘Flex. As in you get to flex your muscle of judgment when it comes to when you arrive at and leave work.’

  ‘Thank you, Dan.’

  ‘Within reason, of course. I mean, we’re still talking eight hours here. As long as you get the job done, and work your full eight hours, I have absolutely no qualms. Think of it as my gift to your marriage.’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘You know. This way, you and Midge in the morning …’ Dan winked. ‘Now you can have more time together.’

  Pulpy frowned a little. ‘I don’t think that’s really any of your –’

  ‘Let’s do a toast to marriage!’ Dan hefted his glass. ‘Clinky-clink!’

  ‘Clinky-clink.’ Pulpy lifted his own glass and touched it to his boss’s. ‘To marriage.’

  Dan tipped his head back and drank.

  Pulpy filled his mouth with beer and slowly let it all go down. The dark room went out of focus for a moment and he put both hands on the table to stabilize himself.

  ‘You okay there, Pulpy? You’re looking a little –’ Dan made a teeter-totter motion with his sauce-spotted hand.

  ‘Well, I’m just – I’m okay.’

  ‘Great.’ Dan poured him another. ‘So, tell me more about Midge. Fill me in on that wife of yours.’