‘Yes.’ Dan kept grinning. ‘You’d better.’
Later that day when Pulpy walked by the receptionist’s desk, he noticed that the fish didn’t look very good. It was barely moving. ‘The fish isn’t looking very good,’ he said to her.
‘What?’ She peered into the murky bowl. ‘Looks fine to me.’
‘Maybe I’ll just change his water again.’
‘Be my guest.’ She refastened the metal clip in her hair. ‘I’m telling you, I cannot wait to take my seminar. It says in the flyer, “Front-line staff need frequent breaks to keep their stress level in check.” Frequent. Not just one, which is what I get. But not her, no. She lectures me on ergonomics and then goes gallivanting off to who knows where. Plus, she’s in the washroom every time I turn around.’
Pulpy lifted the bowl and brought his face close to the glass. There was scum on the sides. ‘Are you feeding him?’
‘What do you mean, am I feeding it? What kind of a person do you think I am?’
‘Just a sprinkle, right?’
‘I don’t know, a shake or two every now and then.’ The receptionist narrowed her eyes at him. ‘Whose fish is it, anyway?’
‘He’s my fish.’
‘Whatever.’ She waved a hand at him. ‘Enjoy.’
He cradled the bowl with one arm. ‘I’ll be right back.’
Pulpy set the fishbowl down, gently, on the counter in the men’s room.
He plugged one of the sinks and turned on the tap. ‘Okay, fish,’ he said when the sink was half full. ‘Here we go.’ He put a hand in to scoop up the fish.
The fish allowed itself to be lifted out.
Pulpy tipped it into the sink water. The fish flicked its fins once and then was still.
‘Hey, fish,’ he said, and poked it in the belly.
The fish let him.
‘You don’t like belly pokes! Get mad!’ said Pulpy. ‘Swim away!’
The fish didn’t move.
‘Hey, fish.’ Pulpy patted the surface of the water, and the fish swayed with the waves he’d made. ‘Don’t,’ he said. ‘You’re okay.’ He emptied the bowl into the other sink and gave it a hard scrub with a length of paper towel. Then he rinsed it out, twice. ‘No wonder you’re miserable. This bowl is dir-ty!’
He filled the bowl with fresh water and set it back on the counter. ‘There we go – your house is clean again.’ He picked up the fish and it flopped into his hand. ‘Flap your gills! Wiggle your tail!’
But the fish didn’t do either.
‘Fish,’ he said. ‘Fish.’
Then the door opened and Roy from Customer Service walked in.
Pulpy dropped the fish into the bowl and started to wash his hands.
‘Hey, Pulpy,’ said Roy. ‘What are you doing over there?’
‘I was changing the fish’s water for the receptionist.’
Roy walked over and put his hands on his hips. ‘Hmm. He doesn’t look good, does he?’
‘I think –’ said Pulpy, horrified to hear his voice catch. ‘I think he’s dead.’
‘Damn,’ said Roy.
Pulpy just nodded.
Roy reached over, awkwardly, and patted Pulpy’s shoulder. Then he put his hands in his pockets.
The two men stood there together, looking at the fishbowl.
Then Roy glanced at his watch. ‘I guess you should take it out to her, huh?’
‘I guess I’d better.’
‘Poor little guy.’ Roy looked at the door.
Pulpy felt tears starting, and he swiped at his eyes. ‘He’s from the winter fair.’
‘The winter fair, eh? How about that.’
There was a knock on the door.
Roy jerked his head around. ‘That must be the cleaner!’
‘Why are you shouting?’ said Pulpy.
‘Just so the cleaner can hear there’s still people in here, so she doesn’t come barging in!’
‘Oh. Well, I guess we’d better go, then.’
‘I’ll see you out there, Pulpy.’ Roy nodded at the stalls.
‘Right. Okay. See you, Roy.’ Pulpy hugged the fishbowl to his chest and left the men’s room. He passed Beatrice on his way back to the welcome area. ‘Hi, Beatrice.’
She was leaning against the wall, and gave him a lazy smile. ‘Hi, Pulpy. What’s that you’ve got there?’
‘It’s my fish.’
‘Oh yeah? I thought it was the secretary’s fish.’
‘He isn’t really anybody’s fish now. He’s dead.’
‘Aw, that’s too bad.’ She smiled again and headed down the hallway.
‘See, there she goes again,’ the receptionist said, and then noticed the fish. ‘What did you do to it?’
Pulpy shook his head. ‘Nothing – I. Nothing.’ He set the fishbowl down on her desk and stood with his hands folded behind him.
‘Here,’ she said, and pushed Beatrice’s chair around for him. ‘Have a seat.’
Pulpy sat.
She held the bowl up to the fluorescent lights. ‘You did a good cleaning job, anyway.’
‘Thanks.’
‘Why didn’t you just flush it?’ The receptionist gave the bowl a little shake and the dead fish wobbled inside.
‘I don’t know.’
She put the bowl down. ‘It was a cheap fish, anyway.’
‘He wasn’t cheap,’ said Pulpy. ‘I won him.’
‘You’re right.’ She nodded. ‘I’m sorry.’
They sat there, together, with the fishbowl between them.
The receptionist lowered her head and peered at Pulpy through the glass. She tapped on the bowl. ‘At least it won’t have to put up with all the crap around here anymore.’
The fishbowl was gone when Pulpy went to get his coat at five o’clock.
‘It’s in the kitchen,’ said the receptionist when she saw him looking for it. ‘The bowl, I mean. I flushed the fish.’
‘Oh.’ He nodded slowly. ‘You can keep the bowl if you want.’
‘What do I need an empty fishbowl for?’ she said.
‘You could get another fish.’
She shook her head. ‘Too much trouble. Besides, I’ve got other plans. I’m saving up money. I’m saving up and I’m going to do something big.’
‘Good for you,’ he said, and found his coat under a poncho and a ski jacket.
She jutted out her chin and scratched the bottom of it. ‘Good for me is right. Good for me and screw everybody else.’
‘Screw them,’ Pulpy said, and then quickly looked around.
‘I have a resignation letter started at home,’ said the receptionist. ‘I could finish it at any time.’
He froze with his coat halfway zipped up. ‘What do you mean? You’re leaving?’
‘Who knows? All I know is, I don’t have to be here.’
‘You can’t leave,’ he said. ‘That means they win.’
‘There are other things I want to do. More important things. I do important things, you know.’
‘I know. This place would fall apart without you.’
‘Not here. When I’m away from here, I mean. On my own time. There are things that I do that are important.’
‘Of course there are.’ He pulled his zipper the rest of the way up, where he could feel the cold metal against his neck. ‘It’s good to do those things. My wife is into candles.’
‘I didn’t plan for this. I didn’t think this was where I would end up. I don’t even want much, you know. All I want is some recognition. I want somebody to say, “You’re doing a good job.”’
‘You’re doing a good job,’ he said.
‘Not you,’ she said, but smiled. ‘Thanks, though.’
‘You’re welcome.’
‘They just have to keep pushing me,’ she said. ‘That’s all they have to do.’
Pulpy stopped at the grocery store on his way home from work.
He walked up and down the baking aisle, but nothing caught his attention. He stopped a clerk who was passing by. ‘Excuse me.’
‘I’m looking for something to make for a potluck.’
‘A what?’
‘A potluck. You know, like a communal lunch? Everybody brings something.’
The kid scratched his neck, which was red with ingrown hairs. ‘What do you usually bring?’
‘That’s what I need help with.’ Pulpy held out his hands. ‘I’ve never been to a potluck before.’
‘Well, me neither.’
‘Something with flour? That’s why I thought the baking aisle.’
‘Sure,’ said the clerk. ‘Flour’s good.’
‘But what should I make with it?’
‘Look, mister, I gotta get back to the meat counter. I’m the only one who knows how to slice. Usually there’s two of us, two slicers. But today it’s just me. So I gotta get back in case there’s something that needs slicing.’
‘Give me one idea first,’ said Pulpy.
The kid put a thumb on his chin. ‘I don’t know, why don’t you buy something pre-made?’
‘But I feel like I should make my contribution myself. From scratch.’ Pulpy plucked a small container of rainbow sprinkles off the shelf next to him and shook it in a slow, halting rhythm. ‘I’m the organizer.’
The deli clerk watched him. ‘I gotta go.’
‘Yes, okay.’ Pulpy put the sprinkles back on the shelf. ‘What should I buy that’s pre-made, then?’
The clerk scratched his neck again. ‘Puff pastry’s a big seller – the already puffed-up kind. It’s in the bakery section with the pies and stuff.’
Pulpy nodded. ‘Thanks.’
‘Sure. Have fun at your potluck.’
Pulpy nodded. ‘I’ll try.’
‘Pre-puffed puff pastry?’ said Midge when Pulpy showed her his purchase.
She was standing by the stove, where two small pots of water were boiling two individual foil packets.
‘The deli clerk recommended it.’
She nudged the plastic-wrapped pastry he was holding. ‘So what are you going to put in it?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘You can’t have puff pastry plain. You have to fill it with something. Like whipped cream or soup mix.’
‘Midge, those are two very different things.’
‘Puff pastry is versatile like that. You can put anything in it.’
‘The clerk didn’t say anything about putting something inside it.’ He leaned toward the boiling water and sniffed.
‘He probably didn’t know.’ She waved him away from the stove. ‘You can’t smell anything from those – they’re sealed.’ She put on oven mitts and then used tongs to flip the foil packets over.
Pulpy shrugged. ‘He seemed like a smart kid.’
‘Well, he doesn’t know about puff pastry.’ Midge put lids on the two pots. ‘Dinner’s going to be ready in ten minutes.’
Pulpy tucked the pastry under one arm and started opening the kitchen cabinets. ‘Do we have something I can use for a filling?’
Midge thought for a minute. ‘We might have some nuts.’
‘Nuts aren’t a filling,’ he said. ‘Do we have any jelly?’
‘We have Peach Delight jam. Everybody likes peach. You should wait until tomorrow to put it in, though, or else it’ll get soggy.’ She took the length of flaky pastry from him and held it at arm’s length. ‘This is for Dan’s potluck?’
‘I’m the one organizing it.’ He took the pastry from her, and then he sucked in a breath. ‘Oh, no.’
‘What?’ said Midge. ‘Are you okay?’
He set the pastry on the counter and walked out of the kitchen and across the living room to the coat tree. ‘I didn’t send the potluck email.’ He put on his coat and boots. ‘I have to send it before tomorrow.’
‘Where are you going? What about dinner?’
‘I have to do this, Midge, I’m sorry. I’ll be back soon.’
‘I don’t like this.’ Midge crossed her arms. She still had the oven mitts on. ‘I don’t like this one bit. He’s got too much control over you.’
‘Midge, he’s my boss.’
‘And I’m your wife.’
‘I promise I’ll be back soon.’
‘I don’t like him, Pulpy.’
He paused with his hand on the doorknob. ‘You didn’t seem to mind telling him all about candles the other night.’
She opened and closed her mouth. ‘But I told you –’
He shook his head. ‘Sorry. Forget I said that.’
‘Go and send your email. Mr. Fins will have dinner with me.’ She let her arms fall to her sides and the oven mitts fell off, one at a time, and landed with soft whaps at her feet. ‘You never even talk about your fish at work. You haven’t even given him a name.’
He heaved open the door. ‘I’ll be back soon.’
The welcome area looked lonely without the receptionist. Pulpy kept his coat on and headed upstairs to his desk.
He waited for his computer to warm up and then clicked on his email. He started composing a new message with ‘POTLUCK TODAY!’ in the subject line. Then he cursored back and changed it to ‘Potluck today!’, which looked less frantic.
He realized then that he didn’t know where Dan planned on holding the party, so he typed underneath, ‘Potluck lunch Tuesday. Sign-up sheet in the kitchen. Location of potluck TBA.’
He also didn’t know when it was supposed to start. ‘Start time TBA.’ He finished off with ‘All welcome!’ Pulpy read the whole thing over, nodded and hit Send.
Then he checked his Inbox. There were two messages waiting for him, one from Dan and one from the receptionist. He opened Dan’s first.
‘I’m very disappointed you didn’t send the email,’ it said. Pulpy frowned and pressed Delete. Then he leaned in a little and opened the email from the receptionist.
Back when he’d first met her and then forgotten her name, he figured he’d find it out as soon as she emailed him. But then he’d received a company-wide email from her and her name wasn’t in her address – just ‘secretary@.’ Which she hated as much as her desk nameplate.
This time the email from her was a forward. Pulpy started reading and then stopped and minimized the window. It was a rude forward. And he was the only recipient.
His finger hovered over the Delete key, then pulled back. He took a hasty look around the empty office and returned to the email. It was a list of riddles, each of them using racy language to describe a mystery object. The first one was, ‘You put your finger in me and play with me when you’re bored. What am I?’ Pulpy gaped. He looked left and right, and then took off his coat and hung it over his chair.
The next riddle read, ‘I come and stuff your box. What am I?’
I don’t know, thought Pulpy, and then he heard a noise.
He jumped and punched Close, harder than he meant to, and swivelled guiltily around in his chair.
‘Mmm!’
It was the same noise he’d heard in the bathroom before, but this time it was coming from down the hall. He turned off his computer and pushed his chair back, carefully. Then he stood up and walked quietly toward Dan’s office.
‘Mmm!’
Dan’s door was half-open and the sounds were coming from inside. Pulpy held his breath and peeked in.
There were two pairs of feet wiggling on the floor behind Dan’s desk.
‘Mmm, Eduardo!’
Pulpy shook his head. That Eduardo, he thought, and started to tiptoe away.
‘Beatrice, you rock me,’ said Eduardo’s voice.
Pulpy stopped with one foot in the air, then lost his balance. His arms flailed out and he put a hand on the wall to steady himself.
‘Did you hear something?’ said Eduardo.
‘No, did you?’
Pulpy stood there, his eyes wide.
The feet behind the desk stopped wiggling.
‘Maybe I’ll go check,’ said Eduardo. ‘The Building Maintenance guy might still be around.’
‘No, he’s not – I saw him leave. I’m sure it’s nothing.’ Beatrice giggled, and there was a light slapping sound. ‘Now pay attention to me!’
‘Ouch!’ said Eduardo. ‘Now you’re going to get it.’
Beatrice squealed, and Pulpy ran for the stairs.
‘What was that?’ said Eduardo. ‘That was definitely something.’
Pulpy yanked the front door open, and only when the cold hit him did he realize he’d left his coat on his chair.
The next morning Pulpy and Midge were eating margarine on toast and mango-flavoured peaches from a can.
‘I’m sorry I missed dinner,’ he said.
She shrugged. ‘It tasted like tinfoil, anyway.’
He folded a piece of his triangle-shaped toast in half to make a smaller triangle. ‘I thought you might wait up.’
‘I was tired. Did you send your email?’
He nodded and made another fold in his toast, then flattened it. ‘Are you all right?’
Her forehead creased into a zigzag, and she pushed her chair back. ‘I’m going to feed Mr. Fins.’
Pulpy watched her walk out of the kitchen and down the hall. He tasted blood on the roof of his mouth from the toast’s rough edges.
‘Hello, Mr. Fins,’ he heard her say from the bedroom. ‘Are you hungry?’
He took a sip of coffee and swished it around in his mouth, then winced when ragged bits of skin flapped in the current.
Midge came back and sat down, and sighed over her peaches. ‘He doesn’t seem to have any appetite these days.’ She slurped up a slick, golden wedge, and the tip of it wriggled between her lips.
‘Why do these peaches taste like mangos?’ he said.
‘They’re peaches in mango essence. It says on the label.’
‘Why would they cover up the taste like that? Everybody likes peach.’ He smiled at her.
She didn’t smile back.
‘I’d better get my puff pastry ready.’
She retied the bow that held her robe closed. ‘I guess you’d better.’
He picked up a knife and sliced the pastry down the middle. Then he opened the fridge and took out their jar of Peach Delight jam and spread it up and down the soft centre.
Midge kept eating.
Pulpy and Midge Page 12