by Lisa Lim
“I-I think my back is broken.” I collapse onto the floor and spread my arms and legs out eagle-style.
Even Mika is slightly out of breath. “You okay, Maddy?”
I whimper, “I think I’m going to die.”
Karsynn surveys the damaged goods (Mika and I) with both hands on hips. “You two did a great job.”
I glare at her with an expression of an axe murderer.
All she did was scream, “A little to the left, a little to the right.”
In a futile attempt to redeem herself, Kars begins handing out bottles of Fiji water. “You two take it easy. I’ll be arranging the furniture.”
“Go right ahead.” I lie lifeless on the floor, while Kars shuffles a coffee table around me.
Mika hauls himself off the countertop. “I’ll help you out,” he offers and gets right to work.
I refuse to budge. My joints have swelled up so much it looks like I’m suffering from elephantiasis.
And when I move my knees, I hear a “Snap, Crackle, and Pop” sound.
I’ll surely need to see a chiropractor after this debacle.
On a positive note, this whole experience has given me a newfound respect for Two Men and a Truck Co. and Starving Students Moving Company.
Fully exhausted after the Big Move, we gather in the kitchen to replenish our fluids.
“Mika, we want to treat you to a nice meal for helping us. Pick a restaurant,” I say, crossing my arms.
Mika mimics me. He folds his arms across his chest and leans his sexy, sweaty body against the refrigerator.
“Nah, you girls don’t have to buy me dinner. It was nothing.”
Kars grumbles, “Just tell us where you want to go eat! We’re friggin’ starving here.”
“In that case, what about IHOP?” he suggests.
“IHOP? You want pancakes for dinner?” I ask, just to be sure and he nods. “Mika,” I say mildly, “I love breakfast any time of the day, but we want to take you to a nice restaurant, somewhere slightly more upscale. I’m sorry, but the International House of Pancakes is not a restaurant. It’s a diner. And we can make you pancakes any day.”
“Yeah! Now hurry up and pick a nice restaurant.” Kars taps her foot impatiently.
“How about Red Lobster? Ingeborg’s working there tonight, and I have to pick her up after her shift ends.”
“Red Lobster it is.” I slide off the kitchen countertop.
Mika looks from me to Kars. “Do I have time to go home and take a shower?”
“NO!” we holler in unison.
Red Lobster is an absolute madhouse and the flustered hostess informs us it’ll be a forty minute wait. Figures; it’s a Saturday night. So we sit and wait like hungry wolves.
I spot Ingeborg at the bar and nudge Mika, gesturing in her direction. But he already sees her.
Gak! My mind has a hard time parsing the sequence of events that follow. Ingeborg is flirting with some old geezer. Now, geriatric geezers can be vaguely attractive, especially if they resemble silver haired foxes the likes of Richard Gere, Liam Neeson, Colin Firth, Rufus Sewell, Eric Bana and Clooney. Heck, I’ll even lump centenarian Clint Eastwood into that category.
But this particular geezer isn’t a silver haired fox. In fact, he’s a hairless Sharpei, and his splotchy paws are mauling the fair Ingeborg.
Sharpei leans forward and whispers something in Ingeborg’s ear. Giggling like a schoolgirl, she spills onto his lap.
The Sharpei morphs into a massage monster, squeezing and kneading her flesh like dough. And sweet Ingeborg seems to be enjoying it in a very uninhibited way.
I stare agog.
Kars is gawking.
Mika’s face is ashen.
At once, he springs to his feet and advances on them.
“Uh oh,” I groan.
Mika stands rigidly behind Ingeborg and the Sharpei, his jaw clenched and his fists balled.
“Yeah! You go get him, Mika! Deck him! Pummel and pumice him to a pulp! Rearrange his face!” Karsynn riles.
I shush her. “Kars! This isn’t funny!”
Mika’s face tightens as they continue with their shenanigans.
I can’t believe it! Ingeborg and Sharpei are so enamored with each other that they’re totally oblivious to Mika.
After an excruciatingly painful minute, he taps Ingeborg on her shoulder. She cranes her neck and nearly jumps out of her skin.
“Busted,” blurts Kars.
“She’s got Mika,” I say, clearly stupefied. “What is she doing with some dude who looks like a cross between an old dyke and a Sharpei?”
“Who knows? If she wanted to date an aging, bitchy lezzie, she could’ve just hooked up with Hillary.”
Mika and Ingeborg appear to be in a heated argument.
I strain my ears to listen, but can barely make out a word.
Seeing his opening for escape, Sharpei scampers off with his tail tucked between his legs. How cowardly!
Meanwhile, Ingeborg and Mika are still squabbling like a pair of seagulls. Suddenly, Ingeborg spins on her heels and darts into the kitchen, and poor Mika just stands there, looking positively crushed. Eventually, he makes his way back to us.
I shoot him a look of concern, unsure of what to say.
So I say nothing.
But Kars, as usual, can’t keep her trap shut. “So, I guess Ingeborg’s robbing the grave,” she says in a cavalier fashion.
I stare at Kars mutinously. If looks could kill, she’d be dead as a dodo. Releasing a nervous laugh, I turn to Mika. “Pay no attention to her, Mika.”
His lips fall into a sharp line and he seems preoccupied with his thoughts. The atmosphere is tense to say the least.
“Maddy, table for three,” announces the chirpy hostess.
I drag my heels across the floor and poise myself for a painful and uncomfortable evening.
Ah, it sure feels good to be home in our new crib. I’m so stuffed I can hardly walk.
I ordered the Ultimate Feast and I annihilated my entrée.
Oh, and I polished everything off Mika’s plate as well since, barely a minute into our meal, Mika lost his appetite.
But I don’t blame him and I’m sure no one of good conscience could. Heck, if I saw some cougar rubbing up all over my man, I’d lose my appetite too.
Swollen and engorged, I waddle to the sofa and sink into the cushions with a sated sigh. Stifling a yawn, I rest one hand over my belly.
Gosh. I look like I’m in my third trimester. I think I may be having twin food babies.
Kars flops onto the sofa. “I’ve never seen Mika so pissed. Did you see him stabbing that lobster with his fork? He looked like he was trying to kill that poor thing and it was already dead.”
“I know.” I pat my protruding belly. “Good thing I rescued it.”
We sit there for a while in silence, letting our food digest.
Kars looks pensive, and I can tell by the look on her face that she’s about to go off on one of her psych spiels.
And I’m right.
“I have a theory,” begins Kars, “about Ingeborg. You know what her problem is?”
I smile indulgently. “No, pray tell, Dr. Higginbotham.”
“She suffers from the Electra complex. Yep! Siggy Freud came up with that one. It’s the female version of the Oedipus complex. Although I don’t think she has ‘penis envy’ like Freud proposes; I think her dad was probably absent for most of her life, and now she’s looking for some old geezer to replace him. You know, to fill this fatherless vacuum in her life.”
I laugh out loud. “Kars, both you and I lost our fathers pretty early on in our lives (while I lost my dad to cancer, Kars had lost hers to the State Penitentiary). So how come we’re not hooking up with older men?”
She wrinkles her brows. “How do you know we’re not?”
Her words seem loaded with potential meaning. “What are you talking about?”
“Nothing,” she says with a mysterious smile.
; Languorously, I stretch my legs. “I’m just going to vegetate here all night.”
Kars hops off the sofa. “Okay, I’m heading out.”
I jerk my head up. “Huh? Where?”
“Somewhere,” she says vaguely.
I eye her with considerable suspicion.
“Speaking of which, I must get ready now.” She skips to her room and slams the door.
“You’re going out? At this hour?” I holler. “With whom???”
No response.
I plump up the cushions and wait for Kars to emerge from her room. I need to grill her for more details.
But my eyelids feel so heavy…
They flitter and flutter like butterflies, and soon drift close.
I’d had an inkling Kars was seeing someone. Unbeknownst to me, that someone works right under the call center roof. Tongues are wagging and rumor is swirling around the center that Kars has hooked up with Bob Seely.
What can I say about Bob? Well, he’s a slimy supervisor. Not to mention, he’s barrel-chested with Buddha tits, his hairline is rapidly receding, his teeth yellowing, his wardrobe screams for a makeover, and he walks around with permanent sweat stains under his pits. And worst of all, he’s married! MARRIED!
My new cubicle neighbor, Truong Nguyen, broke this shocking news to me today. Apparently, Truong heard it through the grapevine that is creeping out of control.
And by the way, the girl who used to sit by me is gone. WOOT! WOOT!
I think her name was Nina, or was it Mina? Anyway, she was appallingly arrogant, with an ego the size of two continents.
Seriously, that girl lacked a modesty chip in her brain. All day long she bragged about how wonderful she was, how wonderful the callers thought she was. Incidentally, she’d been voted employee of the month, for twelve consecutive months in a row, and her plaques were displayed on every inch of her cubicle wall.
She really bugged me. I wasn’t jealous of her or anything like that; it was her whole I’m-better-than-thou attitude that really got under my skin.
I remember a time when she peered over my cubicle wall and smirked, “Hey, did you get nominated for the Excellent Service and Sales Award last month?”
“No,” I gritted curtly.
“Well I did, and I WON. Again. Tee-hee-hee,” she crowed hysterically.
Give me a friggin’ break. Who the hell cares?
So I basically ignored her most of the time, which mind you, was quite an arduous task since she encroached upon my space and tried to get in my face every chance she got. And now that the bitch is gone, I welcome Truong with open arms.
“How do I pronounce your name?” I ask my new neighbor. “I want to make sure I say it right.”
Truong smiles pleasantly. “It’s like the word trunk, you know, like tree trunk, but with a ‘g’ at the end instead. Or, you can just call me Trunk.”
My gaze shifts down to his scrawny chicken legs. He looks severely underfed. All skin and bones. A bag of bones.
Calling him Twig would be more suitable than Trunk. So I decide to pass on Trunk and try his real name.
“Okay, Truong,” I say, testing the waters. “How’s that?”
“You nailed it.” He beams and begins unpacking.
Humming a happy tune, he sets a ceramic rooster on his desk and steps back to admire it.
“Oh! You collect roosters!” I exclaim delightedly. “I adore the chic French Country theme. Or are you trying to create a Rustic Barnyard look?”
“No, Maddy. This is not a looster,” he tactfully corrects. “This is a cock.”
There is a slight pause as I digest this. It becomes apparent to me that Truong can’t pronounce the letter ‘R’. And a rooster and a cock essentially mean the same thing—they’re both male chickens, so he must prefer the word ‘cock’ for obvious reasons.
“Oh…” I trail off. “Well how cute.” I cast a lopsided grin.
“Um-hmm,” he hums, angling the cock a smidgen to the right.
Since Truong appears absorbed with this task, I reach for my latest issue of US Weekly.
“Maddy?” he purrs, as I’m leafing through the pages.
I jerk my head up. “Yeah?”
His eyes glint with mischief. “Would you like to stroke my cock?”
I’m rendered speechless. And when it finally sinks in, I giggle good-naturedly. “Truong, cut it out!”
Truong is what you’d call a flamer, he’s very much on the frou-frou side. He dons a Hermès scarf to work every day, year round. Always dapper and debonair, he exudes a sort of Parisian air.
So really, it should come as no surprise that Truong collects cocks. And what a collection he has!
My mouth slackens as he whips out rooster after rooster. Soon, his whole desk is cramped with cocks.
Gawping at his colorful collection, I ask, “Truong, weren’t you on Dawson’s team before?”
He nods in affirmation and continues decorating his cubicle with finesse and flair. I watch, slightly entranced. Every cock is meticulously and aesthetically placed for optimal serenity and balance. Very feng shui, if I may add.
“Well, why did they move you here?” I probe, seized by a surge of hope that perhaps they fired that bragasaurus Mina or Nina whatsherface.
“My Not Ready time sucks, so I’m sentenced to time in the Not Ready correctional facility.”
“Ahh, I see.” I smile, feeling a sudden kinship with Truong.
I can already tell we’re going to become chummy friends.
“Well, Truong, welcome to Gulag camp,” I say cheerfully.
He snickers. “Hopefully Hillary doesn’t break me.”
I give a little laugh. “Let’s hope not! What would this center do without the ABC?”
Truong is known in this center as the ABC. And no, he is not American Born Chinese. Truong is 100% Vietnamese.
He’s called the ABC because he’s the first to broadcast any news, gossip, scandal and hearsay. Seriously, Truong is a Perez Hilton in the making.
And today, the latest and juiciest news to hit the wires involves my best friend. I’m completely thrown when Truong gives me the exclusive on Kars and Bob the Married Man.
“It can’t be true,” I cry in a strangled voice.
Karsynn would never stoop to something this low. She dated plenty of losers in college, but they were never married.
“Well, you know what they say.” He flicks his scarf. “Where there’s smoke, there’s fire.”
But I still don’t believe it. Not until I hear it from the horse’s mouth. I need to talk to Kars about this in person—right now, as a matter of fact.
Beep!
I guess the inquisition will have to wait.
“Thanks for calling Lightning Speed Communications. This is Maddy, how can I help?” I flip through my new tabloid magazine; it’s a much needed distraction from this scandal that Karsynn’s purportedly embroiled in.
The caller demands in a distinctly British accent, “Oiiii! AM I CALLING BLOODY INDIA?!?”
“Yes sir, you’re calling India. And I’m a slumdog living in the slums of Mumbai,” I inform him blandly. “Happy now?”
“Ecstatic,” he says with contempt.
Sheesh! Right this minute, I wish I was actually Indian so I can rant ‘And you’re a bloody British Imperialist who colonized my country for centuries, exploiting my good people.’
“And I’ll bet you’re reading some daft tabloid magazine like People,” spits the hoity-toity, Earl Grey tea drinking bastard.
Bwarhahaha! I’m laughing inside. Yes, I happen to be reading a gossip mag. But it’s not People, it’s US Weekly.
Nevertheless, I refuse to dignify his asinine question with an answer. I mean, c’mon already. What does he expect me to say? That I’m reading Hemmingway? Nietzsche? Rushdie? Or Dostoyevsky? Shakespeare perhaps?
D’oh! I can’t focus on heavy lit when I have a job to do.
Reading tabloids uses zero brain cells; hence it is very work appropriate
.
“Go on. Tell me,” he taunts. “You’re reading People magazine, aren’t you?” he repeats snidely.
Disdaining to answer him, I get straight down to business. “Sir, I’ll need to ask you a few questions to verify you.”
“WHAT?” he barks and goes ape shit on me. “BLOODY NORA! THIS IS BOLLOCKS! SHITE MAN, WHAT MORE DO YOU WANT FROM ME? YOU WANT MY FARKIN BLOOD TYPE??? MY DNA?”
Cor Blimey. Holy London Bridge Is Falling Down. This bloke swears like Gordon Ramsay. In training, I learned the term for what this dick is trying to do. He’s trying to ‘hook’ me by pushing all my red buttons, hoping to get some sort of a reaction out of me.
And, I’m supposed to stay calm by not taking his ‘bait.’
This jerk is such a class act that I simply refuse to give him the satisfaction of taking his bait. Over my dead body!
Taking a sharp intake of breath, I press on, “No sir, I do not need your blood type, nor do I need your DNA,” I say in a calm and collected manner. “But what I do need is your first and last name.”
The fact that I do not take his ‘bait’ only serves to infuriate him further. He continues hurling obscenities at me.
“FARK MAN! YOU HAVE ALL MY INFORMATION YOU NINCOMPOOP! I PUNCHED IT ALL IN BEFORE I EVEN GOT TO YOU!”
“I apologize sir, but I never got it. So I will need to verify you again,” I say breezily.
“YOU FOCKIN IGNORANT MORONIC TWAT! YOU’RE RUBBISH! RUBBISH! THIS IS A FOCKIN CHARADE AND I’M NOT DEALING WITH THIS FOCKIN SHIT! SOD OFF AND GET ME YOUR SODDING SUPERVISOR!”
“One moment please,” I sing-song sweetly.
Sure thing you filthy, foul mouthed bloke! Swearing every two seconds just showcases your limited vocabulary. But I do find it mildly amusing when Brits use the word ‘sod.’ Although I am fully aware of its intended meaning, it always reminds me of a chunk of lawn.
I jab the HOLD button and saunter to The Führer’s lair.
She’s not there, and so I wander through the maze of cubicles, trying to track her down. It doesn’t take long, since she is Hillary the GIANT Not Ready Nazi after all.
I spot her chatting with another supervisor.