Don't Try This at Home

by Ellee Hill

  Roe laughed. It sounded like a ripple of melted chocolate. “I’m glad you approve. And I’m grateful to have your technical expertise to rely on during this launch; I can massage the prospective buyers, but I’m afraid I’m helpless with this particular software.”

  “Oh, well, I’m great with software and helpless at massage.”

  They both paused, and Roe was clearly stifling another laugh.

  Matt sighed, wanting to heave himself out of the nearest window. Stupid shatterproof corporate glass.

  Roe said, his voice still rich and melting, “Well, maybe we can engage in a little cross-training.” He paused, as though waiting for Matt’s dick to make up its mind; Semi-hard or hard? Okay, hard. Definitely hard. Then he pressed Matt’s shoulder casually and stepped away. “Ciao.”

  Matt fell in love. It felt a little bit like an anvil to the forehead, but that was unsurprising. He never did anything gracefully.

  MATT had been a senior manager at Dymond Solutions for five of his twenty-eight years. Twenty-eight was a little young to be the senior manager of anything, even considering how new the company was, but Matt had a real gift: he could fix or repair almost any piece of hardware or software, and what he couldn’t fix, he could fake. In the eyes of Mandy and Des, Dymond’s owners, that qualified him to manage the IT department. And in an office with only twenty-five employees, that meant he was the IT department.

  He looked like the office handyman, a low-slung tool belt around his hips and an anti-static Velcro strap around his wrist, crawling beneath desks to untangle cords and reroute CAT5 cables, dust in his short brown hair, totally absorbed in the machines. But there were other times when he dressed up and assisted with the sales pitches, demonstrating the marketing expertise that Dymond sold. Matt was there to handle any video, graphics, or sound problems. He could do anything with a machine or a mouse, so long as he remained silent and focused. His coworkers affectionately referred to him as the Lone Wrangler, a trusty, dependable figure.

  There were other nicknames for Matt that were less complimentary.

  For instance, the term around the office for a social faux pas so glaring that it could render even the sales department speechless was a “Mattastrophe.”

  Like the day he’d first met Brenda, the new receptionist, and complimented her on the fit of her bra. She had just stared at him. Matt had waved his hands and said, “I just mean from an engineering standpoint. It’s really nicely put together. I’m not even looking at your breasts,” he said, his eyes fixed on her breasts.

  Brenda had given him a bright I-am-the-face-of-an-advertising-agency smile and said, “Thank you, Matt. Is there anything else we need to discuss?”

  “No,” he’d said, wilting. “Except maybe forget that I exist or that this conversation ever happened?”

  “Oh, how I wish I could,” Brenda had replied sweetly. Unlike Matt, she had just noticed Terry leaving the room with a distinctly filled-with-gossip expression. The story had spread through the entire office within fifteen minutes. Word had quickly gotten back to Brenda that Matt was gay, which she openly doubted for weeks afterward. A textbook Mattastrophe.

  Only Matt could mess up a conversation to the point where he was repeatedly insulting not only the hearer, but bystanders as well. Only Matt could turn any remark into unintentional innuendo, insult, or offense. If you greeted Matt while he was working on hardware beneath a desk or table, he always banged his head before turning to return the greeting. Always. Everybody knew not to speak to him when he was beneath injurious surfaces. Only Matt could irritate Des—a generally unflappable stoic—so many times that Des refused to communicate with Matt via any medium but e-mail.

  Only Matt was capable of the worst flub-ups and incapable of any improvement whatsoever in his broken social skills.

  There was an even worse category of Matt-related error: on the level of a “cataclysm”, there was the dreaded Mattaclysm. That conversation Matt had with a client when he somehow turned the subject from footwear to pedophilia? A Mattaclysm. It had cost Dymond a very profitable project. Any other employee would have been fired immediately, but Matt was too valuable to the office, and against all odds, most of the office liked him. He needed every bit of those advantages after another incident, where he had tried to keep Luandra from Accounts Payable from tripping over some copier parts scattered across the floor. That particular good deed had not only torn her skirt past the modesty threshold, but broken the color copier past repair. Another Mattaclysm.

  Two facts kept Dymond from firing him and arbitrating a nasty sexual harassment lawsuit: first, Luandra was a long-time employee who knew all about Matt, and second, everybody knew Matt would never tear a woman’s clothing deliberately. Had there been any doubt of that, his response to Luandra’s habit of going commando beneath her pantyhose—a startled yelp of “Oh my God, vagina!” while scrambling to get away—pretty much ratified the point. Which was how the copier got broken: a mad scramble to flee vagina. Matt’s ensuing apology and attempt to reassure Luandra that he wasn’t actually terrified of her nether regions was a spectacular conversational disaster.

  Luandra had always liked Matt, but she was angry and humiliated, and Umberto—who was the entire Human Resources department—had to deliver a very stern lecture to the entire office that nobody was to ever refer to, or joke about, the incident again. It didn’t stop a couple of the web designers from occasionally squeaking, “Oh my God, vagina!” when Luandra walked by, but when Matt himself threatened (in surprisingly calm, cogent language) to rip them limb from limb if they ever made fun of her again, it did a lot to mollify the entire situation. Matt, for all his social helplessness, was built like a middleweight boxing champion. It didn’t stop people from mocking him over the incident, but that was only because he didn’t bother defending himself, as he also considered the whole thing just one more tribute to his massive imbecility.

  As far as Matt was concerned, falling in love with Roe had the potential to be the worst Mattaclysm yet to occur in the present age.

  Theodoro had walked into the office two weeks earlier, an experienced sales associate, primed and ready to make Dymond a serious contender among tech advertisers. His suits were sleek and fitted, his manners perfect, his whole being absolutely calibrated to entice and charm everybody he encountered. But those traits hardly set him apart from the majority of pitchmen any corporation might bring in to schmooze and caress their customers. Nor were his dark, classically aquiline features and perfect smile anything unusual. Even the waving sweep of luscious dark hair had been trademarked: Second Release of New Salesman’s Italian Wave™. Every hairdresser had it tacked on their wall.

  What set Roe apart from the typical salesman was a certain tinge of authenticity. His demeanor and words never limited themselves to “Let me seduce you.” They moved into the far more difficult realm of “You can trust me.” He had a reputation for never selling a product he didn’t believe in, and he never pressed a customer unless he was absolutely sure the product would provide for their particular need. He made the truth glossy, and he did it well, but Roe never put the gloss on without a truth beneath it. His years in sales had cemented his reputation for always pushing a valuable product, and many of his clients followed him to Dymond when he sought employment there. Roe was honest, capable, personable, and relentlessly profitable.

  He was obscenely perfect in every possible way.

  Everybody loved him from the moment he stepped into the office, and he was the type of attractive that had all the women quickly complaining that all the good men were gay (a complaint that was somehow never applied to Matt). So Matt’s infatuation had only been a matter of time. Matt had known about Theodoro for days, but they hadn’t crossed paths, despite Matt having to familiarize himself with a couple of the projects Roe was working on.

  Then they met in person, the day of the presentation. Matt had already been installed at the computer before Roe walked in and began the show, and the sight of Roe entering
the room struck him dumb. Roe was a vision, assertive and smiling, immediately confident, immediately everyone’s most entertaining friend and most trusted counselor; slender, older, perhaps thirty-six, maybe forty, it was hard to tell. He looked ageless and untarnished. He also looked accomplished and successful. And gorgeous. In Matt’s eyes, that all added up to “completely unattainable.”

  Roe had tossed Matt a smile like a party favor, a smile that said You are the one I was hoping to see! and then he had begun the presentation without pausing once, which was fortunate, as it gave Matt no time to panic. Matt had drawn himself together and immersed himself in the software. But Roe’s voice was warm and confident and sexy and as distracting as a stroking hand, and by the end of the show, Matt’s lower lip was swollen from chewing on it.

  And then, their awkward conversation. In which Matt had abruptly informed Roe that he hated him. A classic Mattastrophe, and yet, Roe had somehow turned the moment into something less disastrous. It was like a magic trick.

  But the whole situation would doubtless be a horrifying disaster of epic proportions. Matt’s relationships—all two of them—had proved the pattern: nobody was accident-proof enough to cover his accident-proneness. And Roe was the new office darling, too valuable to risk. Matt was absolutely sure of it: this time, he would finally do something so awful that Des and Mandy would decide he’d outlived his value and fire him. Roe, who he was absolutely smitten with, would hate him. Matt would never make it through a new job interview. He would end up collecting cans on the street for recycling money. He would die single and fat, living in his elderly aunt’s basement apartment. The woe was unspeakable.

  There was no way to fix it and no way to avoid it, so he decided to just bear it and wait for the inevitable conclusion.

  And anyway, Haman’s printer was jammed, so Matt had work to do.

  From: Thompson, Theodoro

  To: Gaijeski, Matthew

  Subject: Ideas on a new line

  Hi there, Matt! Apologies for not coming to talk to you about this in person or at least giving you a call, but I’m on the road right now and the cell reception here sucks. E-mail it must be. I have some ideas for a new line of hard-copy advertising that I think would really benefit some of our top priority clients. I was wondering if you would help me refine those ideas into something salable. Take a look at the attached flyer demos, tell me what you think, and please be very honest! I can take the hit.

  Roe

  From: Gaijeski, Matthew

  To: Thompson, Theodoro

  Subject: Re: Ideas on a new line

  Hi, Roe. Took a look at the flyers, and they’re loud and pretentious at the same time. I’m impressed. How the hell did you manage both?

  I assume you want to attach these to Galex monitors and CPUs pre-shipment. Well, you’re pushing the wrong stuff. Hardware peripherals are something you start to shove on a new computer owner either just at purchase, or after they’ve had a while to get to know their unit. When they’re still a noob, what you want to push is extra software, because the minute they start that machine up, it’s like a great big blank page they’ll want to fill up with doohickeys and bullshit.

  As far as the loud-and-pretentious thing goes, I’m no graphic designer, but my eyes hurt just looking at it.

  Decent idea, though.

  Matt

  From: Thompson, Theodoro

  To: Gaijeski, Matthew

  Subject: Re: Ideas on a new line

  Matt, you are one straight shooter, and I like you even more now. You wouldn’t believe how difficult it is to get truly helpful criticism out of Sales or Design. I may be running all my formats and pitches by you in the future… you have the benefit of not being a stakeholder. If a product sucks, you have nothing to lose by saying so, because you haven’t spent thirty hours developing it. Can I count on you for future assistance?

  See the new drafts. I took to heart your advice and aimed the new text at software, focusing on a few products that Galex wants to push out. I managed to include one of our other vendors, which should make Des a very happy camper.

  My pretentiousness, alas, is incurable (you have met me, right?), but the overly ostentatious fonts and color bars have been neatened up and scaled down.

  Thanks again for your input….

  Roe

  From: Gaijeski, Matthew

  To: Thompson, Theodoro

  Subject: Re: Ideas on a new line

  Dude. Seriously? You THANKED me for the e-mail I sent you? I was kicking myself in the head for hours afterward. I basically told you that a really good idea of yours sucked.

  But apparently that was helpful to you, so okay?

  Looked at the new drafts. The font is better. Oh God please do not push that antivirus company that Galex is in bed with. That program is a top-heavy fucking resource hog that makes nurseries full of baby Jesuses cry themselves to sleep every night. It sucks like a Hoover with an oral fixation. I have had to reconfigure machines at the BIOS level because of that godawful shitware.

  I was going to say that you were pretentious in a cool way, but you kinda took that one in stride, so okay.

  Matt

  From: Thompson, Theodoro

  To: Gaijeski, Matthew

  Subject: Re: Ideas on a new line

  Hi, Matt! Got it. No antivirus. I heard a reliable rumor that Galex will soon be installing the antivirus on their PCs pre-shipment anyway, so there’s no need to pitch it. I wish I were telling you this horrifying news in person so that I could hear your lengthy and profane reaction to it. I confess that I laughed at the mini-rant in your last e-mail for five full minutes before the stewardess popped by and kindly asked me to stop; your ire is inspiring.

  I saw that you crossed out the second line on flyer 2; would you tell me where you were going with that?

  Once again, you’re a champ, cheesy as that sounds. I wish I could just take you with me on business trips to bounce ideas off you. And I’m delighted that my pretension meets your approval, as you seem to have discriminating tastes.

  Roe

  From: Gaijeski, Matthew

  To: Thompson, Theodoro

  Subject: Re: Ideas on a new line

  You can bounce if you like, and I wish I could come on business trips, but without me in the office, who would break shit and then fix it again?

  Line 2 sounded stupid. I know this because I make a habit of saying stupid things, and we stupid-thing-sayers can spot our own spitballs from miles away. See? That sentence probably didn’t even make sense. But “Happy customers are our most valuable resource” isn’t something you wrote, so I don’t even feel bad saying it. It’s something Sonya wrote three years ago and we’ve been plastering it all over our pitches ever since, and every single time we say it, we lose brain cell credits on the stock market.

  So Galex is going to put the Antivirus of Evil on their units pre-shipment.

  Pardon me while I go outside and cry.

  Matt

  From: Thompson, Theodoro

  To: Gaijeski, Matthew

  Subject: Re: Ideas on a new line

  Don’t cry. I’ll be there tomorrow and we can discuss the disaster in person.

  Roe

  MATT stared at the e-mail. Even if Matt’s communication style via e-mail was a little bit more refined, it usually still resulted in disasters. But not this time. Somehow, Roe had managed to navigate all of Matt’s persistently off-putting tactlessness, even seeming to enjoy it. It made absolutely no sense at all. He wondered if Roe were maybe a wandering yogi or something; someone with special powers to turn ridiculous situations into pleasant ones. A Master of Tact Fu, facing the King of Oops. Who would win?

  Matt only knew that his Oops was, as yet, undefeated.

  MATT edged his way out from behind the filing cabinet and shoved it back into place with a grunt. It felt good to know not many people in the office were strong enough to do that. Matt usually reaffirmed some mantra of job security to himself once or twice a day; it kept
his blood pressure down.

  “Hello there.”

  Matt spun around, nearly falling, catching himself on the filing cabinet. “Roe,” he gasped. Roe stood there in a tailored dark-gray suit, looking like ten thousand dollars’ worth of sex caviar. Matt hadn’t expected him to be back in the office so early. “Why are you here?” The question came out like a rude snap of interrogation, and Matt wilted inside.

  But Roe, leaning casually against the bookshelves lining the opposite wall of the file storage room, simply smiled. “Logic would indicate that I’m here to get a file, wouldn’t it?”

  Matt nodded. “Any other conclusion would be pretty stupid.” That had to be rude. Was it rude?

  “God save us from stupid conclusions. I’m looking for a file. The fact that I found you here was merely a bonus, because I was hoping we’d get to talk. I did at least wait until you were finished with that cabinet… you see….” Roe straightened himself, standing closer to Matt. “I’ve been warned about you.” There was a twinkle in his eyes, which were a dark, rich brown. A really nice brown. One you could easily lose yourself in, just falling deeper and deeper into them, until you realized that you were gaping like an idiot.

  Matt blinked, trying to focus. “Warned about me how?”

  “Warned that I shouldn’t speak to you when you’re under or behind anything, because of your low startle point. I waited until you replaced the cabinet before greeting you.” Roe was standing closely enough that Matt could smell him, a hint of silk, and some kind of dusky-smelling aftershave or cologne that made Matt want to lean in and lick beneath Roe’s collar for a taste of it.