Dear Dwayne, With Love

by Eliza Gordon

  “Well, you can tell him. He’s a great fellow. Plus, due to insurance, we can’t have you practicing any of those WWE moves in here.”

  “I could’ve shown him the Rock Bottom,” I say.

  He laughs. It’s a melodious sound. “One of The Rock’s signature moves?”

  I smile. “I’ve been practicing on my sisters since I was ten.”

  “I don’t doubt it.”

  Marco stands, his glorious knees the first thing I see when I look up, and he offers me a hand. “I think you have a workout to finish, yes?”

  He’s right. I do.

  Especially now that Shithead Trevor is going to be on that course with me.

  TWENTY-FIVE

  From:Marco Turner

  To:Danielle E. Steele

  Subject: Your trusty trainer, checking in . . .

  Hey, Danielle Steele with an e,

  I wanted to drop a quick note to make sure you’re in good shape after the incident at the gym the other night. I have spoken to Trish and the other manager as well as Sayeed, our security guard, about Trevor’s membership, and we wanted you to know that this is a SAFE zone, that if you ever feel threatened or intimidated by his presence, we will have him removed posthaste. Unless, of course, Minotaur beats us to it. ☺

  I’m also putting together your new program, and I look forward to sending it along. With your unexpected time off work, I mentioned twice-daily sessions—yes, twice!—because I know you can handle it. You know what you’re doing now, so you can handle this, even when I’m not at the gym to holler at you. Cardio in the morning, and weight training and endurance in the afternoon or early evening session, depending on your schedule, of course.

  Listen to that voice in your head that tells you you’re going to be brilliant. And if that doesn’t work, listen to MY voice, telling you you’re brilliant. And if THAT doesn’t work, look at the meme I’ve attached with your hunky movie stud The Rock flexing his godlike muscles and yelling at you about being a “candy-ass” on leg day.

  You’ve got this. #nocandyassesallowed

  See you soon,

  Marco

  From:Danielle E. Steele

  To:Marco Turner

  Subject: RE: Your trusty trainer, checking in . . .

  Master Kenobi?

  Really? That’s your email address?

  If you’re a Star Wars enthusiast, it’s okay—we can still be friends. I’m more of a DC Comics girl myself, but there is room in the universe for Jedis. (Also: Check out Piewalker’s downtown. Best cherry turnovers in Portland, and they have Star Wars stuff EVERYWHERE in the restaurant! Even if you don’t eat that sort of thing because you’re, well, a Jedi. What do Jedis eat, actually? Other than protein and quinoa? Do you guys eat Ewoks? I knew it. That explains so much.)

  (Also, why do they call delicious chocolate cake “devil’s food” when the REAL devil’s food is kale? I feel like the chocolate cake is getting a bum rap.)

  Thanks for the meme. Printed and glued it to the fridge for those moments when I’m feeling sorry for the above-mentioned chocolate cake.

  RE: Trevor—he’s a wiener. No offense to wieners, of course. I’m sure there are some rather nice wieners in the world. His is not one of them.

  This conversation just got really weird.

  OKAY, I gotta go drink something involving protein so I can get my not-candy-ass to the gym TWICE today. Although we may need to chat about this—not sure I can afford two sessions a day.

  Also: You’ve heard of the Marquis de Sade? That is reportedly where the word sadist came from—nineteenth century, from the French “sadisme,” taken directly from the Comte’s name. So, your name is Marco, which sounds a bit like Marquis, and you like inflicting pain, which is like Mr. de Sade, so maybe instead of an Ewok-eating Jedi, you’re really a sadist?

  Food for thought. Mmmm, food . . .

  Yours in pain,

  Dani

  From:Marco Turner

  To:Danielle E. Steele

  Subject: RE: Your trusty trainer, checking in . . .

  My ex-girlfriend used to call me Marco de Sade. I think you two might get along well. I can put you in touch?

  :)

  Jedi Marco

  P.S. RE: The cost—you’re not hiring me twice a day, just working your program on your own. No additional expense, so don’t fret. Also, now you have no excuses.

  From:Danielle E. Steele

  To:Marco Turner

  Subject: RE: Your trusty trainer, checking in . . .

  Oh. Dude. Sorry. I didn’t mean offense. Was your ex-GF a wiener too? Maybe we should put her in touch with Trevor instead.

  ;)

  Candy-ass Steele

  P.S. I’m sure I can come up with at least one excuse that doesn’t involve money.

  From:Marco Turner

  To:Danielle E. Steele

  Subject: RE: Your trusty trainer, checking in . . .

  My ex-girlfriend was a lovely woman with a singular problem: monogamy.

  From:Danielle E. Steele

  To:Marco Turner

  Subject: RE: Your trusty trainer, checking in . . .

  Silly you, expecting loyalty and devotion and freedom from sexually transmitted diseases in your relationship. YOU ARE A BARBARIAN.

  From:Marco Turner

  To:Danielle E. Steele

  Subject: RE: Your trusty trainer, checking in . . .

  Drat. The secret’s out. Better wear your chastity belt tonight to keep yourself safe from the sadisme.

  Light a candle for me. First client of the day is in 10—she says she needs to lose a full stone for the cruise she’s going on in a fortnight (impossible), but she doesn’t want to sweat because “sweating isn’t feminine. Also, I don’t want muscles because then I will look like a man.”

  Oy.

  See you tonight, Steele,

  Muscles Malone

  From:Danielle E. Steele

  To:Marco Turner

  Subject: RE: Your trusty trainer, checking in . . .

  Stone? Fortnight?

  Geez, Shakespeare. I need a translator just to speak English to you.

  Also: Can a person safely lose 14 lb. in two weeks without donating a major organ?

  See you after tea,

  Mistress Danielle

  P.S. Was Muscles Malone your wrestling name when you were getting your ass handed to you by that jabroni John Cena? ☺

  From:Marco Turner

  To:Danielle E. Steele

  Subject: RE: Your trusty trainer, checking in . . .

  Jabroni? I had to google that one. And for the record, Mr. Cena is an outstanding gentleman and budding thespian, not unlike your Boulder Boy.

  Just for that: Tomorrow night? Bring shoes to run. We’re going outside.

  Marco de Sade

  TWENTY-SIX

  “Thanks, you guys, for including me. I never thought I’d say I miss work, but I totally miss your dumb faces,” I say. The MotherCluckers have been kind enough to move the meeting to a restaurant near the office under the guise that it’s a birthday party, and yes, we’ll order off your greasy lunch menu if you let us bring in our own “birthday cake.”

  The Bringer of the Treats for this emergency meeting: Lydia. It’s only been ten days since I’ve seen everyone, but she’s gotten auburn highlights in her lustrous hair, and she’s wearing a gauzy pink dress that makes her look like she should be in a Tolkien book.

  We’re in a banquet room adjacent to the main restaurant, sectioned off by floor-length windows adorned in tired red drapes with unfortunate stain
s. This place is hardly a step above Denny’s, but the spinach salad and whole-grain garlic bread they served weren’t too shabby. The menu also had enough things on my Marco-Approved Food List that, in four minutes, I’ll be able to exercise a little self-control when every last Clucker, including me, has her pastry in front of her.

  This week’s delight: tiramisu drizzled with a Kahlua glaze. I know, right? [mouth waters] A quick google under the table tells me that this little slice of heaven is 492 calories and 49 percent fat, which is two hours on the treadmill at 3.5 mph, something I cannot share widely because it is strictly forbidden to discuss such ridiculousness in the presence of the Cluckers. I’m the worst.

  But I’m also starting to see some subtle changes—looser pants, looser sleeves on my shirts—important because Shithead Trevor has been at the gym and continues to give me the side-eye. Okay, he did it once, and then Minotaur reminded him that he could cause significant pain “and make it look like an accident.” This Minotaur fellow is really kind of awesome—and I have a trunkful of discounted cat litter and kitten chow from Target for Charlene’s rescue mission, thanks to my ginormous gym buddy. Even Handstand Man got in on the action and brought in a bag of cat toys and catnip. And Trish offered the use of a cat tree left behind by her ex-girlfriend. My faith in humanity is slowly being restored by a group of people I never expected to be friends with.

  Once the cake slices have been passed around on their pretty white paper doilies, Viv calls the meeting to order. This session, however, lacks the usual subterfuge, the fake-book-club chitchat, to keep Joan the Crone in the dark. Instead, Viv launches into the heart of the day’s gossip:

  Lisa “Dick-Pic” Rogers doesn’t exist.

  Like, she does, but not really. “They don’t know who she is. After you were suspended and she was fired and corporate moved in, there was talk that they’d be filing federal charges because whatever she’s involved with, it’s about way more than dick pics. So then they start pulling us into the conference room one at a time, questioning us about her activities. This name she’s been using—the name we all knew her as—it was a false identity. Lisa Rogers isn’t a real person. Everything was faked, down to her driver’s license and Social Security card. They even went to her condo—”

  “You know, the fancy one with the indoor heated pool she wouldn’t stop talking about—” Shelly interjects.

  “Yeah, her place was totally cleaned out. If she was really living there, she isn’t now,” Viv says.

  “Where’d she go?” I ask.

  The group answers, their theories layering atop one another like the ladyfingers on this cake staring me in the face. “No one knows. / Skipped town. / Total sham job. / Probably a cyborg.”

  “The freaking FBI is involved! They’re even going through our PCs,” Charlene adds. “A waste of time, if you ask me. They won’t find anything but cat pictures on my personal drive.”

  “What, no kitty porn for you, Char?” Shelly says. The room loses it. Someone meows hungrily.

  “Anyway,” Viv continues, “there is some talk that whoever Lisa Rogers is, she has something to do with a global hacker group. Which is why the FBI is here. My cousin works in IT for a company Imperial has called in to consult—don’t tell anyone that, you guys—and she said that this dick-pic scandal is just a cover-up for whatever else Lisa Rogers was doing. They’re throwing around words like corporate espionage,” she says.

  “What the hell would there be to steal?” Shelly asks. “Other than medical records, which is terrible enough.”

  “Are you kidding? Health insurance is a nearly $900-billion-a-year industry. There is much to be stolen—corporate and trade secrets, market intelligence, dirty secrets on company executives making back-door deals with doctors and big pharma and medical organizations, massive data theft leading to widespread identity compromises for our thousands of payees and payors that almost always leads to Medicare fraud,” Lydia says as she scoops a healthy bite of tiramisu into her mouth. All ten of us look at her like she’s grown a second head. “No, I’m not helping her. I’m just saying, it’s a huge problem.”

  “When she left that day, though, after your beatdown,” Shelly adds, “she’d put on her whiplash collar.”

  “Who keeps a whiplash collar in their desk?” Char says. “Who does that?”

  “She said it prevents double chins,” Shelly says, licking the last of the glaze off her doily.

  “Not eating this cake prevents double chins,” I say under my breath, staring longingly at my sad slice.

  “Nonsense. I happen to like my double chins. I earned them.” Charlene pats the extra flesh around her neck.

  “Well, whatever you did to her, Dani,” Viv says, “you did it well. The Rock would approve.” Everyone raises their forks and claps the table with their free hands. I blush. I should not be enjoying the accolades stemming from my physical attack on another human being, but if she is a corporate spy, maybe I’ll get reinstated, and then the FBI will bestow upon me some sort of humanitarian-slash-civilian-superhero award for protecting the company from further damage.

  INT. SHRINE AUDITORIUM - EVENING

  JOAN THE CRONE

  Ladies and gentlemen, we are here tonight to honor a very special young woman with above-average hair and a winning smile, a young woman with a fierce love for the greatness that is Dwayne “The Rock” Johnson, a young woman with a tireless devotion to the theatrical arts and bipolar goldfish and homeless cats and disillusioned, PhD-wielding bums who collect recycling, a young woman with a love for her fellow man--unless that fellow man is a woman and also a conniving corporate spy with a penchant for penis pictures . . .

  The sold-out crowd laughs; Joan waits for the early applause to die down.

  JOAN THE CRONE (CONT'D)

  Help me welcome the reason for this evening, our very *own* shining star and the apple of the FBI’s cybercrimes division eye, Miss Danielle Elizabeth Steele.

  Deafening applause as JOAN hands off a shimmering statuette to Danielle.

  DANIELLE

  Wow, thank you so much. Holy cow . . .

  Dani stares at trophy that looks sort of like an Oscar but not as anatomically ambiguous. She then looks into audience; the camera pans to front row, following her view.

  DANIELLE (CONT’D)

  Dwayne, is that you?

  Applause as The Rock stands and greets the people.

  DANIELLE (CONT’D)

  Oh man, I can’t believe you guys pulled this off.

  Applause settles.

  DANIELLE (CONT’D)

  Thank you so much. I don’t even know where to begin or who to thank first . . . You know, I didn’t set out to be a hero, to save the company from ruin at the hands of that phallus-obsessed evildoer. But thanks to the People’s Elbow, we did just that.

  Dani points at The Rock; The Rock points back at Dani; the crowd erupts.

  DANIELLE (CONT’D)

  This one’s for you, DJ!

  Dani thrusts trophy in hand into the air in a victory salute; everyone’s on their feet.

  “What I don’t get, though,” Charlene says with a mouthful, “is why she’d collect pictures of penises on her work computer.”

  “Because they’re infected with viruses,” Lydia says.

  “The files or the penises?” Shelly asks, followed by a chorus of ewww gross.

  “You’re like a fifth-grade boy, you know that?” Lydia scolds. “The files are more apt to be spread if they’re of a sexual nature. Those photos are more likely to go viral in an interoffice setting, whereas pictures of cats might not.”

  “What’s wrong with cat pictures?” Charlene asks.

  “Even if the photos don’t get shared by staff members, they’re already in the system, so whatever malware or bots she installed, it’s already doing the dirty deed she needed it to do. Pun intended.”

  “Just goes to show that the ones who look the dumbest are probably the smartest of the lot,” Shelly says. “Can’t trust an
yone these days. Especially women who like infected penises.”

  “The penises weren’t infected,” Lydia says, throwing a plastic spoon across the table at Shelly.

  “Humans are perverts,” Charlene adds.

  “Thank god,” Shelly teases. “You do know it’s illegal in most states to marry a cat, right?”

  The conversation continues, eventually diverting off infected penises and Lisa Rogers Who Isn’t Really Lisa Rogers and along the normal course of our gossip river, and while I’m grateful they included me today, I am having a hard time not eating this cake. I take a couple of bites so Viv doesn’t question me, and also because it’s really freaking delicious. Come on. I’m only human.

  My phone vibrates in my pocket.

  I slide it under the linen tablecloth that was probably white when the first Bush was in office, and check to see who’s bugging me.

  Miraculously Beautiful Marco (yes, I may have programmed his name this way in my phone, so what?): Hi, Dani! Don’t forget your runners for tonight.

  Me: Runners? As in running shoes? You were serious? We really have to run?

  Miraculously Beautiful Marco: Quite serious. Running is part of the competition. You’re going to need to be able to do it without vomiting.

  Me: That happened once. Now you’re just being mean.

  Miraculously Beautiful Marco: It comes naturally.

  Me: What if it’s raining?

  Miraculously Beautiful Marco: Are you made of sugar?

  Me: Maybe I’m the Wicked Witch and I’ll melt.

  Miraculously Beautiful Marco: I’ll bring you a mac.

  Me: How the hell am I going to run carrying a computer? Is this some weird new training technique?

  Miraculously Beautiful Marco: Not a Mac, a mackintosh. A raincoat.

  Me: I don’t know if I’m smart enough to be your friend.

  Miraculously Beautiful Marco: I will endeavor to speak Yankee English. Many apologies.

  (Ohhhhh, this man is such a good speller.)

  Me: Technically, a Yankee is someone from New England or the northern states along the Eastern seaboard, above the Mason-Dixon Line, and as I’m a native Oregonian—

  “Dani?” A distant voice interrupts my flying fingers just as Viv’s elbow jabs me in the arm. My upper arm that is sore from triceps exercises.