This story is the female pov corollary to the Redheaded League, written in response to a prompt at the Delphi arm of the website All Writes Reserved. I'm a guy (duh)...extensive research was required to be able to assume that point of view even to this extent...thanks are due to Mo Collin, who insists that she really felt that way, Charlie Delgado, who encouraged me to persist with this, and Brenda Glasure, who wrote nice things about the initial version of this piece and helped me with a pov problem. Now the piece wants to become an entire novel...and more research will be required.
Truth is, stranger...
The last of the three exit interviewees finally exited, after many backward glances and silent recriminations. Of course I wasn't really the intended recipient of those recriminations, but they stung all the same. It's never fair to you when you lose your job...one can't be expected to be entirely reasonable. I just try to answer any questions they might have about severance pay and benefits continuation, and weather the storm as best I can.
That's my job, after all. Or part of it. The rest of it consists of people asking me things, or asking me to do things, or find things. Or calling me on the telephone to ask me to do things, or etcetera. It seems to me that my life is mostly yes and no. I hate saying no, but there are times when you just have to for sanity's sake, and try to be honest about your reasons. It used to be that I would just run away. That was my answer to everything. Go somewhere that I didn't know anyone, get away from telephones and demands on my time and bill collectors and old boyfriends. Hide. That's a pretty big no, spelled NO.
Since then, I've gotten better at saying no, more creative. I still kind of run away, but now I run away to my computer. That works because I can do it at the office too, surf all day saying that I'm researching something. As long as I do the things I am assigned to do, that works for everyone. Unfortunately, there are lots of things for me to do. This business of having a job isn't all it's cracked up to be.
Anyway, that day I hadn't done much surfing, didn't even get to check my email the required twenty-five times (roughly every twenty minutes). Email is great. I love email. It can be personal as hell. Sometimes I prefer answering email to life itself. But no, there were meetings in the morning (this being a Monday), all morning (I loathe meetings), in which I got to be insulted by vps, and had to take it because, well, they're vps. I hid in my coffee cup, doodled on a notepad, checked my watch sixteen million times. Didn't get to go to lunch because I had to get the paperwork ready for the interviews...made me a little cranky, and I had to persuade my assistant to run out for a sandwich.
Dripped mustard on my skirt, a little tiny blob right there at the bottom, and couldn't get it all to wipe away, sat there through part of the first interview with a kleenex on my lap until I managed to surreptitiously swipe it into the garbage. The rest of the interview I had a small wet spot. It was all I could do to smile occasionally and make nice, but fortunately that one wasn't too bad. She didn't like it here anyway, and was sort of happy she was leaving.
The other two were pissed off. They did their best to stay cool, but something about the set of their jaws and the sheen of their eyes clued me in. But at least that was it.
The other crappy part of the day was that I had to ride the bus back and forth to work. My car was in the shop, for engine troube of some kind. It had died on me, stupid thing, on the way home from my mom's Mothers' Day party. Fortunately, it chose to die when it was actually at a service station (lucky me). Two blocks away from home (lucky lucky me). It sucks that my little red chariot is out for a day or so, but at least it wasn't traumatic or anything.
Still, I was pretty tense by the time that I left the building. My shoulders felt like they had hot wires in them, and I'm sure I scared the people in the lobby when I left. I don't think I said goodbye to anyone. Sorry, people. I hope you understand.
It was a block to the bus stop, a decent walk, except that I had the lack of sense to wear heels that day. Stupid me. Dumb me. Of course I knew that I was going to do a little walking, but I thought I'd be able to deal with it. Ooopsy. Had to walk around all day fetching papers from file cabinets and walking down hallways into well-lit rooms full of people drinking coffee and sweating.
Plus it was really warm out. I was sweating into my blouse by the time I got to the stop. More foresight. Sometimes I just can't deal.
Stupid bus was late too. By then the sun had warmed my shoulders enough that some of the tension was going away. I enjoyed that sensation, though I was still sweating a little. Wished I had a couple of strong hands to knead those shoulders...ouch, and I don't have anyone right now. Maybe I should get out more.
The woman standing next to me at the bus stop was muttering to herself, swinging that valise she called a purse back and forth dangerously. As near as I could tell, she was agitated about the bus being late. Sorry, lady. I wanted to go home too. Even though it meant a dinner of hamburger helper, and another night alone with my cat and my computer, it was home.
The bus finally arrived, and I did my best to maintain patience when the woman with the saddlebag for a purse got in first and started fumbling for change. Held my buck-fifty in my fist, the nails digging into my palm just a bit, feeling the hot wires come back into my shoulders.
Looking around the bus didn't cheer me either. Lots of older people, and a big section of black people, some kids around. There was a seat right behind the bus driver, at least I'd be able to make an easy exit from there, I thought.
The old lady eventually moved on, and I carefully deposited my fare, swinging around to plop into the seat. My skirt rode up a little, and I sat up straight to smooth it down. The guy across from me noticed that, I saw his eyes peep over the top of his newspaper.
He went back to his paper. I sat and admired his hands for a bit.
Big strong hands, just about the right size for aching shoulders.
The guy was not too bad, either. Kind of cute, devilish little goatee, glasses, a cigarette ticked behind one ear, hair needing a haircut but not too badly, nice shoulders under that godawful loud shirt that looked like a blacklight poster.
I think he caught me looking.
Look at him there, ignoring me. Hmm. Okay, the shirt is bad, but has something for it. Jeans fit good, black ones, and those aren't cheap high-tops. Big feet. Big hands. Hmm.
Yep. He's really ignoring me now. He was looking at my legs.
Those eyes got away just as I looked up from examining the mustard spot. I guess the spot isn't too bad. I bet he saw it though. Yep, that's right, buddy. I got great legs. I play tennis and racquetball. Enjoy 'em while you can, because my stop is coming up.
Back to examination...terrible posture. Slouching in seat, those big feet right out in the aisle. But studious expression on his face. I love watching guys work, or read, or concentrate. They get that expression on their faces, every muscle attuned to the task. This one is really into whatever he's reading. But he reads fast. It isn't long before he puts down the paper, and I'm busted.
"Hi," he said, flashing a little grin. Nice voice, deep, with a little sarcastic undertone. Good smile, though the teeth had some yellow in them from smoking. Still kissable though.
"Hi yourself," I grinned back. By then he was looking me straight in the eye.
"What's your name?"
I told him.
"I'm Duane, " he responded. "Never seen you riding this bus before..." He sat up a little straighter, put down the paper, his gaze still probing my soul.
"I've never ridden before," I said. "My car is broken." That made me think of what a crappy day it had been. "This isn't my idea of transportation."
He crossed his legs, chuckling a little. "Granted," he replied, "it's a long way from the limo you deserve to be riding in." Well that was nice, if oddly put. "Are you going far?"
By way of answer, I reached up for the pull-wire that tells the bus driver to stop. My breast nuzzled my blouse when I did that. I have really sensitive nipples, that pop up at the slightest stimulus, and they poked through the material of my flimsy bra when I did that. The friction excited me a little. I'm sure he got an eyeful. Guys think that stuff is great..but there's nothing at all erotic to me about it.
"Not far at all. This is my stop."
Well, if he wasn't going to hit on me, he is now. The bus slowed.
He reached into his wallet, produced a business card. "Here," he said. "Would love to continue the conversation sometime." He was looking directly into my eyes again.
Why not? He was kinda cute, and my shoulders said yes. I dug one of my cards out of my little purse, handed it over. Tried not to drop it on the floor. Almost dropped his trying to get it into my purse, gave up and stuck it in my blouse pocket, while I got off the bus.
Walking away, I gave it a little extra wiggle in case he was watching. Work doesn't allow me much personal time. I don't do the bars, don't meet too many new people, except online. My last boyfriend couldn't handle the lack of time. He was a putz anyway, just someone to fill in the time with.
I deserve better.
Inside my apartment, the cat was mewing, hungry. I fed him, mixed up the stuff for dinner, stirred it around, and examined Duane's business card. I have to admit that I was impressed by the card. It had a cool graphic, black alien-looking text on an aqua tube, with the name of a website-Planet Moderan, and below that-SF from the Dark Side. A writer apparently. Below that was a web address. At least he had his own domain, not one of those arm-long urls.
Below the url was a little picture of some tentacled beast emerging from its lair, with a couple of email addresses on the right side of it, his name in the alien text on the left. Very attractive, very artistic. I went over and booted up the computer.
Kicked my shoes into the corner, hung my blouse on the back of the chair. Sat down...The web site was cool too. The front page had a star background, loaded up fast...plenty of hits for a personal site. The others had sort of a kaleidoscope effect, the same background in colored stars, manipulated somehow. Not updated too recently, but nice. The writing was good, too. Really strange, very creative, alien monsters from beyond space and time, computers taking over the world, music all over.
Again, I was impressed. I sat there with my plate of hamburger and read through ten of his things right then and there. By then my eyes were going buggy. I went and got myself a beer, noticed that the night had turned cooler. Opened up the balcony door, my rebel nipples perking up immediately as the breeze hit them.
Somew
here during the time I was surfing his site, the pain in my shoulders went away. I took that as a good sign. There were email addresses all over his pages. I availed myself of one.
Duane,
Thank you so much for inviting me to your wonderful web site. I had a good time reading some of your things. You're a far better writer than most of the people I've seen writing online, and I do a LOT of surfing:-)
It was nice to meet you. I feel like I know you now, after seeing what you do. Thanks too for being so kind, saying that about the limo and all. That broke the ice for me. I know you know that. You have my number, and my email.
Sincerely,
Carla:-)
Ewww, I even added a smiley. I sent the thing off before I could get to endlessly rewriting it, finished my beer, and fetched another one, removing my skirt and carrying it and the beer into the bathroom. I put the beer down, grabbed a little bottle of Wisk from above the tank, ran some warm water, and plopped the skirt into the water.
The breeze coming down the hallway felt so good that the rest of my things came off, and I stood nude in the doorway to my bedroom, luxuriating in the sensation. After the encounter earlier, and the rough day, I felt just a little naughty, and didn't much mind that the curtains were open.
I went in and laid down, thinking to relax just a little before yanking the skirt out of the sink, drank most of the fresh beer, put it down. Was a little bit horny, thought about masturbating, but fell asleep instead.
My dreams were populated with horrible alien monsters, all herded by a devilish-looking guy in a loud shirt. I wonder what the significance of *that*was.
Thirteen Sick Tasteless Classics, Part II is adult literature featuring adult language and situations that satirizes thirteen famous novellas and short stories. It is Jay Dubya's sixteenth ebook.
Fractured Frazzled Folk Fables and Fairy Farces is adult literature that satirizes famous children's stories, fables and fairy tales. The work is Jay Dubya's twenty-first e-book available in Amazon Kindle and Barnes and Noble Nook.
