Catch My Fall (21 page)

I imagined what Stellan would say.

“They sound like a bunch of fucking hippies.”

I tried not to laugh at my own thoughts.

Dennis unleashed a slew of affirmative statements, describing my potential place of employment as a ‘step outside the box.’

“We try to create a rapport with our clients that makes them comfortable, brings them back to us hopeful and excited.”

I nodded. Traveling the country to meet clients, rubbing elbows with potentials, delegating to interns and fellow employees the responsibility of event planning and detail work while I racked up frequent flier miles and sat at expensive lunches, listening to rich people describe how useless their less rich counterparts were and how their career was straining their relationships with wife and/or mistress.

I’d had a few clients attempt to make me their mistress. I wondered how Dennis Shay saw his world differing. I sat across from him feeling like a high school kid in the sensitive counselor’s office.

“We don’t represent the usual brand of clientele. We shy away from the mainstream. If you’re looking for the big beer fest parties, we’re not your jam.”

Not my jam? He totally just said that. I smiled. “So, I should leave then?”

He laughed, a line of perfect white teeth bared as his eyes shrank to thin slits. I had to be honest, Dennis Shay was a handsome guy. I was sure he’d spent a good amount of time in his life having heart to hearts, convincing people to reach their potential. I feared this job might require hugging - then I thought, what’s so wrong with that?

“So what is your passion, Faye? Do you mind ‘Faye?’ As you may have noticed, we run a pretty casual ship around here.”

“Sure, Faye is fine.”

“Good, good. So lay it out for me. What drives you – gets you out of bed in the morning?”

I was stumped. The sound of my stomach gurgling, the realization that I reek, the glue at the corners of my eyes hardening to the point that only piping hot water will resurrect my sense of sight? I was sure none of these were the answer he was looking for.

He sensed my trouble. “Let me ask, did you always want to work in marketing?”

I tilted my head to the side like some vapid day dreamer before catching the gesture and scolding myself silently. “No, actually.”

“So what was your original purpose in this life, Faye?”

I scratched my head, cautious to admit the fact out loud, especially to a potential employer. Should I say law school? World Hunger? What would Miss America say?

“I originally went to school for – uh, cartoonist. I wanted to be a cartoonist.”

Dennis Shay’s mouth literally hung open before me a moment as he blatantly searched my face. Woops, wrong answer?

“That’s amazing.” Maybe not the wrong answer. “Are you serious?”

“Yes?”

“That’s amazing! How many people out there are pursuing
that
kind of passion? Not many, I’ll tell you what.”

I shrugged, and again faulted myself. “Well, one less, apparently,” I said, gesturing to myself with two thumbs. “Marketing won!”

“Well, our gain, surely!”

Without another word or a close study of my resume, Dennis carted me around the office, introducing me to each and every person we passed. I met Jarod, the ‘paper pusher’ as he was called – some form of super hero name given to avoid calling himself mailboy. I met Corrine, who happily displayed a sleeve tattoo from wrist to shoulder blade, peppered with characters from the movie
A Nightmare Before Christmas.
Then finally there was Kathy, the only seemingly stereotypical office staple; a short haired brunette in a peach blouse and pressed black slacks sitting behind a perfectly organized desk. Shortly after shaking her hand and trading niceties, Dennis informed me it was Kathy whom I would be replacing were I to get the position. I tried not to see an
Invasion of the Body Snatchers
type assimilation taking place – get rid of the normal one and make way for the girl who leaves Jackass voicemails. I was more than a little relieved to hear that Kathy was voluntarily leaving the company for greener pastures.

By the time we were back to the front door of the office, I had been given the vote of confidence from everyone in the room, including Kathy, and had yet to actually converse about my credentials or qualifications. As Dennis shook my hand, his wide smile beaming on his smooth, clean face, I felt oddly confident. Does an employer take the time to introduce you to everyone in the room if he’s just showing you the door?

I think not. Or, I hope not.

“I’ll give you a call, hopefully by the end of the month, and let you know what we’ve decided.”

I shook his hand yet again, smiled and headed out into the hallway. Margarite greeted me by name as I passed her desk. I reached into my purse on the second floor staircase and turned on my phone. Just being in an office, being around the gainfully employed made me feel almost useful. Or perhaps it was the idea of having successfully fooled someone else into believing I was useful. My phone quickly buzzed to life, announcing missed texts.

How’d it go?

Almost the same text from Stellan, Jackie, and my Mom. I responded to Stellan first.

Un-fucking-real.

I’d made it only half way through the response to Jackie’s text before he responded.

Damn straight! I’m taking you for tacos, woman! Text when you’re home.

I stood by my car, leaning against the open door, smiling.

CHAPTER eleven

“Y
ou’ll just have to see,” Stellan said when I asked of his costume. I didn’t confess mine either, given that it was just a hodge-podge of my closet’s contents. I would rather the outfit be in full effect before declaring my identity as whatever 80’s pop star I looked most like. We hung up with the promise of surprise.

It was the day of Evan’s Halloween party, and I had some preparations to make if I was going to be even mildly presentable at this shindig. Though, to hear Meghan, she was completely content with me going as a burlap sack.

“The less competition the better,” she’d said, explaining her hope to seduce Evan Lambert – the Billionaire. I could only picture her seducing Evan Lambert – the raging jackass – but that comes from having spent my last three years of high school in his almost constant company.

Stellan, Evan and I had been a trifecta, if you will. They were two of the more asocial oddballs in school, and I fit that description well myself. We spent a good amount of our time holed up in Stellan’s basement or my living room. We’d watch TV or play video games, or I’d make them help me with my science or math homework, given their combined IQ was record breaking, I’m sure. We rarely spent time up at Evan’s house. Something Evan and I shared; better off absent fathers.

I didn’t bother telling Meghan that not only had I spent the better part of three years at Evan’s side, but I’d also seen him naked - a side effect of Evan’s one-time love affair with hallucinogens, and his tendency to run around the house bare-assed whilst on them. Stellan and I refrained, more enticed by the notion of watching Evan trip his balls off than possibly join him in his screaming nude escapades around the neighborhood. We’d narrowly avoided getting arrested one night in Sleepy Hollow when a cruiser came rolling down into the graves, its spotlight directed on our faces. Stellan and I froze, both whispering to each other frantically over whether or not to yell to Evan that a cop car was approaching. Yet just as the cop opened his car door, a naked blur went whizzing by the front end of the cruiser, screaming “Attica,” and the officer’s attention was quickly redirected. We made a run for it in the confusion, hauling it back to my house across Bedford Road, and lunging onto the floor of my darkened living room to watch out the window for a sign of Evan. We heard him banging at the back door fifteen minutes later.

That was the night Stellan and I declared ourselves allergic to nudity. Evan agreed never to trip around us again. I’m not sure if he ever dropped acid again after that night, but I do know this – that was the last time I saw Evan Lambert naked.

I found myself standing before the kitchen window, watching the birds. There’s something to be said for early risers – they definitely get the better end of bird watching. The female cardinal came and waited, watched her ‘husband’ eat, then left. She seemed a bit poofy for such a light eater. I imagined her sneaking to the feeders at night after her husband comes home from the bar, gorging herself on suet and cursing his name. I thought of a comic strip and considered heading into the office for a little while to work on some drawings. Instead, I poured cream into my coffee, sweetened it beyond any reasonable measure, and headed upstairs.

I opened my closet door, staring at the rail within, bowed with the weight of too many hangers, all holding more clothes than my old closet could properly contain. My condo’s closet had been twice this size. I pushed that thought out of mind and began pulling out the mish mash of items that would hopefully make my evening’s outfit – two tank tops of different length, one pink and one black, three separate skirts, all similarly mismatched, a pair of red high top sneakers, and every piece of plastic jewelry I’d ever owned. I searched a moment longer until I found the plastic bag Meghan sent me home with after our Halloween store excursion. I dumped its contents onto the bed. Two strange looking boxes plopped down beside one another; one of bright red hair dye and the other, Bikini Wax - Meghan’s orders. I went for the hair dye first.

Time to be a Ginger.

I felt good. I won’t deny that the events of the day before may have been helping.

I wrapped myself in a towel when I was done with the dye, my hair too dark while wet to judge how I felt about it. I stood by my bed. The bright blue box seemed to call to me like some perilous siren, begging me to dash myself on the rocks. I opened the box and texted Meghan.

The wax didn’t come with strips.

I flipped the box over. A small folded piece of paper fell out as my phone buzzed.

It doesn’t need strips, hon. I’ll call in a minute.

I sighed openly, realizing the proverbial can of worms I’d just opened.

I stopped at the mirror. My once blonde hair was darker now, but still not betraying its fiery nature. I’d let my hair grow past my shoulders the past few months and I would need to expend two or three canisters of Aqua Net into my hair to get the appropriate Cyndi Lauper caliber updo. I was determined to do Ms. Lauper justice. I rubbed my head in a towel and checked the mirror again. Still too wet to tell. I had hours before I needed to get ready, but I was the kind of person who enjoyed dry runs when the time allowed. I curled up in bed and turned on “Time After Time.”

I felt the jab of something hard against my side and found the box of wax, taunting me with its rocket science. Out of curiosity more than intent, I called Meghan.

“Bitch, are you serious or are you just playin with me?”

“What?” I asked, surprised by the greeting.

“You better be serious about this. If you get my hopes up for nothing I will cut you.”

“Get your hopes up? I didn’t realize the state of my bikini area had such far reaching effects.”

“Get real woman. If I can spread the ways of proper self-care to one hairy bitch, my work is done.”

I slewed a few choice words at her before being accosted with further ‘pep talks.’ Words like ‘mess,’ ‘ripping,’ ‘yank,’ and ‘cry’ were real sellers for me, yet in the end something she said seemed to settle in my psyche – someplace vulnerable and wrong.

“Nothing beats the way it feels afterward. Do it once and you’ll be hooked.”

I felt as though someone had successfully convinced me to smoke Crystal Meth. A moment later, I found myself standing in my kitchen, waiting for the microwave to count down.

You’re going to flip your shit!

It was Stellan. Before I could respond, the microwave bleeped at me, and I found the wax still as stubbornly immobile as it had been when I opened the thing.

Thirty seconds my ass!

I put it back into the microwave and set it for another minute.

Why? What’s up?
I responded.

His text came too quickly to have been in response to my question.

You are going to flip your fucking shit! My costume is the stuff of LEGEND!

Again, I didn’t have time to answer.

OF LEGEND!

Me -
What is it, damn it? Are you Skeletor?

His excitement was a beast one couldn’t help but ride.

No! But that WOULD be LEGEND. You’ll see!

I waited a moment for further texts, the wax taking much longer than thirty seconds to melt completely, but once it was liquefied, I carried it carefully upstairs to my bedroom. I stood there holding the mixture, then finally marched my ass into my nearly forgotten bathroom. I set the container on the sink before dropping trou and gazing at my depantsed self in the bathroom mirror. The room seemed larger than it was due to a two wall mirror that framed the front and side of the sink, something my Grandmother added in my mother’s youth. I saw myself from mid-thigh upward, all the brightly illuminated details, ready to be inspected. There was a triangle of light hair where, as Meghan declared, there should be some form of abstract art, and though I saw nothing wrong with it, I was now determined to prune the shit out of it.

Curiosity is a terrible motivation.

I sank down into the dry bathtub, holding my breath against the cold of the porcelain surface. I leaned back, inch by inch, grateful to have the fabric of my shirt shielding me from the slope of the claw foot tub.

I collected the still piping tub of wax, setting it in the bathtub. I had two wooden sticks, a tub of hot goo, sprawled legs, and good intentions. I glanced down at my nether regions and leaned back. The wax dripped everywhere as I moved to apply it; onto the bathtub, onto my leg and God knows where else. It burned like a bastard for the first few seconds. Still, I managed to get the majority of the crap onto the outermost part of my bikini area. This was the area where your leg and torso converge, where some of the bushier feminists I met in college would have what they called ‘spider legs.’ I smoothed the wax down, the gelatinous ooze pulling with each movement as it hardened. Once it was as smooth as I could potentially get it, I set the stick back into the wax and stared at my groin. I looked like a caulking gun had exploded onto my crotch, but I gritted my teeth and trusted the inner preener that was bat shit crazy enough to do this. I grew impatient and pressed my finger to the goo. The wax had yet to harden, and it stuck to my finger.