Pulpy and Midge

a novel by
Jessica Westhead

copyright © Jessica Westhead,
2007
first edition

This epub edition published in 2010. Electronic ISBN 978 1 77056 184 7.

Published with the generous assistance of the Canada Council for
the Arts and the Ontario Arts Council. Coach House also acknowl-
edges the support of the Government of Ontario through the
Ontario Book Publishing Tax Credit Program and the Government
of Canada through the Book Publishing Industry Development
Program.

LIBRARY AND ARCHIVES CANADA

Westhead, Jessica,
1974
-
Pulpy and Midge / Jessica Westhead.

ISBN 978-1-55245-185-4

I. Title.

PS8645.E85P84 2007          C813′.6          C2007-905510-9

for Derek

On the day of his boss's retirement party, Pulpy Lembeck took a taxi to work.

When he got out he thanked the driver and gave him a two-dollar tip, well over the one-dollar tip he and Midge usually gave taxi drivers, which wasn't very often because normally they took the bus.

‘Cheers, bud,' said the driver, who seemed like the kind of man Pulpy would've gone out with for a beer if he went out for beer with men, which he didn't. He and Midge mostly stayed in, just the two of them.

Pulpy walked into the welcome area of his office and said ‘Good morning' to the receptionist.

‘Uh huh.' She nodded without looking at him.

‘Cold out there.' He stamped his boots on the bristly welcome mat.

She glanced up from the stack of paper she was hole-punching. ‘It's winter.'

‘You're right about
that
!' Pulpy opened the closet to hang up his coat, and frowned a little when he saw that it was full.
There was a new coat in there, a shearling one that was taking up a lot of room.

‘Did you sign Al's card yet?' said the receptionist. ‘There's a card going around that I picked out. It's got a mountain on it, with sunlight. It says “Happy Retirement.”'

‘I have to think of something to write.' Pulpy folded his own coat in half and laid it on the floor of the closet, near the back. ‘It's a great card.'

‘Yeah, I'm good at picking them. The trick is finding the balance between thoughtful and sentimental. It's like when you're doing a cake.' She fitted another sheaf of documents into the punch and banged her fist down. ‘There's a fine line between sweet and too sweet.'

He shut the closet door and smiled at her. ‘How was your weekend?'

‘It's Friday.'

‘Right! You're right. I just couldn't remember if I asked you what you did – did I ask you?'

‘I went to the winter fair. Does that sound familiar?'

‘No.' He squinted and rubbed his chin. ‘No. I don't think you told me about that. So I guess I didn't ask you.'

‘I guess not.'

‘Sounds like fun. The winter fair. My wife and I are going there this weekend.'

‘I went with my boyfriend and he played the fish game but he lost, so I didn't get a fish.'

‘Those fish games can be hard.'

She twisted her mouth at him. ‘What do you know about fish games?'

Pulpy shrugged. ‘Not much. Just that they're hard. It's all about luck.'

‘It's not about luck, it's about skill. He spent a bunch of money on a bunch of tries but he didn't win. He lost. He's a
loser.' She brushed some stray hole-punch confetti onto the floor.

Pulpy watched her fingers flutter over the shower of small paper dots. ‘Where'd you get the retirement cake?'

‘There is no cake.' She reached for a box of elastic bands. ‘Al hasn't asked me to get one yet. He's cutting it close if he wants something good – if I don't go soon all they'll have left is the remainder cakes. And you have to give advance notice if you want a personal message iced on. People don't think about these things.'

‘Cutting it close, ha,' said Pulpy. The receptionist looked at him, and he cleared his throat. ‘What do you know about the new guy who's coming in – anything?'

‘Just that he's somebody from a big building.' She pulled out an elastic band and started stretching it. ‘That's all I can tell you.'

He puffed out his cheeks and slowly let the air go. ‘I guess it's going to be different.'

‘Al's leaving, I'm staying. That's about it. And it's about time he retired. The other day he's standing here, waiting for me to do something for him, and he looks at my international garden calendar. And he looks at this month's garden and says, “Is that your garden?” And I say to him, “No, that's a calendar with pictures of gardens in it.” And he says, “Oh. Well, it's a really nice garden.” And I say, “That's why it's in the calendar.” But he still kept on about how much he liked my garden.'

Pulpy blinked at the bright rows of flowers for February, growing someplace warm in the world. ‘I'm sure he was just trying to be polite.'

‘Do you really think that?' She snapped the elastic band across the room. ‘I don't know.'

On the way to his cubicle, Pulpy stopped outside his boss's office and peeked in.

Al was at his desk playing with his animal figurines, which had come from his garden at home. ‘The wife wondered where all her nature statuettes went to, so I had to go out and buy her new ones,' he'd said to Pulpy when he first brought them in. ‘I like them. They give my office a fresh, outdoorsy feel.'

Pulpy liked them too. He stood there in what he hoped was a casual way, watching while Al pranced his miniature deer up and over his in-tray.

Finally, Al looked up. ‘Pulpy! There you are. Can I see you a minute?'

Pulpy smiled and said, ‘You certainly can!'

He walked into Al's office thinking about taking Midge out for dinner that night to celebrate. They could go to that fancy surf-and-turf under the hotel. Neither of them ate fish but it was the most expensive restaurant in the area. They could get steak. Or chicken stuffed with something.

‘Have a seat.' Al nodded at the old couch in front of his desk. ‘You coming to my thing?'

Pulpy sat. ‘Yes.'

‘Good.' Al put down his deer and picked up his camel, and toyed with its hump. ‘Will Midge be there?'

Pulpy made an apologetic face. Weeks ago, on their way home from Couples Ice Dance Expression, he'd asked Midge if she wanted to come.

‘Oh, Pulpy,' she'd said, flushed from the laps they'd done around the rink, ‘I wish I could. But I think I'd see Mrs. Wings everywhere, and that would just be too much for me.'

‘I miss her too,' he'd said, and she'd kissed him.

‘I don't think Midge can make it,' Pulpy told his boss.

‘Well, that's understandable.' Al was wearing a shirt with little acorns all over it.

‘Those are nice acorns,' said Pulpy.

‘Huh?' he said and looked down. ‘Oh, yeah. The wife picked it out. You know wives.' Al pointed the camel at him. ‘Keep up the good work, Pulpy. Because good work is what you do, and I want you to know I recognize that. As a matter of fact, it's high time I showed you that recognition.'

Pulpy leaned forward. ‘It is?'

‘Anybody home?' A large, rectangular head poked around the doorway then, grinning big teeth at them.

‘Dan!' said Al. ‘Come on in!'

Pulpy looked up at the tall man who'd just stepped into his boss's office, with his broad shoulders and expensive suit.

‘Pulpy, this is Dan.' Al spread his arms wide, and then romped the camel across his desk. ‘All of this will be his on Monday.'

‘All of what?' Dan extended his huge hand to Pulpy. ‘I told him, he better take that couch when he goes! I'm bringing in chairs. I've got chairs that will put that couch to shame.'

Pulpy moved his own, less impressive hand up to be shaken. ‘Nice to meet you, Dan.' He winced as the other man compressed the soft meat of his fingers.

‘Pulpy, eh?' said Dan. ‘What is that, a nickname?'

‘He drank a lot of orange juice in college,' said Al.

‘Ho-ho!' said Dan. He winked at Pulpy. ‘Didn't we all!'

Pulpy didn't know what to say to that.

‘Dan and his wife are new in town,' said Al. ‘They just moved in.'

‘Fresh on the scene!' said Dan.

‘Well, then, Dan and I have a few things to talk about, Pulpy, so if you'll excuse us –'

‘Oh. Sure.' Pulpy stood up, and Dan sat down.

Dan shifted around on the couch. ‘How do people
sit
on this thing? Nice meeting you, Pulpy!'

‘Thanks,' said Pulpy. ‘You too.'

‘Orange juice, ha!'

‘Ha.' Pulpy's knuckles still hurt from the handshake, but he waited until he reached his cubicle to massage them.

Pulpy sat at his desk and spread his hands out on his blotter. ‘Blot,' he said in a quiet voice.

He looked at the few fair hairs on his fingers and wished there were more of them. He pulled out his keyboard tray and felt the bottom of it graze the tops of his thighs. He decided again to call Building Maintenance to ask them to fix that.

Pulpy pushed the keyboard tray back in, a little harder than he needed to.

Pulpy Lembeck had once been Brian Lembeck. He'd gotten the nickname in college, during lunch in the cafeteria. As he brought a glass of orange juice to his lips, some smart aleck said loudly, ‘So you like orange juice, hey, Pulpy?'

The rest of the table looked at Brian, and he shrugged. His silence apparently signalled his agreement, and the name Pulpy stuck fast. Pulpy didn't mind – it gave him a story to tell.

The receptionist's workstation was in the middle of the welcome area, with the white spiral staircase to her right. To her left were the communal photocopier and paper shredder, and the hall to the staff washrooms and then the staff kitchen, which contained a fridge, a microwave, a toaster, a bulletin board, and a table and two chairs.