Pulpy and Midge (15 page)

‘You know what I mean.'

‘He's just being nice to me. I don't know why.'

The receptionist tossed some salt on his shoes. ‘Better get inside where it's warm.'

Beatrice was sitting at the receptionist's desk when Pulpy walked in.

‘Pulpy!' She waved a file at him and then fanned it under her chin in an exaggerated way. ‘Whew! It is
hot
in here!'

‘Hi, Beatrice.' He headed for the closet.

‘I'm redoing the filing system,' she said. ‘It's going to be much better when I'm done with it.'

Pulpy dropped his coat on the closet floor. ‘The receptionist is outside.'

‘That's right, with the salt.' Beatrice was wearing what appeared to be a tight painter's smock, with various colours splattered across it. ‘Is she doing a good job?'

‘She's not wearing a coat.'

‘She isn't? Well, that's not very smart.' Beatrice swivelled then and looked up at the clock, and turned back to him with her bright pink mouth in a little O. She wagged a finger back and forth. ‘Tsk, tsk. You are
late,
mister!'

‘Oh.' He shuffled his feet. ‘Well, I – the bus – and Dan gave me flex hours …'

She snorted. ‘
I
don't care if you're late!'

‘Hmm. Well, I should get upstairs.'

‘Come over here first. I want to show you something.' Two of her fly-away hair strands twitched at him.

He slowly approached the desk.

‘Dan told you I went on that spa retreat, right? On the weekend? He said you and Midge showed him a really good time, by the way. You had mojitos? Mmm! But like I was saying, from the spa, my skin is still really soft. I was feeling it this morning.' She rolled up her sleeve and stroked her arm, then held it out to him.

Pulpy nodded. ‘Nice.'

‘Go ahead, feel it for yourself. Feel my skin!'

He hesitated, then reached out and prodded her with his fingertip. ‘Soft,' he said.

‘It smells amazing too. Did you smell it?'

‘I think so.'

‘No, you'd know it if you did.' She brandished her bare arm at him again. ‘Take a whiff, and then you can go.'

‘Um.'

‘Come on!'

‘All right,' he said, and leaned forward.

‘Ho-ho! What's going on down
here
?' said Dan from the top of the steps.

Pulpy shot back upright. ‘Nothing. I was just –' He looked at Beatrice.

‘Don't worry about my
husband,
' she said. ‘He doesn't mind you taking a sniff.'

‘Come on upstairs, Pulpy,' said Dan. ‘I need to discuss something with you.'

‘She wanted me to smell her arm,' said Pulpy as soon as he was in Dan's office. ‘And touch it, but I only used one finger.'

‘I don't care.' Dan waved a hand at him. ‘Have a seat.'

Pulpy sat on a hard-backed chair. ‘Midge uses Tropical Mist,' he said, ‘and she always smells nice.'

‘And that's the main thing. Nothing better than a good-smelling woman, no sir.' Dan put his feet up on his desk and crossed them at the ankles. ‘Now let's get down to business.
From where I stand the situation is twofold: one, lack of hype, but we'll fix that today with the office-wide potluck-reminder email you'll send out; and two, lack of employee morale, but the whole point of the potluck is to boost team spirit, so there you have the whole chicken-and-egg thing, and there's not much we can do to reverse that process. So, basically, you'll send the email after this meeting, and we'll go from there.' Dan clapped his hands together and stood up.

‘Which is the chicken part?' said Pulpy.

‘That's the whole point.' Dan came around and sat on his desk directly in front of Pulpy so that their legs were almost touching. ‘Because either way you look at it, morale will be hatched from the potluck, and the potluck's success will depend on morale. I can't think of any other reason that would account for a poor turnout.' He lifted one foot to tap the underside of Pulpy's chair. ‘Can you?'

Pulpy shook his head slowly. ‘I can't think of anything.'

‘Well, you let me know if you do.' Dan bent his big head to look at Pulpy eye to eye. ‘I'm counting on you.'

‘You won't regret it.'

Dan gave him a light, stinging punch on the arm, and walked back to his chair. ‘Better get to it, then.'

‘Um, just one thing, speaking about employee morale.' Pulpy cleared his throat. ‘I saw the receptionist out front this morning with a bucket of salt.'

Dan nodded and pressed Enter a few times on his keyboard.

‘She didn't have a coat on.'

‘Is that woman crazy?' said Dan. ‘She sure acts crazy, from what I've seen. That is one crazy secretary.'

‘Receptionist,' said Pulpy.

‘Excuse me?' Dan shook his head. ‘Hold on.' He pressed Enter one more time and then frowned at his screen. ‘Dammit.'

‘She likes “receptionist” better than “secretary.”' Pulpy rubbed the back of his neck.

Dan punched the Up arrow on his keyboard three times. Then he turned back to Pulpy. ‘The tag on her desk says “Secretary.”'

‘Yes.' The fax machine on Dan's desk let out a series of urgent
bleeps,
and Pulpy jolted at the sound. ‘But she doesn't like that word.'

‘You have to wonder about people who are so particular about things.'

Pulpy took a big breath and recited, ‘“For all clients to enjoy a quality product, and for all employees to enjoy quality respect.”'

‘That's some kind of vision statement, isn't it?' said Dan. He shook his head appreciatively before reaching for the fax.

Pulpy noticed some familiar shapes in Dan's garbage can: Al's animal figurines were in there, heaped on top of each other.

Dan saw Pulpy looking and said, ‘Al never came and picked them up.'

Pulpy didn't say anything.

Dan balled up the fax and tossed it into the trash with the animals. ‘I had a nice time with you and Midge on the weekend. A
real
nice time.'

‘It was,' said Pulpy. ‘It was a good time.'

‘That wife of yours, ho-ho!'

‘What about her?'

Dan pursed his lips and folded his hands in front of him. ‘Did you know, Pulpy, that there are so many candle-scent varieties that it would be appropriate to say they are endless? And not only are there the primary scents, but there are all the combinations you can make with them. A creative person would be hard-pressed to ever run out of fusion ideas.'

‘She told you that, I guess.'

‘She did. She's a whiz with candles, that Midge. If I were you I'd be more concerned about her than about the
receptionist.
'

Pulpy stood up. ‘Of course I'm more concerned about Midge. Midge is my wife.' Al's camel was crowning the trash pile beside the crumpled paper.

‘Yes, she is.' Dan grinned at him.

‘I'd better go and send that email.'

‘Yes.' Dan kept grinning. ‘You'd better.'

Later that day when Pulpy walked by the receptionist's desk, he noticed that the fish didn't look very good. It was barely moving. ‘The fish isn't looking very good,' he said to her.

‘What?' She peered into the murky bowl. ‘Looks fine to me.'

‘Maybe I'll just change his water again.'

‘Be my guest.' She refastened the metal clip in her hair. ‘I'm telling you, I cannot
wait
to take my seminar. It says in the flyer, “Front-line staff need frequent breaks to keep their stress level in check.” Frequent. Not just one, which is what I get. But not
her,
no. She lectures me on ergonomics and then goes gallivanting off to who knows where. Plus, she's in the washroom every time I turn around.'

Pulpy lifted the bowl and brought his face close to the glass. There was scum on the sides. ‘Are you feeding him?'

‘What do you mean, am I feeding it? What kind of a person do you think I am?'

‘Just a sprinkle, right?'

‘I don't know, a shake or two every now and then.' The receptionist narrowed her eyes at him. ‘Whose fish is it, anyway?'

‘He's my fish.'

‘Whatever.' She waved a hand at him. ‘Enjoy.'

He cradled the bowl with one arm. ‘I'll be right back.'

Pulpy set the fishbowl down, gently, on the counter in the men's room.

He plugged one of the sinks and turned on the tap. ‘Okay, fish,' he said when the sink was half full. ‘Here we go.' He put a hand in to scoop up the fish.

The fish allowed itself to be lifted out.

Pulpy tipped it into the sink water. The fish flicked its fins once and then was still.

‘Hey, fish,' he said, and poked it in the belly.

The fish let him.

‘You don't like belly pokes! Get mad!' said Pulpy. ‘Swim away!'

The fish didn't move.

‘Hey, fish.' Pulpy patted the surface of the water, and the fish swayed with the waves he'd made. ‘Don't,' he said. ‘You're okay.' He emptied the bowl into the other sink and gave it a hard scrub with a length of paper towel. Then he rinsed it out, twice. ‘No wonder you're miserable. This bowl is dir-ty!'

He filled the bowl with fresh water and set it back on the counter. ‘There we go – your house is clean again.' He picked up the fish and it flopped into his hand. ‘Flap your gills! Wiggle your tail!'

But the fish didn't do either.

‘Fish,' he said. ‘Fish.'

Then the door opened and Roy from Customer Service walked in.

Pulpy dropped the fish into the bowl and started to wash his hands.

‘Hey, Pulpy,' said Roy. ‘What are you doing over there?'

‘I was changing the fish's water for the receptionist.'

Roy walked over and put his hands on his hips. ‘Hmm. He doesn't look good, does he?'

‘I think –' said Pulpy, horrified to hear his voice catch. ‘I think he's dead.'

‘Damn,' said Roy.

Pulpy just nodded.

Roy reached over, awkwardly, and patted Pulpy's shoulder. Then he put his hands in his pockets.

The two men stood there together, looking at the fishbowl.

Then Roy glanced at his watch. ‘I guess you should take it out to her, huh?'

‘I guess I'd better.'

‘Poor little guy.' Roy looked at the door.

Pulpy felt tears starting, and he swiped at his eyes. ‘He's from the winter fair.'

‘The winter fair, eh? How about that.'

There was a knock on the door.

Roy jerked his head around. ‘That must be the cleaner!'

‘Why are you shouting?' said Pulpy.

‘Just so the
cleaner
can hear there's still people in here, so she doesn't come barging in!'

‘Oh. Well, I guess we'd better go, then.'

‘I'll see you out there, Pulpy.' Roy nodded at the stalls.

‘Right. Okay. See you, Roy.' Pulpy hugged the fishbowl to his chest and left the men's room. He passed Beatrice on his way back to the welcome area. ‘Hi, Beatrice.'

She was leaning against the wall, and gave him a lazy smile. ‘Hi, Pulpy. What's that you've got there?'

‘It's my fish.'

‘Oh yeah? I thought it was the secretary's fish.'

‘He isn't really anybody's fish now. He's dead.'

‘Aw, that's too bad.' She smiled again and headed down the hallway.

‘See, there she goes again,' the receptionist said, and then noticed the fish. ‘What did you do to it?'

Pulpy shook his head. ‘Nothing – I. Nothing.' He set the fishbowl down on her desk and stood with his hands folded behind him.

‘Here,' she said, and pushed Beatrice's chair around for him. ‘Have a seat.'

Pulpy sat.

She held the bowl up to the fluorescent lights. ‘You did a good cleaning job, anyway.'

‘Thanks.'

‘Why didn't you just flush it?' The receptionist gave the bowl a little shake and the dead fish wobbled inside.

‘I don't know.'

She put the bowl down. ‘It was a cheap fish, anyway.'

‘He wasn't cheap,' said Pulpy. ‘I won him.'

‘You're right.' She nodded. ‘I'm sorry.'

They sat there, together, with the fishbowl between them.

The receptionist lowered her head and peered at Pulpy through the glass. She tapped on the bowl. ‘At least it won't have to put up with all the crap around here anymore.'

The fishbowl was gone when Pulpy went to get his coat at five o'clock.

‘It's in the kitchen,' said the receptionist when she saw him looking for it. ‘The bowl, I mean. I flushed the fish.'

‘Oh.' He nodded slowly. ‘You can keep the bowl if you want.'

‘What do I need an empty fishbowl for?' she said.

‘You could get another fish.'

She shook her head. ‘Too much trouble. Besides, I've got other plans. I'm saving up money. I'm saving up and I'm going to do something big.'

‘Good for you,' he said, and found his coat under a poncho and a ski jacket.

She jutted out her chin and scratched the bottom of it. ‘Good for me is right. Good for me and screw everybody else.'

‘Screw them,' Pulpy said, and then quickly looked around.

‘I have a resignation letter started at home,' said the receptionist. ‘I could finish it at any time.'

He froze with his coat halfway zipped up. ‘What do you mean? You're leaving?'

‘Who knows? All I know is, I don't have to be here.'

‘You can't leave,' he said. ‘That means they win.'

‘There are other things I want to do. More important things. I do important things, you know.'

‘I know. This place would fall apart without you.'

‘Not
here.
When I'm away from here, I mean. On my own time. There are things that I do that are important.'