The Kissing Game (4 page)

A woman wearing tall red heels walks by, escaping no doubt. I
briefly envy her as the Chairman drones through a steady stream of pointless
steam out of the orifice in his face. When he’s done, it feels as though I’ve
aged ten years. He lays down his pen, which he never used the whole time he was
talking as far as I can tell. Then he waits for the fireworks of applause.
Several interns stand clapping, ready to throw hats in the air if they had
some. The rest of us clap like the dead.

“He’s a pollywog, isn’t he?” I say. I don’t know why. I don’t even
know what a pollywog is. A frog? A pond? Not sure. Robert tilts his head at me.
The two interns have entirely given up their attention to this table. Instead,
their bodies are positioned toward the exit sign, ready to spring. All they
need is an excuse. A fire. An earthquake. Gunshots perhaps.

The Chairman bends his head to shake some intern’s hand. Yes, I
think, he’s a promising politician just one baby-kiss away from the
presidency.  Henry and Todd look a hundred miles away. I don’t even
think they could see me if I waved right now.

“Caroline.” I turn to look at Robert. He dusts off his pants, as
if they’re dirty, but they’re not. They’re never dirty. He looks as if he’s
ready to lunge himself. “Caroline?” he leans into me and whispers this time.
“Are you alright? Do you feel ill?” Why does his voice sound like it’s
traveling through a water-filled cylinder?  

For some reason, the room has changed. The tables are thirty miles
apart. Sparks from the chandeliers spin through the air. I’m a solitary
encampment that has shrunk into my chair. And now, the table in front of me is
a round tile ascending like a balloon. I feel Robert’s hand grab my shoulder.
Then his other hand comes around me, his fingers hooking into my armpit.

“Brandon, William, help me, 
quietly
,” he yell whispers
to the interns sitting across from us. Why is he so urgent? There’s a flurry of
suits around me swiftly. Ah yes, I think. Those are the interns’ names. Brandon
and William. I had totally forgotten.

“Don’t make a scene,” Robert growls at them. Such a familiar growl
too; it’s almost comforting. “Just help me get her out the exit doors over
there.” Robert tosses his head, gesturing to the right of us, where just a few
feet away is an exit door. I feel Robert’s breath on my cheek, his arm like a
wall of rope-muscle holding me up.

I realize I’m standing and walking, but my feet feel like boots
and the air grows long and skinny around me. A couple faces at a nearby banquet
table watch us as we exit, as if we’re the most exciting event of the evening.
I’m sure we are. A food-server person wearing black and white hustles to open
the exit door for us. The two interns walk tightly around Robert and me, mostly
shielding our departure from view.

Next thing I know, all four of us are standing the interior
courtyard of the lobby, which seems to have tumbleweed rolling through it compared
to the room we just escaped from. The two interns are now shipman waiting for
their captain’s next command. “You can go now,” Robert scolds them rather than
thanking them. Briefly I feel pity for them as they nod and fold themselves
back through the door we came out of.

And now it’s just me and my boss standing there. He’s holding my
purse.

“Caroline, how much did you drink to night?” Robert asks me. I
feel his knuckles under my arm.

“Drink?” I reply. “I just had some piña colada, like you did.” I
point at him.

He mumble-grunts, pulling me along. We are gliding now toward the
elevators. The fountain nearby swishes water through green fronds, giving the
appearance that the plants are vomiting upwards. The place smells sparkly and
feels windy. Big glass walls flank the elevators. I remind myself that I’m
going to have to make my move soon, while we’re in the elevator. The security
cameras must capture the evidence. For some reason, I’m not afraid.

 “Did you drink anything before you got here tonight?” His
face is close enough to mine that a strand of my long red hair sticks to the
stubble of his cheek. He presses the button. Then he swats my hair off his
face.

“No,” I answer.

The elevator dings, and the doors swing open. I can feel Robert
hitching his arm under me as he pulls me inside. I must weigh a ton the way
he’s toiling, but I feel feathery. With curiosity, I watch as he presses the “G”
button for the garage. The elevator’s dark wood walls make Robert’s face look
like that of a pretty demon god. Oh mister, I think. I’ve never been this close
to his curly lashes.

“You have nice lashes,” I confess in a gust. I’m not sure why.

There’s a measured second before the elevator wobbles in a
downward direction. Robert looks down for some reason, so I do too. His legs
remind me of race horses’, the way the muscles tense in the thighs.

“Uh-huh,” is all he says, as if he’s heard that statement a billion
times. He really hates me. Really, really hates me. Good thing I had a little
alcohol. Elixir of confidence.

And so here we are in the elevator alone. It’s so clichéd, isn’t
it? If we were two people in a sappy romance book, this would be the moment when
we’d kiss. I’d be cat-clawing his hair, and he’d be ruinously ravaging me. We’d
be two sex-starved dunes of pheromones colliding into an explosion of elevator
raunchiness. His hands would be pumicing the crests of my tiny breasts beneath
my dress. My leg would be leeching around his backside. My eyes roll just
thinking about it.

Still, Robert stands close enough that I can smell the piña colada
on his breath. Coconut, pineapple. I can feel his cupped fingers around me. But
how do I take that lunge into the dark side with someone I hate so very much?
How do I cross that irrevocable threshold from sanity to utter insanity? It
feels like a mountain I’ll never be able to climb. Still, he’s touching me, so
the Xanax must be working.

So now I ask myself: What is the worst outcome? He could laugh at
me, push me away, scold me. All possibilities. Even so, whatever happens
between us in this elevator would be just one more sharp piece of glass in a
pile of sharp pieces of glass. To rouse my confidence, I think of history books
containing all those stories about liberated people, the pictures of women
pleading for suffrage, migrant farm workers holding signs and marching in 100
degree heat for safer working conditions. Malcolm X. The Black Panther party—if
only they all had red hair, pale skin, and freckles—and fought for liberation
from tyrannical lawyers.

Like Robin Hood, I turn myself toward the mountain beside me.
Instinctively, Robert removes his hand from me and twists away. He looks as if
a heavy bag has just been slung on his shoulder. His reaction should make me
feel rejected, but I don’t. I feel fuzzy. Incubated. Ready to hatch. He looks
at me as if I’m that headless child again. Instead of backing down, I stand
there contemplating the two years of mistreatment, the late night speculation
about my self-worth, the mutilated remains of my confidence, the constant fear
that he’ll erupt about timesheets, misspelled words, perfume smells, misplaced
documents. And the cow sucking its tongue.

And then I’m there. Right there in front of him. Face to face, so
close I feel him breathing on me dimly. I see the little stubble hairs on his
chin. Close up, his beauty becomes apocryphal.

Of course, I plunge--my lips in the abyss. Only the abyss feels
warm, as if I’m in Mexico, lying on some beach near a wild jungle kissing a
stranger. Next, I hear my purse drop from Robert’s hand. Then I feel both his
hands on my back. Ah yes, instruments of the devil. And now he’s pulling 
me
 into 
him
.
Somehow I’ve passed through myself and stand at the boundary between hell and
emancipation. His hands feel like icepacks on my back. He smells of nakedness.
His lips are silvery affliction—the whipping before the freedom. He kisses with
the sort of evil abandon that starts wars, overturns dictatorships, kills
foreign powers. I’m not surprised. If I didn’t hate him so very much, I would
say, without speculation, the kiss might be worthy of writing about in a book.
He tilts his head now, his mouth still working while he rubs his cool palm up
the skin on my back. I feel his panted knees on my bare thigh. He’s very tall,
I think. It’s a good thing I’m in heels.

In Robert’s mind, he probably considers himself a victor. An
attractive man with yet another woman throwing herself at him. This exchange is
likely a frequent occurrence for him, frequent enough to contribute to his gargantuan
arrogance. Yet in my mind, I’m the victor. I’m the savage with the war-painted
face. And he’s so close to the flames that I can smell his burning flesh and
feel the security camera capturing us.  I would dance around the fire
and chant if I didn’t feel so pondering and indulgent at the moment. Presently
my arms seem confused by the enormity of the situation as they wrap around
Roberts neck. It feels so odd. My brain seems to ask itself—
you realize
you’re kissing your boss, right?

And then the elevator doors fling open and the wind throws back my
hair. The smell of concrete and rubber blasts in from the parking
garage.  

With that abrupt change in atmosphere, Robert disengages himself
from me as if someone has pressed the “stop” button on us. He shoves me away.
His hands seem to say, “Don’t come any closer.” We’re instantly two strangers
disconnected, studying each other, only I feel as though I’ve just dismounted a
wild animal who for some reason is shimmering.

Robert picks up my purse from the elevator floor and points it at
me like a weapon. Then he holds the elevator door open with his other hand so
it won’t close. “Caroline,” he says calmly. His voice is a tree. A breathless,
angry tree. “Can you walk?”

“Of course I can walk.” Stupid question.

I walk, more like slog, out of the elevator toward the massive
underground cave that is the parking garage. I feel a hand tap my shoulder.
“This way,” he says. I turn and follow him. Almost candle-lit, the orange
lights in the garage spread glow out of corners and crevices. Immense concrete
legs coming from forty floors above meet the earth down here, their strength
reigned in below our feet. The cool air inside the garage holds its breath
while my heels clack and echo. Around us, cars are parked on a downhill grade,
which makes me feel billowing. To catch my balance, I stop but then feel
Robert’s arm hooking around me, this time around my waist. I see we’re cruising
toward his brand new black BMW. This makes me frown. There should be a law that
only nice people get to drive nice cars. Bad people should have to drive
beat-up Yugos. But the world isn’t fair.

He opens the door for me, and I slip inside. The seats are leather
pillows. The door clicks expensively shut. Robert then walks around, gets in,
hands me my purse, and starts the engine. It’s a racehorse of the topmost
quality.

“You drive a real piece of junk, don’t you?” I say.

Although he says nothing, his face casts conflicting shadows at me
while he backs out of the parking spot. As he drives out of the garage toward
Market Street, the darkness doesn’t hamper his good looks. The shadows cross
his face, giving him a fabled quality. He also looks as if the car was just
made for him this morning, the seat designed for his body, the steering wheel
for his hands. The interior consists of finely polished black leather and shiny
parts spliced together. I would have expected music in his car—heavy metal,
classical, something extreme. Instead silence. Just knives and pistols in his
eyes. I’m about to ask him if he should be driving in his condition, but then I
think he seems fine. I, on the other hand, I feel too long-legged and
candle-like to speak. My teeth also feel soft.

Still, in the back of my mind, fire erupts. I begin to worry
slightly whether I should be worrying. He just sits there driving, tall and
fiery, his smoldering knuckles locked onto the steering wheel. I wonder what is
going to happen tomorrow at work. What is he going to say to me? Will he yell?
Yelling is always a possibility with Robert. Will I cry like a cow? Also
possible. Then again, haven’t I been his casualty long enough? Yet why does my
flesh feel so outrageous?

When his car turns onto Market Street, he asks me in a voice that
reminds me of butcher paper, “Where do you live?”

You can just drop me off at the bus stop, I almost say, but I
mumble my address instead.

Then I tuck my head into the cushy spot of the passenger seat and
partially evacuate my body. The sound of the engine whitewashes my brain as we
fly through the glittering streets of San Francisco at night.

“Cada loco con su tema.”

Each madman on his high horse.

Robert pulls his BMW up to my eight-unit timeworn apartment
complex and parallel parks without effort. In my part of town, his car feels
exotic and out of place. Silent and empty, the streets of my neighborhood look wholly
depopulated, as if all the people have been murdered or killed by a plague. It
can’t be much past 10:00 p.m., but the poor apparently get up early. Even though
I have no idea where Robert lives, I imagine his street at this hour. It would
be lit up with golden lights that cauterize the night. Right now only a
moth-light is on inside Ted’s apartment.  Through the sliding-glass doors of
the ground-floor, I can see Ted crouching over a thick book at his kitchen
table.

Having exited the car, Robert walks around to open my door. After
he commandeers me, he holds my elbow steady while we hoof-clop along the
walkway toward the stairs. All the while I’m grappling with the wounded state
of my brain. Why do I feel so strange? Did the bartender put more alcohol in my
drink than bartenders usually do? Am I such a lightweight that one drink is the
same as a barrel-full to my system? I don’t drink often, so perhaps.

As Robert walks me up the stairs, he seems to have severed himself
from the present moment. He’s silent, yet I can see a vein pulsating in his
temple. Watching him makes me stumble. He has to step backwards on the stairs to
keep us both from tumbling.

“Watch where you’re going!” he grumbles.  I wonder if the dose of
Xanax I gave him is wearing off. He must feel more himself now. He must be
fully contemplating the terrible nature of his situation. Victory is sweet
indeed.

At the door, I remove my keys from my purse, but they collide with
the lock. After several tries, I realize the keys can’t make contact with the
key hole. Something must be wrong with them.

“Give them to me,” Robert orders. I hand them over. He slips them
inside the protruding lock like a judge smacking a gavel. Then he opens my
door, and I flick the switch. Light from my kitchen splinters through the room.
As we enter, I realize I’m not prepared for guests. My laundry basket full of blue
towels and jeans sits on the floor near what barely passes for a couch. I hope
there are no bras in the basket, but I don’t care enough to do anything about
the situation.

Then I hear footsteps trotting up the stairs.

“Caroline,” Ted says, appearing at my door. His fingers touch the
frame. “I saw you almost take a tumble. You alright?”

Ah, Ted Bundy to the rescue.

Somehow
I manage the several paces over to my couch and flop down. I kick off my shoes
and look up. Two good-looking men stand there in my doorway gazing at me. One
wears the same shorts and t-shirt he wore this morning, and the other wears a
suit and looks surly.

“Fine, thanks, jus’ a little too much to drink tonight,” I reply. I
lean into the couch and close my eyes. My bare feet feel heavenly unchained. I
know there are a thousand things to worry about right now, but I can’t fight
the relaxation that waylays my body.

“I’m her neighbor from downstairs. I’m Ted,” he introduces himself
to Robert. I open my eyes and watch Ted reach out to shake Robert’s hand. The
door to my apartment remains wide open and cool freeway air runs inside. Standing
there, Robert looks liquid blue in his suit, framed black by the night sky. He
just gazes fiery at Ted’s extended hand and then lays my keys on the nearby
kitchen counter.

“I’m her boss,” Robert replies, as if that is enough to shoo Ted
away. He doesn’t even offer his name, just “boss.” Classic Robert. He has no
time for commoners. Next, Robert puts his hands on his hips and observes me, as
if he’s a doctor and doesn’t know whether to operate on me or let me die. He’s
a couple inches taller than Ted, whose eyes cut concerned looks between Robert
and me. Ted looks as if he thinks Robert might be the potential serial killer
in this situation.

 “She’ll be fine,” Robert huffs dismissively to Ted, without
looking at him.

“Is that so?” Ted asks me. His voice is just a few notches higher
than Robert’s. I don’t answer. My hair is like a hat to my head. The freeway
air feels silky. I slump down further into the couch. If feels like a cushy
cradle.

 “Caroline, answer him, so he knows he can go,” Robert commands me.

 “You
can go,” I oblige, closing my eyes again.

“Okay.” Ted seems hesitant. “See you tomorrow then.” But it’s more
like a promise than a farewell. I hear the door click, and for a moment, I
think Robert has departed too, until I hear his marsh-like footsteps on the
carpet. God I hate my carpet. It’s tan and old. I bet Robert has stone or
hardwood floors, something less shamble-like. He must shudder just to be here.

He sits down next to me on the couch. “You should lie on your
side,” he orders me.

“What?”

“On your side, in case you’re sick. You don’t want to choke,” he
tells me.

Robert’s voice makes me think he’s pitched on that plateau between
leaving and staying. I wonder why. Perhaps he feels obligated. Like doctors, lawyers
are forever worried about being sued, but what can I possibly sue him for? For
leaving me inebriated on my couch? Or maybe he just doesn’t want me to choke here
all alone because he’d rather choke me himself later, in the office. As his car
keys jingle in his hand, I remember he’s sitting on the world’s ugliest couch. Goodwill
special, forty dollars. Purple with big white flowers. Classy.

“Look, you can go. I’ll be fine,” I tell him, motioning my hand
toward the door.

There’s a dark stretch of silence while I lay like the moon capsized
on its side and Robert says nothing. The air feels mute and wooden with the
door closed. I’m perilously close to sleeping, which must be the worst offense an
assistant can ever commit in front of her boss. It feels as though I should be
doing something vitally important: printing timesheets, collecting boxed
shirts, or polishing Robert’s polished shoes. I can’t seem to move though.

Soon, however, my mind slips into a half-dream filled with rifle
smoke and pretty soldiers dressed in blue army suits. Through a forest, they
run in pursuit of the enemy. One soldier sprints breathless ahead of the rest
and is the first to be shot down. He tumbles and dies beautifully under the
shade of a tall tree. Next, I hear the distant pandemonium of horse hooves and
keys. And then I hear my door closing and think that Robert has left my
apartment. With that thought, I ride fondly toward deeper sleep.

When I awake, I feel as if I’ve slept for a thousand years while
drifting on a massive, warm ocean. My legs and arms are well-rested tendrils.
From the white-numbered clock on the kitchen stove, I see that it is 6:06 a.m.
My apartment feels like the silence before the thundercloud. Jumping up from
the couch, I pause before rushing to the window to look for Robert’s car. It’s
not there, thank god. I don’t know what I expected, but my scalp tingles at the
thought that he is gone.

On a fence across the street, an orange cat crouches, waiting to
pounce on an approaching poodle. The dog hobbles along the sidewalk with its
equally decrepit owner. Beyond the freeway, scattered bands of grey-black
clouds shape the distant sky. I hear the growl of thunder and see the sheets of
water releasing in the distance.

Knowing the day will be rainy usually makes me grumpy. But today I
hum myself into the shower, where I lather gloriously, primal blood coursing in
my veins. I’m not thinking about the confrontation that awaits me, only the
outcome. After dressing, I head out my door early, feeling as though I have
wings on my back. I take two steps at a time, nearly tumbling on the last step.
Just as I round the corner, Ted opens his sliding glass door. His black hair
looks as if he’s spent the night prowling and pillaging. He wears just sweats,
no shirt. His chest is as toned as any busy serial killer’s would be.

“Caroline, hey,” he says. He runs a hand through his wavy hair.
“How are you? I was a little worried about you last night.” He leans on the
frame of his door.

Ted Bundy, worried about me. How sweet.

“I’m fine. Just can’t seem to hold my liquor. Thanks though. That
was nice of you to be concerned.” I’m clutching the strap of my backpack which
is slung over my shoulder. My feet feel ready to spring toward the bus stop a
few blocks away. I want Ted to hurry up his greeting.

“Some weather today, huh? Feels like a monsoon.” He drifts forward
a little, one bare foot reaching out onto his patio. “Look, I was wondering,”
he continues, pointing toward his refrigerator. “I’ve got some steaks in the
freezer that I’ve been meaning to cook. Got ‘em on sale at Vons. Would you like
to stop by tonight and help me eat them?” Now I wonder if Ted planned to open
his door shirtless. Perhaps he wants to show off his chest. It
is
deserving of a whoop whoop.  I glance toward my destination and then back at
Ted. His sweats flutter in the stormy wind.

“I’m not sure. It all depends,” I say, thinking about whether I
actually want to eat with Ted Bundy. Then I wonder what he would say if he knew
I call him Ted Bundy. Regardless, I might be busy getting my boss fired. This thought
makes me ponder lying in a carpet of spring flowers. It also makes me feel as
though I’m about to be struck by lightning. “Look, I have this work thing I
have to do, so I might be getting home late.” I give him an expression that hopefully
says I’m sorry.

He shakes his head like an unbreakable man. “No worries. Some
other time,” he tells me. Then he points at me. “Have a good one then, and lay
off that boozing. Wouldn’t want anyone to take advantage of you, would you?” He
smiles while I squint at him. The rain hisses overhead.

“No, I don’t think I would.”

As I cross the grassy patch to the sidewalk, I pull up the hood of
my raincoat and hustle.

After disembarking the train downtown, I find the streets a
torrent. Silvery fragments saw through the air in front of me, throwing water
that tastes like iron onto my lips. When I reach the elevator, I’m alone.
Inside I shudder up to the 22
^nd
floor. Cory’s floor. He always
arrives early, and I desperately need someone to talk to. The thought of facing
Robert today is slowly growing inside of me like one of those demon babies in a
scary movie, or like that movie where the alien that pops out of that guys
stomach while he’s eating spaghetti.

Exiting the elevator, I pass blackened offices, one after the
other, until I cross the threshold of the Technology Department of our firm.
There, I find Cory’s light shining underneath his door. Two knocks and I burst
into his office.

“Well, good morning, my little pumpkin. How can I help you?”he
says without looking at me. Apparently he sees my reflection in his office
window. He’s wearing a green and black tie-dye shirt and slim black jeans. (See
what I mean about his fashion sense?) His dark hair, long for a guy, looks as soft
and curly as a toddler’s. He swivels around in his office chair and smiles at
me as if he’s hiding great boulders of gold behind him. In his right hand, he
cradles a steaming cup of tea.

My mouth opens, but I think to myself that there’s no way Cory could
have put together a tape from the security footage already. Not this soon.
Could he?

“You didn’t
already
, did you?” I scowl at him with what
must look like an expression of disbelief.

“You have no idea,” he says wiggling his fingers, “what these
hands are capable of. It’s like I don’t even have to try. Plus, you forget, my
dear, that I see all and know all.” Then he swivels back around to face his
computer screen and places his tea on his desk. Pulling out the keyboard, he lets
his fingers slope across it like a musician. While the screen zooms to life, he
waltzes past me and kicks his office door closed. Resuming his seat, he doesn’t
bother watching the tape begin to play on his computer. Instead, he just
watches my face for a reaction.

“I should get an academy award for my editing skills,” he says,
exhaling. “I don’t know why I bother keeping this stupid job. Such a waste of my
talent. I should be working in Hollywood. In front of the camera, behind the
camera, either one.”

I’m hardly listening to him because I see myself on his screen.
I’m wearing the red dress and kissing Robert. Somehow Cory has edited the tape
so that the camera doesn’t catch me instigating the kiss. Robert appears to be
the instigator. He’s pushing me into the elevator wall. On the grainy footage,
filaments of light hit Robert’s face, and a slight smile haunts his lips.
Because of the overhead angle of the security camera, his hair looks darker,
almost pitch black. When my hands go to his neck, his suit jacket quivers. Must
be the Xanax, I think. He looks a foot taller than I am on the tape, but he
couldn’t be. Watching the spectacle makes me feel like a voyeur, a slut, a
criminal—all rolled into one. My empty stomach feels as though it’s shouting at
me. My hand covers my mouth.

And then the tape ends. It’s only a matter of seconds. Cory
obviously edited out the elevator doors opening.

“Jeezus,” I say.

“I know, right?” Cory responds. “You might be deserving of an
academy award, too. I’ll call you Jessica Chastain from now on—what with the
red hair and the Oscar-worthy performance.” Cory looks devilishly pleased with
himself. Taking his breakfast bar out of the wrapper, he pulls off a chunk of
stretchy-granola substance and shoves it into his mouth. It smells like nuts.