The Painting of Porcupine City (6 page)

“Oh, Larry,” he said, “you beat me to this one.”

I nodded at him. He lifted his chin at me.

“Ah, thank god,” Bassett said. “You can do this. You’re half my age. You’re at your peak. I’m in steady decline, about to hit bottom. Install this man a mouse, will you?” He pushed the new mouse against New Guy’s stomach and withdrew from the cube. I could hear him groaning through the maze of cubicles as he retreated to his own.

“I think he’s twice his age,” New Guy said. I guessed it was a joke but he wasn’t smiling. “Did you order a mouse? You left a voicemail about a broken mouse? —You’re Fletcher, right?”

The first two questions were odd given that Bassett had been in my cube and already dished out the instructions—but maybe New Guy liked to go by the book. The one about my name, though, that was a hope apocalypse. Did he really not know my
name?

“Um. Yes. I’m Fletcher. I called. Just one is fine. I’m not ambidextrous.” I grinned. I’d tricked New Guy into coming but I didn’t know what to do now that he was here—here among all these mice, under this garish lighting where I never look my best. “I can install it myself, if you want. You probably have other things—”

“It’s my job,” he said. “Yikes, what’d you do to this guy?”

He picked the mouse up off the desk to examine the carnage—this gave me an opportunity to slide my focus from the mouse to his knuckles. The way the paint faded along the back of his hand was indicative of spraypaint. It looked precisely as though he’d been holding something small to paint it, and his hand caught the residual spray. Maybe he was a modeler.

“I—stepped on it,” I said.

He raised a dark eyebrow. “You walk around on your desk?”

“It fell on the floor.”

“No.” He held the plug-end of the cord against the back of my computer and let the mouse dangle over the edge of the desk. “It’s not long enough to fall on the floor.” The mouse swung gently like a pendulum. “See?”

“Oh. It unplugged and then fell on the floor.”

His green eyes drilled straight into mine, somewhat mocking, totally hypnotizing. “I think you broke this on purpose.”

My cheek twitched. I felt it. “—Why would I do that?”

“I don’t know. You like hearing about Larry’s neighbors?”

“Oh. Haha. I sure do. But no. It came unplugged. And I stepped on it. A series of unfortunate events.”

“Quite a series. OK. Well. Blue or black?”

“Sorry?”

“They’re different colors,” he said. I was looking at the fingers. “Blue? Or black?”

“Oh, the mouse, sure. Blue’s fine. Whichever.”

He shrugged. He put the black mouse on the filing cabinet and tore open the blue one.

I leaned forward in my chair, clasped my hands between my knees. “Cooler out today.”

“I guess. Need to get in here a sec.”

“Sure.” I scooted my chair over to give him access to the computer. Then he was right there, leaning over my desk, fighting with the mouse plug. His belt was scuffed brown leather and sat low on his hips. His crisp shirt was tucked-in neatly, making his torso look long and lean, a swimmer’s body. I felt my eyes roll up. I was tripping on hotness.

“You should dust back here,” he said, un-entwining himself from the cables in the back and then straightening up and giving a quick upward tug on his belt. “OK, let me test it.” He put the back of his hand—
3, 2, 1 contact!
—against my shoulder to push me away from the monitor. The touch was of dubious necessity, which I hoped boded well for the likelihood of future sexual relations. As he wiggled the mouse we watched the cursor scoot across the screen. Little did he know he was inches away from maximizing an email entirely about him. “OK. All set.”

“Thank you.”

“It’s what they pay me big bucks for,” he said sarcastically. He collected the other new mouse. The empty box he held over the wastebasket. “Can I toss this?”

“Sure.” I reached for the box just as he let go—it dropped past my hand into the bucket. I recovered quickly and extended my hand. He shook it awkwardly. “Thanks.”

“No problem,” he said.

“Oh—the old mouse. Should I throw it away?”

“Sure, it’s broken.”

“I—didn’t know if we recycle them or something.”

“No.”

“OK. Thanks Mateo.” I liked how his name felt on my tongue.

“No problem,” he said again.

I turned back to my computer, surprised and intrigued that I’d felt so intimidated by him, and continued the email to Cara. In my re-telling Mateo had a special smile for me at the end of our encounter. Its absence from real life was a little annoying.

Babette, from customer service,

had my ear good. I didn’t mind because the day and its interminable afternoon were finally over. Today the subject was Babette’s sixteen-year-old daughter, who she suspected might be gay—Babette called it
of the lesbianic persuasion
. I’m not great at advice but at work I was apparently the go-to guy for all things homosexual, so I did the best I could.

“You probably shouldn’t ask her about it outright,” I said, taking a big bag of shredded papers from her to carry out to the recycling. “You don’t want to rush her before she’s ready.” We went through the doors and the soupy, late-afternoon air instantly made me feel damp. “Just drop some hints, plant a seed about how it’d be no biggie if she is.”

“But
if
she is,” Babette said, “I worry about, you know, prejudice and things.”

I shifted my messenger bag away from my back, where it was pressing my shirt against damp skin. “If a person has support at home, um, I think she’ll be able to handle anything that—”

The conversation spilled off my brain like an upset Scrabble board. In the parking lot Mateo was leaning into the open hood of his car, one hand holding it up as he peered in.

Babette followed my gaze, shielding her eyes with some mail. “Looks like Matthew is having trouble over there.”

“Mateo,” I corrected. It was too good a name to ever get wrong. He was rubbing his chin now. What we had here, ladies and gentlemen, was a hottie in distress. “Guess I better go see if he needs any help or anything.”

“He’s gorgeous but he smells,” she said in a whisper, this time using the mail to shield her lips. “Have you noticed? As though he goes running around before coming to work. You know what I mean? Can’t be his clothes—he’s the most well-dressed one here. So I think that boy might need a lesson in soap.”

“I don’t know, I’ve never been one to complain about man-smell.”

She laughed. “Maybe not when they look like him. Hmm, maybe I’ll introduce him to Lily, turn her straight lickety-split!” We both laughed. “In the meantime, get that boy into a bath,” she said, putting her hand on my arm. Then she giggled and her boobs bounced around. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to imply....”

I batted my eyelashes. “Babette, what kind of vixen do you take me for, anyway?”

“Scan-da-lous!” she said. “Thank you for your advice. Here, let me take that back.” She reached for the bag of shreddings. “Go be his knight in shining khakis.”

I started walking in Mateo’s direction, slowly to limit sweat production. I tugged out some wrinkles the messenger bag strap was making in my shirt, moved the strap down so it accentuated my pecs.

He dropped the hood closed and slumped onto the bumper in a pose resembling the Thinker. When I approached from around a minivan he stood up. The cuffs of his shirtsleeves were unbuttoned and turned up around his wrists. Too well dressed to be straight. Too un-groomed—because Babette was right, he did smell like he’d been running around—to be gay.

“Hey.”

“Fletcher.”

“Some car trouble?” I said, thinking:
This time he remembered my name
. I raised a hand to block the sun from my eyes.

“Doesn’t want to start. I know fuck-all about cars, alas.”

“But I thought you were the I.T. guy!” I said, laughing at my own joke, but his non-reaction made me realize it made no sense. I crossed my arms. “Well, does it make any noise when you turn the key?”

“I’m supposed to turn the key?” he said. And I was astonished to witness, for the first time in the six days of our vague acquaintance, a genuine smile. “Sorry, no, I know that much. I’m just kidding.”

I laughed again. Maybe too much, too loud. I checked myself, shifted from foot to foot, hooked a thumb under the strap across my chest. Why was I being such a dork?

“When I first tried there was a—” He made some whirring and ticking sounds. “But now there’s nothing.”

“Sounds like it could be the battery?”

“That’s what I was thinking. I’ve been letting it sit for a half-hour or so, but it didn’t do any good.”

“No, that’s not going to help.” I looked around. My car was ten or so spaces away. “I wish I could jump you but I have no cables,” I said, thinking:
I wish I could just plain jump you
. “Open it up?”

“It’s OK, you don’t have to.”

“I don’t mind.”

“OK.” He went around and pulled the latch inside and then splayed his blue fingers against the hood of the gray Civic, lifting it. It was kind of a shitty car, but that boded well for gayness: Mateo spent his money on clothes and not cars. I pointed to the stick and he stood it up.

“I don’t know,” I said. “Nothing looks crazy broken, but I’m no expert. Battery looks kind of old though. This thingy here is pretty corroded.”

“It’s probably kind of old,” he said with finality, as though it were a death sentence rather than a diagnosis. “Well, thanks for the look. Have a nice night.” He started to reach for the stick.

I laughed. “You think I’m just going to leave you stuck here?”

“I’m not exactly stuck, since I have to be right back here in like—fourteen hours.”

“Uh, yeah, but I imagine you’d want to go home and shower.” Poor choice of words, Fletcher. “And sleep, of course,” I amended quickly. “Let the dog out. Watch TV.” I stopped.

If he took offense he didn’t show it—I figured he probably couldn’t smell himself, and the paint on his hand was such a fixture he’d probably forgotten it was there. “Yes, that would be nice,” he said.

I jingled my keys in my pocket, wondering if that meant he had a dog. “Well there’s an AutoZone down that way a ways.” I pointed to some trees but I meant past them. “I could give you a ride.”

“You don’t mind?”

“No, it’s cool.”

“Thanks. So should we write down this battery stuff or what? Want to be sure I get the right kind.”

“I could take a photo with my phone.”

“Let’s just bring the whole thing with us,” he said, jiggling the cord.

He sat in the passenger

seat with the battery on his lap. His fingers were blackened with car grease, on top of the blue. He looked diseased, a refugee from a medieval plague. But there was something articulate and sexy about his hands, too, even beyond the mystery of their ever-changing color.

He seemed oblivious to the grease on his hands as well as the grease that was surely getting on his pants, which were nice enough to be described as
slacks
. I reluctantly put a mark in the straightboy column. Someone who put money into his clothes wouldn’t be so careless about dirtying them up. Probably this guy had a girlfriend who managed his wardrobe. It made sense, actually. A disappointing amount of sense.

His cheeks were shining with sweat and a few licks of hair around his sideburns clung to his skin as though dipped in wax. His smell, while noticeable in the office, was all but gone now, and I realized I never would’ve noticed it at all outside the sterile, filtered, perpetually-chilly office air. It was the smell of life, of living, of activity. It was foreign at work but fit perfectly outside it.

“So how do you like the job so far?” I asked.

“It’s OK. Pays the bills.”

“Where did you work before this?”

“At my last job.” He smiled. Man, his teeth were white. Then he looked out the window for a while, drumming his fingers on the battery. “Speaking of which, how much for a new battery, do you think?”

I didn’t know. “Like fifty maybe?”

“Huh. Figured more.”

The ride was over in

five minutes even though I stopped at yellow lights. I wanted more time but it was unlikely I could’ve gotten anything more out of Mr. Zipped Lips if I’d had an interrogation lamp. I wanted to find a hook, some little quirk or peccadillo upon which to hang the hat of a connection, but so far he was giving me nothing.

He insisted on dragging the old battery into the store with us. I was hoping to roam the aisles looking for the batteries, to prolong the errand, but he showed his crapped-out battery to the first salesperson we saw. We picked out a new one that matched. Carrying them both, one on top of the other, made his shoulders look amazing.

At the cashier he pointed at the display—$57.45—and said to me, “You were close.” He slid his debit card through the machine in a way that was cute or clumsy or even a little precious—but not quite a hook. And then we were back in my car.

“So do you have lunch with Megan and Candace a lot?” I asked.

“From work?”

“Yeah. I— I saw you coming in from lunch today, with them.”

“Oh. No, I haven’t ever had lunch with them. I was in the parking lot playing with the car. Just crossed paths with them on the way in.”

“Oh. OK.”

“Why?”

“No reason.” Again I stopped for a yellow light. This time he seemed to notice but didn’t say anything. “So then your battery died during lunch?”

“Since this morning.”

“Oh.” But that didn’t make sense. “Since this morning? How did it die this morning?” I pulled into the parking lot and stopped alongside the gray Civic.

“Must’ve left the radio on last night or something.”

Then how did he drive it to work?
Before I could ask, he said, “Will you show me how to put it in?”

At this I tingled. I’m not one to boast but I’d been asked that before. “Sure.”

“I mean install the battery.”

“—I know what you meant.”

I got out of the car and before I turned around I nursed the
What-was-that-about?
look I could feel plastered on my face, savoring it there for a second or two before pulling on a mask of indifference. When I turned around he’d set the new battery on the asphalt and was poking his fingers through the plastic wrap.