What Hides Within (4 page)

"What were you saying?" He swiveled in his Wal-Mart special, nineteen-dollar desk chair, turning to face the beauty beside him. "I've got some water in my ear that, for some reason, is reluctant to come out. Apparently, I can't hear too much out of it."

Consuela Maria Avilla Nuñez Gonzalez stared back at her coworker and lunch buddy. Her name being the mouthful that it was, most people, including Clive, just called her Connie.

Connie was Harcourt's attractive and most sexually harassed receptionist. There were two other receptionists at Harcourt, a male and a female who looked more male than the male. Regardless of her lack of competition, Clive found Connie absolutely perfect, his dream girl, unobtainable. She was tall and leggy, voluptuous and smart. Three nights a week, she attended Bryant College as she worked toward a Master's Degree in Business Administration. Her Harcourt work was temporary, an unhappy but financially necessary stepping stone to a brighter future and a much safer alternative to stripping.

She seemed to have everything going for her. Yet, for reasons beyond Clive's comprehension, Connie had taken a liking to him. And while most of his male, and some female, coworkers were thinking about how to get her into bed, Clive was thinking about how to get her to go out with him some night for a nice, romantic dinner with some quiet time to get to know each other. If all went well, then he'd try to get her into bed.

"How long has that been going on?" she asked.

"Just since last night."

Clive dismissed his hearing woes as more bad luck. He'd had his share of it in life thus far. So much, in fact, that he learned to downplay it and quickly move on as though it were inconsequential. He could forgive it all, be it his grandmother using an old-school finger method to relieve his constipation at nine; his mom walking in on him while he masturbated to late-night Skinemax at fifteen; his unknowingly breaking his foot during a soccer game, masked by the pain of the simultaneous shot to the testicles he received; his orthodontist informing him that he would need two more years of braces because a gate swung open into his mouth; his walking in on his ex-girlfriend fucking his cousin and his cousin's wife; a seagull taking a pasty-white, liquid shit on his head just last week; and now, an earful of putrefied water causing partial deafness. Such was just another day in the life of Clive Menard.

"I'm sure it'll just work its way out eventually," he said. "No big deal."

"I don't know, Clive. Does it hurt?"

"No. It just sort of feels like I'm wearing an ear plug."

"You poor thing," she said, resting her arms around his shoulders. Her closeness sent a feeling of uncomfortable excitement coursing throughout Clive's body. He thought about baseball to keep it in check. He often associated Connie with baseball, even when the sport wasn't in season.

"Well, if it doesn't improve soon, you should probably get it checked. It could be the beginning of an ear infection."

Clive's face turned sour. "Awe, don't say that." He envisioned nasty micro-bacteria and other unfriendly substances percolating in his recent dunk tank. He wildly fantasized about flesh-eating viruses, bubonic plague and other exotic maladies not often acquainted with Swansea, Massachusetts. But Clive chose not to dwell on his seemingly minor malady. He shook off the discomfort.

"Well, are we on for lunch?"

"Sure. The usual?"

"You know it."

"Well, I'll see you later. Malcolm is already burying me with work this morning. I swear, he barks orders at me just to have an excuse to stare at my tits."

Clive's lips curled into a crooked smile. "If I were your boss, I might do the same thing."

"Ha-ha."

Although her laugh was sarcastic, Connie's smile seemed genuine. It made Clive blush. He rarely had the courage to flirt. He hoped Connie wasn't completely put off by it.

"I'll catch you later," she said with a wink. She strutted confidently in high heels back to her desk.

Clive stared at his desk clock. It was 9:35 a.m. He turned on his computer. Briefly, he considered getting some work done before beginning a moderately compulsive, daily bout with Spider Solitaire and an even less productive Instant Messenger conversation with Derek LeRoux. Distracters aside, Clive's mind remained focused on Connie, her lingering perfume that he found undeniably enticing and her affectionate demeanor, awakening dormant thoughts of what he dreamed could be. It worked, at least partly, for Hephaestus and Aphrodite. He wondered, couldn't it work for him and Connie?

Nah. She's way out of my league
. No one could crush Clive's optimism better than Clive himself.
Unobtainable
.

"So when are you going to hook me up with Morgan?"

Derek's message appeared on his monitor, followed by a winking smiley face that made Clive cringe.
How gay
, he thought, resting his fingertips on his keyboard in true typist fashion. A retort was warranted.

"Dude, did you ever hear of the motto, 'bros before hos?' You know we're more than just friends, right?"

Derek LeRoux was Clive's best friend by default. Other than Morgan, Derek was Clive's only real friend. But he found Derek to be egocentric, dorky, and somewhat sneaky. Needless to say, it wasn't an overly valuable friendship.

Derek worked an equally dead-end job as an IT guy for a struggling wannabe Geek Squad rip-off. He fit the computer geek profile well: hair parted to the side; utility belt with a cellphone and portable radio that he put to no known uses; a second cellphone of equally unknown use; white button-down, tan khakis and black, slip-resistant shoes, which he wore nearly every day; and a slight pot belly from too many lunches at the local Taco Bell and too many dinners at the local sports pub. He was a pioneer in Dungeons and Dragons back in that one afternoon where D&D was almost cool, or at least not yet known enough to be universally ridiculed for its high nerd factor. Rumor had it that he had already logged over two hundred hours playing the latest offering from the World of Warcraft.

Together, he and Clive probably averaged ten hours of actual work each week. Clive couldn't guess why either of them was still employed. But despite his lack of ambition, Derek was neither a good guy nor a bad guy. He was just Derek, somewhat sleazy, somewhat loyal, but always, always predictable. And always after Morgan.

"How long have you known her?" Derek asked.

"Nearly my whole life."

"And you never dated her?"

"It's not like that."

"Whatever, man. I'm just saying, share the wealth."

"I don't think you're her type."

"What's that supposed to mean? Her type ain't a sexy and smart stallion like me?"

"Yeah, you reek of class."

"Hey, I can be classy. I took my last date to Outback."

"Yep, you the man. Anyway, I have to go. Work beckons."

"Is Judge Judy riding your ass again?"

Clive reached for his mouse at warp speed, frantically closing out the message box as though its very presence was toxic. Then, he re-messaged Derek to let him know that he was pissed.

"Damn it, Derek. I told you a hundred times not to write shit like that. You never know when she's spying."

"You never know when who's spying?" a voice called out sternly behind him. A wave of stale coffee breath lapped against the back of his neck, forcibly curving itself around Clive's face like a wet fog and imposing its fetid stench into Clive's nostrils. A sagging boob rested against his shoulder blade.

Clive slowly moved his mouse to close out of his conversation with Derek, as if his minimal speed would make his action go undetected. The Instant Messenger box now closed, all that remained on-screen was a thrilling game of Spider Solitaire already in progress. He closed his eyes momentarily, a peaceful repose before the onslaught to come. Judge Judy stood behind him.

"Turn that crap off," she barked.

Reluctantly, Clive complied.
I had a chance to beat it this time, too
, he thought. But the Judge had made her ruling, and her rulings were final.

Judge Judy was actually Judith Schenkland. She earned her nickname for her resemblance both in name and personality to the famous tele-legalist and megabitch, Judge Judy Sheindlin. But if the real Judge Judy were a megabitch, Clive's boss was a gigabitch, a crotchety, cantankerous, miserable sort, unliked by everybody.

Judith was the Assistant Vice President of Marketing, and somehow, in the fucked-up hierarchy that was the Harcourt management scheme, she was direct supervisor to the data entry department, a.k.a. Clive Menard. Judith's wretchedness as a person was outdone by her wretchedness as a boss. She went out of her way to make her subordinates hate both her and their jobs. Perhaps it was her one failed marriage or her seventeen failed diets, but Judith's personality rivaled that of the most detestable shock jock or reality television star, thus earning her the nickname. Nevertheless, neither Clive nor anyone else at Harcourt had the
cajones
to call her Judge Judy to her ill-begotten, four-chinned face.

She grabbed Clive by his upper arm and twirled him around in his chair. She then grabbed both of Clive's shoulders, placing a considerable amount of weight on him and a strain on his cheap roller chair. Fortunately for both Clive and Judith, the chair rolled backward an inch into Clive's desk, allowing the desk to support the surplus weight. Not unlike countless prior occasions, Clive wished his desk wasn't situated so that he sat with his back facing the opening to his cubbyhole cubicle.

Clive stared into the eyes of a nemesis. Judith's breath came on more strongly, corroding him to the point of nausea. He gazed up at the sweaty beast like a rabbit too scared to run from an approaching predator. And like a predator, Judith went in for the kill.

"So, were you winning?" she asked, pointing to Clive's now-blank computer screen.

Actually, I think I was.
Clive held back his smartass remark. He invoked his right to remain silent. He knew anything he said at that moment, no matter how innocent, could and would be used against him in Judge Judy's court.

"Did you get any work done yet?"

"I'm sorry, Judith. I had a long weekend. Plus, my ear is messed up. I can't hear a thing out of it. But that's no excuse. I'll get started immediately and work through lunch."

Judith huffed, her sagging breasts rising and falling with each difficult breath. "That won't be necessary. Just get to work. And if your ear is messed up, you should get it checked."

What? That's it?
Clive was dumbfounded. As Judith trotted off, probably to torture some other unfortunate soul, he sighed in relief.
That went much better than expected. Maybe she got laid last night.
The combination of the horrid mental image Clive conjured and the psychologically tormenting memory of Judith's coffee breath caused a little chunk of vomit to rise in Clive's throat. He swallowed it back down, wincing from its vile taste.

Whatever it was, I'd be a fool to question her leniency. I got lucky, but I'd better get some work done.

Clive worked a total of fifteen minutes before being bombarded with instant messages and revitalizing his itch to play solitaire. Every now and then he would stare at his screen blankly, drooling a bit while daydreaming about Connie. His ear remained clogged, but he paid it no further attention. He'd grown accustomed to it. With silence surrounding him, the ear's condition became a vague and distant memory, closeted somewhere in the nether regions of Clive's temporarily vacant mind.

On his way home from work, Clive stopped by the local CVS for some Q-Tips and breath mints. Then he headed to the liquor store for a twelve pack of Sam Adams. His brother would be stopping by to watch the Sox game, and he planned to be the gracious host. A giant bag of Buffalo wings awaited his arrival, secretly stashed in his freezer behind a bag of ice. He prayed his roommate hadn't found them yet.

Clive lived on the top floor of a two-family dwelling in the Village, the oldest part of Somerset, Massachusetts. With his meager salary and college debt, the majority of his paycheck each week was spent before he received it. He had no choice but to rent and simply couldn't afford to live alone. Using Roommates.com, Clive hooked up with an antisocial college student named Kevin Ventura, and the two agreed to share the costs of living over the next two years.

Kevin, however, wasn't all that bad. For Clive's tastes, the arrangement worked out rather nicely. Kevin kept to himself, cleaned up the common living spaces and paid his half of the rent when due. Clive could see there was something not right with the boy, but he didn't care. As far as he knew, nothing illegal was going on, and Kevin stayed out of his way. If he could only get Kevin to stop pilfering his food, Clive's home life would have been as near to good as he could ever have hoped.

As he climbed the stairs to his infernally hot apartment, lugging his beer and other purchases, Clive could hear the sound of the television echoing into the hallway.
Is he watching Hannah Montana?
he wondered, hearing a familiar, flaky-privileged voice as he neared his apartment door. Thoughts of Billy Ray and his star-power daughter made Clive a little queasy.

"Hey, Kev," Clive greeted as he pushed open his door with his foot.

Without so much as shifting his gaze from the television, Kevin responded, "You need a hand?"

"No, I got it. Thanks."

Clive walked over to his refrigerator and looked inside. Unsurprisingly, there was plenty of room for the variety pack of Sam Adams. He shoved in all twelve of Mr. Adams' beer, box and all.

"You watching TV?" Clive asked over the kitchen counter.

Kevin shot back a dirty look as he sat sunken into the cushions of their stained and tattered couch.
Duh
, his facial expression suggested.
What the fuck does it look like I'm doing?

Clive exited the kitchen and walked toward the television.
Oh my God. He is watching Hannah Montana.
He briefly perused the screen, not remotely interested in the dialogue shabbily playing out before him.
Well, I will say this. That Vanessa Williams is a hottie. But if she's in it, then this must be the movie. Dear God! How do I know that? Am I a closet fan?
He hoped that Kevin hadn't somehow noticed his astonishingly adept knowledge of the Hannah Montana franchise.