Chapter 25/Page 2

Man proposes, Complication disposes.

•••

Bridget quit. She got her teaching certificate and set out for greener pastures. The department threw her a small farewell dinner at one of the nearby restaurants. I attended, but didn’t drink. When it was over, it was only fitting I escort Bridget for one last ride on the bus home, or at least till I had to change lines. Somewhere in the back of the bus, Bridget burst into tears.

“What’s wrong?” I asked.

“I’m going to miss you.” I put my arm around her shoulder.

“I’ll miss you too. I don’t know how I’m going to bear the bus ride without you.”

“I don’t know how I’m going to bear life without you.”

“What?” Tell me I didn’t hear that.

“I love you.”

“Fuck me,” I said out loud, but with no literal intent.

“Yes,” Bridget misunderstood, “I want you to make love to me.”

This was not good. In theory, Bridget worked as a test subject: Pretty, smart, not working for the company any more. But in practice, SHE WAS A PSYCHO and she was making a scene on a bus. New Girl or no New Girl, I wasn’t going there. I tried to let her down easy.

“Look, Bridget -- I think you’re a beautiful, sexy, intelligent girl. If I weren’t involved with someone right now, I’d go for you in a heartbeat. But I am involved with someone and so are you. You live with your boyfriend, for god’s sake.”

“I know, but I love you.”

“You don’t know me well enough to love me. You’re just infatuated. Trust me -- that will pass sooner than my ego would like.”

“No!” She cried and then babbled something indecipherable through her tears.

I got the fuck off that bus and left her and her tears in the back seat. I was too on edge to wait for the Number 4, so I walked home from Wilshire. All the way to my apartment, I tried to figure out when I led Bridget on or flirted too hard with her. It didn’t dawn on me that Complications might have had a hand in this.

“That’s it,” I erroneously scolded the Balls and Wiener. “No more messing around at work or with girls who have boyfriends that might kick our ass.”

•••

Over the years, I had bounced between the post-production (editing) department and the international sales department at Cannon. “Cannon” is a bit of a misnomer by this time. Through mergers and buyouts, the company was actually known as Pathe Communications and well on its way to morphing into MGM. For the past year, I worked for the international department. They were a fun group to be with -- at least as fun as any other department, more fun than many. When customers came to town, it was our job to entertain them. Because that department was responsible for most of the company’s revenues, no expense was spared wining and dining customers. When the department made a particularly large sale, the big boss would take the entire department out to a lunch that always included plenty of alcohol. It was after one of those lunches that Complication decided I hadn’t truly got the message with Bridget.

We were all under the influence when we returned to the office, okay? It wasn’t just me. All I did was see if my talent for doing things with groups of women had actually returned, or if that night at Party Central was a fluke. How I got there is a little fuzzy. The ‘there’ I got to was with the Curvy Redhead contracts administrator and the Pollyanna Blonde customer rep leaning up against a file cabinet, making me judge who had the better ass. I gingerly palmed Red’s bottom.

“Do you get hit on by a lot of black guys?” I’m such a bastard.

“Fuck you,” Red snapped.

“I don’t get it,” Pollyanna said. Red educated her, “He’s saying I have a big butt.”

“No I’m not,” I laughed. Then, “Yes I am.” She tensed up. I rubbed her ass lightly through her silk skirt, detecting a conspicuous lack of panty underneath. She relaxed.

“Your ass is fine,” I said, “Like, really fine.” That was no lie.

“What about me?” Pollyanna asked, rising up on her tiptoes and arching her back. I put both hands on her petite butt and gave it a little squeeze through her slacks. She giggled.

“Yours is different,” I said, “more like a little Golden Delicious.” Pollyanna laughed. Red gave me a dirty look. I reached back over for Red’s bottom. Now I had one ass in each hand.

I’ve always been a happy, bold drunk and sometimes a little happiness goes a little too far. The wine sent my upper reasoning skills home early, leaving my newly returned Balls as the Hands’ immediate supervisor. As I stroked their bottoms, I casually let one finger slide where it probably shouldn’t -- even at Cannon.

“Hey!” They both barked. Pollyanna swatted my hand.

“Sorry,” I said impishly and pulled my hand back. That might have been a good time to actually remove my hand from her rear end.

Red, on the other hand, squeezed her cheeks around my finger till my hand wouldn’t budge.

“Somebody’s been spending time on the Stairmaster.”

“Not bad, huh?” Red smiled with well-earned pride.

“Ahem!” came from over to our right. In unison, the three of us turned to see our Boss standing in the doorway.

This was so, so against the company’s new sexual harassment policy. It was the stuff lawsuits are made of. You’d think I would have dropped my hands immediately. No, like an electric shock, my natural reflex was to grab tighter.

“Can I see you before you leave today?” Boss said to me and only me.

“Of course.”

She went back to her office. The three of us stood a little shell-shocked.

“I think you can let go now,” Pollyanna said.

“Sure,” I said, releasing my grip on her ass.

“Me, too,” Red said. I looked her in the eye and informed her, “I would if I could.”

“Oh,” she said coyly and relaxed her butt cheeks, “Here you go.” She smirked at me and snickered, “Have fun after work.” I sniffed my finger and said, “I’ll be thinking of you.”

“Gross!” She laughed and then blew me a kiss.

By six o’clock everyone had gone home to sleep it off. I tapped on Boss’s open door.

“Come in,” she said without looking up. I stepped through the doorway. “Close it, please.” I closed the door and opened my yap.

“I’m really sorry about that. I know it was wrong, but we were all a little tipsy and-” She cut me off.

“Have a seat.” I dropped into one of her guest chairs and shut up. She stood without speaking and walked over toward the door, pausing for a second to test the latch. She approached her desk and stood with her back to me. I couldn’t take the silence.

“It will never happen again,” I started. She cut me off again.

“Tell me something,” she said. “What’s wrong with my ass?”

“Excuse me?”

“My ass,” she said looking over her shoulder. “Is there something wrong with it?”

This is not what I was expecting. I’d never before heard her utter the word “ass” in this context, not that this context had ever come up before.

“No -- not at all. It’s fine.” It was. She turned to me and her eyes were moist.

“Then why don’t you ever grab MY ass, the way you did out there,” she demanded. Oh my god, she’s got even less self-esteem than me. “Do you know what it’s like to watch you flirt with every girl in this office, except me? Am I that unattractive?” A single tear ran down her face and she lost her balance on one heel. Great. My Boss has no self-esteem and she’s drunk.

A really bad memory popped into my brain. Before they promoted my boss to Boss status, she had been one of the ones always questioning me about my marriage. She was going through a rocky time with her live-in boyfriend and thought I’d have some answers. (A word of advice: A person going through a breakup doesn’t have answers -- they need them more than you.) Pre-Boss Boss got trashed at a company dinner and started raising her voice about her heartbreak in front of clients. I took it upon myself to spirit her out of the restaurant before she did any damage to the company or her career. She made some inappropriate comments to me as I put her in the taxi -- some incoherent thoughts about the smell of my hair and how lonely I must be. Only now was I beginning to understand how deeply and profoundly fucked up she was.

“Look,” I said, “I never meant to hurt your feelings. But one: you’re my boss, two: don’t you live with someone, and three: you’re my boss.” She knelt down in front of my chair.

“I also have feelings,” she said.

This was starting to smell like one of the schlock teen comedies that Cannon built their fortune on. She grabbed my hand and put it inside her blouse.

“I have a heart,” she said. Here I was trying to figure out how to get out of this alive and she distracts me with great tits. Fucking alcohol -- Focus!

She stood, pulling me up with her. She turned away from me and leaned against her desk. Oh, no, I thought. This is not going to happen. She’s seen so many of our crap movies she’s confused them with real life.

“Feel my ass like you felt theirs,” she said and hiked her skirt up over her hips. Evidently none of the girls in the office owned any panties. This wouldn’t have seemed like such a cliché had she been wearing them. Even the Cannon movie version wouldn’t have been this bad.

“Do it,” she ordered. I was pretty much fucked by this point. I reluctantly put my hand on her rear end. She moaned. For the love of Mike, she moaned.

“No. Do it like you did them,” she demanded and pressed my hand firmly with hers. My anger management program was a thing of the future, so I dug my fingers into her flesh as hard as I could. She yelped quietly.

“Sorry,” I lied. She turned around to face me.

“That’s what I’m talking about,” she said. Again, she grabbed my hand but this time put it between her legs. She was soaking wet.

“Do you have any idea how ugly you make me feel?”

“I’m sorry.”

“I don’t want to be ugly.” She slid one of my fingers inside her.

“You’re not ugly.” I tried to reassure her. In truth this whole scene was pretty ugly.

“Then make me feel pretty,” she said, running her other hand through my hair on one side of my head and biting my ear on the other. Tears were flowing freely.

“I can’t do this,” I said.

“Yes you can. Make me feel pretty like you do the others.” She reached into my pants and squeezed ungracefully.

“Make me feel pretty,” she repeated over and over.

Ladies, this is exactly what a man is talking about when he says his dick has a mind of its own. I was sick to my stomach and fearing for my safety. Meanwhile, on planet Wiener the troops were being called to attention.

Never have I felt so sorry for a person, nor have I ever felt so trapped. I searched high and low for a way out that would save her dignity and my job, but there was none to be found. I felt bad for her and wanted to show her compassion. Under different circumstances, damn straight I’d have fucker her. She was a very attractive woman. But even drunk, I knew this was wrong.

“Make me feel pretty,” she kept ordering. The Balls, feeling the effects of the alcohol more so than other parts of my body turned out to be cowering Yes Men in this corporate setting, so I did it -- I made my boss feel pretty. In the most ugly way possible I made my boss feel pretty, right on her desk.

When you come right down to it, all I did was stand still like a scratching post and let her do what she needed to do. Was it more demeaning for her or me? What’s the difference?

It was all of sixty seconds till she did a thing that makes men really uncomfortable: She came (or at least faked it really well) like gangbusters and burst into even more tears -- the kind of sobbing that makes you stop breathing for ten seconds at a time, then gasp for a rush of air. Anguish Apnea, they should call it. Hyperventilation overcame her, which was just the opening I needed. I pulled out and reached for my pants.

“No,” She said. “You didn’t finish.”

“Yo!” Wiener chimed in. “Listen to her.”

“I’m done,” I said. She dropped to her knees.

The difference between the Balls and the Wiener is that the Wiener wanted to let her suck furiously away. The Balls, when not impaired by Booze, can distinguish between good sucking and bad sucking. This was not good sucking. The alcohol had worn off enough that the Balls came to their senses and helped me push her away.

“Goddamn it!” I snapped, “Don’t you have any shame?” She wiped her mouth on her wrist and her eyes went dead.

“This is so wrong,” I scolded. “When you sober up, you’re going to realize just how wrong this is and I’m probably going to be out of a job. So, please just stop.”

She buried her face in her hands. I managed to get my pants up and get the fuck out of there. I bolted for the men’s room and hastily cleaned up.

What was up with all these attached women getting detached over me? Sleeping with Ex Ass was dicey enough, and she and I were on very good terms. She even threw the occasional knowing smile my way. But then Bridget, and now my Boss both go crazy and both in the same week? I think I wasn’t specific enough when I told the Universe I wanted to test my feelings for New Girl. Or maybe something was lost in the translation to Complications.

I missed my connecting bus at Wilshire and had to walk the rest of the way home again. At least it gave me a little time to think. And what I thought was that Complications were having fun at my expense. I wasn’t having fun at all. Anyone passing me saw a lunatic shouting skyward, “I give! Uncle! You win! No more! Please.” I prayed that Complications got the message and would show me some mercy.

As I passed my local bar I could see Really Hot Bartender doing shots with her customers. Though inexplicably I wanted another drink, I kept right on walking and took inventory of every girl I knew, calculating my chances for another episode like this. I prayed I was correct when I concluded that Boss was the last possible complication. Something was nagging me about D-Girl, though not enough to lose sleep over.

When I got to my apartment building, New Girl’s car was in my driveway. I stopped and said a long drawn-out, “f-u-c-k.” She was waiting on the step outside my door.

“Hey, where’ve you been?” she asked cheerfully.

“Huh?”

“Dinner? You and me?”

We had made plans to celebrate. Her life had taken an unexpected turn for the better in the form of a transfer to the purchasing department that got her out from under the Human Resources Witch’s thumb.

“Oh, shit. I am so sorry. I got a little drunk at that lunch today and totally spaced. Can we do it tomorrow?”

“Sure, hon.”

Hon. She called me hon. These were not exactly the circumstances under which I’d imagined one us would use a pet name for the first time. Oh, god how I wanted to throw up.

“Are you all right?” She asked. “You don’t look so good.”

“I don’t feel so good.”

“Let’s get you inside and I’ll rub your head.” She kissed my cheek. Thank god, I took the time to wash.

“I need a shower first.” I felt like such an asshole. I held my face under the water and kept saying over and over, “No more.”

•••

That was a Wednesday. Luckily, my Boss stayed home sick the rest of the week. Not so luckily, I have a mind that goes from zero to disaster in nothing flat. Those last two days were torture as I played out every possible scenario of the next time I was to see my Boss. I desperately needed distraction that weekend.

Without explanation, I managed to cocoon myself with New Girl for the weekend. No phones, no visitors. Saturday we holed up in her apartment. Most of the day and night we lounged in bed, talking. She dropped her guard a bit and leaked a few details of her life. Then she did that other thing that usually makes men uncomfortable, but that day made me feel very much at ease: She shared something very personal -- a story about her college graduation party.

“I was standing in the front door of my parents’ house,” she began. “Most of the guests were in the house or the back yard, but there were maybe a dozen or so in the front. This car drove past once then circled the block. I didn’t even see them. The second time they passed, someone inside the car pulled out a gun and started firing into the crowd in the front yard.”

“Oh, my god. Did you get hit?”

“No, but...” she got stuck on the memory. “Seven people got shot and three of them died.”

“Shit.”

“Yeah, it was pretty awful. I was kind of covered in my friends’ blood.”

“I’m so sorry.”

“I couldn’t get out of bed for six months.”

There was nothing I could say to that. Since my grandfather died on my seventeenth birthday, I had this thing about dead bodies and made it a point to never be near one. I’d been in violent situations and even had guns pulled on me twice, but nothing that horrific.

It took a lot for her to share that with me. That only served to put me in that awful place where I wanted to make an even trade. My long term memory was playing hide and seek, so the only thing that came to mind was to tell her some of what had been going on with me the past few weeks. But what should I say -- “I wasn’t sure about you, so I fucked a few other girls just to see?” I don’t think so. Bridget was gone and I didn’t do anything with her, anyway. I had no idea what was going to go on with Boss. Really Hot Barmaid probably didn’t remember. I thought I should at least tell New Girl about Ex Ass. I’d rather she hear it from me. But then I thought about where we sat in each other’s lives up till then. We weren’t a couple. She may very well have been doing the same thing I was. There was no way to tell her I anything without hurting her, so what was the point? I held my tongue. Aside from her questions about my marriage, which I shared openly, we shied away from discussing each other’s sexual past, recent or otherwise.

We went to a preposterously huge brunch in Beverly Hills late Sunday morning.

“What do you want to do now?” she asked as we walked it off.

“I’m too stuffed to think,” I said. “Got any ideas?”

“Maybe,” she teased.

We ducked into a wine shop and she picked up two bottles of Taittenger. The rest of that day and night was spent at my place, alternately sipping champagne, making love, and napping. One last beautiful day before I face the firing squad.

•••

In the ninth grade, I got busted for sticking a girl in the ass with a pin that a buddy soldered to a small iron handle in metal shop. The science teacher, though a cool guy, couldn’t look the other way as they sent the poor girl off for a tetanus shot. I was dispatched to the school vice principal, a humorless man who governed without mercy. No one left his office without a suspension. Every step I took there was weighted with dread of the certainty of what was to follow.

Luckily for me, the annual student death had just occurred. Three classmates out for a drunken joyride splattered their young brains all over the highway with enough panache that they made it into an updated Driver’s Ed film. Vice Principal was in a somber mood, reminded that teenagers don’t always use the best judgment. I was released on my own cognizance with only a warning.

I hadn’t dreaded facing anything that much till I got to work that Monday. As I stood outside the building’s front door, it occurred to me how attached I had become to the stupid place. This chaotic, alcohol and drug-saturated, sexually charged, taste-challenged company was the only constant in my life. Without it, I had nothing.

The upper floors were unusually quiet. Cautiously, I approached my desk, which was in sight of Boss’s office. Her door was closed again. That may or may not be a good sign. My message light was blinking on my phone. It was from my former boss, now the Vice President of Post Production -- Could I come down to the second floor to see him as soon as I got in?

Tears welled in my eyes on the way down the stairs. I couldn’t believe it was going to end like this. Stupid, stupid, stupid! And it wasn’t just about getting fired. Whatever the company line, the actual reasons for my dismissal would soon become common knowledge and that would certainly mean the end of New Girl.

“You rang?” I said when I got to his office, hoping somehow a light-hearted demeanor could save me.

“Come in and close the door,” he said blandly. Coming from this usually flamboyant person, the flat delivery did not bode well.

“So, what’s up?” I asked nervously as I sat.

“Well, as you know the company is going through enormous changes with the new ownership,” he started. I zoned out immediately. This is it, I thought. What do I do now? Where will I get another job? I lived paycheck to paycheck. How would I make next month’s rent?

But why did they make him the messenger? I didn’t work directly for him anymore. Where’s the Human Resources Witch? She’s supposed to be present at all firings. Maybe they were trying to keep it quiet. But it seemed a long way to go to help my Boss save face. I prayed for a decent severance check.

“Well,” I heard him say when I snapped back into his dimension. “Do you?”

“I’m sorry -- do I what?”

“Do you want the job?”

•••

“It’s a brand new department and I run it. I get an office and an assistant.”

“She better not be cute,” New Girl teased.

“Don’t worry,” I told her. “They’ve already hired him. He’s tall like you, but he’s not my type.” I took another bite of my sandwich at our first lunch together. “And you want to hear the best part? I get a parking place with my name on it. Makes me want to get a car.”

“Ooh, aren’t we special?” she teased.

“My mommy thinks so,” I mock defended.

“So do I,” she said seriously, sensually and seductively. Damn, she got me again.

“You’re pretty special, yourself,” I said a little after the fact, then got back to my exciting story. “But really the best part is -- are you ready? Fifty-two thousand bucks a year and a title: Director of Film Operations!”

“Wow,” she said, “My boss is a Director.” She smiled. “And now so is my boyfriend.” I went silent and just stared at her, beaming but detached. She got a little self-conscious.

“What?” She asked, “Do I have something in my teeth?”

“Am I your boyfriend?” It seemed she hadn’t over-thought it, the way I did everything.

“I guess you are,” she purred.

“Wow,” I said, “I guess that makes you my girlfriend.”

“I guess it does.”

We held hands all the way back to the office. Across the street from our building I stopped. No one knew about us, really. Most of the people I worked with knew 3b. Many were at our wedding. And I was still wearing my ring. I looked at New Girl and squeezed her hand.

“Are we going public?”

“Looks that way,” she said.

We crossed the street hand in hand, walked right into the lobby, and got into the elevator. When the doors opened at my stop, I leaned in and kissed my girlfriend in plain view of everyone. “Everyone” consisted of her old Projectionist, who was waiting for a “down” elevator on the second floor.

“Hey,” he said to me, looking perplexed as I passed.

“How’s it going?” I said back and headed to look at my new empty office.

It was going to be a great summer.

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