Can't Touch This (17 page)

I can’t wait to wake up in the morning, hop a cab to Logan and wing out to the Left Coast.  Ted and Reagan get in after me, so I’ll get the booth built and then try to find Rory.

“Vanessa!” William calls up from the basement.  “I don’t know if these pants can go in the washer.  Come down here.”

Every hair on my body stands on end.  But William is with me; I’ll be okay.  I put on my flip-flops––the basement floor is
nasty
––and head into the dark recesses of our house.

It smells like old furniture, wet cardboard, and laundry detergent.  There’s a triple bolted cellar door to the right at the bottom of the rickety, narrow staircase.  Dan Paulsen––the land lizard, as William calls him––is the only one allowed to use the door since he’s paranoid about someone breaking in.

“No problem.  They can go in,” I say when William holds up the two pairs of pants in question.  “So, what should I do?”

He stuffs the clothes into the washer.  “About what?

“About Rory?”

“We were talking about Kyle a minute ago.”

I grit my teeth.  “No.  You were.  Focus, would you?”

“Do you like him?”

“Who?  Kyle?” I asked, feeling a bit defensive.

William laughs.  “No, dumb shit, Rory?”

“Oh, right... Rory. Yes, I do.  There’s mystery to him.  He’s got an edge.”

“And Kyle doesn’t?”

“Kyle’s not part of the equation.”  God, he’s as bad as Griz.

Sighing, William says, “You’re not answering my question.  If you could get down and dirty with anyone in the world, would Rory be at the top of the list?”

Remarkably, the first image that flashes in my mind is of Kyle.  I’d seen him at work today bending to retrieve a soda from the machine.  He caught me looking at him, so I laughed it off and said he had something on his pants.  The look on his face made me blush as this sort of moment passed between us.  My brain screams out that it’s Rory I want, but my body ignites every time Kyle is around.  I don’t understand why I’m  so sexually “on” all of a sudden.  Maybe it’s because I’ve been out of the game so long.

I need medication.

Which reminds me that I have a prescription for Atavan that’s supposed to help calm me down on the flight.  I have to remember to pack it in my purse

Getting back to William’s question, I say, “Sure Rory would be at the top of the list.  Don’t you think so after everything I’ve told you?”

“I don’t know,” he says.  “I’ve never met the guy.  All I have to go by is what you say.”  William pours detergent on top of the clothes.  “Is there something more than physical attraction?”

“Sure, he’s a risk taker.  Doesn’t play by the rules.  I admire that.  And he makes me feel good about myself.”

William faces me.  “He’s got a dimple too, doesn’t he?”

“Sort of.  He has a cleft in his chin.  How’d you know?”

He stops and then says, “I know what it’s like to fall for a dimple.”  After a moment, he says.  “Just go for it.”

I try not to think of the professional repercussions if we were to be discovered by anyone at SalesWanker or DigitalDirection.  Then again,  I be a risk-taker, too.

“Just take care of yourself, Vanessa.  I don’t want to see you get hurt,” William says, pointing a finger at me.

I reach over and hug him.  “You’re the best, Wills.”

He pats me on the back.  “Did you bring the next load down?”

“No, I left it by the kitchen door.”

“No worries,” he says, brushing past me.

“William... I... ”

The lazy chug-a-chug-a-chug of the washer reverberates off the stone walls of the basement.  My crazy heartbeat echoes along in a syncopated rhythm.

Okay, I’m a big girl.  I can sit here for one freaking minute while William goes upstairs.  Nothing’s going to...

There’s a pounding on the window.

“AHH!”  I almost jump out of my skin.  When I look up to the glass panel, all I see are beady eyes inside a helmet.  My heart slams in my chest and I make a mad dash for the stairs.

William bolts down the wooden staircase. “What’s wrong?!”

I point at the window and scurry behind him for cover.  “There’s some sort of helmet-clad monstrosity out there.  He’s trying to break in.”

“Hold on.”  He reaches for the snow shovel hanging on the wall.

“Like that’s going to help,” I hiss out.

“Shut up,” William scolds.  “Who’s there?”

We see a finger tap on the windowpane.  “I locked myself out.  Let me in.” the muffled voice says.

“Oh no you don’t!” I shout, pulling at William’s waistband.

He turns and laughs.  “It’s the land lizard.”

“Mr. Paulsen?”

William lays the shovel against the wall and shouts up, “Come around to the side door.  I’ll let you in.”

The helmeted shadow disappears from the window.

“I don’t want to see him.”  I gather the clothes strewn on the floor and hand them to William.  “You deal with this” ––plopping the clothes in his arms–– “and him” ––pointing to the cellar door––” and I’ll get you anything you want for dinner.”

“Yes, but is Johnny Depp available on such short notice?”

*****

O
f course I
can’t get out of town without a late night visit from Griz following a call from my mother.

“Mom told me when I was a little girl, I couldn’t say San Francisco.  It always came out Fran Sancisco,” I relay to Griz.

“That’s adorable,” she says, munch on the pita chips and hummus on my dresser.

“Talking to my mother is not adorable.  She thinks I should move home and go into business with her.”

“What kind of business?”

“Hairdressing.”

She screws up her face.  “You?”

I look over into the mirror at my messy ponytail.  “Why would you say that?”

“You
are
looking at yourself in the mirror, right?”

“Thanks a lot.”

Griz plops on my bed and starts her own line of questioning.

“What’s the obsession with San Francisco?” Griz asks.

“I don’t know.  I’ve always thought it looked cool in movies and on television.”  I fold my blue jeans neatly and place them in the suitcase.  “When I was a teenager, I went through a Journey phase.”

“I thought they were from Philadelphia?”

Here she goes again.  “Nope.  San Fran.  They sang about it.”

“Don’t they have the one-armed drummer?”

“No, that’s Def Leppard.”

“And they’re from Austria, right?”

I plunge my fingers into my hair.  “I can’t do this tonight.”

She follows me to the bathroom where I pile toiletries into my bag.

“Are you going to look up your old boyfriend while you’re out there?” she asks without a care.  Two days ago, I’d gotten an e-mail from a Delta Gam sorority sister saying my former college boyfriend, Alan Partridge, now lives in San Fran.  He works for one of those Silicon Valley companies that managed to survive the dot.bomb era.

“I don’t think so.”  I have enough men haunting my every thought as it is without adding an ex into the mix.

Griz follows me back to my room and flops on the bed while I continue to cram items into the suitcase.  “I’m nervous as hell about this product launch as well as seeing Rory,” I tell her.

“What’re you going to do about it?”

“I don’t have a game plan, per se.  Any advice?”

“It ain’t nuthin’ but a chicken wing,” she says with a laugh.

“What the...?  Please speak English,” I beg.

“You know Marcell in accounting?  He’s from South Carolina.  Says it all the time.  It means it’s no big thing.  Don’t make such a huge hairy deal out of this trip.  Get your job done and then show Rory you want him,” she says.  “Guys have to be told these things.”

“But, do I know what I want?”  Yeah, I want a plate of Buffalo wings with bleu cheese dressing on the side.  “You’re right.  You know me, though.  Doesn’t take much to set off my self-doubt.”

The fact that Rory’s e-mails have been more “business” in tone makes me think he’s not looking forward to seeing me as much as I’ve been looking forward to seeing him.  There’s something weird there... something distant.  I don’t want to feel this way.  I know it’s just the elves of self doubt.  I need to tell them to fuck off.

“Talking to your mother didn’t help.”

I brush aside her armchair psychology.  “I don’t want to lose my job for having an affair with Rory.”

“The rules say no dating within our company, not dating
between
companies.  Besides, who has to know?  I’m not telling.”

 “I’d hate for Jiles Chancey to get wind of it.” 
Or Kyle.

“Screw Jiles,” she says with a laugh.

“I’d rather not.”  I have someone much more desirable in mind.

She stares off, like she’s watching a movie in her mind.  “You know the intrigue of an illicit affair kind of like what Rick and I’ve got going is totally hot.”

I want more than an illicit affair.  I want a connection.  Something
real
.  I want a relationship, not a one-night stand.  I just haven’t told Griz that yet.  “This isn’t a reality TV show, Griz.  This is my life!”

“What do I always tell you, Vanessa?  Go with the flow.  Don’t make me say it again.”

“You just did.”

*****

W
hen my plane
touches down the next morning and I loosen my death-grip on the armrest, I decide to listen to Griz and go with the flow.  Why not, the Atavan has certainly taken off the rough edges and I feel like I’m floating in Marshmallow Fluff.

I’ll let San Francisco captivate me and move my emotions.  And I’ll see where things go with Rory.

First, I need a cab, though.

I haul my suitcase into the taxi and head into town.  I had no idea the airport was so far out of the city.  This explains why I haven’t seen the Golden Gate Bridge yet.  The cab pulls up in front of the Sir Francis Drake Hotel on Powell Street.  A friendly doorman dressed as a Beefeater opens the car door and takes my bags.  I check in and am very pleased to have a corner room overlooking Union Square, full of sketch artists and pigeons.  I wonder if I’ll have the opportunity to show off the leopard-patterned comforter to Rory.  My heart accelerates at the thought of being with him and it’s like my body is on fire for his touches and kisses.  Dammit, I’m so ripe, I’m about to fall off the tree.

I change into jeans and a black sweater and head back downstairs to get directions to the convention center from the Beefeater who’s standing at the door.  Thankfully, it’s only a short walk from the hotel.

Once there, I descend into the bowels of the Moscone Center via one of its many escalators.  My exhibitor badge allows me access into the great hall before the show officially opens.  Inside the concrete giant, I see that DigitalDirection’s ten-by-twenty booth is going to be upstaged by the massive, flashier tech displays being constructed all around me.

I check in at the show decorator’s blue-draped area to inquire on my work orders.  The lady behind the counter is most helpful.  “Our system shows your shipment is on the loading dock.  The handlers will bring the crates over to your space.  Go on over and register for your union labor.”

After completing all of the paperwork, I go to my booth space to wait.  And wait...  For an hour and a half.  Finally, a small forklift deposits my booth case and boxes into space number 2222.

“There you go, sis,” the man says and drives off.

That’s when the trouble starts.

I didn’t know I wasn’t allowed to
touch
my own boxes.  When I do, a union boss charges over and shouts, “You can’t do that!”

“It’s my stuff,” I yell back.

A harsh woman, missing a bottom front tooth, steps forward.  “That’s unions’ job to open those boxes.  Didn’t you contract help?”

I don’t like being talked to like this.  I produce my forms.  “I’ve been waiting forever for someone to show up.”

She snatches the paperwork from me.  “Be right back.”

Witchypoo, the boss, reappears ten minutes later with a one-armed man named Sid.  This has to be a joke.  I’m paying by the hour for a laborer and they send me a guy with one arm.

“Now, missy... you may direct Sid and...”

“Don’t talk to me like that.  My name is Vanessa.”  I cross my hands in front of my chest and tap my foot.

She eyeballs me and continues.  “As I was saying, you can instruct Sid, but he’s to do the work.  Those are the rules.”

Two hours later, with hardly any of the booth pieces in place, I’ve had enough.  Sid’s nice enough—even though he’s taken two cigarette breaks—so I go straight to the show organizer.

“I don’t mean to complain,” I say, “but the union guy they sent me only has one arm and it’s taking forever to assemble our booth.  I refuse to continue wasting my company’s money like this.”

The organizer radios for the union boss to come to her office.  Witchypoo appears and glares at me.  When the organizer explains the situation, Witchypoo won’t budge.

“I have an idea,” I say.  “Why don’t you send me another one-armed man so we can get this thing up before the show starts tomorrow.”  I flatten my mouth to let them know I mean business.  I may be young, but no one’s going to walk all over me.

“Now you listen here you little—”

I take a challenging pose.  “Look, I’m going back to my booth to work.  I’ve lost a great deal of time and money this morning.”

I sigh at the mess in space 2222.  “Okay, Sid.  We have to step on it.”  He shrugs with his nub of an arm.

We struggle, but work in tandem.  I’m sweating to death in this sweater and I wish I’d worn something lighter.  The sleeves are stretched from pushing at them, so much that they won’t stay above my elbows.  My makeup is smeared, my hair is a clumped mess, and I’ve broken three fingernails.  And people think working in marketing is glamorous.

Just when I think I’m at the end of my rope, I hear a soft, husky voice from behind.

“You look like you could use an extra hand.”

“Oh, Rory!” I exclaim in surprise and relief, coupled with silly heart palpitations that threaten my consciousness.  “You’re a knight in shining armor.”

He lifts an eyebrow.  “Now that’s a role I could get used to.”