Monkey Business (4 page)

Sunday, September 7, 1:20 p.m.

N
eed better reading material. But I feel like a hoser walking to the washroom with a newspaper. Everyone on the floor doesn't need to know when I'm planning on pinching a loaf.

“Hey, Rena,” I hear a chick say. I know Rena from Toronto. She's a friend of Sharon's older sister. She's a second year, but lives on my floor. I've been told I'm supposed to call her and get together, but she's seriously annoying. Speaks in a nasal voice and wears ties. Thinks she's Avril Lavigne. Why would a woman wear a tie if she's not in a music video? I think she thinks it's sexy. It's not.

“Hey. How are you?” she replies in a voice so nasal, if there were any windows in here it would shatter them.

Oh, man. Just what I want to listen to. Nasal female voices while I'm taking a dump.

This whole coed deal is not for me. Yesterday I watched a chick from my Block tweeze her eyebrows. Did Superman ever watch Lois Lane groom? I don't think so. And then she took a
People
magazine to the toilet. That's just gross. I don't want to picture chicks taking a dump.

In junior high I had the unfortunate experience of watching Linda Stalwart, a girl I worshiped from afar, burp the alphabet. It was nasty. Not that she cared—she wouldn't have looked twice at me then. Ha. She should see me now. Well not now, as in on the throne. Now, as in at LWBS. Built. No longer known as Pizza Face.

My little cousin once called me that. Wasn't trying to be obnoxious. He was only five. Came over for Christmas dinner and pointed to my face and told me I looked like a pepperoni pizza. My aunt tried to shut him up, but he was laughing and pointing and jumping up and down.

Oh, man, my aunt felt so bad. Tried to convince me it was a compliment. Pepperoni pizza was my cousin's favorite, she said. I hid in my room for the rest of the night with my comic books, picking my face. Disgusting habit, but I couldn't stop. Once there was a piece of available skin I'd play with it and end up pulling it off. When I finally went on medication and kept my hands in gloves to stop picking, my skin took a year to heal.

Linda Stalwart. I wonder what she's doing now. Probably married and fat and teaching little kids how to belch.

Once when I stopped by Sharon's, she opened her door with that white stuff on her lip. You know, mustache bleach. “That's something I wish I hadn't seen,” I said, shielding my eyes.

“Then don't come over uninvited.” She slammed the door in my face.

I apologized a million times. Then she went on a rampage about how she could stop bleaching if I preferred, let it get dark and style it.

The talking chicks finally leave. To keep myself occupied I stare at the bathroom wall graffiti. You'd think that by this age, people would stop using the wall to express their inane thoughts, but no. In green marker, it says:

What a hoser. The way to get the girl is not by writing cheesy-ass poetry on the back of the bathroom door. I'm not sure if he's kidding or serious. Kimmy knows he wants her. Everyone knows he wants her. Thursday night a bunch of us went out for dinner, and he dove into the seat beside her and kept telling her how hot she was. She laughed and smiled at him, but I doubt she was interested. She didn't go home with him, that's for sure. He was back in Nick's room after dinner, watching us smoke joints.

Yesterday, one of the get-to-know-your-group activities was a scavenger hunt through Maplewood. We were given questions like, What address is city hall? How many floors are in the library? How much are ten wings at Moe's? Six bucks. That one I knew. But anyway, Jamie wouldn't stop bugging her the entire activity. He asked her to marry him four times and serenaded her with Air Supply songs. I'll admit, it got laughs from the rest of us, but does that act work?

How do I know? Sharon's the only serious girlfriend I've ever had. And Jamie did manage to get two of the best-looking chicks in the class to be in our group. According to him, Lauren is bi, and currently prefers females. How hot is that? Lesbian eye-candy.

I flush, wash my hands and let them air-dry as I head outside. Think I'll take a nice Sunday afternoon nap. Not that I've done anything today to merit a nap. I woke up at eight,
stared at the ceiling, had brunch with Nick, bought some pharmaceuticals at the drugstore and spoke to Sharon.

As I push back the door, Kimmy is pulling it open. She's looking pretty damn hot. Wearing tight black spandex shorts, a black bra that exposes her flat stomach, a red sweatshirt slung around her hips, little white socks, bright white runners. My guess: Going to the gym. Her brown hair is pulled back into a high ponytail, exposing soft-looking triangular ears. I love women's ears. I can spend hours running my fingers through Sharon's hair and playing with her ears.

“Hi, Russ,” Kimmy says.

“Where you off to?” I ask like an idiot.

She smiles. “The gym.”

“Yeah? Have you been already? I've been meaning to check it out.” I can't believe I haven't gone yet. Any build I have is going to melt if I'm not careful.

“I've gone a few times this week. It's pretty good. There's a wait for some of the machines, but not too bad.” The sweatshirt slips down her body exposing a fine-looking ass, but then she reties it. “Want to come with me?”

Why not? Sounds like a constructive way to spend a Sunday. “Sure. Do you mind waiting two minutes for me to grab my gym stuff?”

She smiles and takes a sip from her water bottle. “No problem. I have to use the bathroom anyway. Why don't I meet you in the courtyard and then we'll head over together?”

“Give me five,” I say, trying to mentally block out the bathroom part. I sprint back to my room and grab the gym shorts and T-shirt I wore yesterday to play basketball with some of the guys. I suck, but it's fun. I started playing postcollege to help pump up.

Wonder if Sharon would care that I was going to the gym with a chick. Probably, eh? What should I have said, no? I can't go to the gym with you, I have a girlfriend? She wasn't
hitting on me. Probably knows about Sharon, anyway. I must have mentioned it.

I spot Kimmy staring into the sunlight in the courtyard. She's wearing sunglasses. I need to buy new sunglasses. Left mine in Toronto.

“Let's go,” she says, now wearing the sweatshirt. Shame.

It's getting cold. Wish
I
had a sweatshirt. “Where is this place?”

“At the back of the Student Services Center. Not far.”

She walks fast for a girl. Her ponytail swings from side to side like a tennis ball in play. Sharon is the slowest walker ever. If I don't pay attention, I leave her a half a block behind.

“So how do you like school so far?” she asks.

“It's cool. I went to University of Toronto, so I lived at home.”

“Were you in a frat?”

“No, no frat. Not my thing.” I decide not to tell her that I didn't have much of a life in college. I preferred my calculator and comic books to beer kegs. Of course, that changed in my last year, when I met Sharon. “I bet you were in a sorority, eh?”

“No way. I'm not a gamma, gamma, gamma, can I help ya help ya help ya type girl.”

I can't help mentally casting her as one of the sorority girls in
Revenge of the Nerds.

“How do you like the dorm?” she asks, and takes another sip of her water. “Want some?”

I shake my head. “The dorm is all right. Not used to sharing a floor with so many people.” Not used to sharing a water bottle, either. Sharon doesn't like when I take sips from other people's drinks in case any of them are sick and then I get her sick.

“I know. I feel like I'm eighteen again.” She motions to a sprawling stone building. “We're here.”

We climb the stairs to the top floor and show our student
cards to the scrawny kid at the front desk. The gym caters to the entire school, not just the business school, so it's packed. Puffing women on treadmills are lined against the window.

“Do you lift weights?” Kimmy asks.

“Yeah.” Truth is, I've been slacking on my workouts. I feel a wave of panic that my muscles have all disappeared.

She stretches her leg in front of her. “Do you want to run with me?”

Even though I'm feeling anxious about the state of my muscles and want to get to the weights, the idea of watching her jiggle beside me is too appealing to pass up. I stretch out my hamstring beside her. “Sounds good.”

We find two unoccupied treadmills in the corner, facing the window. She sets her speed to seven. I set mine at nine.

Shit. That's fast.

We run in silence. The sun beats through the glass, and I'm starting to sweat faster than usual. Oh, man. I must be out of shape. The wall of window makes me feel as if I'm running off a cliff. I wonder if the miniature students below us can see us. Maybe the windows are tinted. I'll have to check next time I walk by.

It's interesting watching below. Groups stopping, laughing. Someone doing a handstand against the side of a building. What is that guy doing? “Is that Jamie?”

Kimmy peers out the window, then grabs the handlebars and ducks. “Yikes, hide me.”

“Hide you? Why?”

“I can't escape him. What's he doing?” A group of three girls are standing around him, laughing. He flips over and sits on the pavement. Two of the girls sit next to him. I think one of them is Rena.

“Gymnastics of some sort. Maybe he's working out.”

Kimmy smirks. I'm pretty sure we're both thinking that
he doesn't look like a guy who works out. “So does that mean you're not interested in him?” I ask.

Her mouth flies open. Closes. Then it opens again. “Jamie? Nooo.”

“What about what happened last week?”

She's flushed from my question. Or from the workout.

She bites her lip. “You know about that?”

“Ah…no?”

“Very funny. Did he tell everyone?”

“Didn't you see the ad in the LWBS paper?”

“Hilarious.”

I'm worried that I've upset her, but then she laughs and adds, “What a blabbermouth.”

Now I feel bad for Jamie. “Don't be mad, we forced it out of him. Tortured him, if you want to know. Tied him up then performed Japanese water torture.”

She raises an eyebrow. “I'll bet.”

“So, you interested in him or not?”

She shakes her head no, and her ponytail swings again. Game, set, match. “That night was a mistake. He's not what I'm looking for.”

“What are you looking for?” I ask, now watching her pump her arms. She gets very into her workout.

She turns toward me. “Exactly what I'm looking at, actually. You.”

I miss a step and almost trip into the handlebars. As I steady myself, I think,
me,
eh? This hot chick, breasts heaving, is interested in me?

Now might be a good time to mention Sharon.

Okay, now.

Now.

Kimmy reaches over for her water bottle, pulls up the tab with her teeth and sucks the water into her mouth.

Now.

“Do you want some?” she asks.

I nod. I know, I know. Shouldn't share water bottles. She hands me the bottle and our damp fingers touch. I swallow a mouthful, not unmindful of the bulge in my gym shorts. I'm hoping for those tinted windows. I wouldn't want this entire scene being described to Sharon via her sister via Rena.

Bad business this sharing of water bottles.

Monday, September 8, 9:13 a.m.

L
ove that I'm late for my first class. Partially my fault, partially my mother's. She called me at eight-thirty this morning to complain about the new development in my sister Amanda's love life.

Mother: Apparently Amanda has a secret boyfriend. Did you know that, Jamie? I'm not a happy woman.

Me: I thought you wanted her to meet someone.

Mother: I do, but I'm worried because he's not Jewish.

Me: I thought you were worried because you didn't think she'd ever get married. You certainly have a lot of worries.

Mother: Don't be a smart mouth. How's school? Are you going to screw it up and not go to class?

Me: If you let me off the phone, I'd go to class.

Mother: Sue me for wanting to talk to my son who lives on the other end of the country.

Me: I thought my being accepted to B-school was the proudest moment of your life.

Mother: I am proud, but that doesn't mean I wouldn't have been prouder if you had gotten accepted to school in Florida.

Me: Oy. Great talking to you, Ma. Always love hearing first thing in the morning about all the things I'm doing wrong.

That conversation made me late. The muffin and coffee I stopped to pick up made me later. Not that it matters. Organizational Behavior is a joke anyway, but not in a ha-ha kind of way. Professor Matthews is supposed to be a bastard.

When I open the door, he's already started the class. I climb up the auditorium stairs and slip into the seat beside Kimmy in the fifth row. She's wearing an adorable back-to-school outfit: a short brown corduroy skirt, a tight white turtleneck and knee-high brown suede boots. Schoolgirl sexy.

The classroom has stadium seating, so everyone faces the professor in the middle, the professor who looks like an angry Morgan Freeman and is glaring at me from behind his desk. Now might not be the best time to take out my muffin.

“As I was saying, my second pet peeve, after students who come in late—” he looks at me as he enunciates “—are students who eat in class. You cannot eat and concentrate at the same time. If you must, coffee and water are acceptable beverages, but do not come to class half-asleep. I am not an alarm clock. By the time you are seated in your chairs, I demand that you be well rested and prepared to work.”

No muffin?

His eyes dissect the room. “Now that we've gotten my pet peeves out of the way, welcome to Organizational Behavior. I am now passing out the class syllabus and assignment sheet. Note the required reading. And required does not mean optional. It means mandatory. My TA Ronald—wave hello, Ronald—” Ronald waves hello “—will be marking you on your participation. Every time you raise your hand, you'll get a tick beside your name. The number of ticks you have will be factored into your final grade at the end of the semester. Is that clear?”

We nod. I almost shake my head to see what he would do,
but decide this is not in my best interests. He's exhibiting a classic case of small penis syndrome. Which is surprising since I thought that only Jewish guys like me suffered from that affliction. Since no one cares about organizing their behavior, he's obviously trying to scare us.

My stomach grumbles. Loudly. I want that muffin.

“Now, in this classroom, I will teach you theories…”

Maybe if I reach my hand into the paper bag very slowly, then rip the muffin into pieces, he won't notice. I carefully drop my arm to the floor and attempt to insert it inside the bag.

Crinkle! Snap!

Small Penis stares at me. I retreat, and he continues yammering. “You will work in groups to choose the best type of organizational structure. For instance, I will give you a case study about the organization Procter and Gamble. Then I will give you three to five questions you must answer in a few paragraphs. The questions might be, for example, What organizational structure would best suit P and G's current situation and why? Is that clear?”

We nod. My stomach grumbles, again. Kimmy hears and dry giggles.

“Very well. First I will do a roll call, and then, as it states on your syllabus, I will begin by teaching group dynamics.”

Fuck it. In one swoop, I reach into the bag, rip off the muffin top and slam it into my mouth.

 

The bell rings, and I immediately unwrap the rest of my muffin and eat it. “I guess the rumors are true—this class is bogus.”

Kimmy looks like she might cry. “What are you talking about? Who said it's going to be bogus?”

“The second-years.”

“Are those the second-year girls I saw you flirting with yesterday?”

I give what I hope is a mischievous smile, while trying to
keep my mouth closed so as not to reveal chewed muffin. “Darlin', are you accusing me of cheating on you? I'm shocked and bewildered.” I'm kidding, of course. I've been trying to get her alone all weekend, but she keeps coming up with excuses. I'm not giving up. Chasing Kimmy might be my only entertainment all year.

She shushes me with her hand. “That class didn't seem like such a joke.”

“Trust me. It is.”

She looks confused. “But…but I still don't understand what organizational behavior is.”

“It's psychology for business people. Different personality types. The best way to structure your business. That kind of stuff. You worked for a leasing company, right?”

She fiddles with her turtleneck as if it's choking her. “How'd you know that?”

“Because you said it on Tuesday.”

“Oh, yeah. Right.”

“How many vice presidents were there?”

“Um…” She shakes her head. “None.”

“Okay, then who was the boss?”

She blushes. “My dad.”

Ah. “Who worked under your dad?”

“There was a finance manager, collections manager, accounting manager, office manager…”

“What did you do?”

“I worked for collections.”

Sexy. “Really? You demanded people pay you? Did you threaten physical harm?”

“No, I called them.”

I can see her in a tight black leather dress, black stiletto boots and a gun harnessed to the inside of her thigh. I'll have to save that image for later. “Were all your dad's leases in Arizona?”

“No, he does leases all over the country.”

“So let's say we take your company and restructure it. You
have five managers, but now they're arranged geographically, each one overseeing an area. West Coast, East Coast, the central states, the South, and the Southwest. Would this structure better serve the company?”

“Oh,” she says slowly. “I get it. So we're going to learn theories that we can apply to answer that question?”

“Right.”

She nods. “I was a Philosophy major in college. We learned theories and tried to apply them. This I can do.”

I stand up and stretch. “Glad to be of service.”

“How do you know all that? Did you study business in college?”

My mother wishes. “No, I did a liberal arts degree. But I read a lot.”

We have a ten-minute break until the next class, which is in this same room. All the classes we have today are in the same room. I feel like we're back in grade school. The teachers come to us instead of us going to them.

“I'm going to get a coffee,” Kimmy says, standing up. “Want anything?”

“I'm okay, thanks.”

Professor Douglas arrives while Kimmy is still out. With his dark glasses, large bald spot and five-foot-five skinny frame, he looks more like Woody Allen than a professor. Short legs dangling, he sits on the front of his desk and sips his coffee.

“Mmm,” he says. “They have a new flavor this year, hazelnut latte. I highly recommend it to anyone like me who suffers from severe caffeine addiction.”

His audience laughs.

“So am I your first class today?” he asks.

“No,” says the tall blonde in the front row. “We had Professor Matthews first.”

He smirks. “Don't worry about him. His bark is worse than his bite. Although I wouldn't get too close.”

Ah, the wanna-be comedian.

“He barked pretty loudly,” another student adds.

Professor Douglas laughs a loud, room-filling laugh. “Yes, he does. And he never erases the board. Look at that,” he says, and points to the dry board. “You'd think professors would learn to clean up after themselves.”

Layla jumps up. “I'll do it.”

Oy. What a suck-up.

“No worries,” he says. “I got it.”

Ah, and he isn't afraid of manual labor. What more could one want in a professor?

Kimmy walks through the door, coffee in hand, Russ beside her. She laughs at something he's saying.

I feel a sinking sensation in my stomach. I shouldn't be jealous. Russ has a girlfriend. He isn't making a move on my dream girl.

“Good morning,” Douglas says to them.

“Morning,” Kimmy says. Did she just stick her chest out?

Douglas yawns. “I guess it's not morning for you. You suckers had to be here for nine. I just got up thirty minutes ago. But no worries, I'm highly alert once the caffeine kicks in.”

I don't know if I can take an entire semester of bad jokes.

“So. Here we are. I'm Professor Douglas, and this is Intro to Accounting. Unfortunately, this is not a how-to course on how to launder money.”

More laughs.

Too bad. Now there's a final I wouldn't mind studying for.

 

Kimmy and Russ are crouched over their meals at a corner table in the cafeteria on the ground floor of the Katz building. Large glass windows are behind them and I have to squint to make them out. “I thought I'd find you hiding here,” I say to Kimmy.

“Not hiding,” she says, sipping her soup. “Just eating.”

“Mind if I join you? What's today's special?”

Russ shoves a forkful of beef into his mouth. “Meat loaf. Not bad, either.” He takes a packet of vinegar and dumps it over Kimmy's fries. Now that's gross. I thought I was the Grossman. Now that's funny.

“Will you two still be here after I buy my food?” I ask, trying not to appear anxious.

“Sure,” Kimmy says.

“Do you want anything?”

“No, thanks,” they say in unison.

“What d'ya want?” a mid-fortyish woman wearing a blue smock and a hair net asks when I reach the top of the food line.

“Well, Stella, what do you recommend?”

“How'd you know my name?”

“I'm psychic.”

She peers at me in disbelief. “You are?”

“Not really. You look like a Stella. I can imagine myself as Marlon Brando screaming for you to come back to me. And you're wearing a name tag.”

She looks down at her chest. “So what'll you have?”

“What's today's special?”

She leans in toward me. “The burgers are from yesterday and the meat loaf is from Saturday.”

“I think I'll have a grilled cheese.”

Next, Carl, the guy at the cash register, calculates what I owe, and tells me to slide my student/debit card through the swipe machine.

“You'll have to type in the number,” I say. “I haven't received my permanent card yet.”

He eyes me with suspicion. “Why not?”

“The bureaucrats lost my picture, again.” What am I going to do about this problem? I'm going to need to have a student card by exam time. But if I apply for one in person, I'll be found out. And probably kicked out of school.

Carl nods. Apparently he knows all about the bureaucrats. “It's a mess up there, huh?”

I carry my tray back to my table. Russ and Kimmy's heads are inclined together in conversation. How did they come to be at dinner together, exactly?

Russ says something, and Kimmy peals with laughter. Russ smiles and leans closer. If I didn't know about Sharon, I'd swear that Russ is making a move on my woman.

“So what did you two think of Stats?” I ask, depositing my tray.

“Useless,” Russ says. “Professor Gold obviously doesn't want to be teaching an intro class.”

“Seems that way,” I agree. “She phoned in her lecture.”

“What does that mean?” Kimmy asks.

“It's an expression. Like in baseball, someone who phones in a game means he didn't really try. Russ, you a baseball man?”

“Not so much. I play basketball.”

Guess we won't be watching the games together.

Kimmy sips another spoonful of soup. She is the slowest eater I've ever seen. “Personally, I prefer male professors.”