Pulpy and Midge (10 page)

He looked at the fish and cleared his throat.

The man's voice went silent and there was a shuffling noise.

Pulpy plugged one of the sinks and turned on the tap. When the sink was half full he turned off the tap, rolled up one sleeve and stuck his hand in the fishbowl. The fish swam away from him.

‘Uhh,' said the man's voice.

He cupped the fish in his palm and plopped it into the sink. He poked the fish in the belly and it swam away from him.

‘Ohhh,' said the man's voice.

He emptied the scummy water into the other sink and rinsed out the bowl. He gave it a scrub with some paper towel and filled it up with fresh water.

‘Mmm!'

Pulpy jerked his head around. The voice sounded different that time. Higher.

‘Shhh!' said the man's voice.

In a rush, Pulpy scooped the fish out of the sink and dropped it into the bowl. He hurried out of the men's room, down the hall to the welcome area, and deposited the fishbowl on the receptionist's desk.

‘If you ever leave a voice mail at a place of business, make sure to include your call-back number in the message,' she said. ‘Otherwise your message will get erased.'

He stood there with his hands at his sides. ‘I always do that.'

Davis from Building Maintenance came down the hallway from the direction of the men's room, hitching up his jeans. He nodded at Pulpy as he went by.

‘That's good,' said the receptionist. She pressed a button on her phone and an automated voice recited the caller's phone number. Then the caller's recorded message played.

‘To erase this message press seven,' said the automated voice. The receptionist's index finger descended. ‘Message erased.'

Pulpy watched the man from Building Maintenance descend the stairs into the basement, and then shook his head. ‘But you had the number for that one.'

‘But
the caller
didn't leave it.' She sneered at her handset. ‘And he doesn't know that his number was automatically stored. So he should've left a call-back number. One of the messages before was, “I found a pen with your company's name on it. What kind of services do you people provide?” Can you believe that? But he left a call-back number, so I had to call him back and answer his stupid question. That's the way it works.'

‘It makes sense, I guess.'

‘You guess?' She shook her head. ‘There's a system and you follow it. That's all there is. Like somehow I get here on time every day. Somehow I manage to get up when my alarm goes off, instead of just lying there, which is really what I'd rather do when it comes down to it. But somehow I make it in. And I'm never late. I wish I could be late, just once. But I won't let myself.' She raised an eyebrow at him. ‘I just can't do it.'

Dan was humming along to the music and tapping his fingers on his desk when Pulpy hurried past his half-open door. He waved him in.

‘You've got to love the Winter Flute,' said Dan. ‘It's a classic.'

‘I don't think I've ever heard of the Winter Flute before,' said Pulpy.

‘Then you haven't lived.' Dan grinned and bopped his head to the melody. ‘It touches you. I could almost feel good about the world, listening to the Winter Flute.'

Pulpy moved his neck a little. ‘The receptionist told me about the semi-live feed. She showed me the speaker system you hooked up.'

‘Beatrice is going to do an audit of her processes,' said Dan. ‘There needs to be a system in place.'

‘I think she has a system already.'

‘Still, Beatrice is going to look things over. She's here today. Are you going to get coffee?'

‘I usually only get coffee on Fridays.' Pulpy looked at Dan's desk. ‘Isn't that the receptionist's mug?'

‘I don't see her name on it,' said Dan. He poked the cartoon duck. ‘It's funny, isn't it? “My schedule's full.” Ha!'

‘But she always uses it.'

‘Well, there's plenty more where it came from.' He handed the mug to Pulpy. ‘Pretend it's a Friday and head over to Coffee Paradise for me, will you? Forget about Coffee Island – they use inferior beans. And I'm having a caffeine fit, so you'd better fill that mug to the top.'

‘What kind of coffee do you want?'

‘Just get me the house blend with a shitload of cream and sugar.'

‘All right.' He left Dan's office, hurried down the stairs and walked back past the receptionist's desk as fast as he could, with the duck turned away from her.

‘Hello,' she said.

He looked over, but she was on the phone. He decided not to get his coat.

The decor of Coffee Paradise was similar to the Coffee Island's, but fancier. Instead of one inflatable palm tree, there were real-looking mini-palms in every corner of the room, their broad green fronds waving gently in warm, coconut-scented gusts of forced air.

Pulpy stood in line and took deep breaths through his nose. The smell reminded him of Midge. She used a lotion called Tropical Mist.

Up ahead, the man at the cash appeared clasped together, like he was sucking in his face and holding it there. He had a name tag that read ‘Your Barista: Claude.'

The customer in front of Pulpy stepped aside and Claude said, ‘Can I help you, sir?' to Pulpy, who was still sniffing.

He stopped. ‘Yes, please. I'll have one house blend in this mug.'

‘And how will you take that?'

‘Oh –' Pulpy swivelled his head and realized there was no help-yourself area for coffee fixings. He relaxed a little. ‘Cream and sugar, please. Lots of both.'

Claude nodded. ‘Anything else?'

‘Yes. Do you have any Roco-Coco here?'

The barista sucked himself in further. ‘What's that?'

‘It's a kind of coffee. Roco-Coco. They have it at the Coffee Island?'

‘Well, this isn't the Coffee Island, is it? This is Coffee Paradise. We have Coca-Loca. It's probably the same thing.' Claude pointed to one of the dispensers, with a sticker showing a wild-eyed coffee bean in a Hawaiian shirt.

‘I don't think it's the same,' said Pulpy.

‘Well,' said the barista, ‘it's your call.'

Pulpy looked around Coffee Paradise, at the tall businessmen occupying tall mahogany booths. He turned back and concentrated hard on the blackboard with its prices. ‘I'll have a large jalapeno-pumpkin, please,' he said, feeling suddenly bold.

‘What?' said Claude.

‘The jalapeno-pumpkin. It says right there.'

The barista turned around, slowly. ‘That's our lunch menu,' he said. ‘That's a soup.'

‘Oh.'

Claude smirked at a customer in line behind Pulpy. ‘If you want soup, I'll give you soup.'

‘I don't,' said Pulpy. ‘I want coffee.'

‘Well, then,' said the barista. ‘Maybe you'd better decide what you want. What kind of coffee, I mean.'

Pulpy heard a few snorts behind him. He shuffled in place. ‘Large,' he said.

‘Large what?'

‘Your house blend again. Or Colombian? Something easy.'

‘Nothing is ever easy,' said Claude.

‘Aren't you cold?' asked the receptionist when Pulpy walked back in.

He stopped in a pose that shielded the two coffees from her. ‘Sorry?'

‘You're not wearing your coat. That's not very smart in this weather.'

‘Oh, that.' He gave a half shrug and continued walking, his body buffering the coffees.

‘Hold on,' she said. ‘Let me see something.'

‘What?' he said. ‘I have to get upstairs.'

She sat back in her chair. ‘Fine.'

He passed by her with the scalding mug and his own hot cup pushed against his chest, and started up the steps.

‘You really think you know what goes on around here?' she said.

‘No.' He paused with his back to her. ‘I don't.'

‘You don't know anything about the way things work. I see everything that happens. People don't think I notice, but I do. I'm the eyes and ears of this place.'

He nodded and kept going.

‘Thanks,' said Dan when Pulpy handed him the mug. ‘What did you think of Paradise?'

‘It's all right.'

‘You're right it's all right. I love that place.' He tilted back his head and poured in coffee. ‘Ahh. You still haven't gotten yourself a mug?' He took another long drink and then gave the receptionist's duck a kiss. ‘I'm telling you, they're the only way to go.'

Pulpy frowned while Dan wasn't looking. ‘Well,' he said, ‘I'd better get back to work.'

Dan rubbed his hands together. ‘We're still on for tonight, right? You and me, out on the town?'

‘Yes. Boys' night.'

‘Boys' night!'

‘Yes,' said Pulpy. ‘What are we going to do?'

‘I don't know yet. We'll eat somewhere.' Dan coughed. ‘Have a seat, Pulpy.'

Pulpy sat.

‘I want to tell you something, and that is this. The way things work around here,' he said, ‘is that there is a thing that
you
do, and there are the things that
we
do. It's all connected, and interwoven. But if a stitch slips, then the whole cog is going to fall apart, and it is just not going to roll.'

Pulpy tightened his hold on his Styrofoam cup.

‘I think that's pretty straightforward,' said Dan. ‘But the way things are going around here, I just don't know. Because typically, people don't have a whole lot to offer an organization. It's up to the organization to take from its people what it sees fit. To impart on them the requirements that they are expected to fulfill, and to follow through on making sure that
those requirements are met and that the expectations are delivered.'

Pulpy squeezed his cup some more and the Styrofoam crumpled, spilling hot coffee onto his lap. He yelped and jumped up.

Dan handed him a tissue and then opened one of his drawers. He took out a small black pager and slid it across the desk. ‘This is for you.'

Pulpy smacked at his new brown pants with the Kleenex and looked at the pager's shiny silver clip and neat little screen. ‘Oh, well –'

‘Go ahead, take it.'

‘Hmm. It's just that, would you be paging me at home at all? Only because I have a feeling that Midge – she probably wouldn't be too keen on that.'

‘Take it.'

‘Okay.' Pulpy picked up the pager and slipped it into his coffee-stained pocket.

‘Have you been touching your love line?' Midge asked when Pulpy called her at lunch.

He reached up and poked his chest. ‘I have.'

‘I knew it!' she said. ‘I sensed you were thinking about me. Guess what?'

Pulpy smiled. ‘What?'

‘A lady on my route today had fruit on her shoes. Each shoe had a little bunch of miniature plastic fruit on the toes. A tiny lemon, an orange, a lime and cherries. Or maybe they were apples. I couldn't tell because the size ratio was off. So what are you and Dan doing tonight?'

‘I don't know. I think he wants to go to a restaurant or something. Have you heard from Beatrice yet?'

‘She wants to meet at the mall at six.' She sighed. ‘So when will I see you? I don't plan on being home later than eight. Or nine. Nine at the latest.'

‘I'll probably be home around then too.' He cleared his throat and lowered his voice. ‘Dan gave me a pager this morning.'

‘A pager? Why would he give you one of those?'

‘So he can page me, I guess.'

‘But why does he need to page you? At home? You better tell him I don't want him paging you at home. Tell him your wife said that. Tell him I do not want any beeping going on during our private time.'

‘I'll do what I can, Midge.' He looked down at the coffee stain on his pants – the area was a slightly darker brown than everywhere else. ‘That's all I can do.'

When Pulpy came back, Beatrice was sitting next to the receptionist at her desk.

‘Hello, Pulpy!' she said. ‘Look, I've joined the ranks!' She waggled her
ID
badge at him and the receptionist glared at her. ‘I'm teaching the secretary about ergonomics. But now it's time for my lunch break so I'd better get going!' She stood up. ‘I talked to Midge, did she tell you?'

The receptionist reached down to readjust the height of her chair, her gaze moving from Pulpy to Beatrice and back again.

He cleared his throat. ‘She did, yes.'

Beatrice clapped her hands. ‘I'm
so
excited about our girls' night!' She turned to the receptionist, who was busy with the back of her chair, removing a beaded net that Pulpy hadn't seen before. ‘Did you have any questions?'

The receptionist didn't say anything.

‘Perfect! So I'll get that survey from you after lunch!' Beatrice smiled at both of them and headed down the hall toward the staff kitchen.

‘What was she talking about?' said the receptionist. ‘Isn't Midge your wife?'

‘I don't know,' he said. ‘I mean yes, Midge is my wife, but I don't know what Beatrice is talking about.'

‘She gave me this stupid back support but I'm not using it.' She dropped the beads into one of her drawers. They rattled loudly. ‘The first thing she does is, she comes over here and she tells me, “You shouldn't cross your legs like that. It's bad for your back and it's bad for your circulation.” So I said, “Well, how do
you
cross your legs?” And she said, “I don't.” And I said, “I'm comfortable this way.” And she said, “I haven't crossed my legs in years.” And I thought, maybe
she
wants to sit there with her thighs all spread out over her chair but I sure as hell don't. I almost said that to her too. But I didn't. I just kept on crossing my legs.'

Pulpy's eyes went to her legs as she spoke. The thigh underneath was distributed across the seat of her chair, and the one overtop appeared smaller. They were both fleshy triangles, starting narrow at her knees and widening further up.