Pulpy and Midge (12 page)

There was a plastic mermaid in the one they were watching, alone beside a treasure chest. The chest would open and close, letting loose a curl of bubbles that jiggled the little bodies on the surface.

‘Congo Tetra, Yoyo Loach,' he said, pointing.

She shook her head. ‘I think that one's actually a Neon Tetra.'

‘Oh.'

‘They should get rid of the dead ones,' she said. ‘How do they think the live ones feel, looking up at all those floaters?'

‘Which one do you want?' he asked her.

She looked at him. ‘I don't want a dead fish.'

‘No, no, pick one of the swimming ones,' he said. ‘I'll buy it for you.'

‘But you don't even know me.'

‘I'd like to.'

She smiled a blue-green smile.

‘I'm Pulpy,' he said.

‘I'm Midge.'

He waited for her to wonder aloud about his name, but she didn't. She just asked him for a Fancy Guppy, and he asked her out to dinner.

‘Pulpy,' said Midge over breakfast the next morning, ‘if you were unhappy you'd tell me, right?'

He stopped eating his cereal. ‘What do you mean?'

‘With us. If something about us was making you unhappy.'

‘Nothing about us makes me unhappy.' He looked past the beautiful disarray of his wife's hair to the fridge, where Midge had affixed a ‘To Buy' list with a real-estate magnet.

‘But you'd tell me.'

‘Sure I would.' There were practical things on there, like ‘soap' and ‘foil food,' but there were also a lot of other things, like ‘mojito pitcher,' whatever that was, and ‘more shoes.'

‘Okay.' She bowed her head. ‘It's just that we used to have
ESP
.'

‘We did?'

‘That's the way I thought of us, anyway. Like we could read each other's minds.' She sighed. ‘These days I don't know. I just feel disconnected sometimes. Don't you, every so often?'

‘Not really,' said Pulpy. ‘I just go along.'

‘I wish I could do that.'

‘There are plenty of better things to wish for,' he said.

‘I suppose there are.' She perked up a little. ‘Did you have fun last night?'

He shrugged. ‘It was all right. What about you?'

‘Beatrice and I talked about candles.'

‘Wax is a good icebreaker.'

‘It is! Beatrice is the one who brought it up, though. She wanted to know about the business, I guess. Or else she just likes candles a lot. We had that in common, anyway. Plus, I bought these clamdiggers!' She lifted a leg to show him the pants she was wearing, which went to just below her knees.

‘Those are nice,' he said. ‘They're kind of short, though. Won't you be cold?'

‘They're for the summer. I like what they do to my calves, see?' Midge stood up and posed on tiptoes for him so he could see her leg muscles flex.

‘I
really
like those clamdiggers.' He reached for her.

She backed away. ‘I don't want you to be late because of me.'

‘That's the best part. I won't be, because Dan gave me flex hours last night. That means I'm allowed to be late.'

‘Well, then,' she said, and sat on his lap. ‘I let Beatrice browse through my route catalogue – I brought it with me just in case. I told her, “When you light a pillar candle for the very first time, you have to let it burn an hour for every inch of its diameter. This permits the wax pool to spread to the outer rim and stops your candle from hollowing out in the middle.” I love telling people that. Nobody knows that stuff.'

He stroked her back.

‘And then I said, “I have to be up front with you, Beatrice. It's worth keeping in mind that scented candles are smokier than unscented candles.”' She brought her face close to his. ‘She was really listening, Pulpy!'

‘That's great.' He touched his nose to the expanse of her forehead.

‘I'm sorry I was so late. But you were such a handsome sleeper when I got home I didn't want to wake you.'

‘I wouldn't have minded.'

‘I know. But now you're all rested and ready for the day.
And
you have flex hours.' She kissed him.

He kissed her back. ‘Let's get you out of those clamdiggers,' he said.

‘Good morning, Pulpy!' said Beatrice when he walked in at nine-thirty.

The receptionist, sitting beside her, turned and peered up at the clock.

‘Good morning,' he said to both of them, and sniffed the air. ‘What's that smell?'

The receptionist sneezed.

‘It's air freshener,' said Beatrice. ‘I picked it up last night, when Midge and I were out. Oh, we had
fun,
Pulpy!'

The receptionist looked between them with red-ringed eyes. She sneezed again.

‘That's good,' he said quickly. ‘But why do we need air freshener?'

‘I said to myself yesterday, “It really stinks around here,”' said Beatrice. ‘I said to myself, “I am going to buy some air freshener and really have a go at this place.” Don't you think that was a good idea? It's orange spice.'

Pulpy looked at the receptionist, who was scratching at her throat. ‘Well –'

Dan threw open the door then and planted his feet wide. ‘Morning, Pulpy. Morning, Beatrice.' He took a deep, approving breath. ‘It smells great in here!'

‘How do you feel, darling?' said Beatrice. She winked at Pulpy. ‘Dan needed a few extra zzz's this morning.'

‘I guess we both did, hey, Pulpy?' said Dan, huffing the air. ‘What is that, citrus?'

‘It's orange spice,' said Beatrice.

Dan clapped Pulpy on the back. ‘Sounds like just the ticket for our nine-thirty man over here!'

Pulpy held out his arms to keep his balance. ‘You said I had flex hours.'

‘He did?' said the receptionist.

Dan ignored her. ‘I guess I did say that, Pulpy, you're right. And the moral of the story is, don't put stock in anything I tell you after five pitchers of beer, ha!'

‘Oh.' His bottom teeth moved up over his top lip.

‘But I meant it, though. I'm just kidding you, Pulpy.'

The receptionist sneezed, twice.

Dan blinked at her, and then strode forward and kissed his wife hard on the cheek. ‘Today is going to be fantastic!' he said. ‘I can feel it.'

‘Are you all right?' Pulpy asked the receptionist when Dan and Beatrice had gone upstairs.

She shook her head and wheezed. ‘Allergies. She sprayed that stuff right in front of me.'

‘Don't worry.' Pulpy unzipped his coat. ‘It's aerosol. It'll dissipate.'

‘Until she sprays it again.' She sighed and scratched her puffy face.

He looked at the fish. ‘Hey, I was thinking maybe I should keep the fish upstairs, on my desk. There's a draft every time the door opens here. The cold's probably not good for him.'

‘No, I don't think so.'

He paused with his coat halfway off. ‘It might be the best thing for him.'

‘Well, it wouldn't be the best thing for me. I like having it here. It's a conversation piece. People come in, they comment on the fish. They'll say, “Nice fish,” or “Where'd you get that fish?”'

His coat slipped from around his waist and he jerked out an arm, but the fabric hit the wet floor before he could catch it. ‘What do you say when people ask you the second question?'

‘Why?' she said. ‘Is it a
secret
you gave it to me?'

‘No, no, it's not. Ha. I was just thinking of the fish's best interests, that's all.'

She smiled at him. ‘Because it's kind of our thing, the fish. Isn't it?'

He was bending to pick up his coat but he paused, folded into an awkward angle. ‘What do you mean, “our thing”?'

‘If you want to know what I say when people ask me where I got the fish, I tell them my boyfriend gave it to me. That way he comes off as less of a loser.'

He straightened up and cleared his throat. ‘Did you tell your boyfriend you got a fish from me?'

‘He doesn't care about those kinds of things. Fish. What about your wife? Does
she
know?' Her smile widened. ‘She thinks it's on your desk, doesn't she? You didn't tell her you gave it to me.'

‘I didn't give him to you, you took him.' He tossed his coat into the closet and shut the door.

‘How is that any different?'

‘I love my wife,' Pulpy said quickly.

‘And I love my boyfriend,' said the receptionist. ‘Sort of.'

‘I'll see what I can do about the air freshener,' he said, and headed for the stairs.

‘What do you mean, she's allergic?' said Dan.

‘Just what I said,' said Pulpy.

‘Well, I don't buy it.' Dan stretched and yawned.

‘Did you see her out there?' said Pulpy. ‘She looks terrible.'

Dan made an eye-rolling monster face, letting his tongue loll out of his mouth.

‘That's not really –' Pulpy crossed and uncrossed his legs on the hard-backed chair. ‘I mean, she's really sick out there.'

‘So what do you want me to do about it, Pulpy?'

‘You could ask Beatrice not to spray any more air freshener.'

‘How can I tell her that?' Dan picked up a pen and signed his name on a piece of paper lying in front of him. ‘You know how women are about the way things smell. And how come you're so concerned, anyway? What's that secretary ever done for you?'

‘Nothing. I'm just advocating for her, that's all. She works hard. She's a hard worker.'

Dan squinted at him and grinned a lopsided grin. ‘Huh.'

Pulpy reddened. ‘What?'

‘You know something, Pulpy?' Dan put his head down, then brought it up again and rocked it back and forth. ‘I have a hangover the size of the planet Earth. Of the whole
Earth,
Pulpy! My God, my head feels like it's going to go supernova. Dammit to hell, my head hurts! How do you feel?'

‘Not so good.' Pulpy stood up. ‘I guess I've got a headache too.'

All of the pay phones were occupied when Pulpy went to them at lunch. He sat down at a nearby table and waited.

There were three phones: one was being used by a tall man with big teeth, one by a short woman with long hair and one by a teenage boy wearing suspenders. Pulpy did a double take. Teenagers were wearing suspenders now?

He looked at the two quarters in his hand. He flipped one of them end over end between his fingers.

The short woman hung up, and Pulpy headed for her phone. But then the teen with the suspenders reached for that receiver too and took it off the cradle.

Pulpy stopped, and then kept going. ‘Hi,' he said to the teenager.

‘Yeah?'

‘Um, I was going to use that phone.'

‘So?'

‘So, you're already using one.'

The teen shrugged. ‘I need two.'

The suspenders, Pulpy could see now, had red pinstripes on them. ‘Why do you need two pay phones?'

‘I'm doing a conference call.'

‘What?'

The teenager showed Pulpy the back of one of his hands in a dismissive way, which was hard to do while he was holding the receiver, and turned away from him.

‘Excuse me,' said Pulpy. ‘I need to contact my wife.'

‘Whatever.' The teen put two quarters into the second phone.

‘Hey.'

The teenager dialled. ‘Hi, is Bruce there?' he said into the phone Pulpy wanted to use. ‘Yeah, I'll hold.' Then he spoke into the other receiver. ‘Jaybird, you still there? I'm holding for Bruce, that cocksucker.'

Pulpy opened and closed his mouth, then stopped himself.

The teenager glanced at him over his shoulder. ‘You still here?' He went back to the receiver. ‘No, not you. There's some weird businessman standing behind me. Yeah, he's a cocksucker too.'

‘Excuse me,' said Pulpy, ‘I really do not think –'

‘Bruce!' said the teen into Pulpy's phone. ‘I got Jaybird on the other line!'

Pulpy looked at his watch.

‘Yeah, hold on.' The teenager switched phones again. ‘Jaybird, you still there?'

Pulpy sighed and walked away.

When Pulpy returned from lunch the receptionist was screaming in short, high bursts.

‘What?' He rushed in. ‘What's wrong?'

She was bent over the paper shredder, gesturing wildly. ‘I'm stuck!'

He ran to her. Her
ID
badge, still on the lanyard around her neck, was in the shredder's sharp-toothed mouth.

‘Where's the Off button?' he shouted.

‘Right there! Push it!' She flailed an arm at the machine.

‘I can't see where you're pointing! Where is it?'