22Author's note: I've been away a long time, and I've missed reading my favorite authors for just as long, so those of you who've had me review you, please know that my lack of reviews lately isn't because I've just lost interest in you, it's because I just have had so much go on here, that I haven't been able to write, much less read, and MAN, do I miss reading!
Ok, with that said, this is something I started on awhile ago. I don't know what it is, where I'm going with it, or how/when/why I'm going to finish it, but I'll put it up, anyway. This is just the beginning, and it'll more than likely be a short story, but you know, who knows what's going to happen. I just feel it's time to put something up againJ
Warning, as usual, there's cursing…a lot of it, and that's just me…sorry.
Average
The heat fell upon the northern California town with searing fingers, its rays shooting a sordid luster across every glistening patch of skin it touched. The steaming winds tickled the fields of struggling brown grass, rippling their blades in a rhythmic message to all that summer had officially arrived.
She lay across the French chaise, the sight reminiscent of a lioness taking her post-hunt rest under the shade of a solitary tree somewhere in the Serengeti plane. Her pale skin covered by the smallest of silk teddies, even her near nakedness bore a regal quality. From the milk-white smoothness of her cleavage to the pearls of sweat spreading across her sculpted thighs, Francesca Buck was a Queen...
What in the hell? Sorry.
Hi, I'm Erin, Erin Mickleson, and I'm trying to write a romance. And, in case you didn't notice, I'm not real good at it...yet. I intend to be, though. One of these days. Why I started, this, I have no idea, but I can promise you one thing; I will finish. If it kills me, it kills me, but I will finish.
Why do this? Good question, actually, and if I think about it, maybe I can come up with an answer for us both, 'cause at the moment, I'm shit out of luck as to knowing why I'd sit down and try to pen a love story.
Maybe it'd help to tell you who I am, a little about myself.
In a nutshell, I'm average.
Average age, thirty something, average size, a hundred and something, average looks, brownish, reddish, blondish haired something, average eye color, average nose, average cheekbones, lips, and everything else that makes a face a face, except all of mine is average. Average income, average home, average lifestyle, average family history, average intelligence...you name it, I'm average at it. Always have been, but I don't intend to always be. No offense, but if I'm destined to stay this degree of white bread, I'd rather die of an intensely painful toe infection than live another thirty some odd average years.
The only way I'd settle for living the rest of my life in this humdrum state is if someone provided documented proof that the afterlife consists of being forced to watch the Lawrence Welk show eternally, accordions, chiffon petticoats and all. HeeHaw would be a close second.
Oh yeah, and I'm alone. Have been for two years now, ever since Leonard moved out. By the way, he was average, too. Shocker, huh?
I met Leonard at a poetry reading in a local eclectic Laundromat/coffee bar. While he stood in front of the microphone and recited his Ode to digital cable, his Hanes skivvies and khaki Dockers agitating and going through the rinse cycle in the back room, I sipped on a double cappuccino and pretended to be hip, digging for some deeper, intense double entendre to Leonard's verses. Oh yes, the info button makes an incredibly poignant statement about our need to seek instant understanding of our psyches, don't it?
For some unexplainable reason, the average in me somehow sucked Leonard in like a tractor beam. Maybe he felt sorry for me, maybe I was a challenge, like a sick animal that only he could heal. I don't know, and frankly I don't care. I'm just happy as hell the days of hearing from him about how fucked up I am are over. The day he moved out, I cried for an hour, then partied for a month, if you call partying letting my apartment gather filth, sleeping on any side of the bed I wanted to, and doing whatever the hell else I wanted when I wanted, how I wanted., and all without a nag in the background.
Yeah, I'm alone, and that's okay...at least most of the time. I could nab a boyfriend easily; not a problem at all. Think about it; send a plain woman into a bar, and by last call, she'll be leaving with someone if she wants. But send a plain man into the same bar with the same agenda, and he'll be lucky to make it out of there at closing time without having been slapped, insulted, and humiliated until his pecker's retreated into his abdomen. Hey, it's not me that makes the rules; that's just how it is.
Anyway, I could nab a boyfriend. Instead of sitting and writing this silly little piece of work for you, I could be sitting on my couch with a Lester or Herbert, staring past his brown loafers and acid washed jeans at the TV screen as we spend our Friday night eating Orville Redenbacher microwave popcorn and watching the X-files marathon. Or perhaps I could, at the moment, be listening to him talk about how many units of pork chops he sold to the Holiday Inn on I-35 today, and how the sale makes him big man at the cubicle. And then, I could help him release the extra surge of testosterone his pork chop accomplishments sent to his 'nether region' by lying under him for a whopping couple of minutes while he mounts me and gives me a couple of thrusts, collapsing on my bored body, convinced that what he just felt, I surely had to have felt, too.
No, thanks. I'll stay alone for now. The dating scene has always been a song and dance I never quite got the rhythm of, anyway. Weeks of pretending, only to have him stop calling once your real colors begin to show. Or, if you're lucky enough to have him stick around once he sees you without makeup, his true colors start to show, at which point it's you who either runs or surrenders and stays put, thinking 'This may be the best I'll ever be able to get.", you who submits yourself to a life of burping and farting food-smacking in which you try to convince yourself that it was okay to 'settle'.
Where in the hell is my Romeo, huh?
Where is he? I deserve a Romeo. We all do, at least once in our lives, anyway. I thought that was one of the few things a gal could look forward to, having that one guy...that one male that makes your spine liquify at his mere glance. Where's my Adonis, my angel, my cowboy, my hero?
You know, I'm getting to the point where I'm starting to think mine died in some horrible accident before I got a chance to meet him. I'm just about convinced he got creamed in some freak elevator mishap, or developed a sudden allergy to peanut butter as he scarfed down a Jiffy and jelly sandwich. When's he going to saunter on into my path of vision with a sexy swagger in his hips and lips, knocking me off my feet and carrying me off into that brilliant sunset I've yet to see? I'm beginning to think he'll never cross my path...
Hey, wait a minute...there's my answer.
Why am I trying to write a romance? Because if I can't find my Romeo in this world, I'll just create him in another.
Works for me.
Francesca's ample bosom heaved with a quivering series of jolts, the moistness summoned to her pulsating mound by each and every second her eyes took in the sight of Chad's naked chest. She'd had no man before, no knowledge of what it felt like to be physically possessed by one, but the treasure chamber betwixt her thighs seemed to hold an innate familiarity and craving for Chad, as if that part of her had felt his stroke and thrust in another life...
'Treasure chamber betwixt her thighs? Stroke and thrust?' God, I suck.
Today was...it was...well, it was.
Started out average, as every day of my average life always has. Opened my average eyes, looked around my average room as I rose from my average bed, shuffled in my average K-Mart jammies to my average kitchen and drank a poorly concocted average cup of instant coffee (generic, no less), determined to somehow make it through this average 24 hours.
Took a shower that lasted the average amount of time, dressed in my average outfit, made my face up until I hit the average amount of attractiveness, then headed out of my average apartment and to my average car, at which point I drove to my average job and started typing the average amount of work while my average boss droned on about his average golf score the last weekend.
And then, it changed. In a split second, every single thing about the way my day was going changed. Completely...astronomically...changed.
"Erin?" That nasal voice never failed to hit me like nails running down the proverbial chalkboard (Is there a proverb out there mentioning chalkboards?). Honestly, on some days, the idea of listening to my boss speak directly to me seemed about as pleasant as having a pap smear done with a rusty spoon.
"Yeah?" That's about all I could manage to say. The urge to stab him in the neck with a paper clip was just too great to allow me many words.
"Erin, we've got a problem, and if you can help me out on this, I would owe you such a big one."
We've got a problem? We don't have shit, buddy. You have the problem, and as usual, it's me who gets to fish you out of it, bossman, sir, massah. God, if I had a machete right now…and yeah, I'm not even touching the 'big one' comment.
"Sure, Mr. Eisel. I'd be happy to help." I hate myself sometimes.
Mr. Nasal, uh, I mean Eisel, plopped his waspy buttocks down in the chair next to me, and for the umpteenth time, watching that stiff and sleazy body language display itself as he prepared to 'butter me up', I wondered which used car lot he must have once worked at. That whole 'Have I got a deal for you' vibe just oozed from his pores. This guy doesn't get laid unless it involves street corners, gold sequined halter tops, and Visa or Mastercard; I'm sure of it.
"Erin, we have an amended contract we sent out yesterday with a courier, an important contract with an even more important deadline. Well," He lowered his head, taking a fat finger and pushing those severely outdated bifocal rims back up into place, "it was supposed to end up at Varcom today. We just got a call from them, and it seems the courier delivered it to Vorcom by accident. Erin," He leaned forward, as if he were King Arthur about to put the weight of Camelot's fate on Perceval's shoulders, "That contract has to be delivered and signed today. I can't trust anyone else but you to make sure it gets there, gets signed, and gets back to me by five o'clock today."
At least he didn't call me honey. Don't think I could've taken the nasal quality of that word.
"Excuse me, Mr. Eisen, but why don't you just fax the contract?" He let out a sound I know was supposed to be a chuckle, but honestly, it sounded more like a cross between a fart and a whimper.
"Okayyyyyyyy, that wouldn't do. Erin, it just wouldn't. We need to make sure the contract is received and signed today. Do you know how many faxes Varcom gets a day? No, it's got to be hand-delivered there and back. Erin, I'll owe you. I will really owe you, if you get my drift." He winked…that kind of wink where the wink alone isn't enough; the mouth has to open wide, the jaw drops as the eye winks, as if to emphasize the hint to someone too retarded to understand just the wink alone.
Assisant office manager. The job was becoming available due to Eisen's right-hand man winning a transfer/promotion to Napa Valley. Eisen knew I wanted it, and the dangling carrot in that wink of his he knew was going to earn him the 'yes' he wanted. Just give me buck teeth and call me Bugs; I'm in.
"You, Sir, are a cad," Francesca let out in a commanding display of disgust, her chin in high defiance as Captain Worthington stood in the tea parlor, his lusty gaze undressing her with a deliberate obviousness. He raised the teacup and took a nonchalant sip, setting it down finally and wiping his auburn goatee with only the daintiest of hand-tatted kerchief. "I shall have you, Francesca Buck," he asserted in his southern drawl, his iced blue eyes confirming his intent. "I shall have you whether you approve or not. Chad Dirkson has no say in the matter, woman. I and I alone will be the only one to sample that luscious flesh of yours". With those words, he stormed forward, knocking the mahogany tea stand to the ground with his lust filled thigh, ignored the crash of silver and fine China as he grasped Francesca's shivering and repulsed flesh with a passionately harmful grip…
Is it just me, or am I getting shittier at this?
Traffic sucks. Yes it does, but even so, it beats the hell out of exaggerated golf stories of birdies and eagles told in a cubicle by a condescending male chauvinist asshole who only knows you're there when it benefits him. That is, until your tire blows as you're making the exit onto Ivey Ave., roughly two miles away from Varcom headquarters, no spare in the trunk, and not a gas station with a service bay in sight. Double that with the fact that you forgot to charge the cell phone you so desperately need to call AAA or a cab, and being around a polyester clad asshole who signs your paycheck seems to somehow be a more appealing setting to be in.
'I can't trust anyone else but you to make sure it gets there, gets signed, and gets back to me by five o'clock today.'
If my average Timex was correct, I had three hours to complete my mission, to have Morganna sign the Holy Grail, return it to Camelot, and to reap my reward of being knighted Sir Lady Assistant Office Manager. I wish I'd worn my Dr. Scholl's, because walking down a busy access road in leather, square-toed retro pumps sucks, and in ninety eight degree weather? I don't get paid enough, and maybe office manager just ain't worth it.
Okay, it is, so I kept walking.
Even when my head started to feel as if it were filling with helium, and my peripheral view gave way to a tunneled sort of perspective where I was sure that at any minute, long passed relatives were about to appear in my narrowed vision, warmly urging me toward the light, even then, I kept walking. All for the promise of a new cubicle with a better view, and enough extra dollars a month to make my life just that much less average, I kept walking, manila file tucked in my shoulder bag, sweat plastering my average hair in a most below average manner to every available inch of skin on my head and neck.
Where the fuck is my Romeo? Where is he, with his comfy SUV, top-notch air-conditioning, and heavenly timing as I make my way down Ivey Avenue in my sweat and heat-induced stupor? Why in hell hasn't he pulled up alongside me already with a big bottle of Gatorade, empty passenger seat, and swarthy smile? I know now more than ever that he's dead, having either drowned in his own puke as a result of fraternity hazing, or maybe he sacrificed himself as he ran into a burning building to save a caged and doomed guinea pig. However he died, fuck my Romeo. He should have been here, he's not, and he can kiss my ass. It's hot and I think any sexual sensation I once was capable of has now melted away from what nerves I have left. Fuck him. If he did show up, I'm so dehydrated, I'd probably not really see him, anyway. I'd probably see Regis Philbin riding a Big Wheel and asking me 'is that your final answer?'. Fuck my Romeo. My heart pines for electrolytes at the moment.
I knew I should've kept up my Bally's membership. If I'd just kept up that relationship with their treadmill, I wouldn't be so pissed off right now.
The last half-mile I think I slid through, the one inch heels of my pumps melting down to about a quarter inch, helping me scoot along the sidewalk of Ivey Avenue in a tarry kind of slide. I don't remember much about that scorching, blistered last stretch, only seeing the cheesy plaza sign that told me I had finally arrived at Varcom, not to mention the double breasted, slightly overweight and majorly disinterested form of the office building's doorman, who stood nice and cool under his awning, fan plugged in and venting his plumped butt cheeks nicely.
'Hey, Mordrid. Thanks,' I miraculously managed as I damned near stumbled through the door he'd disinterestedly opened for me. Judging by the look on his face, he didn't get the Mordrid comment. I did, and despite my weakness from the heat, I spent valuable energy laughing at my brilliant quip.
You know, when cool air first hits an overheated body, the feeling is bliss. It's better than a multiple orgasm (as if I knew what that felt like), it's more satisfying than the best meal after you've lost two dress sizes as a result of torturous dieting, more relieving than a good painkiller kicking in after a bad bout with cramps. But like I said, at first. I walked into the foyer towards the reception desk, my thoroughly sweat drenched body quickly cooling me a little too fast, a little too much, to the point that I started to feel laminated. Laminated in funk.
Another thing about a heated body getting cooled down too quickly…it tends to make one think they're speaking coherent English, when in fact they sound more like a Kentucky snake handler who just kissed a rattler and drank a jar of laquer thinner. The icy gush of air from the foyer's a/c had just that effect on me as I approached the smiling receptionist.
'Hello, my name is Erin Mickelson. I believe I have an appointment with Varcom CEO Marvin Wright. My supervisor, Alan Eisen, called sometime this morning and let you know I'd be arriving."
That's what I meant to say, but looking back, I think I said something more like "Erin…Mickelson, see Mr. Wright, see him now, must sign paper thingy here, miss lady!'. That is, between gulps of air. I know that's more like what actually came out of my mouth because after I said my last word, the woman just stared at me with a stiff smile, combined with a quizzical tilt to her eyes, as if she were silently wondering if she should call security or make a check out to my charity.
That odd moment of silence gave me enough time to recover just enough to speak more like a resident of the United States. 'Sorry…it's hot out there. I'm Erin Mickleson. You have…me penciled in… to see Mr. Wright today', I ended with a forced smile, though the dried sweat mixed with Revlon foundation congealing at the edges of my mouth cracked when I did so.
I didn't care; that cubicle upgrade made me not care about anything but getting Marvin Wright's John Hancock on the final page of that Xeroxed stack of papers sitting in my still warm handbag. But when the receptionist cast her cornflower blue contact lenses down at the day's schedule and blankly scanned it for anything remotely similar to what I'd just told her, I started to care. When she cast those same purchased blue eyes back up at me and politely said 'Ms. Mickelson, I'm afraid I don't see you here, but if you'd care to wait, perhaps I could fit you in', I started to care a little too friggin' much.
Maybe it was the heat, maybe it was the sudden cold, maybe it was the blisters on my feet, the echoing nasal promise of awaiting greatness uttered by my asswipe boss, maybe it was a combination of everything, I don't know. All I know is that I found my ability to speak clearly, fluently, and quickly with no problem.
"Listen, lady,". I leaned forward, laminated funk cracking around my eyes as the crow's feet in my squint made their presence known, "I have to get Mr. Wright's signature on a contract…today. He wants to sign it, we want him to sign it, it'll take sixty seconds tops. I have a broken down car two miles away, a cell phone with a dead battery, shoes that hurt like hell, and as much as I like the a/c here, I like the a/c back at my apartment a hell of a lot better. Call Mr. Wright…call him now, or I will make your life a living hell."
You gotta pick and choose your battles in life. Unfortunately, I'm the type of dumbass who picks any battle but the right one, or at least I pick the battle correctly, but go in fighting with the wrong weapons. She looked at me with the kind of expression I didn't really expect. I don't know what I expected to see after my miscalculated outburst; all I know is that I didn't expect to see the receptionist air disappear from the woman seated at the desk in front of me. And I really didn't expect to see it replaced with that of your average WWF pro-wrestler. Maybe I thought she'd pick up the phone and alert Mr. Wright's personal secretary to my arrival out of the desire to just get me the hell out of her hair. Whatever I expected, I was wrong.
"You wanna see Mr. Wright? Then sit your ass down and wait. You're not on the list, so you wait. Don't like it? Leave."
Uh...okay. I'll wait. My average ass didn't form a response. Nope, my average ass found the nearest vinyl seat and plopped its cheeks down in defeat, a meek smile taking the place of my earlier idiocy. I backed off. I not only backed off at her heated reply, I backed away and sat my average ass down on the nearest chair, hoping I hadn't spoiled all chances of returning the intact Grail to the kingdom. I smiled at her meagerly, secretly wishing I could utter some mystical Latin phrase at her and turn her into a stinky mist.
She crouched at the foot of her bed, ripped bodice paling in comparison to her ripped soul. Francesca had always been in command of the goings on in her life, always been in command of who she loved, and who loved her, of who she pleasured, and who she received the emotion from. But the Captain's harsh and brutal demands had reminded her that she was not always master of her destiny. His harsh grip, sour sweet breath, and spread saliva over her skin had reminded her that the physical was not always preferable. Had it not been for Odele, her handmaiden, bursting into the bedroom Captain Worthington had carried a kicking and screaming Francesca into, claiming that an emergency in the home had arisen, more than Francesca's bodice would have found its delicate layers ripped.
'Chad…Chad, where were you? Where were your strong arms and protective embrace when I needed them? Oh, Chad…alas, my Chad,' Her quivering bosom beckoned to an empty room, answering her with a silence that tore at her more than the overly- passionate hands of the would be rapist Captain.
I sincerely apologize for the previous crap. I really do.
I sat there, on my vinyl seat with aluminum framing, watching the woman I'd conceded to alternate between filing her nails and talking on the phone to 'girlfriends'. I'm assuming they were girlfriends, because you don't say things like 'Honey, you know that boy's no good. You know he's a playah; get yourself a man with the green.' unless you're talking to girlfriends. Just an observation. By the way, the woman didn't pick up that phone once to ring the suite upstairs, didn't once say anything remotely resembling 'Yes, Ms. Mickelson to see Mr. Wright.'. I was screwed.
Water…I need water. My throat feels like I swallowed a Brillo pad, I feel like a piece of dehydrated fruit, and I need water.
I looked around, scanned the foyer/reception area with the eyes of a hawk, praying for something with a spout and a lever to appear before my eyes…nothing. Not even a bathroom in sight where I could go and lap H2O straight from a sink faucet like a dog. Nazis must have built this building.
Well, this is absolutely fabulous, ain't it? I have to grovel now just to stay alive.
"Excuse me," I started, best Eddie Haskell impression I ever did. She stopped her current phone conversation, taking the receiver from her face and down to her jacketed shoulder blade, glaring at me.
"Is there a water fountain around? I'm awfully thirsty."
"No."
"How 'bout a bathroom?"
"Down the hall there, but it's out of order. Door's locked."
"What do you do when you have to go…I mean use the restroom?"
"I go upstairs."
Duh?
"Could I please go upstairs? Just for the restroom."
"I don't think so. Only authorized personnel are allowed upstairs, and I don't see any nametag with a bar code on you. Sorry."
May your children all be born with moustaches, bitch.
"Oh, okay….uh, would there be a garden hose outside?" I was digging pretty deep now.
"No…..sprinkler system." She enjoyed that last answer just a little too much. I swear to GOD, if this day ever ends, I'm finding out where she lives, sneaking into her house when she's not there, and replacing her toothpaste with preparation H.
Water. Capital W, little a, t, e, and r. Heavenly word. Just nothing better in the world, if you ask me. At this point, I would seriously consider drinking Windex if a janitor would just walk by.
Ding!
The elevator door brought me from my water fantasy. Two suited men emerged from the metal doors, too immersed in their conversation to notice that my saliva now slowly drooped from the corners of my mouth, more like gelatin than actual fluid.
They didn't notice me, but miss smart ass receptionist was able to get their attention.
"Have a good evening, Mr. Neugebauer…" Her stare shifted to the older, gray templed man in the navy blue suit, "Mr. Wright."
Mr. Wright?
"Mr. Wright!" I popped up out my chair, fighting the head rush. "Mr. Wright. Hello. My name is Erin Mickleson. Mr. Eisen sent me over with that amended contract for you to sign. Do you have a minute?"
His expression registered nothing but confusion at first, then it warmed a little, made my dehydration a little more tolerable.
"Sure. Got a pen?"
Might as well have been King Arthur himself, asking me to bow and receive his praise for having saved the Kingdom.
While he looked down at his pockets, then to the pocket of his assistant, I took the valuable opportunity to steal a quick glance at Miss Receptionist, my tongue out and all. If Mr. Wright were deaf and there were enough spit left in my oral cavity, I'd have blown a raspberry.
Mr. Neugebauer had a pen, and I watched, miraculously producing once non-existant drool, as Mr. Wright took it, skimmed over the four pages of contract, finally signing the back.
Camelot, watch and wait as I moonwalk into your gates, baby. And have a nice fat turkey leg and mug of whey waiting at my desk, would ya?
I watched Mr. Wright set the contract on the receptionist's desk, and a funny thing happened. Time slowed down. Not from my frenzied excitement at nearly completing my task, no 'Chariots of Fire' kind of slowing down. No…the amount of fluid in my body dropped below the little line in my system's dipstick. As Mr. Wright got the first name started, I watched the swirling motion of the pen on the contract, its ball point more like a huge, slow pendulum, and my entire head bobbed, literally moved along with his hand, following the circular motions, and making me dizzier than a kid with an inner ear infection, rotating on a Sit n Spin. I tried to shake it off, but the building sense of vertigo in my fluid deprived body wasn't letting me feel anything but panic. I was going to faint…I knew I was going to faint…I couldn't faint! Dammit, I couldn't!
I blinked. Once, twice, three times, the third blink being overly emphasized, as if slamming my lids shut and open again would somehow save me from this embarrassment. It didn't. The third blink left me seeing orange spots in the air around Mr. Wright's hand, the room suddenly turned into a tilt-a-whirl, and the last thing I remember is him bringing his attention from the contract, seeing me, and his smile going from one of cordial 'suit' type politeness, to a more honest quizzical expression, then to a full blown 'Holy shit! Call 911!'. He was floating sideways when that last vision hit my brain.
"Well, there she is. Welcome back, Hon."
That was the next thing I remember. That and strange beeps everywhere, scattered voices saying things like 'stat' and 'cc's'. I heard rolling sounds, like carts being wheeled across a cafeteria floor, swishing of curtains and the annoying grind of their metallic hooks sliding across aluminum.
Then I felt. My head hurt like hell, like someone had tried to comb my hair with a steamroller. The bend of my arm had this strange little ache in it…not quite a stabbing pain, yet more than an itch. Then I felt stickiness. I felt things stuck to me, to my head, my chest, and across that achy spot on my arm.
Then I saw. The machine the beeps were coming from, the sterile rails sticking up from the side of my bed, the off-blue curtain surrounding me…then the electrodes stuck to me, the needle that was causing the ache in the bend of my arm, attached by a long, clear plastic tube to a nice big fat bag of fluids. Then, finally, the smiling face of the RN who'd just vocally acknowledged my reentrance into this world. I looked at her, smiling down at me, reassurance on her pleasant face, and her cute little blue and pink scrubs with tiny puppy dogs printed all over them. I love puppies, and I wasn't thirsty anymore. The woman is a god.
"Good to see you, Miss Mickleson. You had a hell of a day today, didn't you?"
I tried to say 'yes', but I was still a little croaky. Goddess that she was, she read my mind, and handed me a small cup of water to help that answer out.
"Do you remember anything that happened, Miss Mickleson? Do you know where you are?"
Slowly, and probably because I've seen way too many medical shows, I started to sit up in the bed with extra caution, sure I was going to wince and have to lie back down. I didn't.
"Well," I began, "I'm assuming this is an emergency room…either that or an extremely tasteless hotel."
"Yup. I think you're going to be okay." That happy little puppy dog accented smile affirmed for me. "You had a bout with the heat, Miss Mickleson. You suffered from dehydration. You're lucky; a little while longer without fluids, and we could have had some real problems."
"The contract! Where's the contract?" My mission had come to the forefront again. Somehow, hearing that I wasn't going to have to undergo some unspeakable surgical procedure put things in perspective again for me. "I've got to get the contract!"
"Calm down, honey. If you're talking about that folder they brought in with you, it's here with your purse." I saw her nametag now…Angelica; how fitting. I love you, Angelica. I really do. "Will you calm down if I get it for you?"
I nodded with a sappy smile on my face. I'm sure I was a vision straight from Vogue, with my sweat dried and plastered hair, my crackled effect makeup…you get the picture. She smiled back, told me she'd be right back, and ducked behind the curtain to go fetch my grail for me, and here's where it gets really interesting.
My savior's departure from my little nook in the ER left a section of the curtain open, allowing me a nice view of the nurses' station…
and what a view it was.
He stood there, white smock, doctor's coat thingy, stethoscope, clipboard in hand, intently discussing its contents with another white robed, stethoscope wearing man. Ever so often, he'd turn a little more in my direction, and I'd get a glimpse of his face. The brown eyes that just really give you a whole new respect for the color, the straight nose with just the right amount of slope, the dark and exotic tone to his skin, the 'I haven't shaved in a few' beginnings of a beard, not to mention the 'I'm way too cute to use Just For Men hair gel' beginnings of gray at his temples, blending into the black of the rest of his hair with absolutely no problem. There was a confidence in his posture, a certainty to his body language as he seemed to issue orders to the other doctor, who, for the life of me, I couldn't describe to you if you put an oozy to my head. I think he had brown hair. Not sure.
When Chad entered the room and scooped a still traumatized Francesca into his bronzed and chiseled arms, her tears disappeared. There was no room for them. There was only room for awe, awe directed at the God of a man who'd come to soothe her pain. He glowed, his body casting a warmth upon her that assured Francesca that all in this world would right itself. The sun need not rise, the moon need not set. As long as Chad Dirkson lived and breathed, there was no need for either; the earth would sustain itself.
Is it possible for your lungs to burst from groaning too deeply?
Well, hello, Romeo. If that's not a Romeo, then strap a straightjacket on me and load me up with lithium the rest of my life, 'cause I'm obviously two eggs short of a breakfast special.
Unfortunately, that's not my Romeo. Juliets get Romeos like the MD Romeo I was now staring at, and I had to face it; Juliet I'm not. No, I'm more like a Shylock with tits, and average tits at that. I felt a little spark of anger at that internal revelation. An anger and frustration at the powers that be for making sure I was born in a world that contained men like the incredibly handsome one I was looking at, and for making sure I knew his was the kind of world I could only watch from the outside. I'd felt this before, but somehow, watching him…this particular Romeo, this particular day…turned the anger into something else; complete surrender. I knew in that moment that there wasn't a point in being angry. There was nothing I could ever do about the have and have not facts of life. At that point, the anger was gone. It just wasn't worth it.
Nurse Angelica cut off my view of the handsome Doctor, once again providing me relief, and making my love for her escalate yet again…and then I was able to see that she wasn't alone, not such a relief. She approached my little nook in this emergency room world, my purse and the folder in her hand, smile on her face, shifting towards me, then rotating to the people behind her as she talked to them. And behind her? Oh, how lovely…Mr. Eisen …fat, nasal, greasy, and most definitely despised Mr. Eisen, my boss, and another of my co-workers, Chris Patterson. What in the hell were they both doing here?
"Looks like you have some visitors, Miss Mickleson," Angelica smiled while handing me my purse and the all important folder-hidden contract, both of which I took eagerly, clasping them to my chest with a hug I didn't even really understand.
"Oh, Erin! We got here as fast as we could! Are you alright?"
Wait a minute…the boss is showing concern for me? The look on his face, the concern, the worry practically engraved into its chubby facial folds…my God, I was actually starting to feel guilty. Oh, man. I don't know whether to feel warm and fuzzy or mortified at having harbored such ill will towards this man who's given me steady work and a paycheck for so long.
"I'm okay, Mr. Eisen. Really," I started, an increasingly genuine look of gratitude and reassurance spreading into my expression. "The car broke down, and I just got a little over-heated walking to Varcom. I feel much better now."
The worried look didn't leave his eyes, his fat folds, the edges of his mouth, or any other part of his face, bless his heart!
"Oh, I'm just so glad, Erin." He smiled a little, and I just wanted to hug him for still showing so much concern. He still looked so worried about me. Man, how could I have been so wrong about the guy?
"Um…Erin? Were you able to get the contract signed?"
What?
His bifocaled eyes shifted down to the folder I was clasping against my average bosom. "Did you see Mr. Wright before you fainted?"
"Uh huh." The reassurance and gratitude in my voice was quickly slipping away, as was my sanity. Before I could unclasp the contract from my grip and hand it to him, it was gone, snatched from my protective arms, now fondled by fat and greasy fingers, ogled over by coke bottle eyes that widened with satisfaction at seeing the name Wright hand-signed on the final page. "Oh, this is great, Erin! You did great!" He was nearly hyperventilating at this point, the pudgy bastard. And his pseudo pat on the back wasn't even accompanied by eye contact. His eyes never left the contract. "Ok, I've got to go and call the office. Thanks again, Erin!"
He turned and waddled quickly away, and while I watched him in horror as he cheerfully approached a nurse, who handed him the nearest desk phone, Chris, who'd been silent the whole time, took a hand out of his slacks pocket and patted me on my knee. "Great job, Erin! I'm glad you're feeling better, too." I grunted at him, still mortified that I'd been stupid enough to think old Eisen actually cared about me, even if my stupidity had only been for roughly sixty seconds.
Chris returned the hand to his pocket, looking at me awkwardly for a minute. "When I first saw you, I thought you were in much worse shape. You look awful." Now my attention focused on Chris Patterson and his thoughtless comment. I stared at him blankly, wondering if I was fast enough to remove my IV and embed it in his eyeball before he could defend himself, but he continued, and completely stopped me in my tracks. "Anyway, we have to get back to the office, now that we have the contract. Thanks again, Erin. This was a big deal for all of us, you know, and we all owe you. Eisen's going to get a bonus from the higher-ups, you and the rest of the gang will get something too, I'm sure, and I'll finally get Assistant Office Manager.
"What?" The blank look on my face was entirely gone now, an entirely new, muddled mix of really reallybad emotions taking its place.
"Yeah," He smiled sheepishly, looking down at his shoes and blushing, yet with pride. "Eisen told me today, about an hour ago. The wife and I are having a huge celebration dinner tonight."
"WHAT?"
'Oh, my heaven!' Francesca gasped as her eyes gazed upon the sight before her. Odele, naked and grasping desperately at the bed sheets in hope of covering her sin…and Chad, equally naked and standing now by the bedside, contemplating Francesca with a myriad of unpleasant emotions. The Captain had violated her body, but Chad had completed an infinitely more shocking travesty…he had violated her soul and cast her heart upon the rocks of infidelity, shattering it into a million shards of sharp and bitter regret, shock, and despair.
You know, one more of these, and I'm going to starting smoking crack. I think at this point, it's about the only thing that'll ease my pain.
The next thing I remember is the clang of an IV hanger hitting the hard floor, dragging behind me for a couple of feet before the achy needle in my arm popped out. Chris Patterson was now planted firmly on the ground, ass nice and flat against the industrial acrylic tiles. I'm pretty sure I'm the one who shoved him there. I think he was in my way. I don't remember.
Eisen was still at the nurses' station, still on the phone, back to me. And at this point, my body felt liquid with hatred. I gave the word 'pissed' entirely new meaning, and I was so engulfed in it, I failed to realize at the time that sweet Nurse Angelica was running behind me, trying to catch up to me, and that Doctor Romeo had stopped talking with the group of nurses he was now with, and watching me with those wide and sinfully brown eyes. He could've been naked and asking me if I wanted a backrub, and I'd have shoved him out of the way, too. Nope, Eisen was the man of the hour.
"You greasy, back-stabbing, fat and nasty son of a bitch!" The words came out before I even realized they were forming in my head. They might as well have been a kick in Mr. Eisen's dimpled buttocks, because for a split second after beginning my scream, I saw them actually tighten up and resemble something a little more toned before he spun around to face me.
"Erin? Wha.."
"Shut up! You bastard! You heartless, whiny little nasal fucking bastard! You told me that if I got that contract signed, I'd get the Assistant Manager promotion!" Understanding flashed across Eisen's face, then complete fear.
"Now, Erin," he started with a sigh, "Some things are out of my hands. Now…"
"Look around you, you prick! We're in an emergency room! I am in an emergency room because I busted my ASS to get you that contract, not to mention a big fat bonus! And you give the job to Chris?"
Looking back, I remember a couple of things at this moment. First, a huge crowd of hospital personnel were standing around now, including the gorgeous doctor, engrossed in my outburst…not a damned one of them trying to stop me. Secondly, another of those sounds I first heard in the ER when I first came to was someone else screaming. It sounded like a young man, and from the nearly incoherent things he'd been yelling out, my guess was that he was a gangsta, and that the source of his pain was more than likely a drive-by; don't know why. Maybe it was the 'Muthafucka thinks got my ass. My homey's gonna make sure he knows what a got ass look like!'. Looking back now, when my screaming started, his stopped, and I could see him now, on a gurney, blood trickling from his upper shoulder area ribcage, fresh blood now because he'd sat up to get a better look at the spectacle going on in front of the nurses' station.
"Erin…I had to. Really, I did! Chris is more qualified!" Eisen sounded absolutely terrified now, like one of those incidental characters in your average horror movie. You know…the ones who cower before the film's main monster, shivering with their hands raised in the air, pleading for their lives, yet knowing damned well they definitely ain't making it into the sequel.
"More qualified? More qualified?" I looked back at the nerd still by my hospital bed, now risen from the ground and dusting off his ass. "Chris Patterson can barely dial a phone, Goddammit! I trained him, and you give him the job?" I was beyond incredulous…I was uber incredulous, incredulous squared.
Eisen didn't say anything else. He seemed as if he were looking for some sort of sales pitch in his head to dig out and diffuse the situation with. Judging from the lack of response, other than a greasy shrug of his shoulders, he wasn't coming up with much. Didn't matter, anyway.
I love the homeless.
Right at that moment, another scream hit the air, and we all turned to see its source. There he was; dirtier than dirt, his hair so covered in filth that guessing his true hair color would've taken a forensics team. The wrinkles on his face were so heavy and so deep, I was reminded instantly to swing by WalMart at some point and grab another iron. I had loads of laundry at home, and my old iron was broken.
He stood there, about ten feet away from us, his moth eaten London Fog jacket open because the buttons were missing, his equally worn pants down around his knees. He was obviously drunk, obviously a resident of the nearest underpass, and obviously didn't wear underwear. The transient old man stood there, facing us with a toothless, spit-filled grin on his face, holding one crooked and wrinkled hand up in the air, waving it furiously in triumph, and using his other hand to hold his shriveled up penis, which, by the way was spraying a non-stop and steady stream of urine onto the formerly sterile ER floor.
"Yippeeeeeeeeeee!" He cried. Meanwhile, the group around me stared at him, some of them shocked yet fascinated, and some of them about to burst their own bladder with their laughter. Yet another percentage of them watched him while rolling their eyes and sighing. Apparently, this hasn't been the first bladder control issue in this particular ER.
But me? What did I do, you may ask. Let me tell you what I did.
I looked at the stream of urine now accenting the white floor with a nice brownish yellow puddle polka dot, and then I looked at Eisen…more specifically, the ever important contract still clutched in his morbidly obese hand…and I grabbed it, feeling almost orgasmic when Eisen forgot all about the pee happy bum in the room and tried to snatch the contract back from me in his horror. I dodged him, and headed straight for my new friend and his full bladder.
Before anyone could stop me, I was at the homeless man's side, ripping off the last page of the contract and thrusting it into the stream of urine. I nearly joined the bum's yippee with my own when the first spray of hot pee covered the 'Wright' on the signature line. And If I weren't busy, I'd have done a backflip when I heard the bone-curdling shriek coming from my boss' horrified lungs.
The stream of urine was good to me. It continued to flow forth, fast and happy to leave the relic of a body it had been occupying, and I was just as happy to shift the most important page of the contract around, making sure the urine entirely soaked the entire signature. Arthur, Percival, Lancelot, Merlin…I've failed you, failed Camelot, and I'm sorry.
No, I'm not.
I wasn't even sorry when the security guards grabbed both me and my new best friend, dragging us both away, but not before I could drop the piss soaked contract page on the floor and squish it up with my melted down shoe sole.
Mr. Eisen was crying now, and Chris Patterson had to help his weeping fat ass out of the emergency room, past Doctor Romeo, who my eyes finally acknowledged. Those brown eyes that hadn't noticed me before were now intently glued to me, an emotion in them that temporarily made me forget completely that I'd just lost my sanity.
You know, you really do have to pick and choose your battles in life.
Part two, coming as soon as it can!