Jason: The Philistine Heart (Book 1)

by Jean Evergreen

  I ready myself with a sunshine smile, fully expecting another forced pleasantry of “Hi, I’m Bridget. I’m new.” But as I glance in the direction of the unfamiliar, voice waking my thoughts, I try to hide my shock. The fact is, I’m not one to be enamored by appearance alone. Since meeting Blake, I haven’t felt attraction for another man. I didn’t think it was possible that I could. But even I’m not blind to the charms of a tall, handsome stranger with chestnut brown hair and striking green eyes.

  “Hello!” I reply cheerfully, although his expression is a far cry from my artificially friendly demeanor. He receives me with an impassive gaze, like I’m a fly he’d like to swat away or an ant he’d like to crush under his shoe.

  “We’re going to need you to get up to speed as quickly as possible. Do you have Photoshop?”

  “Um, I think Paul said it was installed on my computer. I haven’t looked,” I reply, taken aback. Whoever this guy is, he’s certainly not one for formalities.

  “Make sure it’s on there. I’ll need a concept for the organic baby food campaign this Friday.”

  “Oh, ok,” is the only reaction I manage, all the while ensuring my magazine smile doesn’t wane in the wake of being rejected by this excessively attractive man, who doesn’t think it necessary to properly introduce himself before barking orders. I’m not exactly a social butterfly, and even I can muster a pretend smile. Look at me, upset that someone isn’t making small talk — how ironic.

  “If you have any questions, ask Paul,” he says, glancing at his watch. It looks expensive. Maybe a Rolex or Cartier?

  “Ok,” I reply meekly, not knowing what else to say. The man barely seems to notice as he shoots me a dismissive nod and walks away.

  I suppose he must have something very important to do. Far more important than talking to a lowly worker like me. I really shouldn’t make too much of it. I have to accept that I’m not everyone’s cup of tea. I mean, I have accepted it. It’s certainly not the first time in my life I’ve felt rejected. As a matter of fact, I’ve had a long history of rejection. This is just another notch on my rejection belt.

  Only, despite my indignation, I can’t help but wonder who he is. Mental note: ask Paul about the self-important, rude guy when he returns from his meeting. In the meantime, I’m entrenched with another reality. I have to create a concept? What’s this about Photoshop? Now I’m a graphic designer? I really should have read the job description better. That’s what I hate about these lower level jobs. There’s never a clear definition of my duties. I’m expected to do whatever they throw at me, even if I’m wholly unqualified. Five o’clock can’t come soon enough.

  As soon as I step inside the nonexistent entryway of my duplex, I treat myself to a short run and a very welcome shower. What can I say? I’m a creature of habit and my nighttime rituals never vary: I eat dinner, vacuum, do dishes, then watch TV until Blake calls. And it’s been that way every night for the past two years. Is it monotonous? Yes. But I’ve never been one to chase excitement. I like the security of knowing exactly how my day will begin and end. It’s nice to have some certainty in a world where assurances are sparse.

  With the TV playing in the background, I mull over the day, and realize, to my dismay, it’s evident that uncertainty still looms in my future, with one exception — I know with an immovable certitude that I’ll lose my mind if I don’t find another job, fast. If I have any sense, I’d start looking now. But it’s late and I’m too exhausted to be sensible. Fortunately, my cell starts buzzing before I can trudge too deeply into that unhappy narrative. And similar to a child’s excitement at the sound of an ice cream truck playing its music on a summer’s day, my heart leaps with glee. There’s only one person who calls me this time of night.

  “‘Ello matie!” I say excitedly into the phone with a comically bad British accent.

  “Are we acting British?”

  “I guess so,” I laugh.

  “If that’s the game, why don’t I show you around my Fuckingham Palace? And maybe after that, you can come see my Big Ben.”

  “What’s Big Ben?”

  “It’s a big clock.”

  “A big cock?”

  “I’d say that’s pretty accurate,” he replies with a hearty laugh.

  “Blake!” I coo happily into the phone.

  “How’s my sexy gal?”

  “Fine,” I reply with a giggle.

  “I’ve been thinking about you all day and the way you looked last night.”

  “Oh? It sounds like you have a red teddy fetish,” I reply playfully. Blake and I often talk to each other like we’re in a cheesy porno. It’s another game we like to play with each other.

  “The teddy was alright. I was referring to what you had on underneath.”

  “Well, if you behave, you might get another showing,” I say offhandedly, wanting to gear the conversation away from erotically charged talk. I have more pressing matters on my mind. “Today was my first day at the new job.”

  “I know babe, did you see the text I sent wishing you good luck?”

  “No,” I admit with disappointment. “I’ll look when I get off the phone. Thank you, though.” My cell is an old flip phone, so I can’t talk and text. I never got around to purchasing an updated touch phone. I’m not much of a techie.

  “How was it?”

  “It was okay. I was expecting to hate it, but it wasn’t awful. Granted, my expectations weren’t overly high. It was only my first day. The ugly side of a workplace usually requires a good month or two to surface.” I stop as I think how to bring up what’s pressing on my mind. “Almost everyone I met was nice. There was this one guy. I’m not sure who he was. I’m guessing upper management. He was kind of pompous. I don’t want to get into it. I’ll just say I got the distinct impression that he deemed me too far below his station for civilized conversation. I felt like a peasant addressing the noble class, in that I shouldn’t.”

  “He sounds like a jerk. Want me to come up there and kick his ass?”

  “No, that’s okay,” I laugh. “I guess that I felt a little embarrassed. I thought he was coming over to introduce himself to me, but instead he acted like talking to me was a terrible inconvenience. I’m probably making a big deal out of nothing. It’s possible he was just out of a stressful meeting and decided to use me as a punching bag for his misplaced anger. It wouldn’t be the first time that happened.”

  “I’m sorry you had to go through that, babe. Don’t let it get you down. Some people are just dicks. Don’t waste your time thinking about him. You’re an intelligent gal with a big heart and a nice rack. Anyone who doesn’t see that needs to get their eyes checked.”

  “You’re just saying all those nice things because you get to see me naked,” I say, smiling despite myself.

  “I have lusty eyes,” Blake says playfully. “But seriously, you know I care for you as a person too?”

  “I know, thank you.” I don’t have much else to say to that. Blake’s made a habit lately of telling me how much he loves my mind and heart. I’m not sure what to think of his outpouring of admiration for my questionable virtues or what has inspired him to make a point of it so constantly.

  “You know it’s still quite hot in here tonight,” I say, changing the subject yet again. I need a reprieve from the disagreeable incidents of the day and Blake provides a much needed distraction. “I was practically dying in my clothes earlier, so I decided to take them all off. Right now, I have nothing on but my panties.”

  “Is that so?” Blake says, his interest piqued. “Which ones?”

  “The purple lace thong you bought me with a bow in the back,” I lie. I’m actually fully clothed wearing my cotton granny panties, but that doesn’t exactly set the mood. “It’s still very hot, though, and these panties feel overly binding for this kind of heat.”

  “Well, we’ll have to see about cooling you off,” Blake says, ready to play along.

  “Do you want to switch to webcam?” I ask.

  �
��Yes,” Blake says, with unapologetic enthusiasm. I can tell he’s ready for a night cap.

  “Okay, I’ll call you on Skype. Oh, and Blake, not too late tonight. Remember, I have to work tomorrow.”

  3

  The Pessimist and the Optimist

  The desk next to mine didn’t remain empty long. One morning, I walked into a swarm of people gathered around my neighboring desk, laughing and cheering boisterously. It was clear from the twinkle in their eyes that they held in their sights something inordinately pleasant. I wondered what could warrant the convergence of so many, grinning foolishly, at a single focal point. Then I saw her and understood.

  Her name is Susan Noble, the new public relations coordinator. She looks like a typical California girl of the Christie Brinkley variety: with perfectly blown out waves of long, blonde hair, light blue eyes, and a big welcoming smile that shows off her sparkling white teeth. And as if her girl next door looks aren’t enough to turn every man to putty in her hands, her questionable office attire will do the trick.

  Her clothes are a bit suggestive for my taste. Perhaps because I like to be taken seriously as a professional in the workplace. I tend to shy away from form-fitting attire and opt for more conservative blouses, practical slacks, and comfortable low heels. I don’t like to draw attention to myself. But that’s just me.

  Whatever my inclinations to remain modest at work, Susan is the polar opposite. She dresses to be noticed. It’s been three weeks since she started at the agency and she has yet to dawn a single pair of pants. My guess is because pants wouldn’t do just justice to her perfectly tanned and shapely legs, which she shows off with unfettered enthusiasm. It would seem that every dress she owns is either unapologetically form fitting and well above the knee, a high-low or a maxi with a generous slit up the side. Not that anyone is complaining. Certainly not my manager Paul, he practically drools over her anytime she grants him a modicum of attention.

  Paul, who dedicates the first five minutes of almost every meeting soliciting adulations for pictures of his wife and three kids, posted on his various social media accounts, can’t stop himself from very publicly leering, flirting and generally showing far too much interest in Susan. Not that Susan does anything to dissuade his, or any other man’s, attentions. In fact, she seems right in her element, tantalizing and teasing them with her overly familiar mannerisms that are sure to give the wrong idea — no doubt that’s the intention. Meanwhile, I sit quietly at my desk, pretending not to notice the discernible sexual tension that permeates the office the moment a man sets eyes in her direction.

  So I’m not Susan’s biggest fan. A fact that is of little consequence; she’s far from lacking in willful admirers. Granted, she’s been nothing but kind to me. If I’m to be entirely honest, the source of my aversion towards her stems from the kind of woman I consider her — a man-eater, boyfriend stealer, home wrecker, or to put it crassly as possible, a skank. If my boyfriend weren’t over 2,000 miles away in Texas, I would mark her in the threat category. Not that Blake has ever given me a reason to feel he’d be unfaithful. He’s as loyal a boyfriend as they come. That’s one of the things I love about him. He makes me feel safe. Even so, the ugly truth is, no man, no matter how loyal or faithful is completely trustworthy. It would be foolish to tempt fate with a beautiful blonde predator, who depends on male attention to feed her ego.

  Despite my misgivings about Susan’s character I make an effort to appear friendly, even if I’m mentally giving her an up and down stare paired with a scowl. I generally make a point to keep my distance from her so that my friendly workplace persona is not misconstrued as an invitation for superfluous social calls. Perhaps I let my guard down, smiled too broadly, made eye contact for too long; it’s difficult to pinpoint the exact cause. But somehow Susan got it in her mind to invite me to lunch — just the two of us. Alone.

  I was thoroughly prepared to reject her, in the kindest way possible, when she saw me walking out of the office and made a mad dash for her purse. I could hear the clip-clap of her four-inch stilettos as she ran to catch up with me. “So where do you want to go?” She asked in her perpetually bubbly tone, making sure to keep stride with me as I made my way to the elevator. Of the many things I’ve been accused, outright rudeness has never been one of them. I couldn’t get out of this lunch date without looking terribly suspect. There was no escape.

  We ended up going to the lobby restaurant in our building. It’s a modish, gourmet bistro known for its vegetarian hot sandwiches and overpriced salads. All the ingredients are, of course, organic. How else could they justify $9.50 for a tiny bowl of salad? I order a tomato, basil and mozzarella sandwich on whole wheat bread with ice water. Susan gets a tall iced coffee and an orange. I try to remember the last time I’ve seen her without a coffee, or other caffeinated beverage, in her hand. No wonder she’s so chipper. I can’t help but distrust a person who always appears upbeat and happy — it just seems unnatural. In the back of my mind, I wonder what ugly muck is hidden behind all that glaring sunshine. What kind of person am I really talking to?

  As we eat, Susan blathers on about her new fiancee and his mom. “She is crazy, no joke. There’s doting mother, and then there’s obsessive. I swear she calls him at least three times a day. If she can’t get hold of him, she’ll call me. She literally interrupted me in the middle of a meeting to ask if I thought Greg would prefer light gray or dark gray dress socks. Apparently, there was a sale at Macy’s, and she couldn’t remember which color he preferred. She couldn’t get me on my cell — it was in my office. So she called my work phone. Jennifer, the receptionist, had to pull me out of a meeting because his mom made it sound like some huge emergency. I literally thought someone was in the hospital. Can you imagine?”

  “She certainly sounds crazy,” I say shaking my head as I eat, a pretend smile plastered across my face in between bites of my sandwich.

  “Does your boyfriend have a crazy mother?” Susan asks, peeling her orange in a spiral pattern. I look at her pristinely manicured nails, surprised she would risk them on a piece of fruit. “Oh, I’m sorry, I forgot to ask. Do you have a boyfriend? I just assumed you did, I mean you’re so self-assured and confident. And, if you don’t mind my saying, you’re hot! I would find it hard to believe some guy hasn’t already staked his claim.”

  If I were slightly more paranoid, I might think what a clever thing she is, buttering me up, so I open up to her and spill all of my dirty secrets. Even as I’m inclined to think negatively of her, I can’t help but observe that there isn’t anything overtly nefarious about her line of questioning. Even I can see that it’s her nature to be inquisitive and unduly familiar. Truth be told, there’s something refreshing and somewhat endearing about her friendly demeanor.

  Perhaps life hasn’t dealt Susan enough blows to turn her into a hardened pessimist like myself. What is she, three, maybe four years younger than me? It is entirely within the realm of possibility that I’m mistaking youthful ignorance for malevolent intentions that simply do not exist. I’m certain there was a time that even I was a free spirit like Susan. Yikes! If I don’t watch out, I might start to like her.

  “Thank you, that’s kind of you to say,” I respond with a half-hearted smile. I don’t bother correcting her on the confident and self-assured remarks. Inwardly I feel a mess of conflicting emotions at all times. If I appear put together, it is only because I’ve had years of practice, keeping all of my darkest thoughts and feelings buried deep below the surface. Besides, it’s petty to reject a compliment. “I am seeing someone. I haven’t met his mother yet.” I respond as breezily as I can manage, hoping she’ll get the message to move along. There’s nothing to see here.

  “Wow, you’re lucky. How’d you manage that? Are you just testing the waters with this mystery man or taking things slow?”

  Ugh, this is what I get for being honest. Why couldn’t I just say no, I’m not seeing anyone? I should have made up some lame excuse — like I’m focusing on my career. It’s
short, sweet, to the point and would have ended all further inquiry on this topic. I now find myself in danger of revealing personal, non-work related information about myself to a colleague. What’s worse, some part of me wants to open up to her about Blake. My gosh, she’s good.

  “Not quite, we have a long distance relationship. He lives in Texas,” I explain, leaning back in my chair and folding my arms across my chest — instinctively taking a defensive stance. “We wanted to avoid any undue pressure from our friends and family, so we haven’t told them. It’s worked pretty well so far; we’ve been together for five years and have managed to overcome all the major pitfalls of being in such an unconventional relationship.” Well, that was a bit of an exaggeration. The avoid all the major pitfalls part. We’ve certainly had our share of ups and downs, but there’s no need to bring that up.

  “Five years! Good for you. That’s a huge accomplishment,” Susan says with a warm smile. “Seriously, I’ve never been with a guy for longer than two years and that includes Greg. We met around two years ago.” Susan quickly looks up at the ceiling as though calculating the exact amount of time her and Greg have known each other. “Wow, it’s been one year, eight months to the day. We met at my parent’s Christmas party. Greg’s father handles my Dad’s stock portfolio. Both of our parents were dying for us to meet. My mom kept nagging me about how perfect we were for each other. She practically read me his resume to convince me to see him. Greg’s family is loaded, I’m talking many millions. His father owns a brokerage company here in Seattle where Greg works as a financial advisor. Not that I would ever date a guy just because he has money. I’m not that shallow. I mean, my mom might be a little, but not me. But you know how it is with mothers, they always think they know best.”

  I nod in agreement, although I don’t know. The relationship with my mother is strained, and that’s putting it mildly. Seeking her advise on any matter involving my personal or professional life is unlikely to occur under any circumstance.