Just My Type

by Tara Sivec

  “No, we cannot name the dog we do not have—who I never even said yes to—Penis Breath,” I inform him as he brings his cereal bowl up to his mouth and slurps loudly while he finishes off the milk.

  “What about Penis WeeWee? Sergeant Major Penis? Penis McDoggins?” he asks, barely getting all the words out before dissolving into another fit of giggles.

  “Stop saying penis. It’s entirely too early on a Monday morning for that.”

  “You said I could say penis,” he argues, his lips still twitching with the need to laugh.

  “When we had a talk the other day about how it’s okay to say the word penis because it’s a body part, that didn’t mean you should use it in every sentence from now until the end of time,” I inform him, taking the empty bowl out of his hand and placing it into the sink. “Get your shoes on and brush your teeth. We’re running late this morning, so I’m going to have to drive you to school. We don’t have time to walk. Chop-chop!”

  Lincoln jumps down off the bar stool and races out of the room, just as my cell phone dings, indicating I have a new email. Snatching up my phone to check it really quick while Lincoln is brushing his teeth, I gasp loudly as soon as I see the subject line of the new email.

  To: Ember Hastings

  From: baker83@gmail.com

  Subject: Shit Mouth Transcription

  “Oh, no. Oh, fuck,” I mutter, tossing my phone back onto the counter like it’s made of fire.

  I think about the email from corporate. I think about the transcription project saved in drafts in my account with JMT. Then, I think about the fact that I had an entire weekend to get this project completed, since Lincoln was with his dad, but I decided to spend it in my pajamas, watching unrealistic romantic comedy movies, while I cried through several bags of Reese’s Cups, because my life is neither romantic nor funny, and that’s just bullshit. I cried, and I stuffed my face with chocolate, and I felt sorry for myself, when I should have been finishing that project and removing all my notes before sending it back to the client.

  Oh, God, my notes!

  Freaked out butterflies start flapping around in my stomach, and I feel like I might vomit. There’s only one person this email could have come from. The only person I’ve called Shit Mouth in the last few days. In my defense, I called him that in private.

  You know, the private place on the JMT site that stopped being private and secure while I was trying not to get any snot on the Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups I was inhaling like a vacuum cleaner.

  Racing around the counter, I rush over to the couch and grab my laptop, quickly logging in to my account. I can see the file still sitting in drafts, but clearly that means nothing right now. Opening the document, I reread what I worked on Friday, groaning as I go.

  Not only do I replace any nicknames I may have given the clients before I submit the file as completed, but the program the company uses automatically deletes everything I put in parenthesis before it’s sent to the client when it goes through their editing program, unless I turn that feature off. Sometimes, I put questions in parenthesis for myself, like (Google this big, fancy medical term and make sure you spelled it right). Sometimes, I make a note to come back to a certain spot and re-listen to make sure I heard the words correctly. Sometimes, there’s such a long pause between people speaking that I type random thoughts so I’m constantly moving my fingers and not breaking up the flow of my quick typing. I read through the file one more time, and it doesn’t magically get any better.

  Speaker #1: Talks like he has shit in his mouth. He shall now be referred to as Shit Mouth.

  Speaker #2: She gives zero fucks about this interview. She just wants to get laid. Hello, Skanky Giggler.

  Skanky Giggler: “I just can’t tell you how happy I am you asked me to interview you.” *Sigh (Here we go with the breathy sighs.)

  Shit Mouth: “Mmm-hmm…” (And other unintelligible words. Take the shit out your mouth.)

  Skanky Giggler: “Let’s get right down to it, shall we? What’s your favorite color?” (What are you, five? Who the fuck asks that as their first question in an adult interview??)

  Shit Mouth: “Uh… mmm… purple.” (Might be purple. Might not. Sounds more like burnt hole. Maybe that’s a new Crayola color. Google it.)

  Skanky Giggler: *Giggles (For fuck’s sake)

  (She’s still giggling. Because he said burnt hole. Or purple. Neither one is funny. I bet she’s twirling her hair around her fingers while she giggles. Is she even a professional interviewer? What is happening right now? Can we get to the good stuff and ask some important questions here?)

  Skanky Giggler: “Okay, next question. (Fucking finally) Are you single?” (JESUS CHRIST)

  Shit Mouth: “Is that really important for this piece?” (Yeah, you tell her, Shit Mouth.)

  Skanky Giggler: “I think it’s really important to establish who you are as a person first and foremost.” (*GIGGLES)

  Shit Mouth: “I’m… I guess…” (Don’t do it, man) *Sigh “I’m single.” (Son of a bitch. You’re a disgrace. Where are your balls???)

  Skanky Giggler: “It’s obvious you work out a lot. (No she did NOT.) I think it’s really awesome you own your own gym. (Ahhh, so that’s where his balls went. To the steroids. Don’t do drugs, kids.)

  “Well, I’m good and truly fucked.”

  “If you can say the F-word all the time, I can say penis whenever I want,” Lincoln announces as I look up from my phone to find him standing in front of me with his backpack on and his teeth freshly brushed.

  “Okay, fine.” I shrug, grabbing my keys from the counter and choosing to deal with this problem right now instead of the Shit Mouth one. “But since I’m the adult, I’ll test it out first, okay there, penis? Did you pack your penis in your backpack? Did you study for your penis test?”

  “Moooom,” Lincoln whines as I usher him out the front door.

  “What’s wrong, penis? I thought we were cool with penis,” I say as we get into my car and buckle up. “Turn on the penis and find a good song. I bet it will be a song about pe—”

  “Okay!” Lincoln finally shouts with a laugh. “It’s not cool when you say it. It’s kind of gross. I won’t say it all the time anymore.”

  Well, I’m not going to win Mother of the Year anytime soon, but that’s one problem solved.

  We spend the rest of the car ride to school coming up with names for the dog I’m caving on more and more each day, none of which have anything to do with the male anatomy, thankfully. It’s not until I’ve dropped my car off at home and headed back out on foot for my Monday morning ritual that I start worrying about problem number two.

  “Jesus, just read the email, Ember. What’s the worst it could say?” I mutter to myself as I lock up my front door and walk down the porch to the sidewalk, my cell phone practically burning a hole in my back pocket with that unread email waiting for me.

  I called the client Shit Mouth. I accused him of not having any balls. And steroid use, just because he owns a gym. He’s going to rip me a new asshole.

  “It’s not like this was my fault. He never should have seen my notes. I did nothing wrong,” I mutter to myself again as I reach into my back pocket and pull my phone out when I get to the end of my front walkway and turn right.

  You did so much wrong. He’s going to murder you. He has your email address now. He could hire himself a hacker and find out where you live. I really need to stop watching Dateline.

  Before I can give myself any more time to freak out, I quickly open the email as I walk and hold my breath, wondering if he’ll just call me a bitch, or go right for the kill and whip out the old C U Next Tuesday. Honestly, for a guy who owns a gym and “looks like he works out,” he better bring the big guns, or I will have lost all faith in ’roid rage.

  Dammit, Ember! That’s what got you into this mess in the first place.

  My breath leaves me in a whoosh, and I come to a stop in the middle of the sidewalk when I read the email. And read it again. And o
ne more time, just to make sure I’m not seeing things.

  To: Ember Hastings

  From: baker83@gmail.com

  Subject: Shit Mouth Transcription

  She twirls her hair around her finger every fucking time she laughs.

  I said purple, clear as day. Get the shit out your ear.

  My balls are where they always are. Slung over my shoulder, because they’re too big to carry. (GIGGLES)

  I have never, nor will I ever, use steroids. Drugs are bad. Needles are scary. Shut up. Big, manly men can have fears too, GOD.

  She is definitely not a professional interviewer. Does Dan Rather drop his pen every fifteen minutes so he can bend over and show people his cleavage? More importantly, does Dan Rather have cleavage?

  But seriously, DO I sound like I have shit in my mouth? I feel like you’re lying.

  Not Necessarily Shit Mouth, a.k.a. Baker

  CHAPTER 3

  Fucking Karen

  “Brooklyn told me to reply to him when I called her freaking out on the walk here. Actually, her exact words were, ‘Christ, just email him back already. He probably can’t wipe his own ass on account of his giant gym muscles, but he’s got a sense of humor and he’s single.’ I don’t know. Should I reply? Corporate told us not to reply, but what could it hurt? His email was kind of funny. And I mean, I could ask him some of my own questions and get a feel for what he’s even doing this interview for. It would be like job research.

  “Also, what kind of a name is Baker? Maybe it’s his last name. Maybe he’s one of those cool guys who just goes by his last name. Or, he’s a serial killer. Do serial killers have a sense of humor? I feel like Ted Bundy probably had a few jokes in his day. I just really need some advice and Brooklyn is no help; you know that. I love her, but she just wants me to get laid. I mean, I don’t even know where this guy lives. He could be emailing me from a prison cell. This interview could be about why he killed two of his wives, and what his last meal will be on death row. Why would she think I’d sleep with a guy I don’t know, just because he didn’t chew me out over email? Like, ‘Hey, since you didn’t call me a twat, we should sleep together! You get conjugal visits, right?’ On top of that, he knows my full name. That can’t be good. I dropped my ex’s last name and the stupid hyphen, and just use my maiden name now. He knows my maiden name, but I guess he doesn’t know it’s my maiden name. Unless he already stalked me online and opened five credit cards in my name. Maybe I should just forward the email to corporate and not reply. I don’t know. What do you think I should do?”

  I finally take a breath after unloading everything, waiting expectantly for someone to finally tell me what to do.

  “So, just a grande caramel macchiato with extra caramel then?” the Starbucks barista replies with wide eyes.

  “Um, yep. Yep, that’s it.” I nod sheepishly before moving to the end of the counter to wait for my drink.

  If you’re going to ask someone how their day is going when you take their coffee order, maybe you should be better prepared for the answer, KAREN.

  It’s days like these I really miss living in White Timber. As soon as I would have walked through the door of the White Timber Diner, Sheila would have taken one look at my face, kicked someone out of my favorite back corner booth, sat down with me regardless of how many customers were waiting for coffee, and listened to me ramble while also giving great advice.

  I’ve been coming to this Starbucks that is within walking distance of my home every Monday morning after I drop Lincoln off at school since I moved in. It’s the one thing I do to splurge on myself and make me feel like I have my shit together—drinking a caramel macchiato in a corner booth with all the other people pretending they have their shit together. Karen has been waiting on me every Monday. I thought we had a thing going, Karen and me.

  “Grande caramel macchiato with extra caramel for Member!” Karen shouts a few minutes later, as she moves away from the coffee machines, holding my cup up while she looks out into the sea of customers standing around me.

  With a sigh, I wave my hand as she distractedly hands me my cup, which has the word Member written in black Sharpie up by the lid.

  “Seriously? You thought I said my name was Member?”

  Karen doesn’t even answer me. She just shrugs and moves back down to the cash register to help the next person.

  Fucking Karen.

  As I make my way through the crowded coffee shop and snag the last empty table in the corner by the window, I look around at all the people sitting at tables, talking, laughing, and having a grand old time. Taking a sip of my coffee helps me swallow past the lump in my throat before I start crying in the middle of a crowded Starbucks on a Monday morning like a total loser.

  I’m so tired of feeling alone. I know I have Brooklyn, and Clint, and my parents, and I talk to them all the time, but it’s just not the same as having someone sitting right next to me, holding my hand, and giving me hugs and support when I need it the most. I miss walking down the street and being stopped every couple of feet because I know everyone and they know me. I miss walking into any single business on Main Street in White Timber, and everyone shouting my name, and they’re generally interested in how my day is, not just asking because it’s one of the five things they were taught to ask during employee training to make the customer feel special, when they don’t even give a shit about your day. I’ve only been able to go back home twice since I moved here. The first time for Brooklyn’s bridal shower, and the last time for her wedding to my brother. I haven’t been able to afford going back since then. Brooklyn and Clint and the girls have come here to visit a bunch of times, but it’s just not the same as being home.

  And they never stay long enough. Like, forever.

  I miss having friends. I miss being social. I miss being able to call up anyone I could think of, and they’d drop whatever they were doing to meet me for coffee, or dinner, or drinks, or just come over and sit in my living room to talk. It’s not like I haven’t tried to make friends here. I tried so fucking hard in the beginning I’m embarrassed for myself when I think about it. I toned down my sarcasm and my fifteen-year-old boy sense of humor, and I did whatever I could to fit in with Brandon’s co-worker’s wives, and the moms at Lincoln’s fancy private school that Brandon insisted he attend. They took one look at me and knew I didn’t belong in their circle.

  Recent misery and depression aside, I’m not always a slug who never showers and wears the same clothes every day for a week. But I’m also not a fancy-ass snob who only wears designer clothes and six-inch Louboutin’s to run to the grocery store for milk. I’m a small-town, country girl at heart. I like my jeans, I like my T-shirts, and before I moved to Chicago, the only time I put on a dress was for a wedding or a funeral. I worked on a farm all my life, for fuck’s sake. What did I need fancy shoes, clothes, and purses for? But still, I filled my closet with all that crap when we moved here to make Brandon happy. I put on the fancy clothes, the fancy shoes, and I toned down the dick jokes, and cut back on the F-bombs. I faked my smiles and my laughs, but still, no one let me in.

  The first time I walked Lincoln to his private school, everyone thought I was his nanny. I wore a Hastings Pumpkin Farm hoodie, a pair of leggings, and tennis shoes, like a normal person walking five blocks before 9:00 a.m., who’s just going to turn around and walk right back home to do laundry, clean toilets, and plan dinner. When I tried to make a joke with the other moms about how I didn’t realize school drop-off was a fashion show, they wanted nothing to do with me. Who the fuck walks their kid to school in a Prada pantsuit anyway? Fancy-ass, snobby people—that’s who.

  I would give anything to be able to just pack up Lincoln’s and my shit and move back home, but I can’t. Thanks to the jerk I married, and the fact that we had lived in Chicago for three months when he asked for a divorce, this is where I have to stay according to the custody agreement. As long as Brandon is here, we’re here. I have to start making the best of it, instead of wallow
ing in misery and wishing I could leave. Lincoln hasn’t had an easy time of it either, all thanks to that damn school and asshole kids who bully him because of his size, and because he likes talking about the farm where he grew up. How can I continue to tell him that he’s amazing, and perfect, and he needs to stand up for himself and be proud of who he is, when I’m not doing the same? How do I expect him to settle in and be happy here in this big city we’re still not used to, when I’m not settled in or happy, even though I fake it as best as I can in front of him? I want to actually be happy. I want to have fun. I want to stop faking it and actually do it.

  Setting my coffee cup down on the table, I pull my cell phone out of my purse that’s hanging on the back of my chair and open my email app.

  Clicking on the email from the Shit Mouth/Baker guy, I read it five more times as I sip my coffee, on top of the hundred or so times I glanced at it on the walk here, and the four times I read it to Brooklyn over the phone while I walked. Even though it says right in the online employee handbook that it’s against the rules to communicate back and forth with a client, and Just My Type even sent out an email telling us not to communicate personally with a client, it’s not like I hunted this guy down and stalked him. He emailed me, because of their screw-up. At this point, it would just be rude not to reply, especially if he still wants me to do his transcription work. And shit mouth aside, I really hope he does. I need this money. And his email made me genuinely smile for the first time in a long time. I need more of that too.

  Before I can change my mind, I set my coffee cup down, hit Reply, and start typing, unable to hide the smile on my face as my fingers fly over the screen of my phone.

  To: baker83@gmail.com

  From: Ember Hastings

  Subject: Re: Shit Mouth Transcription

  Sadly, my Google search has confirmed that Crayola does not make the color “burnt hole,” though I have requested they make this change post haste.

  I deeply apologize for making assumptions regarding steroids. Full disclosure though, my best friend is still questioning your ability to wipe your own ass. If you can give me freshly squeezed orange juice using only your biceps, I’ll put in a good word for you.