There Are No Men

by Carol Maloney Scott

  “No. Yes! The one taught by the lady who sees dead people?”

  “Sharon is psychic.”

  “Whatever. Maybe you should ask her to look at these guys, or just tell you when you’ll meet a good one so you can stop wasting time on this crap and come dancing with me. And by the way, what the hell does Bluebird mean?”

  “It doesn’t mean anything. I thought it sounded cute. So do you think I should go out with him? He’s only forty, but he emphatically states that he does not want kids and he looks like he’s in pretty good shape. I need an old man break. No?” I look at her anxiously.

  “Cute? Why didn’t you call yourself ‘Little Princess’ or ‘Cuddle Bunny’? You should be dating twenty-five-year olds. With that body you could totally be a cougar. I can barely be a bobcat anymore.” She leans back dejectedly in her chair.

  I glare at her impatiently and she says, “All that New Age crap is weird, but he could be nice. At least he isn’t pregnant. You’re right about that.”

  Rebecca refers to all men with big bellies as pregnant. Apparently a lot of men in our office are with child. She claims our boss Tim is at least six months along, possibly carrying twins.

  “And I need to do more meditation. It’s relaxing.”

  “I find shaking it to be the best stress reliever. Seriously, Claire, you need to come dancing with me. You missed the St. Patrick’s Day party downtown at O’Malley’s Pub. That was crazy fun! There was even a younger band with a cute lead singer. They did some of that music you like.”

  “I saw the pictures from that event on your Facebook page. Green beer—yuck. And all those drunk people smashed into the bar. I do not go out on St. Patrick’s Day. Too many amateur drunks on the road.”

  “Amateur drunks? As opposed to—?”

  “The professional drunks. When you go out on a regular weekend night, the same people are out driving drunk every week. They have a better shot at it because they’re experienced. Obviously they are still impaired and total assholes, but on New Year’s Eve, St. Patrick’s Day—everybody’s drunk, so the roads are packed with people who don’t have a fighting chance of getting home in one piece.”

  Rebecca wrinkles her forehead and shakes her head. “You need to get out and have real fun. You’re still young—act your age. You don’t have to get blasted drunk. Maybe you can dance with some cute guys for a change. If there’s a slow dance you can actually let a man touch you.” She blinks hard and raises her eyebrows.

  I would love to go dancing. I dance in my living room all the time, fully clothed and with the blinds closed of course, just in case a neighbor peeps or Girl Scouts come along selling cookies. Rebecca dances to old music. As a child of the seventies and teen of the eighties, she’s my classic rock connection. I do enjoy it—Billy Idol and Bruce Springsteen are always on my play lists, but I graduated in ‘95 and I listened to the Gin Blossoms, the Wallflowers, Matchbox Twenty, Sugar Ray, Green Day, and the Goo Goo Dolls. Rebecca claims that’s “listening” music and her era’s tunes are for “shaking it.” She may have a point. We did a lot of standing around and swaying in my day. I also like some of the newer metal and hard rock, like Disturbed, Avenged Sevenfold, Three Days Grace. That stuff gets my heart rate pumping.

  But what the hell, I need to branch out. “I’ll go dancing. When?”

  “This Saturday our favorite band, High Fidelity, is playing at Lorenzo’s. They have a big dance floor and it’s always packed with fun people.”

  “What do they play?”

  “Mostly eighties but a good mix. They do a few newer songs too, to attract a wider crowd. You’ll love it.” She leans forward enthusiastically.

  “Yeah, I like eighties music. It brings back good memories of when I was a little girl, before my miserable awkward stage started.”

  “Some people have a longer awkward stage, like between birth and death. Be glad you grew out of it and you’re awesome now, and be careful what shoes you wear. You know how you are with that. Yay, I’m so excited you’re going to go!!” She claps her hands and jumps up and down like a middle school cheerleader, only with big boobs. “Except there is one other thing.”

  “What now?”

  “You need to join the Meetup group. It’s a Meetup event.”

  “Can’t I just go as your guest? It’s a public place, right?” Rebecca is a member of a 30’s/40’s singles Meetup group. In theory this sounds good, but to me it sounds like all the Internet daters would be there in person, and I would be a sitting duck with nowhere to hide. How could I screen in that scenario? Plus there are a lot of younger men. It is infested with divorced joint custody dads.

  “Claire, the Internet is clearly not working for you. It wouldn’t kill you to fill out the little survey and join. There is no obligation to attend anything or do anything, and you could meet more single women friends, too. It’s always good to have a bigger girl posse.”

  “I’ll look at it, but either way remind me when the band is playing.”

  “I’ll send you an Outlook invite after the meeting.” Rebecca sends Outlook invites for everything. I have been invited to “Talk about the Drunk Guy at the Christmas Party” and “Shop for Bras at Lunchtime.” This whole conversation was probably an Outlook meeting. Good thing our meeting details are private. Our co-workers just assume we’re busy with “important HR matters” and it is so hard to “get time on our calendars.”

  “Uh oh—shit, the meeting is starting. We need to get our asses over there.”

  “Damn it!” Rebecca jumps up and opens the door, as I grab my notebook.

  We peek out into the hallway to see if the coast is clear, and I shut my door. “These fucking meetings,” I mutter to Rebecca.

  “Well, hello, ladies, late for the meeting too? Claire, what language! Proper Southern ladies don’t talk that way.”

  I open my mouth to respond and Rebecca jumps in. “Justin, shut the fuck up.”

  “What a classy HR team. Claire, you’re looking especially hot today. Is that Spandex?” He winks and looks me up and down.

  I purse my lips and take a deep breath. “Justin, you are such an asshole. Let’s all just get to the conference room before Tim starts the meeting.” My cheeks are hot.

  “No problem, ladies. I’ll run ahead and save your seats.” He walks down the hall smirking.

  I stare at him and don’t move for a moment.

  “Claire, let’s go!”

  My teal wrap sweater is tight, and it has a little Lycra in it, but I do not wear spandex to work. And I will say fuck all I want. That is one of the things I hate about being in the South, but Justin is obviously mocking me. He isn’t southern (he’s a twenty-five-year old from Philadelphia—yes I have read all the employees personnel files, plus I hired that punk).

  In New York, it was perfectly acceptable to say fuck at work. Ron’s old boss used to say things like “How do youz like my fuckin’ sweata?” Of course Ron is a UPS driver, so his Italian boss from the Bronx was not exactly a Princeton graduate, like Justin. I keep threatening him with HR, but since Rebecca and I are HR, he doesn’t appear to be frightened. Justin is a brilliant IT guy, so he is pretty much untouchable, and he never goes too far. He is just annoying, like a fly buzzing around your head while you’re trying to eat a delicious hamburger at a picnic.

  “Claire—HELLO! Don’t let Justin aggravate you. He wants you and is too immature to simply ask you out. He’s like the little brat in 3rd grade who pulls your pony tail because he likes you.” She grabs my arm and we break into a sprint to the conference room, which is down the hall and around the corner.

  “I don’t care what he wants and that’s ridiculous. And if he does want me, it’s just because he has an older woman fetish, and I am not having sex with someone I work with and will see every day, no matter how hot he is or how tight his abs are.”

  “How do you know how tight his abs are?” Rebecca pants as we reach the door.

  “I punched him once.” I swing open the conference roo
m doors and Tim is in midsentence. All eyes turn to look at us and sure enough—Justin has saved a seat on either side of himself with that grin on his flawless face.

  As Rebecca sits down he whispers, “Hey Becca, didn’t mean to leave you out. You’re looking pretty good today, too,” as he peers down her shirt, chuckling to himself. She just glares at him and turns to the room, smiling at everyone. She’s wearing one of those short ladies’ button down shirts she favors for the office. That doesn’t sound sexy, but since she’s pretty big on top her cleavage is always spilling out of the too tight buttons. Going shopping at Victoria’s Secret with Rebecca makes me sad.

  “Hello, ladies. Nice of you to make time for us this morning. I trust you were caught up in a pressing HR matter.” Tim sounds so forced when he is trying to be all proper and businesslike. He’s loudly cracking his gum—not at all a Southern gentleman thing to do. Tim Rudwick is aware of his pregnancy and tries to chew gum all day instead of eat. Personally, I think a few trips to the office gym would be healthier and more effective, but Tim is a gum addict. Our vending machines must have fifty varieties to choose from, and he sends his assistant on Juicy Fruit runs the same way other bosses ask for Starbucks.

  We mumble our apologies and he continues. “I was just telling the group about the sales figures in the new genre—erotica for women.”

  Bella Donna Press is a fairly large publishing company targeting women readers. The founder must have been a Stevie Nicks fan (see, I know my classic rock references, even from when I was a fetus). Our cookbooks haven’t done well lately because most people now get their recipes from the Internet. We do produce some cute chick lit novels and our parenting section boasts a few quality titles. I have a copy of the Baby Bible at home, but I obviously won’t need it now. I bought it before one of my later miscarriages. The erotica thing is not necessarily in our wheelhouse, but Tim seems optimistic.

  “—and Claire McDonald Ratzenberger is going to lead this initiative.”

  What am I leading?

  “Yes, that sounds great,” I nervously reply.

  “I’ll get the job description to you this afternoon. It is imperative that we have editors on staff who can handle this new material.”

  This fantastic new material is BDSM based. Because of the overwhelming success of a certain sexually graphic trilogy, the BDSM genre has exploded. Readers don’t seem to care if these books are well written or not (they are not), and our in-house editorial staff have complained about them. I can appreciate sex scenes in books that actually have a plot and believable characters, but this stuff is pure trash. Calling it erotica makes it sound as though it has some value, but it’s pretty much just silly. Publishing companies are freaking out trying to churn this stuff out as quickly as possible so they can capitalize on this fad before it dies out. If someone is producing quality titles in this genre, I am not aware of it. Even though we can get anything in the catalogue for free, I will continue to cheat on Bella Donna with our competitor’s offerings for my fiction fix, even though that means paying for it.

  “Cecilia, please send Claire the job description this afternoon, and block off time on my calendar next week for interviewing. Frank, you’ll need to do the same.” I swear sometimes I think Cecilia and the rest of the admins are the ones writing the new books. Even though that is preposterous and would never happen, it makes sense based on the quality, and the front desk receptionist gets jumpy when anyone comes up behind her. I don’t know how Frank, our Editor-in-Chief, doesn’t see the looming problem of getting involved in a genre we know nothing about.

  Cecilia makes some notes on her pad and looks bored. She is twenty-two and weighs about ninety pounds. Justin should try to date her. They could act out one of the new books, and maybe he would leave me alone. Although Justin can’t be hurting for female companionship.

  The meeting drags on with Linda in accounting complaining about all of the mistakes on the expense reports. Justin gives a brief tutorial on IT security issues. I update the team on our recruiting efforts. We have a few open positions in finance and new author acquisitions, in addition to the new positions Tim just announced. Rebecca reminds everyone of the performance self-appraisals that are due next month (my favorite). Tim wraps up the meeting and we head back to our offices.

  “That went well.” Rebecca is so poised during these meetings. I always get nervous, even when I am well-versed in the subject matter.

  “Listen, I’m going to skip going out for lunch today. I need to get caught up on a few things.”

  “You’re just dying to e-mail Daniel, aren’t you?”

  “Who’s Daniel?”

  “The Internet guy we were talking about this morning?”

  “Ohhh, you mean ‘meditation golf guy.’ Daniel is his actual name. They all blend together after a while.”

  “Well, there’s been enough of them.” She rolls her eyes. “Now go and find us some editorial staff who don’t mind editing dirty manuscripts.” She smiles and heads towards her office.

  I am anxious to craft my witty and fabulous message to Daniel.

  Rebecca pops her head back around into my doorway and says, “Hey, when did you punch Justin? Not that he doesn’t deserve it on a daily basis.”

  “One time when he was being a dick. I was just joking and I noticed his stomach was like a rock. That’s all.”

  As soon as she says goodbye and closes my door, I settle in to write this e-mail. I have a good feeling about this one.

  Dear Daniel,

  Thanks so much for contacting me. I liked your profile, too. I would love to get together some time soon. I must warn you—I am a mini golf pro! My number is 657-8433. Why don’t you take a look at your calendar and let me know when we could meet. I have a great mini golf place near my house. Have a great week!

  Claire

  That sucks—too boring! Not witty at all. But in the past I have been more fun and flirty and regretted it (Rebecca would die if she saw what I wrote to the old man with the hat). This cuts straight to the point—let’s meet and see what happens. If he wants to get together, he will call or text. I do like the idea of an active date. I can’t sit and watch someone eat or drink and make painful conversation anymore. Why didn’t I think of this sooner? I am a slow learner but after a few dozen times I catch on. I sign out of my dating site and go back to my work inbox. I see Cecilia has sent me the job description. I think of Simon and Garfunkel every time I hear her name. I know even older musical references. This may come in handy since I am destined to end up with someone who saw them in concert the year that song was released.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  I wake up the next morning with a sense of dread. I don’t know why, but then I remember. This frequently happens to me. I wake up peacefully, until reality hits me in the face like a wet noodle. Not that my life has been an endless nightmare of tragedy, but it has had its moments. I recall that I sent my phone number to Daniel, and now I am obsessing while awaiting his call. Last night I kept checking my phone every five minutes, as if it rang and somehow I didn’t hear it, even though it was practically attached to my body.

  I need to summon my Internet Dating Girl superhero strength to get through this. Or just find something to distract myself. I could actually do some work while at work, but that isn’t interesting enough to divert my attention for long. I do get my work done, but I have never been one to pour myself into my professional pursuits. I am more of a drift into work kind of gal. I get there, but without as much gusto as the over achievers.

  Dixie’s morning potty ritual goes smoothly. It’s sunny out today and I manage to stay clothed in the yard—two pluses! I haven’t seen my new neighbor lately, and that’s good. The more time passes the more likely he is to forget the lawn show.

  I also have not seen his family. Maybe he moved first and they are coming later—that happens a lot when people take a new job. The wife stays behind with the kids to finish up the school year or to pack, while the husband leaves sooner to sta
rt his new job and get the new place ready. That’s nice—maybe he’s nesting for his little family of tyke bikers. I bet they will have a swing set.

  I need to remember to ask Jane if she has met them yet but she’ll be at a PTA meeting tonight, and I regret that I only call her lately when I have scoop or want some. I need to tell her about the flashing incident—she will die laughing. Scoop makes me think of ice cream. Maybe I will drag Rebecca out for some at lunchtime. It’s spring-time and the ice cream stands are starting to open up.

  Since it’s such a nice day I decide to wear something lighter (it’s so hard to dress in season transition). I hate winter and its clothes, especially turtlenecks. I once heard a comedian say that wearing a turtleneck is like being strangled by a weak midget all day. I can relate to this—I pull on the material constantly to get it away from my neck, and then it’s all stretched out and the whole neck warming purpose is defeated, and my sweater is deformed.

  I choose a peach short sleeved sweater set, a tight cream skirt that ends a few inches above the knee, and cream pointy toe pumps with scalloped cutouts on the top and sides. Pearl stud earrings complete the outfit and match the gold pearly brooch clasp on the cardigan. Another huge plus of living in the South—no one wears panty hose except in the most conservative industries. I like pantyhose almost as much as turtlenecks.

  When I get to the office I am actually on time—it’s only eight-fifteen! I find a parking space in the third row from the entrance, instead of my usual Outer Mongolia section. I notice that Rebecca is not in yet, nor is hot Justin. I mean Justin.

  I start sifting through my fifty or so e-mails—our managers especially like to do all of their e-mailing at night when no one is around to read any of it, so you’re faced with this bombardment of communication every morning. They do this because they spend their entire work days in meetings. No wonder I have no management aspirations, and I’m not jumping out of bed and pouring myself into work.