by Mimi Strong
The nice image of Stevey pulling off Nora's clothes was quickly pushed aside by the reminder of her employee review. It was scheduled for that day, Tuesday. She'd been distracted by the consultation, and now the unbidden fantasies for previously unappealing coworkers, and had forgotten.
“Good luck with that, short stuff,” Stevey said as he left the studio. “Ask for a raise. I hear ad revenue is up two percent for a change.”
Nora considered asking her uncle, Don, to postpone her review, but she decided today was a day for taking care of business. Maybe it was the strains of Takin' Care of Business now playing.
Don had taken over Murray's office, and Murray sat in one of his guest chairs, demoted in his own space. This pleased Nora.
Without the protection of his desk between them, Murray looked pale and soft, shifting nervously in his seat. He and Nora hadn't spoken since the previous week, when she'd tipped the potted plant out of his hands in disgust at his usual crude talk. She didn't know how much got back to her uncle, but Murray would be on his best behavior in his presence. Don had been semi-retired for the last year, but he still made his presence and power known from time to time. At work, Don was a completely different person from the uncle who'd given her teddy bears and dolls during every visit when Nora was a kid. In the station, Don was all business.
“Well, it's that time of year again,” Don said to his niece. “What can we do for you, to keep things exactly as they are?”
Murray silently wrote on a little notepad. He tilted the paper so Nora could see the surface, but Don couldn't. He wasn't taking notes at all, but doodling stick figures with penises.
“Are you kidding me?” Nora said to Murray. He quickly scribbled over the doodles, rendering them meaningless.
“Uncle Don,” she started. “Don. I've had some other job offers for more pay. I love the station, you know I do, but I'd like to feel the sentiment is mutual.”
He swept his hand over his smooth head. He had the same prominent nose as his brother, Nora's father, but not as hot a temper.
“It's not about love, it's about budgets,” Don said.
The two of them stared at each other in silence. If Nora was set to inherit the studio, since Uncle Don had no children of his own, all of the budgets would be hers in the end anyway. She couldn't understand why they had to play such games now.
“Everyone here thinks I benefit from nepotism, but I make less than average pay for an afternoon host.”
He tented his hands. “Is that what you want? Average pay?”
“Look at my desk. No food wrappers or piles of loose expense receipts. I do my work on time, and my numbers are consistent and stable. I deliver a high-quality product. I'm above average. Look at the facts, and family relations aside, you'll see that an increase is justifiable.”
Murray drew an enormous penis on his notepad, and Nora had the impulse to grab it from him and show her uncle, but she wanted the raise more than trouble.
“How much?” Don said.
Nora thought of a figure, doubled it, then took off a few points. “Eighteen percent more. Fifteen would bring me up to average starting rate, but I have three years' experience here, so that's one percent per year, which is less than inflation.”
Don turned to his computer and typed some numbers into a spreadsheet. Finally, he said, “Ten.”
Murray snorted.
“I'll think about it,” she said, getting up and leaving.
It felt good to walk out.
Ten wasn't bad, but it wasn't right. She wondered if her father had been in touch with his brother, telling him about Nora wanting money for ridiculous things like cosmetic surgery. It was nobody's business but her own. Ten percent wasn't enough, not if she wanted to move out on her own and have money for more than the basics. If she took ten, she'd live with her parents forever, then take over the station, then die, probably on air, while Lady Gaga's nine-hundredth new hit single played.
Also, there was Murray and his drawings and comments.
Hell, no. Ten percent was not enough.
Nora was still fuming over the ten percent offer when she threw open the station's glass door, striking a man who was on his way inside. He dropped to the ground, hand over his nose.
Nora let out a torrent of apologies, nearly in tears.
“Serves me right, I was distracted,” the man said. It was Aaron, the hot musician with the short black hair, and a trickle of blood was coming out of his nostril.
“I've broken it,” she said. “But we're insured. Oh, but don't sue us. Oh, damn it. Is it broken? Really broken?”
Still kneeling at her feet, he pinched the bridge of his nose, which was in perfect proportion to his face. “Nope, all good.”
“How would you know? Have you broken your nose before?”
“I don't think so. But isn't that what people do? You squeeze it or try to wiggle it. It doesn't hurt too bad, so I guess it's not broken.”
His nose was red, and the blood was disconcerting. “You're in shock. We should take you to the hospital.” She extended a hand and helped him to his feet.
He looked both ways, to the door and to the parking lot, as though contemplating. “Yes, good idea. I think it might be broken.”
She walked him to her car and opened the door on his side for him.
“It's my nose, not my arms that are broken,” he joked.
She got in her side, started the engine, and cranked on the air conditioning. It was the first hot day of the year, and the air vents let out a stale, awful smell. Aaron didn't seem to mind, and peered around the interior of the car, checking out her assortment of keepsakes.
Because Nora kept a clear desk at work, many of the trinkets and souvenirs she'd collected over the years ended up in her car. Her dashboard sported an eclectic assortment of promotional stickers, miniature trophies, and rubber-limbed action figures.
Aaron swatted at the white kitten—a stuffed toy who looked like her cat Razzles—hanging from the rear-view mirror. “This is a safety hazard. A driving obstruction,” he said.
Nora put the car in gear and carefully backed out of the parking space. “The kitty was a gift from a studio visitor. Well, actually, it was a kid I mentored about a year ago. He was in a program through his high school, sort of a Big Brother thing, and he really wanted to work with a radio DJ.”
“You're a Big Brother?” Aaron asked.
“It's not called that, and obviously not, but… kinda. Why not? I'd make a great brother. I can throw a baseball.”
“I remember,” he said with a chuckle.
Nora pulled out of the lot and turned right. She didn't know where she was going.
“What do you mean, you remember?”
“You don't know who I am, do you?”
“Sorry. I'm sure you're very famous within your music circles. I just play the songs that are set up for me and yabber away in between. Traffic and weather on the hour.”
“I lived next door to you.”
Nora became aware of her breathing and her heart rate. The front of her throat felt very hot.
“Eddie?” she said, her voice a tiny squeak.
“Aaron Edward, yes, though I go by Aaron now. Eddie sounds like someone who sells stereos out of a van.”
She took another look at him. There he was, with his arm resting comfortably on the door of her little car, drying blood under his nostril, and that big, charming grin. Eddie. Her Eddie.
The vehicle behind her honked. The traffic light had been green for ages.
She said, “Wow, you certainly are all grown up.”
“So are you. Nice to see your hair down, out of those pigtails and braids you used to wear.”
She took another look. “Your nose isn't broken, is it?”
“Not at all. Want to get some dinner?”
She took another right turn, circled back to the radio station, and pulled back into the parking lot.
He hadn't brought up the accident, and she hadn't either. She didn'
t want to have that dinner and the inevitable conversation, she just wanted him out of the car. How dare he come back here, all charismatic and successful?
“I've done my due diligence,” she said. “I presume you won't be filing a lawsuit against the station. It's my Uncle Don's business, you know.”
“I wouldn't sue you,” he said, his voice wavering.
“Here we are,” she said, stopping at the door. Murray came out and gave her an overly-friendly wave.
“That guy is the worst,” Aaron said. “How do you put up with him?”
“Life is full of challenges,” she said. “Is that door handle working okay? It gets sticky sometimes.”
He opened the door, climbed out, paused as though he wanted to say something, then shut the door and strode into the station. Nora realized, too late, she was staring at his ass.
After the accident, there had been talk of Nora's family suing Aaron Edward's family to cover the costs of rehabilitation and a lifetime of prostheses. They had to be replaced every year when she was growing, and then every few years after that, forever, or until science created materials that never broke down.
Aaron's family didn't have much, though, and Nora's family decided that between the lawyer fees and court costs, it wouldn't be worth it to bankrupt one family to save the other from costs they could afford to bear. Besides, as Nora's father never ceased to point out, it had been her decision to get on the back of the motorbike.
Nora's therapist felt that Nora's father was misplacing his feelings of powerlessness as anger at Aaron. Many fathers were protective of their daughters, but Nora's father had taken it to the extreme after the accident. She hadn't been allowed to leave the house on dates until she was seventeen—not that she had many offers.
When she got to college and lived on her own, the floodgates opened. A weekend didn't go by those first few months without what would technically be called binge drinking. Drinking was fun, and it made everyone better looking, including Nora.
When she got home, she helped herself to a glass of refreshment from her mom's box of white wine in the fridge.
Aaron Edward.
Back in Eugene, and back in her life.
The wine was good, so she had another.
On Wednesday, Nora kept a low profile at work and thought about the ten percent offer. After her show prep was done, she had a look at apartment rentals online. The listings were disappointing.
She checked her drawer for sugary treats, but it was empty except for the bag of black jelly beans—black because she'd eaten all the other colors, but didn't care for the licorice ones. She loved licorice candies, but not licorice-flavored jelly beans, because they were too sweet.
Hoping Kylie had some good candy, she made a visit to her friend two cubicles over. The floor was still a bit dirty from where Murray's potted plant had spilled.
“Candy?” Kylie said, seeming confused. She opened her unlocked drawer, revealing a case-sized pack of sugarless gum.
“What do you snack on? No granola bars, no nuts, no… gummy bears?”
Kylie chewed on the lid of her pen. “I don't allow myself to snack between meals.”
“Oh. Right. I knew that,” Nora said, but she didn't. She'd been chatting daily with Kylie for over a year, since Kylie had started there, and she hadn't noticed that on all of their trips to the candy machine on the third floor, Kylie hadn't bought anything but gum.
“I'll go with you to the third floor, though,” Kylie offered.
Murray appeared, as he often did, without warning. He wore soft-soled loafers probably for the express purpose of listening in on conversations. “What's your favorite chocolate bar? I've got something big for you,” he said. “You could put chocolate on it. There are nuts involved.”
“If I had a dollar for every time I had to hear about your dick,” Nora said, “I wouldn't need a raise.”
Murray moved his hand over his crotch. “Speaking of raise.” He moved his hand around suggestively.
Without any warning, Nora hit her personal limit on how much she would tolerate from Murray. She felt a hot fury build in her, a familiar fury.
With his hand still on his crotch, Murray didn't even flinch as she reached up, closed her hand in a fist, then at the last second opened her hand and slapped him across the face, hard. Twice.
CHAPTER 5
After Nora struck him, Murray stumbled back, his hand now on his cheek. Stevey from the morning show was standing right behind Murray, open-mouthed.
Sputtering, Murray said to Kylie, “What's her problem?”
“We're all sick of hearing about your dick,” Kylie said.
Murray pointed a finger at Kylie. “I did not say that word. You said that word. I know what's improper.”
Nora grabbed his arm and twisted Murray's fingers. “Don't you point your pervy little finger at her.”
She would have slapped him again, too, but Stevey was pulling her back with his big, strong arms.
Nora went into reflex mode, as she had all those times in school when she'd scuffled with the boys who'd taunted her.
She bit down on Stevey's arm. He screamed and released her.
Nora stumbled forward and held her fists in front of her, like a boxer. Murray, showing some intelligence for a change, bolted.
Behind Nora, Stevey asked if there was something wrong with Kylie, who was crouched forward in her chair, retching into her garbage can.
Nora pushed Stevey out of the way and went to Kylie's side, rubbing her back. “I'm sorry, honey, it's going to be okay.”
Kylie coughed and spat into the can. As Nora smoothed down Kylie's shirt, she noticed she could feel her spine and ribs jutting out. Kylie looked so small, crouched over the can.
A minute later, Nora said, “Come on, let's get you cleaned up,” and pulled Kylie to her feet.
“What is going on around here?” Stevey asked.
“Thanks for keeping me from murdering Murray,” Nora said. “Now scram. Get back to the studio. You don't want to get involved.”
“But, I… ” He rubbed his arm where she'd bit him, and took another look at Nora's face. “Right.” He turned and disappeared.
Nora took Kyle to the washroom and got her cleaned up.
Kylie went home early, citing stomach flu.
In the afternoon, Nora made her way to the studio, aware of every set of eyes in the place watching her.
One of the younger interns, a skinny guy with an unfortunate skin disease, made a big show of clinging to the wall when she passed him in the hallway. His buddy laughed, and Nora refused to acknowledge either of them.
The morning show's producer called her Killer when she entered the studio.
She responded with, “Please clear your food debris and take it with you when you leave my studio. Thank you.”
When she went on the air, Nora had a lot to say about office politics and harassment versus regular joking around, but she kept it to herself. To stay safe, as always, she focused instead on a fan favorite topic: worst haircut ever.
She ran through celebrity makeovers and shared her own ill-fated attempt to relax her tight curls. The story ended with her reassuring her listeners, “Don't worry about hair. Hair grows back.” She looked up at the two interns watching her from the hallway. “Dignity, however, is another story. Unlike hair, dignity does not grow back, so, folks, don't let anybody take that from you.”
As the next song played, she leaned back in her chair, stuck her hands behind her head, and roared like a lion.
Yes, it was nuts, but it felt good.
Before her shift was over, she'd already gotten the email—marked urgent—summoning her to see Don, who was still stationed in Murray's office.
After tidying up the studio, she walked down the long hall to the office.
Breezing in with a smile on her face, she sat down and said, “I think we could do ten percent.”
“You know damn well that's not why we're here,” Don said.
“It w
as just a little scuffle. I've seen some of the night guys get into fistfights with each other, and they never get in trouble.”
“You're not one of the guys. Murray said you knocked out a filling. He had to make an emergency visit to the dentist.”
Sarcastically, Nora said, “Poor Murray.”
Don tapped his fingers on the desk.
A wave of regret washed over Nora. “A filling? That's awful. I had no idea. I wasn't thinking. Honestly, I don't want to make trouble.”
“Murray's always been so good to you, too, how could you do that to him?”
“What now?” Nora's mouth dropped open. “Hang on, I'll be right back.”
Nora dashed out of the office and went straight to Kylie's desk. Kylie had left in a hurry, thank goodness, leaving the drawer unlocked. Nora retrieved the notebook—the one with dates, times, and details of all Murray's offenses.
When she got back to Don's office, he was tossing some Tylenol in his mouth.
She laid the journal on the desk between them.
“What's this?” He opened the book and scanned down one page, then another. After a few minutes, he slammed the book shut. “You're in violation of company policy.”
“You're kidding me. Look. In one week alone, we heard about Murray's penis seventeen times.”
“You should have brought this to me before things got to a boiling point. Punching someone is never the right thing to do.”
“I didn't punch him, I slapped him. Huge difference.” Even as she said it, Nora tried to remember exactly what position her hand had been in when it had struck Murray. It may have looked like a punch to an observer like Stevey. She wondered if there was still a job opening at the ad agency.
“You're on leave of absence, starting now,” Don said. He pushed the notebook back to her, a look of disgust on his face.
“You're angry, with me? What about all those things Murray did?”
“I am dealing with what happened today. Those other things, you should have told me.”
“And be a tattle-tale?”
“Nora.”
“Uncle Don.”
“Some time off will be good for you. Do something fun. All this will be here when you return with some perspective.”
