The Felix Fiasco

by Randi Devilkin

  “He’s always pleasant when he comes in, and a decent tipper too, though he rarely orders six muffins. Bev, are you paying attention?” She sighs. “We’re short-staffed today. I don’t have time for a break. Call me later.” She throws me air kisses, then leaves me alone with my thoughts.

  Chapter 2

  Puppy Love

  As if in a dream, I float through the afternoon in suspended animation. This feeling, so foreign to me, must be love. The day drifts along, as though time has lost all meaning. At least it had until I turn the key in the lock and Princess barks with urgency. She darts out the door the moment it’s open. Unwilling to wait until the courtyard, she relieves herself next to my potted geranium. Then she shakes her head, snorts, and marches back inside, ignoring me.

  There’s speculation that Princess is a cat, or perhaps she was in a former life. The twenty-five-pound mutt is rarely affectionate. She’s aloof, and even at her adoption, she ignored me. The placement counselor had suggested other more demonstrative candidates, but I had to have the brooding mocha brown dog with eyes to match.

  At Polly Purebred’s Canine Academy, Princess mastered every trick on the first attempt, but refused to repeat any performance for me. She enjoys treats, but has the discipline to ignore bribery. Despite her uber-short pelt, she’s luxuriously soft on the few occasions she lets me pet her. And unlike most dogs, she can hold a grudge for days.

  “Oh Princess, I’m so sorry,” I say, holding out a treat. She glowers, and I flinch. Next, she lowers her body to her mat and closes her eyes, indicating I’ve bored her. “Sweet baby, please understand, I didn’t mean to take so long. I met the sexiest age-appropriate man ever, and he wants me to call him. Do you think I should?” Without opening her eyes, Princess yawns and rolls over. “Okay sweetie, you think on it and let me know.”

  While Princess ponders my course of action, I fix myself a cup of tea before sinking into my purple plush velvet egg chair. The doorbell rings before I’ve enjoyed the first sip. I’m so comfortable I consider ignoring the caller, but this intruder won’t be disregarded. “Open the door. I saw your car in the parking lot. I know you’re in there, and I need the skinny on your date.”

  Princess shoots me a look that says, “Get the darn door so she’ll be quiet.” Then she gets off her mat and heads toward the bedrooms.

  “Cool your jets. I’m coming.”

  When I open the door, Sandy embraces me in a bear hug. “Start talking. Are you seeing him again?”

  “It was confusing, but he asked me to call him.”

  “So exciting.” Sandy holds out her right arm. “Look, goosebumps. Now start at the beginning.”

  “Before we even exchanged words, he lifted me in his arms, and–”

  “Felix picked you up the minute you met him?” Sandy stares, flabbergasted.

  “No, silly. Not Felix.”

  “If not Felix, who?”

  “Fabio.”

  “Fabio? But what about Felix?”

  “He wasn’t there yet.”

  “When was this? When we spoke earlier, you said Felix was already there drinking coffee.”

  “That’s because I thought he was my date.”

  “He was.”

  “No, Felix was.”

  “That’s what I said.”

  “No, the man I saw was not my date.”

  “Who did you see?”

  “Fabio.”

  Sandy grits her teeth and raises her hands as though she’s considering strangling me. “Bev, you’re confusing me. Do I need to call Jodi to get the story?”

  “Just listen.” I give her a play-by-play. She hangs on every word and doesn’t ask a question until I say, “And then he left with that rude, beautiful blond.”

  “Felix or Fabio?”

  “First Fabio followed the trollop, and a few minutes later, Felix left.”

  “And that’s when he asked you to call him?”

  “No.” I retrieve Fabio’s card from my bag and hand it to Sandy. “Fabio asked me to call him.”

  She studies the card. “Fancy. Even smells nice, but the whole situation is messed up. Fabio sounds suspect to me, and you won’t find anything online without a last name. Besides, you and Felix are supposed to fall in love and have great sex. Or have great sex and fall in love. Or just enjoy great sex. The order is irrelevant, and at our age, either is great. Both is a bonus.”

  “Should I call?”

  “Definitely. If Felix doesn’t call in a few days, definitely call him.”

  “I mean Fabio.”

  She shakes her head. “You’re going to do whatever you want to do because you can be foolish like that. Keep in mind he’s not been approved or even vetted. I’m not responsible for whatever heartbreak he brings. In the meantime, I’ll start scoping out your next prospect. Damn, I shouldn’t have wasted Felix on your first outing, but he’s perfect, and it’s a fluke he’s available. If I was looking for love now, I’d happily date him.” She raises an eyebrow. “Etcetera.”

  “Etcetera, ha. Do you want anything to eat or drink?”

  “I thought you’d never ask. I’ll help myself.” Sandy wanders into my kitchen in search of sustenance. When she reappears, she’s holding a jar of pickles. “I know you hate to cook, but even for you, the pickings are slim. You on another diet or something?”

  “No. I was cutting back on sugar and processed foods. However, I’ve decided that approach bites.”

  “Exactly. There’s nothing here except pickles. Salt causes bloating, and your entire strategy is downright sadistic when we have a bestie who owns a bakery.”

  “Yes. Let’s blame Jodi.”

  Sandy plops onto my sofa. “Maybe sub sugar for salt, on account of the bloating. Then, when I come over, I could have a cookie. Blue Bell ice cream works too.”

  “Duly noted. When should I call Fabio?”

  “Oh, dear. When should instead of should I. A series of poor decisions in the making. This could be entertaining for Jodi and me to watch.”

  “Seriously. I need your brilliant insight.”

  “Okay, since you acknowledged my brilliance. You can’t call today because even though you’re desperate, you don’t want him to know that. Probably not tomorrow either. You need to wait a few days, though your anxiety will ratchet up, and you’ll break out in hives. If you wait until Thursday, and he invites you to meet up this weekend, you can’t because you must act as though your weekend is already booked, but then you can’t go anywhere because if he sees you he’ll know that you had nothing big going on. Your only options are Tuesday or Wednesday. Too bad there isn’t another day between those two. So we’re talking late Tuesday or early Wednesday. Got it?”

  “It’s so complicated,” I moan.

  “No, now it’s merely a dumb idea, but I have full confidence you’ll complicate it. You’d save everyone time and aggravation if you’d realize I know who’s best for you, and that who is Felix. We can only hope he’s still available when you figure that out. Now I’m going home to my sweet Darren.”

  Chapter 3

  The Kingdom of Spamalot

  I wake up Monday thinking about Fabio. On our morning walk, I ask Princess, “Do you think I should call him today?” She glares at me, then takes biological action. Scooping up after her, I surmise her answer was a firm no. Back home, I refill her food bowl, pour fresh water, and attempt eye contact when I say goodbye. Now I’m off to a job I can’t believe I’ve held for nearly fifteen years.

  For someone who enjoys organizing, and telling others what to do, I’d never thought much about my future. In my sheltered world, college was expected, and life after too distant to contemplate. When handed a diploma, I was stunned both by the credential and my lack of marketable job skills. Adrift with no strategy, I began a master’s degree. In the part-time evening program I figured might take ten years, I was baffled three and a half years later when I was awarded another degree. My abilities were still inadequate, but I’d capitalized on access to amb
itious eligible bachelors.

  Sixteen years later, extricated from an ill-conceived marriage and armed with insufficient skills, now antiquated, I sought employment. After an exhaustive search, I bluffed my way into a proofreading gig with a publishing outfit. When I showed up the first day, my assigned area was cookbooks–checking recipes for readability and results.

  Thankfully, examination didn’t promise appetizing fare, merely that the finished projects approximated the corresponding illustrations. This was fortuitous because my culinary style is takeout oriented with a penchant for cheap tacos. My prior foray into food services had me fired on my first shift. Me being cooking-impaired, a recipe editor assignment was not even close to my lack of planning plans.

  The current project is SPAM, Reimagined for Millennials, typical of my assignments. I was hoping for something more palatable, so I could fantasize about cooking for Fabio. SPAM is unappealing to me; however, physical labor ignites appetites and disables taste buds, so when I deliver the day’s test samples to the building maintenance staff, my gastronomic ventures will be applauded. I feel gratitude that the building management company provides health insurance for their entire crew should I inadvertently poison anyone.

  I get through Monday without phoning Fabio. After a second day of SPAM testing, I’m feeling smug about my restraint and relaxed about calling later tonight. I go about my business like an actual adult, and at eight p.m., I’ve showered and am relaxing with a cup of tea. Now is the perfect time to call and act nonchalant, except his business card isn’t on the coffee table, nor the lamp table.

  Twenty minutes later, I’ve somehow strewn papers and pillows all about the condo. It looks as though detectives executed a search warrant aided by Taz, the Tasmanian Devil, himself. I’m a sweaty mess. Where can that stupid card be?

  Princess yaps. I look her way, and she purposefully spills her water, before strutting over to relax on a pillow. I grab a towel to clean up and find the card, wet but legible, next to her upended bowl.

  “Thank you, Princess,” I say. She ignores me. Hmm, did she help me find the card or did she swipe it to sabotage my social life? Either way, time is slipping away, and I don’t want to call too late. After a quick rinse in a cold shower to refocus, I sit on my messy sofa and dial the number on the card.

  “FAB Enterprises,” a woman’s voice says. Disappointed, I hang up, check that I have the correct number, and dial again. Once again the phone is answered, “FAB Enterprises.”

  “Excuse me. Is Fabio there?”

  “No, but I’d be happy to take a message.”

  My mouth opens, but no words form. I’d planned witty repertoire, though not for an unanticipated female voice.

  “Hello? If you’re still there, I can relay a message. You’ve reached the concierge.”

  “Yes, thank you. Could you please tell him Beverley called, and–”

  “Beverly. I have a message for a Ms. Beverly. Could you please hold?”

  “You do? Okay.” My heart swells in anticipation.

  “Here it is. Fabio requests you accompany him Saturday night. The event is a barbeque at the Dallas Museum of Art. Denim is appropriate, but no faux cowboy attire or rhinestones. Would you like your reminder by phone call, email, or text?”

  “Uh, thank you.” Huh? “Could Fabio call me back?”

  “I’ll give him your message, but his week is extremely busy. On Saturday, please be ready at 5:30. Now, I need to document your address and contact information.”

  The voice takes my information and wishes me a pleasant evening. A headache is brewing. In all the hypothetical conversations I’d stitched together, this was outside the playbook. I put my condo back together, debating whether I should be excited or freaked out. My fingers itch to dial Jodi or Sandy for advice, but I’m not sure I want to hear their take.

  Princess accepts a bedtime treat without me begging. My pet is almost interacting with me. I grab the opportunity and ask, “What do you think I should do?”

  Until that moment, I’d never seen a dog roll her eyes.

  It takes a long while to fall asleep, and when I wake for the umpteenth time, I accept my fate and get out of bed. On my computer, I google FAB Enterprises. Whoa, there are a lot of links, but despite my world-class stalking skills, there’s little to glean.

  The international conglomerate is a mysterious partner in hordes of businesses with nebulous generic descriptions that include phrases like managerial forecasting governance, capital entrepreneurial analysis, and operations statistical accounting revealing nothing concrete. Remarkable. Fabio is handsome, funny, and a man of intrigue. With curiosity and hormones in overdrive, the next four days could be torture.

  WEDNESDAY AND THURSDAY crawl by in the Spamalot world, despite the building staff’s enthusiasm for the week’s output. With vague texts, I avoid hard conversations with Jodi and Sandy, but despite my efforts to lie low and be cool, Friday morning, an angry red rash erupts across my chest. When the female voice from FAB Enterprises calls with my reminder notice, I’m tightly wound.

  “Thank you for the reminder. I was hoping to hear from Fabio,” I say.

  “Yes, he’ll see you Saturday.”

  “I’m not comfortable I have all the information for Saturday night.”

  “No problem. I’m happy to review the information for you.”

  “It’s more like, um, I don’t know Fabio well, and this seems a little unusual.”

  “Oh, dear. I’ve only been the concierge for four months. My demeanor must not inspire confidence.” Accelerated breathing punctuates the conversation break. Is she about to cry? “I apologize for my shortcomings and wish to improve. What can I do to provide you outstanding customer service?”

  “Oh, no. You’ve been great. It’s just–”

  “Oh, that’s a relief. I’ll notify Fabio you’re good to go.” The line goes dead, and the hives on my chest scream to be scratched.

  What am I doing?

  Chapter 4

  One Unenchanted Evening

  Sitting in the veterinarian’s waiting room while Princess gets her monthly pawdicure, I scan the newspaper. In the metro section, there’s a photo of top educators recognized for their efforts to fight illiteracy. The man in the second row looks familiar. It’s Felix.

  “Ms. Beverly, Princess is ready. You requested a pink ribbon, but she insisted on purple.”

  “She did?” I put down the paper. Princess stands regal and nods to her attendant.

  “As always, she was polite, but firm in her decisions. She’s such a smart and communicative canine.”

  Communicative? I’ve loved this beautiful girl from the moment I laid eyes on her, but she has yet to display any interest in me.

  Princess sits while I pay her bill, then she follows me to the car. After I open the back door, she gracefully hops up and settles in.

  “Well, girlfriend. We’re expected at Sandy’s for lunch. Remember that cute little terrier Snuggilicious and their big back yard?”

  Princess yawns before closing her eyes.

  Communicative. Not. On my favorite radio station, Me and You and a Dog Named Boo by Lobo plays. Princess nods along with the beat.

  At Sandy’s, the pups play in the back yard while we drink sangria. Darren brings lunch from the kitchen. “SPAM tacos for three.”

  “Ugh,” I exclaim.

  My hosts burst into laughter.

  “You guys think you’re funny,” I say. “But you’re not.”

  “Yes, we are, and you resent that,” Darren says as he sets down a platter of brisket tacos.

  “We’re comic geniuses,” they say in unison, then howl even more. They’re adorable together, but I won’t admit that to them.

  Lunch looks and smells amazing. If I weren’t so nervous about tonight, I’d dig right in.

  “I’m still miffed about Felix.” Sandy shakes her head and grimaces. “But we got someone lined up for next week. Austin’s an insurance agent. Very successful. A triathlete. Sin
ce you’re in a superficial look-at-all-the-pretty-muscles stage, you’ll go gaga over him. Felix is still my first choice, but Austin’s a good man.”

  Muscles. Mmm. Fabio tonight in jeans that fit just so and–

  “Bev. Earth to Bev. Where are you?” Sandy asks.

  “Oh. I was thinking, oh, never mind,” I say.

  “I certainly do mind. Your eyes were half-closed, and your face was practically screaming, ‘Take me now.’”

  “Hush.” I shoot Sandy a stink eye. “Okay, but promise not to yell at me.”

  “Maybe. Now spill the beans.”

  As my taco grows cold, I tell of the strange phone calls with the FAB Enterprises concierge. Sandy stares at me with wide eyes, her mouth twisted in an unhappy knot. Darren also watches me, but the corners of his mouth fight to not curl up. No one asks questions or makes comments. I confess there might have been an unsupervised shopping trip, which causes my cousin to react. “And what did you buy without my supervision?”

  “Spanx and an adorable denim jumpsuit. It makes me look like a pin-up gal from one of those sexy vintage auto mechanic posters.”

  “Jumpsuit.” Sandy sighs. “Don’t drink too much. Those are a hassle to get out of in a bathroom. But you’re missing the big picture. What are you thinking? Maybe there’s a market for middle-aged sex slaves. Maybe you’re getting kidnapped.”

  “If such a market exists, I doubt it’s profitable,” Darren says.

  “Don’t be rude,” I snap at Darren.

  “Bev,” Sandy says. “Hand me your phone.” I hand over my phone, and she hands it to Darren. “Put that tracking app on Bev’s phone.” As he installs the app, she turns back to me. “Now we can find your body if we need to.” She shakes her head. “I thought you were smart.”

  We finish our tacos in silence. Darren pours another round of sangria, then chuckles.

  “What’s funny?” Sandy asks.

  “Can we put in a request for tomorrow’s ice cream?”

  I shake my head and say, “Go ahead.” We all know I’ll be bringing Blue Bell tomorrow to dish and make peace. “I know this seems strange, but tonight could change my entire future. I feel a real connection to Fabio, like what you guys have. If tonight doesn’t go well, when I bring over the Blue Bell, we can discuss this Austin fellow.”