The Felix Fiasco

by Randi Devilkin

  “Okay, but after four so Jodi can join us,” Sandy says.

  PRINCESS AND I HEAD home at three, allowing plenty of time for my evening prep. While playing with Snuggilicious, she was the poster pup for Miss Congeniality. Now she’s aloof.

  My outfit, accessories, and make-up had been set out earlier to minimize my stress. I’m worried about the Spanx. The jumpsuit fits in all the right places, so it’s not truly needed. However, the shapewear holds my stomach unnaturally flat, and that is a thing of beauty. The physical discomfort, breathing difficulty, and inability to eat aren’t troublesome, but what if one thing leads to another? What if later tonight, passion begets a romantic striptease, and I get stuck in the tummy-control vise? Would that be a mood killer?

  Who am I kidding? Even without Spanx, I’m too uptight to invite a mysterious man home on the first date. However, if I did on a future date, I could use scissors to free myself, but this waist cincher cost forty-eight bucks, and I’d hate to destroy it. Hmm, if I left it on, it wouldn’t inhibit any necessary contact, but would that be weird? Maybe not any weirder than my stomach popping back to its normal profile after pretending to be flat only moments before.

  By five p.m., I’m dressed to go out. My jumpsuit fits like a dream. I snap a selfie and send it to Sandy and Jodi, then spend the next half hour reading and rereading the same page of a magazine because I can’t concentrate. The doorbell rings at 5:35 p.m. “Just a minute,” I holler as I run into the bedroom to give Princess a treat. She accepts disinterestedly. I grab my handbag, scurry to open the door, and stare.

  “Good evening, Ms. Beverly. Mister Fabio is finishing a call and requests you join him in the car.” The young Asian woman, dressed in a nondescript black suit with a white shirt much like Will Smith and Tommy Lee Jones wore in Men in Black, holds out her arm for me to take. “Ma’am?”

  I’d have preferred miss over ma’am, but she’s probably a college kid, so I let it slide. A white Escalade parks in the fire zone. Fabio sits in the back seat, engrossed in a phone call. He radiates raw sex appeal. As the driver opens the door for me, I hear Fabio say, “No pouting. Ciao.” He pockets his phone and smiles, lighting up the entire car. “Bev, thank you for joining me tonight. Nice outfit.”

  “Hi,” I sputter, forgetting the enchanting banter I’d prepared. “Um, so we’re going to a barbeque.”

  “It’s for business, but it could be fun. The band’s excellent, as is the caterer. I have to network, but it shouldn’t take too long.”

  “What type of business?”

  “Finance. Investments. A little of this, a little of that. What about you? Are you a lady of leisure or do you have a career? And if a career, what type of work?” Fabio asks.

  “I work for a publishing house, proofing and editing. My current project is a SPAM Cookbook.”

  “SPAM?” He raises his eyebrows. “Like the Monty Python SPAM-eating Vikings?”

  “This book includes everything from a Monty Python SPAM-eating Viking Breakfast to Sashimi a la SPAM and SPAM Fried Rice.”

  “Nice.” Leaning toward the front seat, he says, “Let’s have some tunes.” The music blares, barring conversation.

  We arrive at the Dallas Museum of Art. Fabio jumps out of the car and hustles over to my side to open the door. He offers his hand, and when I touch him, voltage shoots through my body. He guides me through the open doors.

  “Bev, the family can be, well, is intrusive, but be yourself, and I’ll owe you one. Can I get you a drink before I start my rounds?”

  “Family?”

  “How about a margarita? The tequila’s top shelf.”

  “Uh, okay,” I say to no one because Fabio is already across the room at the bar. A well-heeled woman barrels towards me.

  “Hello. And you are?”

  “Um, hi. I’m Beverly.”

  “I’m Michelle.” She eyes me up and down. “You’re here with my brother?”

  “If your brother is Fabio, then yes.”

  “Go figure.” Grinning, she shakes her head.

  “Excuse me?”

  “Age-appropriate, with assets adequately covered. Cute outfit. Well, enjoy the party. The crab cakes are to die for.” She pats Fabio on the shoulder when he returns with my drink. “Clever boy,” she murmurs as she glides away.

  He hands me a margarita. It’s on the rocks with salt, but I can’t complain because I didn’t specify. I’m working hard on becoming more relaxed and easy-going.

  Fabio brushes a chaste kiss on my forehead, and my legs turn to jelly. He says, “I gotta kiss some babies and shake some hands. Enjoy the museum. Catch you later.” Poof, he’s gone.

  Dizzy from lust and uncertain what to do, I look at art, but soon feel abandoned. I get hungry and find the to-die-for crab cakes that live up to their hype and make me resent my Spanx. If I had a larger purse, I’d sneak some of these beauties home.

  After one trip to the restroom, the bar is off-limits because I almost dropped my jumpsuit bodice into the commode water. Sandy was right, it’s a pain to visit the restroom in a jumpsuit, and Spanx didn’t help the situation.

  At 8:30, my cell phone rings. “Hello, this is the FAB Enterprises concierge. Please meet Fabio in the lobby.” My body temperature spikes with anticipation as I return to meet him. Other than solicitous words of “good evening,” or “interesting art,” no one has spoken with me tonight, although many times, I felt eyes on my back. I should be miffed, but surely Fabio has an explanation.

  The elevator doors open. Fabio sees me and strides right over.

  “Bev, dear. Let’s get out of here.” He drapes his arm around my shoulders and escorts me to the Cadillac waiting outside. He opens the car door. As I slide in, he asks, “Did you enjoy the museum?” Before I answer, he shuts the door, walks around the car, opens his door, slides in, and closes his door.

  “Ready, sir?” asks the driver. He nods, and she drives.

  “Um, the museum’s a lovely venue for a party,” I say. Fabio nods and checks his phone. “I had hoped to spend some time with you.”

  “I’m glad you enjoyed yourself. My night was highly productive.” Once again, the music blasts, discouraging conversation. Maybe we’re going somewhere to get a drink.

  Twenty minutes later, we pull into the parking lot at my condo. The driver turns down the music and says, “Sir, we’re here.”

  He nods and pockets his phone before exiting the car to walk around and open my door. He extends his arm to me, but releases his hold as soon as I’m standing. We walk in silence to my door.

  Fabio brushes my forehead with a cursory kiss, then says, “I can’t thank you enough for tonight. Do you have your key?”

  I retrieve my key from my handbag and hold it up.

  “Good night.” He nods, then walks away.

  I open my door, rush inside, strip off my cute yet cumbersome jumpsuit, visit the restroom, and afterward, collapse on the sofa to wrestle out of my Spanx. What was this evening about?

  Princess emerges from the hall to stand by the door expectantly. When I fail to stand up, she makes a throat-clearing noise. When I don’t move, she canters over to her leash, claims it with her mouth, trots to where I’m sitting, and uses the leash to slap me on the knee. To avoid what I anticipate might be her next action, I attach the leash to her collar, pull on sweats, a T-shirt, and slippers, and grab my combo self-defense club and heavy-duty flashlight even though I feel safe in the well-lit, gated community. Walking through the complex provides time to cool down, but my emotions run all over the map.

  So many questions. What happened tonight? Did I do something wrong? What could I have done differently? And the most troublesome question of all, how can I face Sandy and Jodi?

  Chapter 5

  The Morning After

  A generous dose of allergy medicine circumvented a sleepless night, but I wake with cottonmouth and the hazy-head aftereffects. I have no recollection of any dreams, a good thing considering the dud that was last night.

&
nbsp; Sunday coffee frequently occurs at the Double S, although not today. I wish to postpone seeing my friends until I deconstruct my feelings. I brew a pot of coffee, walk Princess, run two loads of laundry, and complete cursory housecleaning. Next is a trip to the grocery store for necessities and Blue Bell. Ugh. I forgot to get Darren’s preferences, and I don’t feel like calling. Instead, I grab one container of Strawberry and Homemade Vanilla and another of Happy Tracks with peanut butter cups and fudge.

  The rendezvous at Sandy’s is at 4 p.m. It’s only two, which provides free time to fill, but I have zero motivation to do anything. Despite a gazillion channels, the only television shows are sports or cheesy Hallmark-esque productions. I select one and watch a movie about a silly woman who thinks she’ll find happiness with the sexy but vapid golf instructor instead of the nice guy right in front of her. The portrayals of these damsels in distress always disturb me. Maybe women used to be this way, but today we are smarter and make better decisions.

  At 3:40 p.m., Princess and I drive to our friends’ house. I don’t want to admit what happened last night, but honesty is the best policy. A little white lie would be okay for this situation, but I’m the world’s worst liar, and the truth will get everything out of the way faster.

  Jodi opens the front door. Snuggilicious greets us as though our appearance is the single greatest event in the history of the universe. Princess stands majestically while Jodi and I watch her accept Snug’s heartfelt tribute. Then the canines head for the back yard.

  “You need to work on that poker face,” Jodi says as she reaches for a hug. “Let’s put the Blue Bell in the freezer. Darren’s watching the game with Doug and some menfolk, so we won’t open that until later. Sandy’s mixing strawberry daiquiris for us.”

  I follow Jodi to the kitchen, give Sandy a peck on the cheek, and take a seat at the dinette.

  “I’d prepared to lecture you, but you look miserable already,” Sandy says. “Did the bad stuff go down before or after you got home at nine?”

  “How do you know what time I got home?”

  “Tracker app.” She sets our drinks on the table and joins us.

  “You might as well know, I got stood up last night.”

  My friends look at each other in confusion, then turn their attention to me.

  Jodi pats my hand. “You should have called us. We’d have come right over.”

  “Wait a minute,” Sandy says. “You went to the museum at six. I saw that on the tracker.”

  “That’s true. I went to the museum.”

  “Did you go by yourself?” Jodi asks.

  “No, but the man I went with and thought was my date wasn’t really my date.”

  “Who was he?” Jodi asks.

  “Don’t ask. This stops now.” Sandy turns to Jodi and says, “She did this to me last week, met her date who wasn’t her date. Yada, yada, way too confusing.” She rests her hand on mine. “Sweetheart, we see you’re upset. Please tell us what happened, but go slowly and start right after you sent the selfie. By the way, you looked super-hot.” Jodi holds a thumb up in agreement.

  I relay the events of the unfortunate evening and say, “It’s confusing because the chemistry’s there, a wildfire just waiting to ignite. There really is this connection, but at the same time, he stood me up.”

  “Technically, he didn’t stand you up. It’s more like he dumped you during the date,” Jodi says. “The take-away is you need a bigger purse, in case you meet up again with those sumptuous crab cakes.”

  “Stood up or dumped, it’s semantics. Either way, I’m vacillating between disappointed and hurt, and pissed off and contemplating a crime.”

  “If you’d let me pick out your dates, this foolishness could be avoided,” Sandy says. “A smart man will recognize you’re a catch and treat you the way you deserve to be treated.”

  “I agree,” Jodi says. “Did you know that Sandy’s responsible for my marriage?”

  “But we’ve all known Doug since grade school.”

  “Yes, but we didn’t think about each other romantically until Sandy sat us both down and told us what’s what.”

  “How did I not remember that?”

  “I’m still upset that you weren’t interested in Felix. Did you see the paper? He made the list of most influential educators again. At least Fabio’s out of the way before you can mess up meeting Austin,” Sandy says. “This man’s got a lot on the ball, so please make an effort. Sunday, what time would you like to meet him at the Double S?”

  LATE IN THE EVENING, I close my eyes and try to feel excited about meeting Austin. Sandy and Jodi make him sound like a great guy, but I’m hung up on Fabio. That fiery chemistry felt so real. How could I be so wrong about a man?

  Chapter 6

  Unsung Heroes

  This week I’ll throw myself into work and not think about anything else. I’m not a big fan of SPAM or any animal meat, but I’m less thrilled to find my next assignment is Celery, the Unsung Kitchen Worker.

  Tuesday, I’m down to the last SPAM recipe test: SPAMtastic Canine Treats. The recipe has been approved by my co-worker’s dogs, but it hasn’t been presented to any royalty. Tonight I’ll see if the biscuits pass the Princess test.

  I leave work with a bag of samples, retrieve Princess from home, and drive to Sandy’s. In the back yard, we present a sample to our testers. Snuggilicious scarfs hers down in a flash. Princess sniffs, ventures a dainty lick, shakes her head, and steps back. Snug looks to Princess, who nods, then Snug makes short work of Princess’s rejected biscuit.

  “I’d call that a success,” Sandy says.

  “I don’t know.”

  “Princess passed but didn’t reject it outright. She would have if she’d deemed it inedible. Seriously. Once Snug pulled chicken bones out of the trash, and Princess was there and wouldn’t let her eat them. It was so odd that I wasn’t sure what I was watching, but after the biscuit trial, I’m certain. Princess is one smart dog with excellent communication skills.”

  “That’s what people tell me. We’ll get going because it’s a work night. Thanks for letting Snug be a tester.”

  On the drive home, my phone rings. The call is from a blocked number and therefore easy to ignore. Twenty minutes later, Princess and I are at home, and the blocked caller rings again. I check but find no messages. Thirty minutes later, it’s the same caller and no message. When the phone rings for the fourth time, I decide to mess with the salesperson for fun.

  “Internal Revenue Service,” I say.

  “Good evening, Beverly.” A familiar feminine voice, the FAB concierge, says. “I’m calling on behalf of Fabio. Are you available to attend a wine tasting and reception on Thursday evening at The Tower Club? The dress is cocktail attire.”

  What the heck? I’m dumbfounded.

  “Hello? Beverly, are you there?”

  “Yes, I’m here.” And now I’m angry. “And why should I want to attend a wine tasting or anything with Fabio?”

  “Excuse me. I must not be communicating effectively. Fabio wants you to be his plus-one this Thursday.”

  “You can tell Mister Fabio I’m busy Thursday night, but even if I wasn’t, if I wanted to attend an art museum or wine tasting by myself, I could do that without him.”

  “I see.” The voice goes quiet. Maybe I was rude, I know she’s just doing her job, but then she asks, “Is the issue not enough advance notice?”

  Really? They must think I’m lonely and desperate. Although that’s true, I’m not that desperate. “That’s a secondary issue. The primary issue is Fabio shouldn’t ask out a date if he’s going to ignore her. Oh, and another thing, he shouldn’t use an intermediary to set up his dates. He should make the calls himself.” I’m shaking and my voice sounds shrill to my ears.

  “Oh. I understand. Thank you for your time. Good evening.” The voice is gone.

  With my eyes closed, I sink into my egg chair and take deep breaths. Princess, who has ignored me since the biscuit debacle, lays her h
ead on my knee. Cautiously, I stroke her fur and she sighs. Oh my goodness, we’re bonding. I grab the opportunity to connect with her. “Princess, do you think I did the right thing?” Princess tilts her head and looks at me as though I’m an idiot. She walks away. Oh well, this is progress.

  I did the right thing. At least I think I did. I’m tempted to call the girls, but the concierge conversation zapped my energy. Thank goodness SPAM, Reimagined for Millennials wraps up tomorrow, and I have a coffee date with Austin to look forward to this Sunday.

  CELERY ROCKS. THE VEGETABLE turns out to be amazing and versatile. It’s rich in vitamins A, K, and C, and minerals like potassium and folate. It's low in sodium and low on the glycemic index. Adding celery to a diet improves a person’s sex life by increasing the pheromone androsterone, a natural aphrodisiac in male perspiration. Celery also contains chemicals that dilate blood vessels, increase sex drive, and enhance climax.

  No wonder celery juice drinks are popular. After learning of these momentous benefits, I suggest changing the title from Celery, the Unsung Kitchen Worker to Celery, the Unsung Kitchen Hero. I think Celery, the Well-hung Kitchen Hero might inspire even more sales, but our cookbooks are G-rated.

  Driving home from work Friday afternoon, I stop at the grocery store and buy three humongous heads of celery. I’ll gift these to my BFFs Sunday night at dinner, and everyone will thank me.

  At home, there’s a notification about a delivery taped to my front door. The package must be too large to fit in the mailbox if it needs to be picked up at the management office.

  I put my groceries on the table and the leash on Princess. We head to the office. It’s ten minutes until six, but the door’s already locked. Well, I don’t begrudge anyone for locking up early on a Friday; besides, I’m not expecting anything. It’s probably not important.