by Lisa Lim
I texted back:
Huh???
Carter texted back:
You spend your time lying, not laying, on the beach. Unless you’re engaged in sexual activity and are, in the vernacular, laying someone on the beach.
Before I could form a quick comeback, my iPhone beeped once more. I read Carter’s text.
If you see something lying on the ground, it is just resting there. But if you see something laying on the ground, it must be doing something else, such as laying eggs. Chickens lay, people lie. Unless you’re a chicken. Chickens do lay eggs.
I pressed my iPhone against my forehead in silent reprimand, realizing the flirtatious implication of my words. Upon gathering myself, I texted back:
Of course I know chickens lay eggs. And no, I do not wish to be laid by you. I’d rather be stuck on an island with Glen Beck. And since when have you become the Grammar Police?
My phone beeped.
Since you proposed to have sex on the beach with me. Here’s another example of the correct use of the word lay: You have to lie down for me to lay you.
I was slightly shocked by Carter’s flirtation with impropriety. Though I knew perfectly well that I should keep things professional, I was perfectly incapable of such self-discipline. Humph. He thought he was so clever. Well I’d show him. I texted back:
You can be on top ’cause I don’t wanna get sunburnt.
For a while, there were no texts from Carter.
Shit! Did he think I was actually serious?
Just in case he was harboring any delusions along those lines, I swiftly thumbed in another text:
JUST JOKING! I DO NOT WISH TO LIE WITH YOU OR GET LAID BY YOU. PERIOD.
Carter texted back:
See you at the beach.
Smiling, I texted:
K.
As I was tugging on my bathing suit, mosquitoes continued swarming around me. I slapped my arm, slaughtering two Frankenbugs in the process. Then I stood in front of the full length mirror, scrutinizing my buttressed thighs.
Tsh-tsh, Kars. It’s time you did some Brazilian Butt Lift exercises.
Wait a minute! I froze. What are those massive bumps protruding from my forehead? Craning forward, I angled my face under the light to get a better view.
Mosquito bites, I surmised. Hmm. They must have feasted on me all night.
“Holy Guacamole!” I muttered under my breath as I continued examining my face in the mirror. Those mosquito bites looked like pimples the size of Guatemala!
I whipped out my iPhone and texted Truong:
Please don’t make fun of me. I look like I have three enormous nipples!!
I went pale with shock when Carter texted back:
Don’t worry about your third nipple. I say milk it for all it’s worth.
After taking several long, deep breaths, I gathered my wits and texted back:
FYI, that text was meant for Truong. Not you. And my iPhone auto-corrected pimple to nipple. I HATE THIS AUTO-CORRECT FUNCTION! Anyway, I’ll be at the beach with Truong and Inge. See you there. Or not. I don’t care.
I kicked off my flip flops, clutched my sarong and walked down the beach, my bare feet prickling under the sun-warmed sand.
Suddenly, I heard someone yell, “HEY ACNE!”
Shielding my eyes against the pallid glare of the sun, I spotted Truong and Inge, sunbathing in the nude. I made my way over to the nudists and dumped my towel and beach bag at my feet. “And by the way Truong, it’s not acne! It’s mosquito bites!”
The acid annoyance in my voice was completely lost on Truong. “They look like acne to me,” he said, brushing me off as though I was some pesky mosquito.
I pinned my hair up in an artfully messy bun. “Nude, Truong? Really?”
“What?” he said mildly, “I’m just communing with Mother Nature. And besides, I’m not fully nude.”
True. Truong had a straw hat covering his meat puppet.
I arranged myself on my oversized beach towel. “You too, Inge? Topless?”
“Men are allowed to go topless, why not women?” She lifted her dark sunglasses and perched them atop her head. “Anyway, it’s pretty common in Europe. Why don’t you try it?”
“Me?” My eyes widened. “Nah! I just don’t feel comfortable.”
“You’re not comfortable in your own skin?”
I squirted out a glob of sunblock. “I’m comfortable with who I am, but I’m not really comfortable exposing my body.”
“Look!” Truong began gesturing wildly. “HUBBA! HUBBA!”
Following the direction of his dazzled gaze, I spotted Carter walking along the shore, clad in nothing but a mankini. They were black, snug and quite exquisite.
HUBBA, HUBBA indeed.
From the corner of my eye, I noticed Truong’s straw hat was lifting higher and higher. He turned a deep shade of amber and placed a hand over his hat in a weak attempt to still his throbbing gristle. “A gentleman always lifts his hat,” he said blithely.
I shook my head and slathered sun block all over my arms. “Hey, Inge, don’t you want to cover up your Topless Towers of Illium?”
“Not really,” she replied with palpable lack of interest. “Why don’t you shoo Carter away? I’d like to sunbathe topless without him hovering by my side.”
“Yeah,” Truong chimed in. “Go shoo him away.”
“Shoo Carter away?” My voice pitched higher. “What do you think he is? A fly? And what do you think I look like? A Shoo Fly?”
“Well …” Truong hedged.
Humph. I frowned to myself. That was a bit rich coming from someone with a straw hat on his peen. I was half expecting his peen to spring to life, doing its best impression of Ricky Ricardo.
“Kars,” said Truong dryly.
“What?”
“Go!” he ordered severely. “At whatever cost, keep Carter away from us.”
“All right, all right. I’m going.” I rose to my feet, grumbling, “I can clearly see I’m not wanted here.”
I padded down to the beach, leaving the nudist colony behind.
Carter was walking close to the water’s edge. He looked weary, almost sad, like he had the fate of the whole world resting on his shoulders.
I lengthened my stride and fell into step beside him. “Hi.”
“Hi.” His face relaxed into a smile and he tactfully avoided staring at the massive red bumps decorating my forehead.
We stopped walking and stood facing the vast and open ocean in companionable silence, letting the sea foam surge across our toes. For a while, we watched the tiny, frothy bubbles pocket and curdle under our feet.
Eventually, I broke the silence. “You seem preoccupied. Care to share what’s on your mind?”
“No.” His voice caught in a husky rasp.
“Aw, c’mon.” I shoved him playfully on the arm. “What gives? You seemed OK when you were texting me just minutes ago.”
“That was before I got the call.”
“What call?”
Carter stared rigidly ahead with a faraway look in his eyes.
I lifted my head to the breeze and tried to look semi-attractive, which was almost impossible. The wind was blowing and my hair was flying all over the place. “I’ve hardly seen you at work all week,” I said, pulling chunks of errant hair out of my mouth. “Where have you been?”
“Meetings,” said Carter absently. “Conference calls. Negotiating the new contract.”
“Huh?” I stared at him opened mouthed, wondering if I’d heard right. “What new contract?” I asked with a twinge of alarm.
There was an excruciating pause, a silence bordering on awkward. I looked at him sideways in an effort to gauge exactly what was on his mind but his face betrayed no emotion.
Eventually, Carter began in a hollow voice, “Every morning in Africa, a gazelle wakes up. It knows it must run faster than the fastest lion or it will be killed. Every morning a lion wakes up. It knows it must outrun the slowest gazelle or it will starve to
death. It doesn’t matter whether you are a lion or a gazelle … when the sun comes up, you’d better be running.”
Huh? Why in Ghana was he going on about lions and gazelles?
“Um, Carter …” I stared at him apprehensively. “I think you’ve been in the sun too long.”
“I’m fine.” There was an uncomfortable hard edge to his voice as he said this. “That was from the book I gave you. Have you read it yet?”
I shook my head sheepishly. “It’s not really my kind of book. I mostly read chick lit, lad lit and hen lit. Oh,” I added airily, “I also read People and US Weekly. But not The National Enquirer.”
Carter stood perfectly still and stared at me for a minute without saying anything.
I folded my arms defensively and looked him in the eye. “What?”
He gave me a strange look, as if he were trying to determine if I was a Sunni or a Shiite. I was neither, obviously. Then he said slowly, “Do you understand what I was trying to say?”
My brain started curling at the edges. Slowly. Very slowly, it all started to unravel. My gut told me it had something to do with the ‘new contract’ he’d let slip earlier on.
Were we being bought out by a new company? Outsourced? Both?
“So,” Carter continued, “who do you think is the lion?”
“India. Philippines. China … any country that takes jobs away from Americans. They’re all hungry lions. Am I right?”
Carter gave an imperceptible nod.
I paused, giving my thoughts a chance to catch up. “And what about Malaysia? Would you consider it a lion, too? A threat to our survival?”
“My point is,” said Carter, deflecting my question, “we are no longer gazelles. We are not even zebras or antelopes. We’ve become slow and starving elephants.”
“But even if the elephant is thin, he is still the lord of the jungle. He is the largest beast in the animal kingdom.”
“The arrogance of Americans!” he said almost savagely. “An elephant that is stuck in the mud will tear down the tree with it.”
“Enough.” I heard myself sounding normal, clinging to the sound of normal. “Please. Enough talk about lions, gazelles, zebras, antelopes and elephants. Be straight with me, Carter. What’s going on?”
Once again, silence stretched and grew thin.
Carter’s face took on a depressingly shuttered look. At long last he said, “I’m afraid I’m not at liberty to discuss it. Any of it.”
“Why not?”
“I’m sorry.” He ran a hand through his wind rumpled hair. “I’ve already said too much. Please, Kars, I would appreciate it if you didn’t tell anyone.”
“Tell anyone what exactly?”
He hedged and seemed on the verge of saying more, but he didn’t. Instead, he took a long last look at me before he turned and walked back up the beach.
I stood there paralyzed, watching his retreating figure, thinking, what the hell just happened?
There was a brief outburst of swearing. “Iginniarfik! Qassiarsuk! Oqaatsut! Nutaarmiut! Kangerluk!” I spat.
Oh wait! Why was I ranting off Greenlandic places like some demented Eskimo?
Earth to Kars. You’re not at work!
Fuck! FUCK! FARRRRK!
Whatever it was, I had a nagging suspicion it wasn’t good.
Chapter Nineteen
The nagging unease continued to plague me for days, even after we had returned home. My need to speak to Carter about my concerns grew increasingly uncomfortable. He hadn’t volunteered any further information about the alleged ‘new contract’ since that fateful day on the beach, and I couldn’t bring myself to confront him about it. Perhaps I was afraid of what he might say. And the longer I left it, the harder it got. Now I had this sensation of having gone too far out to sea and lost the sight of the shore.
I stopped at my cubicle and just stood there for a moment, my mind a tired blank. The crude light that fell from the fluorescent bulbs was already bringing on a splitting headache. Gosh. Why was it always so bright in here? I closed my eyes, waiting for the throbbing to subside. Seconds later, I opened my eyes and spotted the menacingly large folder of work sitting in the middle of my desk.
With a deep sigh, I sat heavily down and set to work. From the corner of my eye, I dimly registered Kelly Morehouse, a fellow supervisor, standing by my cubicle. Usually, I was only too willing to be distracted, but seeing my head bent over the keyboard, Kelly respected my unwritten agency protocol and tiptoed past me with exaggerated care.
But the peace and quiet didn’t last for long.
“Your birth certificate is an apology from the condom factory!” yelled Nina Romero.
“How dare you!” Jenn Carley fired back, “Well, you know what? You must have been born on a freeway because that’s where accidents happen!”
They were hissing and clawing like a pair of angry felines.
Welcome back to reality. The ultra glamorous job of a call center supervisor.
“Girls! Girls!” I stepped right into the kerfuffle. “Stop all this yelling! Please. I just got off the plane yesterday and I really don’t need this right now. If you have a problem, please log out of the phones and come see me at my desk.”
Grudgingly, Jenn and Nina withdrew their talons and trudged over to my cubicle.
“So …” My gaze went from Jenn to Nina. “What seems to be the issue here?”
Nina pointed an accusing finger at Jenn. “She stole one of my accounts! It was a big account, too! A 1-800 Database Access Service for Helm’s new medical center.”
“No I didn’t!” Jenn countered, “When the client called back, he wanted my assistance. I offered to transfer him to you, but he simply refused to deal with you! He said he preferred my tone of voice.”
“I was perfectly polite,” Nina said haughtily.
“Not according to the client. And while we’re here, I’d like to make a formal complaint.” Jenn pointed one perfectly manicured finger at Nina. “I’m allergic to her scent! She smells like a scratch and sniff snicker!”
“My perfume is called Sage Cucumber,” Nina remarked loftily, “and it’s from Bath and Body Works.”
“Who cares where it’s from.” Jenn stared at Nina as if she were something particularly noxious. “It gives me migraines and it makes me nauseous! My throat is closing up now.” Jenn made a retching sound. “See! I can hardly breathe when I’m around you!”
I sighed. One person’s scent was another person’s headache.
“Well,” Nina countered, “I should have a right to wear my perfume to work.”
“And I should have a right to be able to breathe at work!” Jenn shot back.
Then all eyes were upon me.
Jenn spoke up first, “Does Nina’s right to wear smelly perfume surpass my right to breathe? I THINK NOT!”
Nina quickly added, “If people can’t wear perfume and deodorant, there’s going to be lots of body odor at work.”
“Well,” I pointed out quite reasonably, “there’s always unscented deodorant.” There was an uncomfortable silence. “Or … I could always move your desks.”
“I’M NOT MOVING DESKS,” Jenn snapped.
Nina hissed, “I’M NOT MOVING DESKS EITHER. OVER MY DEAD BODY!”
Was that a gurgling noise from my brain?
It must have been. At this point, I was drowning in the Pacific Ocean.
My first reaction was to do nothing. But then Jenn could sue the company, citing her inability to work properly under pungent conditions.
My second reaction was to tell Nina that she couldn’t wear her perfume to work, but then she could file a law-suit saying that I had violated her civil liberties.
After carefully weighing up the odds, I came to a decision.
“OK,” I said firmly, “like it or not, the two of you are moving desks.”
“THE HELL WE ARE!” Jenn and Nina wheeled around and stormed off in a huff.
Sheesh. The inmates were clearly running the asylum
.
With a deep sigh, I worked in obedient silence for all of two minutes when my concentration was temporarily waylaid by Ryan. He was talking loudly on his cell phone as if the whole world was his phone booth.
“Oh hewwo there babeee. Say hewwo to Daddy.” Ryan’s voice pitched higher. “Daddy bear wuvs you, Cindy boo. Does Cindy boo wuv Daddy bear too?” Pause, followed by a shrill peal of laughter. “Oh, I know you do. Are you weady for sweepy weepy time, pwincess? Nighty, nighty now. Smoochey woochey. What? You hungwee? Mew too. You love mew? Well boo boo I love mew too pwincess. Mew mew.”
A backside parked itself on my desk and a familiar voice said, “What’s with Ryan and all the mewing? Is this the Call Center Pussy Convention or something?”
I leaned back in my swivel chair and linked my hands behind my head. “Hey, Truong.”
“Hey!” He jerked his head. “So what’s up with Ryan?”
I shrugged in return. “Who knows? He’s on his cell phone.”
“Hey, Ryan!” I stood up abruptly once he had finished with his call. “Is Cindy your baby daughter?”
“Oh no,” said Ryan in some surprise. “She’s my wife.”
“Oh …” Truong and I exchanged identical raised eyebrow expressions.
Why? WHY?
Why do people talk in baby talk when they’re not talking to babies?
“How nauseating!” said Truong, echoing my thoughts. “I think my ears are bleeding.”
“What?” I taunted, “You mean you don’t use baby talk with Ayinde?”
“Oh hell no!” he said forcefully. “And we don’t use any bullcrap cutesy names like babes, boo or princess either.”
“So what do you call each other? By your actual names?”
Truong smiled a little wry smile. “Ayinde usually calls me butt hole and I call him ass wipe.”
“Butt hole?” I snorted inelegantly. “Ass wipe?”
“I know, I know,” Truong said blandly, “we’re weird like that.”
“Well anything is better than princess.” I gave a little shudder. “That, in my books, is a death wish.”
“Umm hmmm.” Truong whipped out his signature diva snap. “Unless you’re Prince Harry, don’t be calling me princess.”
Ryan put his head around my cubicle and made shushing noises at us. “Excuse me! Can you guys tone it down a notch? I have to call my wife again.” Then with staggering nerve, he hit redial on his cell phone and resumed talking in his grating baby voice. “Oh hewwo again my pumpkin wumpkins pwincess. I just wanted to let you know that the ham sammie you made me today was so delish. What? Uh-huh. Of course we can snuggie wuggie when I get home.” Pause. “Oh yes, I likey, likey. We’ll have some funsey wunsey time tonight pwincess. Love mew. Love mew so much.”
