I point to the screen. “Next to my name it says ‘tons of outdoorsy shit.’ What exactly is that?”
Skip shines the red laser in my eye. “Weren’t you on the Olympic snowboard team, St. James?”
“No, I blew out my knee.” This is a story I don’t care to rehash in front of my coworkers.
“What’s it been? A decade? I’m sure it’s good as new. And bonus, you grew up in Colorado. Plus, you have that beard. Instant Brawny Man.” He winks and shines the light on the next employee.
I pinch my lips together, before I say something that lacks serious compassion.
Sabrina interjects. “I, like, don’t have any wintery skills.” She snaps her gum twice then continues. “I grew up in Florida.”
Skip beams the red dot next to her name. “Says here you’re an avid jet skier and wake-boarder?”
Her head tilts like a puppy trying to decipher human words.
“Just pretend you’re on the water when you’re on that fresh pow-pow, and we’re golden.”
That is the most ridiculous thing Skip has ever uttered. But coming to Sabrina’s defense would give her too many ideas—like I might want to sleep with her again. Which I don’t.
“What’s up with the big blank next to Fischer’s wintery skills?” Skip turns to Preeti. “Am I going to have to dock your pay?”
“You don’t pay me. And Sam was in the military. Afghanistan, correct?”
Sam clenches his fists and rolls his neck. He’s a live wire, that one. And sketchy. There’s something off about him. Take his ink, for example. I have sleeves of my own, but mine are all peaceful and harmonious. Sam’s are all about death and destruction and skulls and blood. Super disturbing.
That said, he’s a fricking genius with code. He can build anything. And hack anything. I worked with him on a web project, and he broke into my computer one day when I was at lunch, claiming I didn’t give him the right files. I was furious. He claimed my password is too easy. After that, I changed it to Fischerisafuckingasshole.
Skip rubs his hands together like Mr. Burns on The Simpsons. “Excellent, Fischer. You can build booby traps for the other team and bury land mines and shit like that.” He turns to Preeti. “What about you, intern? Where are your wintery skills?”
She stuffs a pencil in her tight black bun. “I’m from southern India.”
“Can’t you do anything besides crunch numbers?”
“I was the captain of my field hockey team.”
“Hmm.” Skip rubs his chin like he’s trying to imagine our uptight MBA candidate sprinting down a field. Then he stands and waltzes to the door. “I’ve got a meeting with our hot PR chick. She’s steering the ship while I’m in Colorado. Okay, kids, brainstorm away. I want wintery magical ad concepts before we leave on Friday.”
Instead, we stare at the chart without speaking.
Avery moans.
My phone vibrates with a notification from my quote-of-the-day app. “Do not dwell in the past, do not dream of the future, concentrate the mind on the present moment.”
Holy shit, it’s like Buddha himself is watching this scene unfold.
Fine. That’s exactly what I’ll do. Concentrate on the present. This is just an ordinary business trip. No big deal. So what if it happens to be in that horrible place? Wherever you go, there you are.
Except right now. Right now, I’m in hell.
TWO
Charlie Is Dog Tired
Eli’s Mixtape: Gyft, “They Just Don’t Know”
ORION AGENCY, DENVER, COLORADO
THAT ICKY VOICE POPS UP. It’s Monday. You’re still at work at 10:00 p.m., and now you’re hunting for dick. You need help, Charlotte.
I ignore my inner nag and swipe right on two guys. Hopefully, they’ll message me back tonight.
Not that I can get down and dirty, with my shoulder. Two weeks ago, I dislocated it hang gliding. Normally it doesn’t bother me that much, but I’ve spent all day in front of my computer, putting the final touches on my campaign for the pitch next week, and now it has its own heartbeat.
My border collie, Julius Seizure, paws my leg. I lay on the floor with him and pet his furry belly. That’s what I love about owning my own ad agency; I get to bring my dogs to work.
L.L. Drool J, my St. Bernard, scoots over and licks my hand. My three-legged husky gets in on the action.
While they’re stealing all the attention, Thom Yorkie, my five-pound, one-eyed killer, yaps at my office door.
My stomach clenches. I know who’s on the other side.
My operations manager, Alan, waltzes into my office uninvited. “Calm down, dude, I’m just bringing your mom dinner.” He holds up two bags.
“Taco Bueno,” I cry. “I love you!”
Rapid blinking amazement appears on his face.
Great, now I’ll never get rid of him. I stupidly used the L-word. Alan takes that word very seriously.
I roll over on all fours, forgetting about my injured limb. The pain hits my head first, and I almost pass out.
Alan drops the bags on my desk and rushes over. “Why aren’t you wearing the sling?”
“I’m a graphic designer. Can’t do my job with it on.”
He moves behind me. “I’ll give you a massage.”
And there goes my appetite.
I never should have slept with him. A blizzard hit Denver over Thanksgiving weekend, and I was stuck at home with no license, after my DUI. Out of sheer loneliness, I ended up in bed with him. Afterward, he professed his undying love for me.
“From the moment I met you, I wanted you,” he’d said, after giving me mediocre head.
It was all so horribly cliché.
After sleeping with him, a compilation of his endless good deeds over the years played through my mind. He takes care of my dogs when I’m out of town, which is huge considering Thom Yorkie bites him. Every. Single. Time.
There was the time he left his sister’s wedding to change my flat tire.
Another time, he insisted on cleaning up the poo water in my bathroom after my septic tank backed up.
Who does that?
In case you were wondering, “a good friend” is the wrong answer.
As we speak, he’s regarding me with the same intensity as my dogs—all of them desperate for my taco.
The morning after “the incident,” I set him straight. “I don’t do relationships.” Not after dating that man whose name begins with E and ends in piece-of-shit.
God, I didn’t even think of his full name, and I’m irate.
Anyway, after I told Alan the part about no relationships, it was like a nuclear bomb blew off his face. We’re talking major devastation. So I softened the blow. “Let’s not rush into anything.”
“I’m not going anywhere,” he told me.
I’m not going anywhere. Has a creepy ring to it, doesn’t it?
Ever since “the incident,” I’ve been avoiding him. I work all day with my door closed. If this keeps up, I’ll have to work from a remote island.
And that’s precisely what I plan to do when I win this pitch. I haven’t taken a vacation in years. I’m tired of owning an agency. I’m tired of being a boss. I’m just tired.
I haven’t told a soul, but once I win Proton Sports’ new business, I’m getting out of here. Grayson Advertising wants to buy me out. The problem is Grayson needs to see a higher profit margin. They don’t want to lay off staff or pay creditors during the acquisition.
This new business is my ticket out of here. It’s the extra boost I need to sell this joint.
My godparents, Burt and Art, own Proton. We already handle their retail business. This adult camp is a side-venture of theirs. If it does well, they plan to expand. It’s a huge opportunity, and also why I’ve been working so hard on the campaign.
I don’t know why I’m bothering. We’re a shoo-in to win this business. The Orion Agency caters to the sports and outdoor market. It’s what differentiates us from Shimura, the rival agency. They
won an award for an RV campaign a year or so ago, but they don’t have anywhere near the amount of experience we do.
This pitch will be a piece of cake. And once we win, I’m out of here. Out of this office. Out of this state. Out of this country. Out of this world. I want a clean slate and fresh memories. I want an adventure. I want to live again.
I want to get off my Prozac.
But no one else knows that.
“Miss Perky.” That’s what my receptionist, Christine, calls me. “I pray to Jesus every night that he’ll make me as happy as you.”
I’m pretty sure Jesus doesn’t take personal requests. Otherwise, my family would still be alive.
My receptionist is a little obsessed with the Lord. But after running through secretaries like toilet paper at a beer festival, I’m totally cool with her saying “grace” at the vending machine.
Speaking of machines, Christine is one. Her athletic prowess is going to help me win this pitch.
Proton asked me to put together a team of eight “sporty” people for the pitch, and she’s number one. Alan’s number two.
I know what you’re thinking, why invite a man who drives me insane to Breckenridge for two weeks? I’ll tell you why: his parents ran a camp in the Catskills for ten years. I need his first-hand knowledge. He’s a kick-ass skier, too. And he’s also breathing down my neck. Ick.
I back my chair away from him.
He picks up a notepad on my desk and reads it out loud. “Joy, Duffy, Stanley, Wang, Christine…Is this the final team list?”
I snatch back my notepad. Just because he’s been in my vagina doesn’t mean he has the right to riffle through my things. “Yep.”
“This ought to be interesting,” he says.
Ain’t that the truth.
Maybe I can manufacture a sudden case of herpes to get rid of him. Except that would be the immaculate infection, since I’ve never slept with anyone without condoms and a stiff birth control pill prescription.
“I better get the boys home,” I tell him.
“Let me drive you. It’s snowing.”
A few months ago, I lost my license in a drunk-driving accident. It was stupid, and I’m lucky I didn’t hurt anyone. I had a few happy hour drinks and slid on a patch of ice. Totaling my car was no fun. Neither was spending the night in jail.
Alan had to bail me out. Another reason why I’m indebted to him.
Good thing I only live three blocks away from the office, otherwise I’d have to take him up on the offer. “No, thanks,” I say. “The boys and I prefer to walk.” And I can’t stand your hands on me—they’re like a swarm of mosquitos. “Goodnight.”
“Night,” he mumbles and slump-walks away like Charlie Brown after getting a rock in his trick-or-treat bag.
Outside, I slosh through the dirty snow to my loft. Once there, I don’t bother to turn on the lights. I just crawl into bed with the wet dogs and stare into blackness until I fade out.
THREE
Eli Goes Home
Eli’s Mixtape: Mike Watt, “E-Ticket Ride”
OUTSIDE OF BRECKENRIDGE, COLORADO
We’re in the van to Breckenridge and Skip tells the driver to stop in front of a marijuana dispensary. “Anyone need anything?”
Avery looks like she’s ready to fight Skip to the death. “You are not stopping this van to buy drugs. Can’t you see my child is upset?”
“You’re kidding?” he says dryly. “That sweet angel who didn’t stop screaming the whole flight is upset?”
She stabs a finger at him. “Not one word. Not one complaint from you. This is your fault.”
“I’m not complaining. I’m medicating.” Skip opens the door and gets out. “BRB.”
I’m not a pot guy, but I sure could use a little natural anxiety medication right about now. Flying next to Sabrina was a real treat. After four hours of her begging to get back together, it feels like someone hacked open my skull with an ax.
Or it could be this place. My first glimpse of those snow-capped purple peaks brought back every single crushing moment of my tortured youth.
Home is where the broken heart is.
Forty years later, Skip jumps back in the van with a lawn and leaf bag-sized sack of weed.
Avery scoffs. “What is that? Like a grand worth of drugs?”
My boss narrows his eyes to black slashes. “Thou shalt not throw stones at grass houses, Miss ‘Candy Hoarder’ Adams.”
She gasps. “Are you calling me fat?”
“No, I’m calling you judgy.” Skip sits next to her kid and waves a brownie in front of his face. “Want some cake, little boy?”
Avery snatches the brownie. “Are you even human?”
“That’s a real brownie, Adams, not an edible.”
“The hell it is.”
“I’m serious. Try it.”
“Cake. Cake!” chants her kid.
“Avery, I swear it’s not laced.”
She unwraps the brownie, sniffs it, and takes a tiny bite. “Tell Skip thank you, Austin.”
“Tank you, Austin!” says the kid. For a two year old, he’s a pretty smart little dude.
We arrive at the place twenty minutes later.
“Holy moly, this isn’t like the camp I went to,” Jerry mutters as he yanks his four-ton suitcase out of the van. “I was expecting teepees.”
The sprawling lodge is decked out with sparkling Christmas lights and big pine wreaths with bright red bows. It’s three stories high and built like a log cabin. In the distance, there’s a lake and a barn and a vast sea of white.
“Okay, smiles everyone, smiles,” Skip says with zero excitement.
Sam bounces and rubs his arms. “It’s cold as balls up here.”
“This is nothing,” I tell him. “When the sun goes down, it’ll drop forty degrees.”
His teeth chatter. “Hope they have dark liquor to warm me up.”
We trudge up the icy walkway and ring the doorbell. A minute later, a stocky, leathery man with a gray buzz cut, a gray flannel shirt, gray jeans, and suspicious gray eyes opens the door. He’s wearing pink bunny slippers. “I’m not interested in the teachings of Christ,” he says in a Clint Eastwood-bad-guy-gruff and slams the door.
Skip backs out and looks at the address. “Did our driver ditch us at the wrong place?”
Avery’s kid starts to cry.
The door swings open, and a hefty bald man steps out. “Burt’s just messin’ with you guys. Come on in and get warm by the fire. I’m Art, the co-owner of Proton.” He shakes everyone’s hands. “Just leave everything here in the lobby. Our camp counselor, Malcolm, will haul everything to your rooms, later.”
“Oh, no, I won’t,” someone—presumably Malcolm— shouts from another room. “I jacked up my back hauling firewood.”
All of us don big, client-facing faux grins. Nothing wrong here. This is all perfectly normal.
We follow the two men into a mammoth den. On the ceiling, the pink sunset shimmers through the skylights. A ginormous stone fireplace takes up an entire wall. Rustic leather couches and sheepskin chairs face a crackling fire. Above the mantel there’s a pink stuffed buffalo head that looks like a Muppet.
Art catches me staring at it. “In the other room, we have a purple pleather rhinoceros head to go with it. My friend in Grand Junction makes them.”
“Awesome,” I lie. This is what you do in front of a potential client, lie and pretend you’re having a great time with a pink buffalo head at an isolated winter camp with seven coworkers.
Art chuckles and steps in front of Avery. “Who do we have here? Is this Austin?” He tickles the little boy’s quivering chin. “You look like you could use some hot chocolate with marshmallows.” He holds out his hand. “May I?”
Austin hides behind her legs.
“Oh, I don’t know,” she says. “He’s had a lot of sugar. He’s a little wild right now.”
“Aw, all boys are wild,” Art says in a baby voice.
“Bad man,” Austin
says.
“Take the kid to the kitchen, Adams,” Skip tells her.
She smiles back a silent “fuck you” and coaxes her boy in that direction.
Burt swaggers over, looking like he’s about to pistol-whip some sense into me. He grips my hand in a death squeeze and scrunches his face up like he’s staring at the sun. He’s six inches shorter, but seems ten feet taller.
“How was the flight?” he asks.
I yank my hand. He won’t let go. “Fine. Good. Great.”
“I wasn’t asking you, Bearded Clam.”
I dart my gaze around the room. “Did you just call me—?”
“Bearded Clam? You bet your ass I did. What’s that fur on your face? Think you’re one of them hipsters?”
First of all, I hate the word hip. Only people who aren’t hip use that word. Second of all, it’s not like I’m Gandalf. My beard is more like scruff. And if I didn’t have it, I’d look like a teenager instead of a thirty-one-year-old man.
I pry his fatal grip off of me. “Great place you have here.”
“Blah, blah, blah. Quit your yapping, girly man.”
I glance at my coworkers. They look equally perplexed.
“Malcolm!” Burt shouts, still glaring at me.
A man with bright red hair limps out with a hand on his back. “Stop yelling, old man.”
“Malcolm’s the head counselor here.”
“More like the head slave,” he mumbles.
Burt squints at him. “Take these folks to their rooms so they can freshen up. We’ll meet downstairs at seventeen hundred and go over everything when the other team gets here.” He stabs a finger at me. “Maybe think about shaving that vagina off your face, Princess.”
Did Skip dose me between here and the weed store? This can’t be real.
Upstairs, Malcolm points down a hallway. “Pick any room you want. I’ll let you fight over the ones with private decks and hot tubs.” He holds out his hand for a tip.
Jerry slaps Malcolm’s hand. “Thanks, man. Appreciate it.”
The camp counselor regards Jerry as if he’s the most rancid-smelling man alive.
Field-Tripped Page 2
