I hand the guy a five, and he bows with no trouble then limps down the stairs holding his back.
Skip takes me aside. “St. James, what’s up with Pale Rider downstairs? You know him from somewhere? Why’s he giving you hell?”
“No idea, man.”
“He does kind of look like Dirty Harry,” Jerry says.
“Shut it, Jerry, no one asked you,” Skip grumbles.
“Back in India,” Preeti chimes in, “Dirty Harry’s voice is dubbed with a high-pitched old man who sounds like he’s missing a testicle.” She cracks up.
Skip blank-faces her.
She shrugs.
Skip pinches his chin. “Dirty Harry’s problemo with St. James presents a challenge. New plan: I want the ladies to charm the bunny slippers off that guy, and keep Pale Rider’s mind off St. James. St. James, you stay away from him. Maybe shave off that beard.”
“Screw that guy. I’m not shaving off my beard.”
Skip strolls down the hall, dragging his luggage and bag of pot. “I’m betting door number eight has a hot tub with my name on it. See you kids in a bit, after I get nice and baked.”
I choose door number one, which unfortunately does not have a hot tub. It does, however, have a private deck that faces the lake. I slide open the door and step outside.
Off in the distance, a woman with long brown hair and a red knit beanie slogs through knee-high snow with four dogs bouncing behind her. One dog only has three legs, but it doesn’t slow him down. A tiny squirrel of a dog runs behind him, yapping like crazy.
I shiver. Something about her reminds me of Charlie and her crew of strays.
Colorado is full of ghosts, and they are going to haunt me this whole trip.
On the bed is Proton’s survival guide. I crack open chapter one and read.
“Many survival sagas begin with lost campers.”
Survival Tip: Sometimes a collision occurs without warning, but in most instances, there is a premonition that something is about to happen.
Eli’s Mixtape: Twenty One Pilots, “Stressed Out”
AFTER A QUICK NAP, I amble downstairs to the den. The rest of my agency, minus one sleeping toddler, is spread out on the leather sectional on one side of the room. Our competition, the Orion Agency, is seated across from us.
They seem like the typical ad agency peeps: unapproachably smug and, dare I say, hip?
A studious-looking Asian guy with glasses is parked next to a Goth girl with gobs of eye makeup. Another dude with a long, gray ponytail is sitting cross-legged on the floor. Big surprise, he’s wearing a Grateful Dead shirt.
A woman with corded muscles like a bodybuilder reclines next to the Deadhead, fingering her cross and mumbling to herself. One of these things is not like the others.
One guy is staring out the window. Brown hair, brown eyes, khaki pants—he’s got to be the accountant.
Another happy-go-lucky lanky man is standing by the fireplace. There’s no way that guy works in creative. He’s probably an account manager.
The guy at the window steps next to Proton’s owners. “This place is incredible. When are you planning on opening it up to the public?”
“Sit down, Alan, you ass kisser,” Burt says.
Apparently, I’m not the only one Pale Rider has a problem with. And the guy doesn’t have a beard.
“Where’s your fearless leader?” Art asks the other agency.
A herd of dogs bounds up on the deck outside.
Art turns to the sliding glass door. “Ah, there she is, with her hellhounds.”
The woman from the lake backs in and stomps her feet on the mat. The dogs run past her and shake out their wet coats.
“Sorry, I’m late,” she says. “My useless sled-dog refused to pee in the snow.” She laughs at the absurdity.
The sound of her voice is like metal crunching in a car wreck.
That voice. It belongs to the same woman who sliced out my heart ten years ago.
A scarf covers her face, but I don’t need to see it. It’s her.
Charlie.
My body breaks out in a cold sweat as I watch her unravel her scarf like I’m watching a scene in a horror movie.
She removes her coat and hat and shakes out her long gingerbread mane. The same wispy flyaway strands float down her rosy cheeks. And her eyes are still the color of warm maple syrup.
The last time I saw her, they were vacant, almost black.
I’m paralyzed.
One of her dogs toddles over, wagging its tail, and buries its nose in my crotch.
I still can’t move.
“Julius Seizure! Bad boy.” She springs over with the same bouncy tomboy gate. “Sorry, he’s got a thing for men’s crotches —” Then her gaze smashes into mine.
Everything inside me dries out and twists into barbed wire.
She brings a trembling hand to her mouth. “Elliott.”
Then she bolts off, leaving me fighting for air.
FOUR
Charlie Meets A Boy
August 1995
TODAY, Weiner brought home a boy named Elliott St. James. I like his blond hair and blue eyes. He looks like a Ken doll. Sir-Farts-A-Lot won’t stop humping his leg. Dogs are an excellent judge of character.
February 1996
Elliott gave me a Valentine’s Day card. It said ‘Be Mine.’ I told him I was already his.
He turned as red as the heart on the card.
FIVE
Charlie Goes Bald
Eli’s Mixtape: Blur, “Song 2”
IF THERE WERE an Olympic event in body hair removal, I would have just crushed the competition. I have never shaved so fast in my life, as evidenced by the seventy-three bloody toilet paper wads around the sink.
I didn’t bring makeup. I didn’t bring a hairbrush! I was trying to look as ugly as possibly so Alan would leave me alone.
All I packed were sports bras and ugly period panties. And sweatpants. I don’t even wear sweatpants. I bought them at Wal-Mart just for this event. My clothes are old and comfy and totally ugly.
What was I thinking? I’m going to have to go shopping. Maybe Malcolm will sneak me out of here and drive me to Vail.
This is not happening. My ex-boyfriend is not downstairs.
His hair is just as thick and blond as it was in college. And he’s just as fit and muscular as he was when he was training for the Olympics. He has a beard now, and more tattoos, but that’s the only difference. If anything, he’s more handsome.
How dare he look so good! Why couldn’t he have gotten bald or fat?
Did he have a ring? What if he’s married? This is a nightmare.
I’ve been telling myself he was dead. That was the only way I could accept it. But, oh, no. He’s alive and downstairs, sipping sherry by the fire. Or drinking beer. Or whatever.
That bastard! When I get a hold of him, he’s going to wish he were dead.
In the mirror, a beast of a woman finger combs her hair with wild jazz hands. This is a disaster. I’m a disaster. I’m hyperventilating.
I slump to the floor and put my head between my knees.
Listen up, Charlotte! You will not let that Nordic obstacle get in your way. You will win this competition, no matter what. You are successful. You are talented. And you are carefree and bubbly.
I get up and hide the bottle of Prozac in my nightstand.
And you will not look at him.
Don’t look at him, I remind myself on the way to the living room. His crystal blue gaze is as dangerous as Medusa’s.
I flash a thousand-watt fake smile around the room and plunk down next to Christine. “Sorry, I’m late. Thanks for waiting.”
The head camp counselor, Malcolm, passes around a plate of chocolate chip cookies.
I take one and smash it into paste.
“Let’s get started,” Burt says. “First off, Camp Proton is a digital-free zone. Let your people know they can call the front desk if there’s an emergency, because we’re taking your
devices.”
A roar of displeasure erupts around the room.
Burt rubs fakes tears from his eyes. “What a bunch of wussies. Can’t communicate without technology? Wah!”
“That guy’s kind of a dick,” Joy whispers. My art director’s personality doesn’t match her name. We call her Eeyore around the agency, because she’s ever the complainer. That said, she’s an amazing web designer.
“It’s just an act,” I tell her. That man is as soft as they come.
Art flips over a dry-erase board and taps it with his knuckles. “Breakfast, lunch, and dinner will be at these hours in the dining hall. Scoreboard’s over in the corner. At the end of the retreat, the team with the most points wins the business.”
Malcolm showcases the team names like Vanna White on Wheel of Fortune.
Wang raises his hand. “Are those Bitmojis?”
“You like?” Malcolm asks.
“No,” Elliott says.
Personally, I love his avatar. Nothing’s more fabulous than seeing your ex on a stripper pole with deely boppers. Serves him right.
On the other team, a stunning man, who must be Skip, based on the avatar, wanders over to the chart. “Why are you keeping score? What about our campaigns?”
“Shimura, I don’t care about your pretty pictures and headlines,” Burt tells him.
So he is Skip Shimura. He doesn’t look like he’s from New York at all. He looks more like he belongs in Boulder with his black, floppy anime haircut.
Burt continues his rant. “Any old agency can come up with that crap. I want to know your personalities and how well you work together. I want to know your strengths and weaknesses and how innovative you can be in the face of a challenge.”
“But you already know us,” my account manager says. Stanley is a six-foot-seven sweetheart and a single dad. His daughter is deaf. He’s the most patient man alive.
I love Stanley, but I think my account manager’s pleasant personality grates on Burt’s nerves.
“I don’t know anything about you, flower petal. My marketing manager throws work in your lap, and you make pretty pictures. That’s all I know.”
Art takes a gentler approach. “Proton is already the number one sports retailer in the nation. The company runs itself. But this lodge is our retirement dream. It’s where we want to grow old together.”
Burt blushes and continues. “So now you know what’s at stake.”
A guy on the other team, who looks like he just stepped off the set of the Sopranos, speaks up. “Youse guys are gay?”
Burt puffs out his chest. “You got a problem with that?”
The guy salutes Burt. “No, sir. It’s just you’re really… masculine.”
“Shut.Your.Mouth.Jerry.” Shimura looks like he’s going to take that meathead out.
“So what exactly are we doing here, Burt, if we’re not presenting our campaign?” Alan asks.
An evil grin breaks out on Burt’s face. “We’re gonna have you go through the program and play all the games, just like regular campers.”
Elliott straightens. “What?”
“You heard me, Bearded Clam.”
A nervous giggle bursts out of me. I flick a glance at Elliott.
He’s staring right at me.
My stomach flutters, and involuntarily, I smile.
He turns away.
I keep the smile pasted to my face.
“So tonight,” Burt says, “we’ll celebrate the opening ceremonies at dinner. Then at oh-eight-hundred tomorrow, we’ll have us some fun.” He winks at me, glances at Elliott, then back at me.
Burt doesn’t know about my ex, otherwise I’d think he was up to something.
“Uh, like, when is oh-eight-hundred?” asks a supermodel on the other team. She’s tall, blonde, perfect, and the polar opposite of me. And she works with Elliott. And she’s practically sitting on his lap. They’re together.
I grab my stomach. Why is this happening to me?
“What’s up with all the hot people on that team?” Joy whispers. “Do they have to take head shots to work there? Look at that lumber-sexual blond guy on the end. He looks like he’d be a fantastic lay.”
He is. A phenomenal lay. “Joy, pay attention, please.”
“Oh, I am.” She waves at Elliott.
He wipes a hand across his mouth like he’s sandpapering a wood floor.
Christine leans in. “Jesus is watching you, Joy.”
Joy grabs her tits and jiggles them at Christine. “Is he watching this?”
I slump down in my seat. Calgon, take me away. Or better yet, where’s the hard liquor in this joint? I need a cocktail ASAP.
My brazen hussy of an employee saunters over to Elliott and holds out a hand as if she was a queen and he should kiss it. “Joy. And you are?”
“Eli.” His voice is steady, manly, cheerful, nauseating. And he goes by Eli now, apparently.
That bastard.
While everyone mingles, I stare down at the cookie paste I’ve made.
Skip roams over and holds out a hand.
I show him the chocolaty mess.
His brows arch, probably because it looks like I’m playing with dog shit.
He sits and sighs. “So what are the chances we’ll actually steal this business from you?”
Honestly? They don’t have a prayer. But if he packs up and leaves, I’ll never see Elliott again. And I need to tell that prick a few things before he leaves. So I lie. “I’ll let you in on a secret. Burt’s marketing manager hasn’t been super pleased with us lately. We’re just as desperate to win this as you.” Well, that part is true.
“This shit’s stressing me out,” he says, not sounding the slightest bit stressed.
I glance at Elliott. “Me, too.”
SIX
Eli Meets A Little Brat
Patrick’s basement, Age 11
I WAS in the middle of an epic game of Space Invaders with my new friend, Patrick, when his bratty little sister stomped down the stairs and ripped the controller out of my hands.
“My turn, Weiner,” she said to her brother and reset the game.
“Get out of here, Squirt! Boys only. Sorry about my little sister.” Patrick nudged her out of the way.
That was a big mistake.
She hauled back and whacked her brother on the side of the head. “Sexist pig.”
“That’s your sister?” I couldn’t believe such a beautiful creature could be related to this guy. She was only a year younger than us, but seemed far older. For one thing, she was as tall as her brother. And the way she ordered him around wasn’t like any little sister I’d ever met.
She whipped a look at me, daring me to challenge her. “Who’s your new friend?”
“Elliott,” I told her.
“That’s a geeky name.”
“What’s your name?”
She stuck her nose in the air. “Charlie.”
“Charlie’s a boy’s name.”
She raised a fist. “Do I look like a boy?”
No, she didn’t. In fact, she was the cutest girl ever. But my reputation was at stake with her brother, so I made her an offer. “How about we make a bet,” I said. “You beat me, you stay.”
Patrick high-fived me. “No way she’ll beat you, man.”
She spit on her hand and held it out to seal the deal.
I glanced down at it.
She grabbed my hand and slapped it against her spitty palm. “Fire it up, Weiner.”
The plan was to let her win so she could stay, but that wasn’t necessary—she kicked my ass. And when she did, she danced around the room, wiggling her tiny butt and calling me loser.
“Want to stay for dinner?” she asked me later. “We’re having fried maggots.”
“In that case, count me in.”
After that, I let her beat me almost every afternoon, just so I could stare at her.
Survival Tip: Bad weather, poor communication, an injury—unexpected events such as these, can
end up a disaster. You must imagine the worst possible scenario on your journey, and prepare for it.
Eli’s Mixtape: Lean Year, “Come and See”
FOR THE REST of the night, I play a cool, professional game. It’s dumb jokes before dinner, polite small talk during, drinks and bullshitting later, friendly games of pool after that, and the whole time, I act like I’m not really stroking out.
I’m serious. The whole left side of my body is numb.
In fact, I’m hiding in the bathroom right now, trying to regain feeling by sitting on the toilet, scrolling through my Buddhist quote app before I have to give up my phone, searching for one that will apply to my situation. “Detachment means letting go, and non-attachment means simply letting be.”
What the fuck?
What am I going to do without my Buddhism app? I’m not going to survive.
Wait, that’s attachment.
My hand is shaking. I’m a little bitch. I’m a coward. I’m weak.
Charlie hasn’t changed at all. She’s still “the girl next door” meets “private school porn star.”
Always the walking contradiction—aloof yet affectionate, strong and soft, raw and cultured, sweet and dangerous, wild as hell and calm as…
Never mind. She’s not the slightest bit calm. In fact, she’s insane. I’m not kidding. The rest of it though, I’m not making it up. She’s a puzzle made up of a million pieces—impossible to figure out.
Okay, here’s what I’m going to do. I’ll go with the flow. For now, I’ll be Mr. Serene. I am a chill motherfucker from here on out.
My ex is not here. I won’t look at her. I won’t speak to her.
If anything, that’ll piss her off.
Serves her right.
When I vacate my hidey-hole, almost everyone has drifted off to bed. Including her.
Time to escape.
I slip on my boots and coat and head outside. Other than the snow crunching under my feet, the only sound is my racing thoughts.
Field-Tripped Page 3
