by Stacy Wise
“Wow. This looks really…amazing.” I hold the glass away from me and eye it the way I’d look at one of those disgusting quail egg and fish gut shooters they serve at sushi bars.
He takes a hearty gulp of his, emptying half the glass. “It looks funky, but it tastes good. You won’t notice the spinach.”
I put my lips to the glass and barely let the liquid hit my mouth. I’m surprised by the sweetness. “It’s not bad.”
He finishes his smoothie and runs the back of his hand across his mouth. “It’s great. So what’d the poisonous bug look like?”
“It was like a giant green leaf.”
He nods. “Ah, yes. The giant green-leaf-poison bugs. Lucky you got out alive. I hear they’re as bad as the brown recluse spider.”
“It could’ve been. You didn’t see it. The bug was freaking weird.”
“But you were the one rustling through its home. If you had stayed out of the bushes, it wouldn’t have been tempted to crawl on you.”
“I wouldn’t have been in its home if you had opened the door.”
“I’m just saying, most people wait on the front steps. They don’t start prowling around. You’re lucky the alarm wasn’t set. It alerts the police.”
Mustering all the good will I have, I smile at him. “You’re right. I’ll be more careful next time.” He eyes me with suspicion. Let him wonder what I’m up to. I don’t care.
“So, I meant to make a list of stuff for you to do, but I didn’t get to it. So, uh…shit.” He runs his hand through his hair, thinking. “You know what I really need help with? My compost tumbler.”
“Your what?”
“Compost tumbler. I did a film with Dylan Zane, and he sent it to me. I promised him I’d use it, but I haven’t found the time to get it going yet. Follow me. It’ll be easier if I show you.”
We traipse through the backyard, past the pool to a grassy area under some fruit trees. A large plastic barrel thing sits atop a curved base. It must be the tumbler. I’m getting a really bad feeling about this.
“Here we are.” He pats it like a prized sports car before rolling it open to reveal the interior, which, apparently, I’ll be stuffing with garbage. “The contents need to be turned every few days. Dylan said you do a few layers of food and then add a layer of leaves. Then you can add brown waste, like orange juice cartons and paper.”
Oh, thank God. I heard brown waste and…oh, blech. Never mind. He said orange juice cartons. No need to let my mind go down the road it was about to take.
With his foot, he taps a white ceramic box that sits next to the tumbler. “I was supposed to separate the green stuff into this but didn’t get to it. I’ll grab the bags for you, and you can have at it.”
Have at old, smelly garbage? Hell. That’s what this job is. I’ve gone straight to hell. He disappears for a moment, only to return with two bulging trash bags, setting them next to me. God only knows what rot inhabits them. “Do you wear gloves for this, or something? I’d rather not use my bare hands.”
Mumbling words I can’t quite make out, he stalks back to the house. As I wait, I unknot the bag and ease it open. Before I can peer inside, Jack returns with a box of surgical gloves.
“I was expecting gardening gloves.”
He shrugs. “I don’t know if I have any. These were in my first aid kit.”
I flash a tight smile. “Super. Thanks.”
Glancing down at what looks like an instruction sheet, he begins rattling off directions. “Browns, like I said, are paper and cardboard or any cartons. You have to cut the cartons down. And you can’t put any glass or metal in there. No meat or dairy, either. I’ll leave this with you to refer to,” he says, handing me the paper. “After you do it a few times, it should become pretty intuitive. Marnie says you’re smart.” He returns to the house, and I snap on the gloves, wishing I could wad up his stupid instructions and chuck them at his head.
I open the first bag wide and whip my head away, my senses assaulted by a horrid stench. Death. Oh, God. What if there really is something dead in the bag? I step away from it, pacing in circles and taking short breaths, like athletes do before running a race. There’s nothing dead in the bag, I reassure myself. There can’t be. But I don’t want to know what makes up Jack McAlister’s garbage. I don’t want to touch his leftover kale or spinach or tofu or whatever shit he eats. I face the bags. You better not be filled with pig poop. I begin reviewing my options. And then it hits me—tongs! If I use tongs, I won’t have to touch anything. The thin layer of latex doesn’t seem substantial enough for this job. I jog to the patio area and find tongs in the barbeque cabinet. As I return to the scene, I snap them like an angry crab at the garbage.
“If you really are filled with freaking pig poop, I’m leaving. Seriously. I’ll walk right out of here,” I mutter to the bag.
Holding my breath, I pinch a side of the bag and peer inside. A heap of maggoty stuff taunts me, and my body stiffens as I wait for it to move. When it doesn’t, I jab at it with the tongs. Nothing. It could be rice. Some of it tumbles down to an aluminum take-out container full of barf. Or Mexican leftovers. Maybe it’s only leftovers. I poke the container and shift it to the side of the bag, revealing a half-eaten pickle and a chicken carcass. I snap the tongs around the pickle. That’s gotta be a green. I lift it out of the bag as if I’m playing Operation. It was my favorite game as a kid. I’ll just pretend that I’m removing the frog in the throat. It’ll make this a lot easier. The pickle slips from the tongs and plunks onto the ground, juices splattering. I jump back. Jack should’ve given me a butcher’s apron and goggles. And a freaking hazmat suit.
With fierce determination, I go back in, sorting through the muck with my tongs. A Chinese take-out container is stained with what I hope is soy sauce. It looks like an easy grab. I fit my tongs around it, and the contents burst through the bottom of the container. Damn. I must’ve squeezed too hard. And now I have to look at slimy vegetables and noodles slurping their way down the bag. This is hopeless. A horrid realization hits me—I have to use my hands.
From somewhere deep within, a little voice says, You can do this. Just plow through it, and you’ll be done. It’s not as bad as dissecting the sheep’s eye in my middle school science class. Gah! Why did my mind have to go there? Now I feel like I can smell formaldehyde.
I plunge back in and pinch a moist banana peel and a squishy heel of bread out of the bag and set them in the tumbler. Moving quickly is the only way this hell will end. I reach into the bag and pull out something rubbery. I yank open my grasp, cursing my decision to lose the tongs, and let the offending glob fall to the ground. Ew. It’s the fat that was trimmed off meat, and it’s dripping. I drop it into an extra trash bag and try to pretend it never happened. And just moments ago, I thought eggshells were bad. I can’t take this anymore. I’ll find one last brown and be done. Grimacing, I reach in and find something resembling a business card. After shaking off the soy sauce, I see it’s a small gift card, like you’d see on a bouquet of flowers if it weren’t so filthy. In smeared but neat printing it says, A pig for a pig. His name is Leo. Have fun. Candice.
“You’re reading my trash?”
Oh, shit. Was he standing there watching the entire time? “No. I…”
Jack grabs the note from me with his bare hand and crumples it. “Stay out of my business. I thought I made that clear.”
My body stiffens. I look at the gloved, sludge-covered globs of nastiness that are my hands. How. Dare. He. I hold my arms away from me, zombie style. “Excuse me. Aren’t you the one who requested I go through your trash? Because I certainly wouldn’t come up with this idea on my own. Your freaking note was in my hand so I could put it in the compost pile, where it belongs. It’s a brown.”
Jack takes a slow swig from a bottle of green stuff. I have to look away. It resembles the foulness of my hands.
“It looked like you were snooping.”
“Oh, right. Because I care about what’s in your garbage. Do y
ou even know what I just touched? Fat.” I stare at him, daring him to say it’s no big deal. “That’s right. Raw, uncooked, congealed animal fat.” I pause, letting the horror of my words sink in. “Sort your own fucking trash,” I mutter under my breath and start to pull the glove off my left hand.
Something about touching the slime-covered latex gets to me. Sweat beads on my forehead. My body is doing things I really can’t let it do right now. Turning my head to the side, I rip off the gloves, but it doesn’t stop me from gagging. In a panic, I race to the house and plow into the kitchen. I flick on the kitchen faucet, sticking my mouth under it, gulping for water and praying it will make the queasiness subside. Jack followed me in—I can hear him standing there, tapping his fingers on the counter. So what if I look like a crazy person. I’ll do anything to keep from barfing. He sets a clean white dishtowel on the counter next to me. “Are you going to faint on me? Do I need to be worried?”
I splash water on my face one last time and finish scrubbing my hands and arms with the geranium hand soap that sits so prettily on the counter, before grabbing the towel and patting my face dry. “I’m not going to faint.” I set the towel on the counter and cringe at the black smears across it. Shoot. “Do I have mascara all over my face?”
“If you’re talking about all the black shit that’s below your eyes, then yeah.”
I glare at him and dampen the towel before gently rubbing it below my eyes as he watches me. “What? I’ll get you a new towel.”
“Did you really tell me to sort my own fucking trash? Or did I imagine that?”
“Yeah. I guess I did. Sorry.”
He nods and tries to adopt a stern look, but amusement begs to take its place. I swear, if he thinks, for even a second, about laughing, I might accidentally punch him.
“This isn’t funny. I didn’t mean to read the card, but it was in my hand. I also know that you buy your orange juice at Whole Foods and that you use brown eggs. All things I couldn’t care less about, but I would have to be some sort of idiot not to notice. I can’t sort with my eyes closed. God knows it’s bad enough to touch the stuff for a second. I don’t want to roll it around in my hands, trying to decipher what it is.”
Jack looks down and then back at me. I’m startled by what I see in his eyes. He almost seems sorry, but then, he’s an actor. He can turn it on and off as needed.
“Just, stay out of my shit, okay?”
“Not a problem. I’m all for living green, but that was obscene. I don’t mean to point out the obvious, but if you had put the food waste in the white container, and the recyclables in another bin, and trash in yet another, the composting would’ve been totally easy.”
“I’ll keep that in mind. In the meantime, I think I’ll dump the bags and start over next week. Maybe my gardener can deal with it.”
My phone dings with a text. I pull it out of my purse and glance at the screen. It’s from Meg. Dinner tonight?
Jack looks at me. “What’s that?”
“It’s just my phone.”
“Are you already texting your friends about your job here?”
Seriously? “Sorry to break it to you, but there’s nothing newsworthy about sorting your trash. I suppose I could tell my friends that I almost barfed…”
He looks at me, frustration painted across his face. “Just be straight up. Is that about me?”
“No. It’s dinner plans.” I hold my phone out for him. “See?”
He glances at the text. “Megahot?”
I stifle a laugh. Meg changed her name in my contacts from Meg to Megahot. I’ll have to remember to congratulate her on her charming wit. “It’s just a friend.”
He raises an eyebrow at me, clearly not believing that Megahot is just a friend. “Fair enough.”
Chapter Seven
I scroll down the page I have open. Curiosity got the best of me, and I’m trolling the internet for information on my boss. He was born on May 7, 1989, in Beaver Dam, Kentucky. Beaver Dam, Kentucky? That has to be the most ridiculous name for a city I’ve ever heard. I can only imagine what kind of town it is—a far cry from the glamour of Hollywood. Well, that’s an interesting bit of news. I assumed he grew up in California and got his start on a Disney show. It seems like that’s how every actor or singer gets his start, but I know it’s not possible. He has a sister, Janelle, and a brother named Johnny. I scroll down a bit further and land on a section entitled, “Fast Facts.”
Participated in Stand Up to Cancer events. Generously donates to pediatric cancer research.
In high school was a member of the debate team and swim team.
Favorite novel is The Catcher in the Rye by J.D. Salinger
I type “Stand Up to Cancer” in a Google search when I hear Meg’s keys opening the door.
“Hiya,” she calls. “I was thinking we should do sushi instead of Mexican. Ethan and I are having drinks after our dinner, and I don’t want to be all full from Mexican food. Is that cool with you?”
“Sure. Sushi sounds good.” I shut my laptop. “You must like Ethan. Isn’t going out with a new guy two nights in a row breaking all your rules?”
“Yes, but this is different.” She dumps her purse and keys on the coffee table, barely missing my new ceramic pigs with her big bag. Unaware of the nearly fatal collision, she flops onto the sofa. “We had a great time last night. It’s cool he asked me out again, but I don’t want him to get too comfortable.”
“And agreeing to go out with him tonight isn’t going to give him a sense of security?”
“Oh, I’m sure he’s thinking that now.” Her Cheshire Cat smile spreads across her face as she stretches her arms above her head.
I laugh. “Oh, no. What do you have planned?”
“Moi?” She giggles. “Well, he did mention that a group of friends from his office are going to meet up. I may find myself flirting with a coworker or two. Works like a charm every time.”
“I feel sorry for poor Ethan. He has no idea what he’s up against.”
“What?” She feigns innocence. “He’ll feel the thrill of victory when he finally wins me over. Men love to win. It’s perfect.”
“If he wins you over.”
“Exactly.” A smug look covers her face. “Now get showered. We’re leaving in a half hour. And you better have on some rockin’ heels!”
Meg leans forward, placing both elbows on the small table. “So, what was he like today? Is he as hot in real life as he is in his movies?”
“Oh, please. You’re the one who came up with the ridiculous pictures yesterday. You know what he looks like.”
“Well, yeah, on film, but not in person. Is he short? A lot of actors are teeny-tiny, like itty-bitty garden gnomes.”
The idea of Jack as a garden gnome makes me chuckle. Come to think of it, I’d probably enjoy him a lot more if he were a statue. “No, he’s pretty tall.”
She stares at me, eyes wide. “Go on.”
“Go on with what?”
She heaves an exaggerated sigh. “Describe. Is he tall and cute? Tall and hot? Tall and gangly? I need some details.”
“He’s attractive, I guess. He has a great jawline. Nice scruff. His eyes are out of this world. But his grouchy asshole tendencies overshadow all the good.”
Meg twirls a strand of her curly hair and looks at me from under her dark lashes. “All men can be moody. Maybe he’s not getting enough good sex right now.”
I practically spit out my water. “Are you kidding? He has more women than he knows what to do with. I’m sure he’s a million times worse than Jordan Kennedy.”
She waves a hand. “Jordan was a fucking dork who found some fame doing a lame sitcom and probably figured he had a limited amount of time to get all the chicks he could before his star power fell.” I give her a look. “Sorry, but it’s true. It’s unfortunate you got caught in the crossfire. Anyway, tabloids write scandalous shit about A-listers to sell magazines. Seriously. Like, how many times is Jennifer Aniston going to have a baby
bump before having a baby? Newsflash: she’s not pregnant.”
Francine Allen’s voice wafts into my brain: You see, everyone? Don’t always believe what you read in those magazines. Nonetheless, I still think Jack is as bad as the tabloids make him out to be. Maybe worse, because he’s mean on top of everything else. “Whatever. She may be the exception to the rule.”
“Doubtful. I think you should introduce Jack to me. I could calm him down for you. I’m sure he’d make a great fuck buddy.”
“That’s just gross.”
“Don’t be such a spoilsport. What’s the harm in me meeting him?”
“He didn’t even want to meet me. Maybe I’ll introduce you in a few months if he seems to be less paranoid.”
“Hmm. You seem possessive of him. Are you?”
“Possessive? No. Worried he’ll fire me? Yes. I’ll have to move back in with my parents if I lose this job. Think about that.”
“You can’t move. I’d miss you.” She grins, grabs a California roll from the tray in front of us, pops the entire thing into her mouth, and chews with her eyes closed. “I always forget how much I love sushi until I’m eating it. When I die, I want to be buried in a vat of sushi.”
“Disgusting.”
“Heavenly.”
“Only you, Meg. Only you.” I choose a California roll and slather wasabi on it. “So what’s Ethan like?”
“To be determined. Back to your boss.” She waves her ceramic soup spoon at me. “You shouldn’t fall for him. I don’t think it’s a good idea.”
“Don’t worry. Never going to happen.”
“I don’t want you to take this the wrong way, but he’s on a different level.”
“How could I take that the wrong way? Of course he is. He’s a star.”
“Exactly. He’s a top level.”
I know I shouldn’t ask, but I can’t help myself. “What’s that?”
“I thought we’ve discussed my theory of levels already, no?”
