by J. L. Salter
Either he ignored the dig or didn’t get it.
Amanda rolled her eyes discreetly. “Well, chills alternate with fever during a man-cold. Like a pendulum — half a degree hot, half a degree cold.”
“Felt like ordinary apartment air conditioning to me. Felt good. I even considered sleeping in the hallway.”
“Better not. Sometimes I’m way behind schedule in the mornings and I hit that hall running. I wouldn’t want to accidentally stomp on your pills with these heels.”
Jason moved his knees together without apparently realizing it. Instinctive.
She started to leave a second time, but Jason stopped her again. “Any chance you’ll be home by lunch? I sure could go for some Chinese take-out.”
Amanda shook her head. “Too much MSG.”
“I don’t care how much it costs. I’ll pay. I’m starving!”
“Monosodium glutamate, I think. With an illness like yours, that stuff is lethal. They’ll take you straight from the restaurant to the morgue.” Sorry, ‘Marty’.
On her way to work, Amanda stopped at a convenience store for gasoline, and bought a sausage biscuit with a sixteen-ounce coffee. And a Hershey bar to snack on later.
* * * *
The municipal building where Amanda worked had been originally on the square facing the courthouse, but had moved three-quarters of a mile east as the city had slowly conformed to the new dominant geographic feature — I-40. At one time that interstate was on the southern edge of the city, but now it was the relocated center. Most of the once-thriving retail businesses had drifted away from downtown and moved to the frontage roads, leaving many buildings vacant near the courthouse. Some of these had been razed to create parking lots for the numerous law offices which moved closer to court. Verdeville’s current downtown was mainly law, banking, and — at its eastern edge — city/county government. In the other direction was the county hospital, so that western half of old downtown had become doctors’ offices and diagnostic clinics. As such, reconfigured downtown thrived and parking was premium.
When she reached her building, slightly east of old downtown, Amanda entered with a punch code. It was closed on weekends, but HVAC systems were running. The elevators were also operable, but Amanda didn’t use them when she was possibly alone in the building. If anyone got stuck on a Saturday, it might be Monday before they were rescued.
She often took the stairs anyway, even on regular days. It helped exercise her legs and tighten her buns. Also worked off the chocolate bars. Plus, whenever King Louie irritated her to boiling point, those stairs helped release excess stress.
Her floor looked empty. In her office section, Amanda was by herself. Good! No Louis. Maybe she could get some work done this Saturday. She checked the blog first, however.
Predictably, men’s comments were still almost a hundred per cent in support of Marty. Several still wanted to smack Missy and Almira. Some protested that colds hit men harder because of their hormones. Some openly wondered how hard could it be to take care of a sick man? Ha!
Just as predictably, women’s comments were mostly on the side of Missy and the blog-creator Almira Gulch, a name Amanda still didn’t recognize. Most were rooting for them to cure Marty of this cold syndrome, for the betterment of all womankind.
A third large group seemed to be more speculators than spectators: They had links to a different blog running bets on how many days Marty could survive before he fled Missy’s apartment.
So much for their own blog. Next, Amanda clicked on the adjunct threads which had sprung up through links from the comments in their blog. She returned to the first they’d discovered, nicknamed Kick-Marty. That had gained over a dozen: Kick Marty Out — 37 was the most recent post.
She returned to the primary blog and clicked on a link to the Free-Marty serial which she’d just noticed yesterday, with a first-day tally of five. The newest chorus was Free Marty Now! – 19.
Back to the main blog. Apparently in response to that loosely knit thread, another blogger had turned attention on Missy. In the comments, this link to a new blog was tagged Lighten-Missy. The first-day tally was Lighten Up, Missy! – 03. Amanda wondered which thread would garner the most running votes.
She didn’t think about it very long, however. There were grant applications to wade through, so Amanda went to the staff lounge to make a pot of coffee.
She returned to her desk and kicked off her sneakers. No heels when she worked on weekends; she wore jeans and a golf shirt.
As she reached for the stack of unread grant proposals, Amanda paused to examine the two small frames on her desk. In one were two family photos: Amanda, her sister Kaye, and their parents in a candid pose, and a studio shot of Amanda’s only niece. The other frame featured two different views of Jason. One was a candid shot of Jason alone as he looked up from opening a gift. His eyes showed surprise at the flash and delight at the present, a gift certificate for the steakhouse buffet. Also obvious was Jason’s pure enjoyment of the moment, alone with Amanda for their first Christmas together. In the final photo, Jason’s arm around Amanda and Amanda’s hand lovingly on Jason’s chest. They both looked like they’d just arrived in Heaven.
Back when Jason was healthy.
* * * *
Jason sat on Amanda’s couch and stared at the late morning TV snow. That day’s experiment was holding down channel buttons for up to a full minute each. Good thing the wall clock had a second hand. He also clutched the unauthorized candy bar he’d very recently acquired at great expense. Jason figured he’d fantasize and drool for a few moments before savoring the chocolate treat.
But watching television snow was too boring, even for Jason. With no actual programming to click through, he tried looking out through the open windows while fanning himself with an issue of Oprah, curiously missing its cover.
It was about 86 degrees inside the apartment. Outside the window was a blooming crepe myrtle. Logically, little birds would perch in those branches and sing contentedly, which would provide at least some type of entertainment for a man recovering from grave illness.
“That constant yodeling probably chased all the birds away.” Jason looked around and realized he’d spoken out loud. “Not a good sign, Jason, old boy. Not a good sign.”
Just as he’d torn open his contraband candy bar and taken a single drooling bite, Jason heard voices outside the door. Then a key slid into the lock and turned the bolt. The door opened!
Two women entered noisily, chattering in Spanish. They had a small vacuum cleaner, plastic pail, mop, and a tote tray with cleansers, sponges, and rubber gloves. They wore smocks that looked like clothes for hospital ward staff.
Jason stood. “Uh, hold on.” He waved the candy bar in his right hand, while holding up his pajama bottoms with the left. “Amanda didn’t say anything about a cleaning crew. I think maybe you’ve got the wrong apartment.”
Cleaner A looked puzzled at first. Then she said “Ah…” and spoke in Spanish to Cleaner B. The second woman held up a key and smiled eagerly.
Jason sputtered a bit, but moved out of the way to keep the vacuum cleaner from rolling over his bare toes.
Cleaner A looked him over carefully as she put on her heavy rubber gloves. B said something in Spanish and both laughed.
Jason didn’t like those yellow gloves at all. He sat down again and peeled back the wrapper of his candy treasure.
Cleaner B hustled over and sprayed it with a bottle of blue liquid. Then she rattled off something in Spanish. Her companion shook her head and made disapproving sounds. “Tsk, tsk, tsk.” Or the Spanish version, anyway.
Jason looked at his candy bar, intact except for the single bite he’d previously taken. It was now covered with blue liquid. He started thinking, How toxic could this cleanser be?
Cleaner A pointed to the candy bar and waggled her gloved finger. Then a stern warning in Spanish.
Jason trudged into the kitchen — candy bar in one hand and pajama waistband in the other. Insti
nctively, he realized he just needed to sever about half an inch from the exposed portion of the candy, then discard the contaminated part and eat the rest. But in his compromised health, Jason’s brain ran on fewer cylinders, so that possible salvage operation seemed too complicated. Plus, he’d have to search for a sharp knife.
At the sink, he ran a tiny stream of tap water and cautiously peeled away more of the wrapper. Then he slowly rolled the candy bar under the water, taking care to wash every part of the surface.
Cleaners A and B watched with obvious fascination and considerable commentary in what sounded like pidgin Spanish. One of them held up a dollar bill and the other dug out a bill to match it. They’d just made a wager!
As Jason became satisfied the blue liquid was completely cleaned from the candy bar surface, he realized in horror that most of the candy bar was also gone! You can’t wash chocolate! He hurriedly peeled back the rest of the wrapper to see how much might be salvaged. In his haste, the candy slipped from his wet fingers and scooted around the sink basin for almost two complete laps. He grabbed for it, but that effort only nudged it down into the discolored drain.
Cleaner A handed B her dollar. B had won the bet — he’d washed it!
Now Jason had a tragic dilemma. He retrieved the soggy candy bar and examined it carefully. There was probably enough remaining to eat, if he squeezed it back into a rough ball shape. But it was basically a soggy mass, distinctly resembling the wretched deposits of the old, fat Dachshund from two duplexes over. What worried Jason even more were the horror tales he’d heard of bacteria in kitchen sink drains — supposedly more germs than the entire state of New Jersey.
Seeing how much deliberation was in play, Cleaner A pulled out another dollar bill and chattered something in Spanish. B held up one of the two bills already in her hand. Another bet!
Finally, Jason emitted a loud, anguished moan and then threw the entire disintegrating mass of nuts, caramel, and — formerly — chocolate coating into the open trash can. He flung it with such intensity that he wrenched his right shoulder.
Cleaner B handed over her dollar — A had won the second wager. B looked disappointed, since she’d evidently bet that Jason would still try to eat it.
Their wagers being even, the two chattering cleaners set about to perform household duties. Curiously, to him, they didn’t work in any of the other apartment rooms. Both hovered around Jason, vacuuming under his feet, spraying things near him, dusting the television screen, et cetera.
It was a long cleaning appointment. Jason couldn’t even concentrate on his latest test with the TV remote.
Chapter 10
Amanda got a call shortly before noon — Christine, bearing lunch, was on the curb outside her workplace. Since the building doors were locked, Amanda had to put her sneakers back on and make another round trip in the stairwell to let her friend inside. Sheesh. “Hope you brought something good. I’m starving.” She held the door.
“Two baked potatoes with the works.” Christine also held up two diet drinks.
“Sounds a lot better than potpourri tea.”
When Amanda headed toward the stairwell door, Christine pointed. “Is the elevator broken?”
“No. It runs, but I don’t use it on weekends. Hangs up a lot during the regular week and the building super cusses a blue streak every time.” She looked at her visiting friend. “It’s only three floors.” Amanda also re-explained how she used it often for exercise and stress relief.
“You sure are a contradiction. You have a perfectly good treadmill at home that you use for a clothing rack, but you sprint up and down office stairs for exercise.” Then she poked Amanda’s derrière, which preceded her up the steps. “Though I’ll have to admit, this climbing seems to keep your butt pretty tight.”
“Don’t watch my butt… that’s weird. Plus, it wouldn’t hurt you to skip a few elevators.” Amanda had noticed Christine eating a lot of extra snacks just to keep Jason from having them. She stopped on the landing and turned. “Uh, sorry, that didn’t come out right.”
Christine shook her head. “No, you’re right. Next time I visit my lawyer downtown, I’ll take the stairs.”
“What floor is he on?”
“Sixth.”
Amanda wasn’t sure what to say. “Uh, maybe…”
“Yeah. I’ll walk up three and ride the other three.”
When they reached the third floor, both were breathing heavily, Christine more than Amanda. Amanda let her friend catch a breath before they proceeded.
Between panting breaths, Christine’s natural curiosity compelled her to keep talking. “What’s the latest with Jason, besides finally getting him to shower last evening?”
“Pee-yuu! Do you realize he actually stuck his nose deep in his own armpit and didn’t detect anything disagreeable? I could smell him from six feet away.”
“Men can’t smell their own B.O. Scientific fact. If they could, you’d see a lot more men fainting.”
“Don’t men faint?” Amanda couldn’t remember. Her mind had lost a lot of cognitive power since the previous Monday evening.
Christine merely continued her science lesson. “Something about selective evolution or survival of the fittest. The male species has developed unique sensory blockers that keep them from smelling themselves. These highly specialized sensors allowed disgustingly stinky cave men to detect a wounded sabre-toothed tiger half a mile away, but they couldn’t smell themselves. Of course, most of the cave women swooned when those revolting bums got back to the home cave.”
“Those cave guys probably thought that was all about adoration and romance. Ha.” Amanda began moving toward the staff room on the half of that floor occupied by her section.
Before following, Christine raised the warm sack and inhaled the baked potato aroma. “A minute ago you implied you’d added potpourri to the tea leaves this morning. For real?”
“No, not real potpourri. That stuff’s probably poison, like poinsettia. This was a special herbal blend of tea that’s supposed to taste like potpourri smells.”
“Guaranteed to ward off the male species.”
Amanda nodded. “He didn’t get near it.”
“You got a lot done so far today?” Christine looked around the empty spaces of that office section as they passed through.
“Yeah, without King Louie hovering, I can actually concentrate.”
“Think we’ll have enough time, after we eat, to look at our blog for a minute?”
“Sure. I haven’t checked it since first thing this morning. Might be some new comments.” Amanda held open the lounge door. “By the way, who is Almira Gulch? I noticed that name below the last couple of blog entries.”
“Remember the actress Margaret Hamilton, in The Wizard of Oz? She played two characters: the Wicked Witch and the mean neighbor who threatened Dorothy’s dog. Well, the name of that nasty neighbor was Almira Gulch.”
“Your grasp of movie trivia is astounding. Did you pick that name because Jason has been saying you’re a witch?”
Christine smiled. “Maybe I am a witch.” Then she cackled.
In the otherwise vacant staff lounge, Amanda and Christine ate their potatoes and then retired to Amanda’s office with what remained of their diet drinks.
“You said something the other day about this publication you’re planning… that the book is writing itself on your blog.” Amanda looked puzzled. “Now that we’ve got a minute, tell me how a book writes itself.”
“Our blog. It’s not my blog, it’s all about you and Jason and whether you’ll survive his sickness.”
“You mean Missy and Marty. Confidentiality, remember?” She was still rattled by how many people already knew about their secret project.
“Sure, sure. Got it covered. It’s foolproof. The CIA couldn’t find out your identities.” Christine waved her hand. “Well, back to the book. After reading what I’m posting, we’re getting comments from other bloggers. There’s heartfelt gratitude, weepy commiseration,
even additional recipes for really cruddy-tasting health food. It’s writing itself. I just need to copy the threads, paste them into a document. Boom.” She pointed to the desk as though a monograph had just appeared. “Book. Bestseller.”
“Boom? The book just appears like magic?”
“Well, it’ll need a little editing.”
“A little?” Amanda the skeptic. “From what I’ve seen on those comments, you’ll need one full-time editor just to clean up their language.”
“Ah, small matter. They’re just blowing off steam. See, our blog is the first opportunity they’ve ever had to vent. That’s the groundbreaking part of what we’re doing.”
“Well, the gratitude and sympathy crowd aren’t the only ones venting. A lot of the comments are basically of the theme Oh-poor-Marty-who’s-a-prisoner-of-that-witch-Missy.”
“Better still.” Christine nodded. “That gives our book balance. We’ll give one whole chapter to the men whining about mistreatment.”
“Glad you’re keeping it balanced.”
Christine apparently ignored the dig.
“By the way, you portray Marty in an awful light.” Amanda frowned slightly. “You don’t show any sympathy at all. After all, he does feel bad… kind of.”
“Sympathy? That’s the last thing we want anywhere near Jason. He got way too much sympathy while he breastfed those extra five years.”
“You don’t know that. Not even possible.”
“Well, I wasn’t in his nursery, but he’s got all the markings of a boy with too much of momma’s milk.” Christine sometimes tried to look like a professor pointing out proven scientific facts. “No sympathy for your sniffle baby. Sympathy just feeds the pathology.”
“Pathology? Where do you come up with this stuff?”
“Like I told you, my brain’s plugged in.”
“Yeah, and your nephew’s a janitor at Johns Hopkins.” Amanda paused. She needed to regain focus, since her vital role was to be the throttle governor for this manic extemporaneous therapist. “In some of the posted comments, I’ve seen links to other sites. How do we control what appears on those other sites?”
