Whenever You Call

by Anna King

  The others stared at me, chewing methodically.

  The road to hell is such an easy slide. I’d always heard that, but since I’d never taken the first step on that slippery slope, I’d also never actually experienced it.

  I rolled my eyes at Jelly, buying time.

  Joan suddenly perked up, having finally understood. “You mean we could take her certificate and have it copied, like making fake money or something?”

  My moral dilemma deepened. It seemed entirely plausible that Joan was of a sub-par intelligence. In which case, her employer was bound to be disappointed in her performance. She probably should have stuck with changing diapers in a daycare center and, even there, the learning curve might have been steep.

  “Uh, I think any place you apply for a bar tending job is going to call Al for a recommendation,” I said.

  “Not for me,” Ike said. “I got the job at my uncle’s if I show him the certificate.”

  I found it interesting that Ike’s uncle was so determined about that certificate. He was probably trying to get out of family pressure to hire Ike.

  Jelly took a huge bite of pizza and began to chomp vigorously. Also, to talk. “Naw, I don’t think so. It’s not like Al can say anything much about us except we did the course and passed.”

  Cathy nodded.

  Ike nodded.

  Joan nodded.

  I shrugged and crammed half a piece of pizza into my mouth, which made me choke. I leapt to my feet and rushed to the bathroom where I spit the half-chewed pizza into a towel provided for drying your hands. If I’d had my cell phone with me, I probably would’ve called Jen, but I’d left it in my purse at the table. Jen wouldn’t have been helpful, anyway, of course. She’d tell them to go fuck themselves, except she’d use such killing language that they probably wouldn’t even understand her.

  I stared into the dirty mirror and opened my eyes wide. I couldn’t see their color because of the dim lighting, but they were unmistakably my cheating eyes. I’d decided I was going to do it. I knew it was wrong, immoral, unethical, blah, blah, blah. I also knew that none of those people out there really deserved my help. They weren’t even bothering to kiss up to me.

  So, why?

  Because things weren’t making sense and I thought that if I moved in a senseless direction, then maybe, paradoxically, they would begin to make sense.

  Didn’t make sense, needless to say.

  When I rejoined them, at least Jelly had the decency to ask, “You okay?”

  I sat down and sipped my iced tea. “I’ll let you copy my certificate if you swear never to tell anyone I did. I’ll take it to the copy shop with you and we’ll use that removable tape to cover my name.”

  They all nodded again, serene.

  “Don’t say thanks,” I said.

  “Thanks, Rose,” Jelly said.

  My name had never sounded so out-of-place. “I’m going to start using my last name, Marley. I just don’t think a bartender can be called Rose.”

  They ignored me.

  “Well, you don’t get to copy my certificate unless everyone of you says thank-you.”

  I was being petulant, but I didn’t care. “It’s going to cost you, of course,” I said.

  Badda, badda, boom. They sat at attention. Suddenly I had their respect.

  Ike said, “How much?”

  “Hundred bucks each.”

  I stared at the puddles of grease swimming on the top of the congealed cheese. I couldn’t believe how one cough that sounded like lillet had developed into a profit of four hundred dollars. I tapped one finger on the tabletop, looked up, and carefully met their eyes. If I was going to play the game, I’d play the game. Marley was tough. Marley was a woman of action. Marley was no longer a too too writer.

  Cathy said, “I’ll have to pay on time.”

  “Yeah,” said Joan, “can I make an initial payment of $25?”

  Suddenly Marley also had balls. “Full payment, 100 bucks, or no certificate.”

  Naturally, they nodded. We had a deal.

  10

  AT FOUR-THIRTY IN THE afternoon, The Harvest Restaurant was so quiet that I wandered around, unable to find a single soul. I was about to push open the door to the kitchen when a waitress swung through the same door. I told her I was here to interview for the bar tending job.

  “Oh, you need to see Ravi Shef.”

  My face must have registered some kind of horrified disbelief because when she’d said Ravi Shef, I thought she said Rabbitfish.

  She gave me a strange look and disappeared back through the swinging door. What kind of name was Ravi Shef? A minute later, I found out.

  Number one, Ravi Shef was a woman, which surprised me. Number two, she was probably of East Indian or Pakistani background. Number three, she was eensy-weensy. I was only five-five, but I felt like a skyscraper built next to a Cottswald cottage. Her voice had a beautiful lilt and a slightly exaggerated sibilance.

  We shook hands and then perched on the bar stools.

  “Al said you’re a really good novelist.” Her smile emerged from only one side of her mouth.

  “I’m okay.”

  “I know it’s hard to make a living as a writer.”

  “To be honest, my writing’s been supporting me for years. I’m just burned out. I know bar tending will be hard, but I want to get back into the real world.”

  Ravi stared at the wall of bottles, not me. She sucked her small lower lip into her mouth and even without seeing her eyes, I knew she was uncertain.

  So I said, “Want to see me in action?”

  Her brown eyes glanced my way.

  “Give me an order for five different drinks. We might waste some liquor, but then you’d know whether I have what it takes.”

  She nodded. “Okay.”

  I slid off the stool and went around to the entrance of the bar, ducking under. My eyes quickly took in the organization of the liquor, glasses, mixers. I’d expected Ravi to smile at my gutsiness, but she remained unsmiling. I was also used to a certain amount of deference coming my way because I was a published novelist. This Ravi chick was no pushover, so naturally I wanted to impress her even more.

  “A Mary Magdalene, Mai Tai, Rum Sour, Twin Hills, and a Putt-Putt.”

  I knew immediately that I was in deep doo-doo. Never heard of a Mary Magdalene or Putt-Putt. But I started in on the three I knew, grabbing the light rum, Triple Sec, and lemon juice.

  When those three were made, I rushed to the point-of-sale computer system, clicked on the internet connection, then googled the other two drinks. I got nothing. I returned to stand in front of her.

  “I’m so sorry, but I’m not aware of either a Mary Magdalene or a Putt-Putt. Is there some other drink I could offer you?” Two perfect drops of sweat rolled down from my temples, dwindling into almost nothing by the time they reached my cheeks.

  She actually smiled. “Not bad, but there probably wouldn’t be time to do the google routine.”

  “Okay.” I was trying not to pant from the exertion. I had to seem young and fit.

  “The hours are Tuesday through Saturday, eleven a.m. to five p.m. $15 an hour, plus tips, of course. Want the job, Rose?”

  Though I’d tried so hard to get the job, I felt somewhat overwhelmed as I heard her spouting off the hours. It probably wouldn’t be wise to tell Ravi that I’d been fired from six jobs after I graduated from college, though they weren’t exactly impressive employment opportunities. Maybe made it worse. They were rinky-dink jobs as waitress, bookstore clerk, baby-sitter, and the like. It was also true that I’d probably deliberately floundered at all of them so that I’d force myself into being self-employed as a writer. Nevertheless. I was definitely challenged when it came to precise hours and reliability. The title of Al’s mystery, Tie Me to the Bedpost, flashed through my mind. Tie me to a job. What on earth was I getting myself into?

  Indeed, a man had once tied me to the bedposts. I’d expected to find it wildly exciting, and I’d been wholeh
eartedly delighted that he’d suggested the activity because he was a giant of a man, six foot, eight, with broad shoulders and a magnificent physique. The deal had been that he could tie me down first, and then it would be my turn to tie him down. I’d found both prospects equally desirable.

  It was a good twenty years earlier, but I’d had a four-poster bed then, as now. He’d given me a bubble bath first, to make me malleable and trusting, then used silk scarfs to tie each arm and leg to a post. My legs were split wider than was completely comfortable because it was a queen-size bed. As soon as he’d finished tying me down, I said, “I feel like a pig about to be roasted.” Apparently he didn’t hear me. Instead of answering, he crouched over me with a long bird’s feather in one hand, which he swept around my breasts and nipples. I smiled tentatively, searching for his eyes. It wasn’t so much that I felt afraid. More alone. But his eyes were riveted by my erect nipples, even though those same nipples seemed to have lost all sensitivity. I tried closing my eyes and just giving myself over to the feather. I even said, feel the feather, in my mind. But I felt nothing except stretched too wide. My hip bones were already beginning to ache.

  I opened my eyes and spoke out loud. “I’m not excited.”

  To my disbelief, he kept whisking the feather around. He didn’t seem to have heard me. I said his name while simultaneously noticing that his penis was hard and glistening. Looked kind of good, but even so, I couldn’t get any sensation to move from my body to my brain. I knew that I wasn’t tied so tightly that it was cutting off my circulation. What had happened to my nerve-endings? Abruptly, he discarded the feather and began inching up my body. I saw where this was going. And it scared me. If he put that huge cock in my mouth, and I was unable to roll away from him or use my hands and legs to manipulate the action, he could choke me. I resolutely closed my mouth, clamping my teeth together so hard that I could feel them scraping.

  He said, “Open up.”

  His voice was detached. I shook my head back and forth, then forced my lips into a tight smile without opening my mouth. He took two fingers and began to pry my lips open. He was stronger than I. My mouth started to open, his fingers slid in, and I bit down as hard as I could. He yelled and threw himself off the bed.

  “Untie me right now,” I said.

  Luckily, he wasn’t a psychopath. He quickly undid the silk scarfs, and I as quickly jumped off the bed. I threw on clothes and was about to run out of the apartment when I remembered that it was my apartment. As he walked out the door, he drawled, “Keep the mother-fucking feather.”

  I said to Ravi. “I go by Marley. And I’d love the job.”

  IT was raining when I left The Harvest, with rush-hour traffic careening through the Square. I put up my umbrella and began the twenty minute walk home in the uncomfortable heels I’d worn for the interview. My only other choice was to grab a cab, but it wasn’t like I had any plans for the evening. I’d get wet and uncomfortable, and my feet would hurt, all of which would dictate a hot bath, cup of tea, and general soft indulgence. I trudged along, eventually taking off the shoes and padding barefoot, splashing in the chilly puddles.

  Home, I stripped and wrapped myself in a terry cloth robe, then headed down to the basement to run a bath and check my e-mail. My eye ran quickly down the fifteen messages, looking first for Mr. Rabbitfish. Nothing. I was pleased that I didn’t seem to care too much. After a faster bath than I’d really intended, I shuffled in my robe and slippers up the two flights to my kitchen. Peering into the refrigerator was, initially, heartening. Then I saw how the lettuce was wilted and brown, the cheese moldy, the leftover spaghetti and sauce from the previous Saturday swimming in a thin, watery liquid, and the yogurt’s date of expiration from a week earlier. The freezer yielded up various organic dinners. I popped one in the microwave and plugged in the electric tea kettle.

  While I ate my meal, gazing out the window unseeing, I began to curl my mind around the idea of having a real job where I’d have to show up on time, no matter what, not to mention the challenge of actually being a bartender. It occurred to me that I wasn’t up to it physically. Or, umm, maybe not mentally either. But by the time I’d finished eating, I started to feel better. At my computer, I sent off a mass e-mail, informing friends, family and professional colleagues that I had a job as Lunchtime Bartender at The Harvest Restaurant in Cambridge, Massachusetts.

  Within five minutes, the computer began its binging noise with e-mails zinging back to me with congratulations, questions, and other such good stuff. I was busily clicking on each of them when I saw Rabbitfish pop up. Huh.

  Congratulations. I think I’ll come in and test your skills …

  It took me a minute. I thought I hadn’t included Mr. Rabbitfish in my mass e-mail. I knew my intention was never to have anything to do with him, ever again. I went back to my announcement and studied the long list of e-mail addresses I’d used. No Rabbitfish.

  I sat back in my rolling desk chair and folded my hands in my lap. I tried to stay calm, but, truthfully, my breathing was fast and my stomach felt squirmy. The conclusion was obvious: Mr. Rabbitfish was reading my e-mail.

  After the panic settled down into mere fear, I asked myself, “Why?” It made no sense. Other people’s e-mail might have some kind of gossipy appeal, initially, but it would get awfully boring, awfully fast. I could even argue that most people found their own e-mail boring. The obvious answer to why was that he hoped to scare me. He’d succeeded, momentarily, but now I had to figure out what to do about it. I could write back and simply demand that he stop reading my e-mail. That was straightforward, strong, and unequivocal.

  Stop reading my e-mail, or else.

  The “or else” kind of snuck in without my knowing it. Oh well. It was a little too threatening, which suggested he’d gotten under my skin, exactly what I hadn’t wanted to show.

  I went into the bathroom and brushed my teeth. Baring my fangs into the mirror, I made a growl in the back of my throat and squished my eyes into a glare. Fierceness wasn’t my forte. I heard the e-mail bing, and I tried to ignore it. Carefully, I swished water around in my mouth and spit. Another swish, another spit. Then I decided I needed to pee. Hardly anything came out. Finally, I meandered back to my desk.

  The e-mail was from Mr. Rabbitfish:

  Or else what exactly?

  I immediately realized that he wasn’t denying it. My mind began to rattle off possible responses, but I managed to grab hold and be sensible. I would leave him hanging. He would get no response from me.

  The only difficulty with that stance was that I knew he’d continue to read my e-mail, and that meant I had zero privacy. Fury swept up from my stomach, sending heat through my chest. I started googling, in search for what I could do to flummox his attempts. I found a security system that would cost $105 and insure my privacy. I signed up. Five minutes later, another e-mail from Mr. Rabbitfish.

  Oh sure.

  I grabbed the phone and called Jen. I told her everything and then said I knew I’d been an idiot and she could yell at me all she wanted, but I mostly needed her to tell me what to do.

  “Do you know his real name?”

  “No.”

  “You know his Match.com account name, right?”

  “Well, I’m pretty sure.”

  “Go to Match.com and check whether he’s still a member.”

  “Okay.”

  “We’re in the middle of dinner, so call me back.”

  Amazing to hear the pronoun “we” come out of Jen’s mouth.

  When I searched on Match.com for “The Sky,” the search replied, “There’s no such member by that name.”

  Great.

  I wanted to give Jen a chance to finish her dinner.

  In the bathroom, I took off my bathrobe and pulled on a flannel nightgown. Comforting at a time when it ought to have been obvious why I needed comfort, except, strangely, I didn’t. The fear I’d felt earlier had been transmuted into a surge of adrenaline. My body pulsed with a low-grade tr
embling, so faint that I almost doubted it was there. Back in my study, I wandered to the cozy armchair tucked alongside the wall-to-wall bookshelves. An old standing lamp curved over the chair, but I didn’t turn it on. The computer made its binging noise, which I ignored. Then the phone rang.

  When I told Jen that he was no longer a member, she went quiet. Finally, she said, “That was your best way of tracing him.”

  “Listen, don’t get mad, but I have to tell you that I think we’re overreacting.”

  “Rose, don’t be stupid,” she said in a high-pitched voice. “This is exactly how stalkers begin. You could end up in this guy’s car trunk without a head.”

  I had to swallow a giggle. I’d flashed from Jen growing new legs to me growing an entirely new head, which, frankly, had its appeal. I knew she’d freak if I laughed, though.

  “He might just be teasing or something—”

  Jen interrupted, “Or something.”

  “Maybe it’s like a game.”

  “Invasion of your privacy is a game?” She sighed loudly. “I know the police will say it’s bullshit and there’s nothing they can do, but I still think you should report it.”

  “Is there a division for reporting online legal issues?”

  “Probably. I’ll look into it tomorrow and give you a call.”

  After we’d hung up, I checked my e-mail. Nothing from Mr. Rabbitfish. I went back to his last e-mail and then started experimenting with my e-mail options. Sure enough, there was something called “Bounce Back,” which would allow me to send his e-mail back to him. So, in a flash of accomplishment, I did.

  Trembling skittered beneath my nightgown. It felt good, like a case of intense sexual desire. I sat very still, worried that if I moved too much, it would stop. I knew I should be alarmed by how I was reacting. I knew it was unconscionable for Mr. Rabbitfish to invade my privacy. But, but, but. There were a couple of mitigating factors. He hadn’t hidden what he was doing. Nor had he denied it once I called him on it. True, it would have been preferable if he’d respected my request. But, again, at least he wasn’t lying.