by Suzanne Park
Someone in the front of the line yelled, “New batch brewing! Another two minutes!” Mr. Spectacles turned around again to continue our conversation.
I should have been taken by his lopsided smile and warm brown eyes. But all I could focus on was the C8H10N4O2 caffeine mug in his hand.
My mug.
In this random dude’s hand.
I’d never shifted to MUST KILL HIM mode so quickly in my life. “That’s my mug!” I growled. “It’s been missing and it was a gift! Where’d you get this?”
His face fell a little. “It was on my desk when I got here. It matches my coffee shirt.” He pulled open his shirt to reveal a heather-gray tee with “BUT FIRST, C25H28N6O7” scrawled on a coffeepot decal.
Then he had the nerve to smirk at me. “I’m the new MBA intern, helping out with inclusivity initiatives.”
Inclusivity initiatives? This guy? “But you’re not just an intern. You’re Ian’s nephew, Nolan Fucking MacKenzie.” Oops. Should have censored that.
His wide-eyed look expressed both horror and humor. “Some people probably call me that. Most people call me just Nolan, though.” I grabbed at the C8H10N4O2 coffee cup in his hand but he held on to it tight.
He pleaded with his words and his puppy-dog eyes. “If you take this, what am I supposed to use?”
I yanked it toward me. “Why do you even need this coffee? I saw your Keurig.”
He pulled it back. “I don’t like single-use disposables. Landfills and all that. Also, Keurig pods are expensive.”
I tugged again. “Go raid your uncle’s office—he’s probably got a ton of them sitting in a drawer. I bet your dear uncle would even expense the specialty flavored ones for you.”
Sighing, he asked, “It’s just a mug. Not worth beefing with me, right? Can I just borrow it today? Please?”
It seemed like a reasonable request. I was a reasonable person. I loosened my grip just as he yanked hard. The mug slipped out of my hands and flew out of his grip from sheer yanking force.
If the concrete floor had been carpeted, the cup might have been saved.
“Oh, shiiiiit,” he muttered, grabbing two fistfuls of his hair. He knelt down to pick up the shards. One of the handle pieces had slid under the counter, completely unreachable by hand.
Too stunned to move, I offered him no assistance. Nolan Fucking MacKenzie had broken the only personal thing at work that actually meant anything to me and “Oh shiiiiit!” wasn’t an apology. He could pick everything up himself. Plus, my denim pencil skirt wasn’t too forgiving.
“I don’t have time for this.” Glancing at my watch, I left the kitchen in a hurry. I didn’t have to be anywhere, but I could feel hot tears welling, and crying over a coffee cup in front of the CEO’s nephew was immature and unprofessional. No way could I let anyone see me like that. Especially not the intern.
With no afternoon caffeine running through my veins, punching through the postlunch slog through minimum awakeness was no easy feat. My insomnia caught up with me and by three P.M., I’d hit a wall. I cleared my calendar and made the decision to sneak out and head home early. Asher came into the office and noticed me fishing around in my purse.
“Hey, are you headed down to the café to get coffee? Could you grab me one, too? I can’t believe Ian just sent out a five P.M. meeting invitation. Very uncool. I’m gonna need some caffeine to keep me going, and I hate the new chargrilled fancy coffee they ordered for the kitchen. Thanks, roomie!”
Well, there went my three P.M. departure. The only chance I had to make it through that five o’clock meeting would be to take a quick power nap in my car, but that would happen after I got two drip coffees for Asher and me. A caffeine boost to supplement my power nap would hopefully keep me awake during the meeting. Plus, the kitchen coffee did taste a little more burnt-roasted than usual, and there I ran the risk of running into that intern again. Maybe getting Asher a cup of caffeine could be the first step toward office peace and harmony.
THE CAFÉ WAS crowded, no doubt a direct correlation to the inferior coffee product brewing in only one coffeemaker in our kitchen. Behind me in line, two barely pubescent engineers giggled as they stared at something on an iPhone. I glanced over their shoulders and immediately regretted my snooping.
These two guys were watching porn. One of them said to the other, “We need to adjust our bouncing to make our boobs more realistic. Like this.” He pinched the screen and widened for a better view. At least they had the courtesy to have the sound off.
Behind me, a familiar female voice called out, “While you two are diligently researching, can you improve your male jiggle physics, too?”
The one holding the phone cocked his head. “Wh-what?”
Kat appeared by my side. “I’d love to see better male pectoral movement in our games, and of course, improved dick physics.”
A snort escaped me as she explained. “We definitely need more realistic and natural movements of male body parts, too. Ignoring our male body parts and only focusing on boobs would be sexist. I can set up a meeting where we brainstorm ways we can maybe even weaponize them, like have a swinging cock of death.”
I chimed in. “Helicopter cocks could lift the player to safety.”
Kat fought a laugh. “Maybe we can make it large enough so it could be its own character or player. Co-op game play. Player two, penis.”
Still stunned into silence, the two engineers’ mouths gaped open. One of the engineers said to the other, “Are they serious?”
Kat looked at him square in the eyes. “I’m dead serious.”
The line moved up and the two engineers scurried away. And to think my mom thought my future husband could be somewhere among my work peers.
What a joke.
A wide grin spread across Kat’s face. “Oh my god, did you see their faces? I’m Kat, by the way. Your drink’s on me.” She held out her hand.
“I know who you are. I’m Melody, and I’m thrilled to finally meet you,” I said, enthusiastically pumping her hand. “Don’t worry about it, I need to buy a coffee for my officemate, too.”
While we waited for our orders, I examined her physical features and admired her go-against-the-grain beauty as she made a quick call. She had brown, short mousy hair, cut asymmetrically, and she had so many ear piercings that it made me think her lobes had more holes than skin. She was also rail thin—an aspiration of mine, but not feasible given my atypical Asian bone structure. I maintained average weight (by American women standards), but elder Korean friends and family insisted my beauty lay hidden underneath all my fat. I was comfortable keeping my beauty nestled and protected.
Kat put her phone in her back pocket. “Everyone here actually thinks they’re doing women a favor by making games with sexified female heroines. Like Ian’s Kaizen Five. Such a noble act of feminism, don’t you think?”
I laughed as my order appeared on the counter. “I just thought of a funny idea for a shooter game that women like us would love.” I took a sip of my coffee before continuing. “As you know, there’s a huuuuuge growing female gamer population continuing for the next decade.” I gave a sweeping gesture with my right hand, pointing upward. “Now picture a satirical game targeting the growing female demographic: a group of male strippers find themselves in the apocalypse, facing every world-ending nemesis you can think of: zombies, vampires, aliens, and evil robots. The ultimate apocalypse. These stripper dudes basically run around topless with giant guns, both the arm-flexing kind and the weapon kind, fighting and shooting up and stabbing all kinds of shit to survive. Women warriors would exist, too, but they’re not ‘damsels in distress’ types. They save those strippers’ asses time and time again. This game has dollar signs written all over it! Sexiness sells, right?”
A smile spread across Kat’s face. “And what if you get accused of sexism the other way around, where you are dehumanizing and debasing the male body by having the guys be, you know, strippers?”
What a good question. But I had a rebu
ttal. “I have a scientific reason why these guys need to be topless.”
Kat raised her eyebrows. “Go on.”
“The virus that causes the zombification of the world also alters human DNA, and the virus needs to find hosts who have a vitamin D deficiency. And the main source of vitamin D is the sun. So the more surface area exposed to sunlight for our protagonists, the better.”
Kat shook her head. “Melody, that is so absurd.”
“Look, I didn’t set the precedent on this stupid shit. You know that game Metal Gear Solid V? Kojima, the creator said his female assassin runs around in a chain mail bikini because she breathes through her skin through photosynthesis! At least my case for seminudity sounds a teeny bit more scientifically plausible. We can even have characters hunt for vitamin D supplements in the game. Or power up by purchasing vitamin packs.”
Kat burst out into a fit of giggles. “That’s some crazy-ass shit you made up. You’re not even drunk or high or anything. I love it.”
“Ladies, mind if I scooch around you to get some sugar?” Ian stood just a few inches behind us with a smirk on his pompous face. How long had he been there?
Kat sighed. “Good talking with you, Melody. Swing by my office sometime. I have a stack of game production books I can loan you. Too bad our conversation got cut short.” The look she threw Ian was a cross between disappointment and revulsion.
Ian cocked his head coyly. “Hey! Don’t mind me, I just wanted a quick cup of coffee. You ladies can continue talking about your game ideas.” He grabbed a sugar packet and tore the corner.
Kat looked at the wall clock. “Time for me to get back and work on some character designs. Bye, all!” I said goodbye, too, and marched a few feet behind her with my drinks, leaving Ian standing near the coffee accoutrements all by himself. Most people would jump at the opportunity to chat with the company’s CEO one-on-one, but not me. I couldn’t wait to get out of there.
As the café door closed, Ian bellowed, “Keep those ideas flowing, ladies!”
I CLEARED A spot on Asher’s desk for his coffee next to his cyclops alien miniatures and headed to the parking garage. Even though the coffee helped, I still needed that nap.
No one else was there. My car was near the main entrance in between a Subaru wagon and one of Ian’s many luxury cars, a bright red Porsche Classic, which had the vanity plate “KAIZEN5.”
I slipped into my car without being seen. I reclined my seat to a horizontal position and let out a yawn so wide that my watery eyes spilled tears that leaked into both ear cavities.
So. Tired.
Wet ear canals.
And . . . finally . . . sleep . . .
“Hello?! Are you still there?! I can talk now! I canceled the five o’clock meeting so we can discuss everything.” Ian’s booming voice from next to the Porsche shook me awake. “I’m in the garage because my office walls are so goddamned thin. No one is here, though.” I couldn’t see his exact position, but judging by the sound of his megaphone-like voice projection he was standing only a few feet away, very close to my 180 degree–angled body.
Ian again?
Shit. Shit. Shit.
Please don’t see me. Please don’t see me.
Drawing in slow and deep breaths, I tried to imagine playing a corpse on television. My heart thumped so loudly I bet Ian could hear it, like Edgar Allan Poe’s telltale heart, but much worse because there was no mystery or intrigue surrounding my situation. I was simply a fucking idiot taking a nap in a car when I should have been upstairs, working.
Ian had paused to let the person on the phone talk, but it was now his turn. “We have some amazing game concepts that are in various stages of ideation and development.” As I lay there barely consuming oxygen, it became clear that I had to pee. But moving wasn’t an option.
Ian sighed. “You want that info now? Uh, we wanted to present these ideas to you and the rest of the board sometime next month. I’m not really prepared right now to pitch but there are a few games I know you’ll love.”
More muffled yelling passed through the phone. “I see. No, we’re not hiding anything from you, Doug. Okay, so you already know we have more of those zoo games in the pipeline, and that franchise is our studio’s biggest cash cow because of all the merchandising.” I heard a tinge of defeat in Ian’s voice. He had admitted he needed these games Kat had designed for the business to stay afloat. I almost felt a little bad for him, but then I remembered he was a sexist asshole, and that empathy went away quickly.
More barking through the phone. Ian sighed again. “What women gamer group protests?” More muffled man yelling. “Well, we actually do have a pro-woman game that is being led by a girl . . . I mean female employee. Its working title is, uh, Ultimate Apocalypse.”
Oh. My. God. He was pitching my game idea!
My satire/joke/parody game idea. I almost popped up from my seat to yell at him, NOOOOOOOOOOO! but my circumstances were precarious at that moment. What good reason did I have for why I’d been in my car with the seat fully reclined during work hours?
“I loved the idea when it was pitched to me!” Ian exclaimed. “It’s a shooter game, but it’s an all-male team of, um, strippers, fighting off zombies, vampires, aliens, and guys like Kim Jong-un. We want to get more women playing shooter games, and we think sex appeal is the way to do it. We may make it a mobile game instead of a console game, to help us diversify.”
The yelling subsided and the man on the phone talked for a while. What was he saying? Hopefully he was giving Ian a sorry, it is with mixed emotions that we need to fire your ass speech. Pitching the world’s most absurd game idea to a key member of the board out of sheer desperation could be grounds for termination, right?
“You think the other board members will go for this strategy, too? We want to diversify, for sure, especially if it draws in a bigger female audience. I’ll make sure we have our female producers lead this effort and get some good PR out of it. Thank you so much for calling. We can’t wait to get started! Goodbye!”
After a few seconds of silence, Ian screamed, “Shit! Fuck me! Fuck-fuck-fuck!,” which echoed throughout the garage. He paced around his car a few seconds and cussed all the way to the elevator. It dinged open, and Ian’s grating voice finally faded away.
Well, fuck me, too.
The only good thing to come of this was that I wasn’t tired anymore.
THE FIERCE, HAIR-TANGLING wind nearly pushed me into the Belle Towne Tavern. For once, I had arrived early enough to be the one to negotiate our trio’s seating situation. Belle Towne had become our regular stomping ground because it had everything we wanted: Candace had her complimentary serving of truffle-salt popcorn, Jane got a wide selection of top-shelf imported vodka for her martinis, and I got what I wanted most out of a bar experience: half-price happy hour till nine P.M. And bonus, they had five stalls in the women’s restroom. For me, just this warranted an automatic five-star Yelp review.
The hostess seated me near the front window at a small circular table with barely enough room to hold a tealight candle.
“This table looks a little small for three people. Any chance we could get seated over there?” I asked, nodding my head toward the side of the room with several empty booths.
She glanced in that direction and then looked back at me. “There’s less ambiance there. And it’s dark.”
I didn’t think I looked like an ambiance kinda girl. I grabbed the tiny tealight. “This’ll help. I can bring it over.”
She shrugged. “Suit yourself. You’ll get less action in a booth. But the seats are more comfy.”
Before I could ask her why she thought I needed some “action,” Candace breezed through the door and chirped, “Oooh, good job on the booth!” while Jane slid in across from me.
Candace and I had gone to college together and were best friends then, and had been since. Jane was Candace’s childhood friend and former postgraduation roommate, which was how I had come to know her over the years. Jane was
like the Anti-Candace, an ice-queen-triathlon-foodie-juice-cleanse type who worked at an investment bank. Candace, whose cheery demeanor and warmness made you feel good as soon as you saw her, took Jane under her wing and over the years had managed to soften her to the point of tolerability. We were all three just so different. We probably looked like a band of misfit superheroes whenever we walked into any downtown bar.
We peeled off our wet coats and the hostess handed us dinner menus. “Could we have the happy hour ones?” I asked.
She shrugged apologetically. “New owners, new hours. Happy hour ended at seven.”
I looked at my watch. It was 7:01.
Before I could protest, Jane said, “We’ve been coming here for, what do you think, two years now?” She glanced at Candace, then me, then at her Cartier watch. “I’d love to continue our frequent girls nights out here. Could you please ask the new owners if they could stop by our table so we could introduce ourselves?” She pulled out her Gucci wallet, leafed through a few hundred-dollar bills, and pulled out her business card from one of the slots next to her visible AmEx Centurion card.
Jane was one of those friends I hated at first and thought I’d never like. She exuded beauty, success, and good fortune. She had a world-renowned doctor boyfriend. Her job paid more than double my salary. But over the last few years, she’d proven to be a reliable friend, even though my pendulum of feelings toward Jane usually swung between modest like and extreme dislike. I hadn’t seen her in a while despite the fact that she had moved into my apartment building last year, so my current like-to-hate ratio for her was about 80:20, which was an all-time high.
The hostess swept her hand toward us. “Oh, you know, that won’t be necessary. I’m sure we can squeeze in your happy hour drink order. I’ll send over your server and let the owners know you stopped by this evening.” After she took off, I realized that she never even got our names.
A new-on-the-job waitstaff took our happy hour orders: Candace had a Moscow mule, I asked for a half carafe of red house wine (an indeterminate pinot-merlot-cabernet-zin blend). Jane requested a hibiscus dry martini.
