by Mary Carter
After we made love, Ray went to get another beer and I ran into my friend Tommy in the dining room. Someone cranked Kiss, and Tommy and I started doing our crazed rocker impressions. I didn’t want to be outdone by Tommy, who was gyrating like a tornado in his tight, red leather pants, so I mussed up my hair, fell to my knees and screamed like Keith Richards for a small but appreciative audience. Then someone handed me a large wooden spoon to use as a microphone. And the Kodak moment of the evening ladies and gentlemen, was the moment where I, Melanie Zeitgar, brought the wooden spoon down toward the floor—I’m just singing folks—just doing a little crazed rocker impression, but from the angle at which the picture was taken, it looks like the spoon is sticking directly out of my crotch. It’s my head thrown back in crazed “ecstasy,” my mouth splayed wide open, and my hands gripping the base of the wooden spoon. My breasts stand out clearly in the camera too, with glittery silver letters spelling out the word DIVA. The caption above the picture reads, PINOCCHIO GIRL PLAYS WITH HER WOODY.
I drop my head into my hands and moan. This is bad. This is really, really bad. How many people have seen this? Kim didn’t say millions of hits, did she? Oh my God. What if my mother has seen this? I mean she doesn’t usually show an interest in kinky things like wooden she-males, but you hear stories every day of the Internet bringing out the freak in people. And my brother Zach surfs the net all the time. What if he sees it and shows it to her? What about Ray? Had he seen it? Is this why he hasn’t called me? I have to get this off the Internet. And then I have to kill Trina Wilcox.
I am so wrapped in my own misery that I forget all about the fact that I am in somebody else’s office breaking into their computer on my first day on the job. Had I been thinking straight, I wouldn’t have left the offending picture up on the screen while I cried either. But I wasn’t thinking about anything but my wooden penis. Maybe Freud was right. Maybe there is something about a penis that makes one entirely self-absorbed.
“What the hell?” She’s out of breath and leaning in the doorway wearing a beautiful lavender suit and wielding a black leather power briefcase. Trina Wilcox is a dark-haired beauty, poised and lethal. “What are you doing here, Melanie?”
“I work here,” I say, scrambling to shut down the Web site. But I hit the wrong button and only manage to minimize it. In a flash Trina is leaning over me, her hair descending like a guillotine between me and my minimized, she-male doppelganger.
“You broke into Greg’s computer? Move over.” She shoves me out of the way and maximizes the Web page. Once again I stare at the image in horror. Trina’s eyes turn on me and I swear I see them glint. She’s Lucifer with tinted blue contacts.
“I know you did this,” I say, trying to control the anger clawing up my throat.
“Greg’s on the phone,” Margaret says, popping into the room. “He wants to know if you have the laptop.” I jump up and stand in front of Trina so Margaret can’t see the screen. “Melanie, what are you doing here?”
I turn toward Trina, who is packing the laptop in her briefcase. “I saw Trina run in here and I thought she might need some help,” I say.
“She’s going to run this over for me,” Trina says, shoving the briefcase in my hands.
What? What was she doing? “I don’t think so,” I say, holding the briefcase at arms length as if it were a bomb.
“Melanie, I have to finish up a few things here, but Greg and Steve need that PowerPoint presentation pronto. Go.” She’s now physically shoving me toward the door. I look at Margaret for help.
“You’ll get to see his presentation after all,” she says smiling. “They were an hour into it when Steve’s laptop bit the dust. Am I dating myself? Do the kids still say ‘bite the dust’?”
Trina gives me another shove. “Hurry.” Margaret takes my arm and escorts me out. Whether it’s to save me from Trina or explain further colloquialisms I don’t know. I do know that I’m being propelled down the hall toward the elevator.
“The audience is mostly made up of retail management and security personnel,” Margaret informs me as if this is somehow helpful.
“I have files waiting,” I plead, craning my neck lamely toward the file room.
“There’s a town car waiting at the curb,” Margaret continues as if I hadn’t spoken. “It will take you to the 92nd Street Y. The workshop is in Buttenwieser Hall. Security will direct you. I’ll call Greg and tell him you’re on your way.”
The 92nd Street Y is a renowned Jewish institution that opens its doors to cultural events, literary readings, concerts, performances, authors, and even housing for young men and women of every race and religion. They have a gym, a health care center, and an impressive list of events. In an effort to expand my cultural horizons, I had been meaning to get there for some time but had yet to make it. As the town car zips toward the Upper East Side, I attempt to open the briefcase. Breaking and entering isn’t usually my thing, but I had a sick feeling in the pit of my stomach. Why was Trina so quick to send me to the workshop? The briefcase is locked by a combination built into the clasp, and although I pray to the Saint of MacGyver for some instant lock-picking brilliance, no bobbie pins or credit cards materialize to help me out.
Before I know it we arrive at our destination. I enter the 92nd Street Y and before I can think of an excuse to flee, a security guard ushers me into an elevator and escorts me to Buttenwieser Hall. I can hear the murmur of a crowd as I approach. The hall is filled to its 200-seat capacity. As I enter, a woman in a navy suit hands me a pile of note cards. “Questions from the audience,” she says. “Hand them to Mr. Parks, please.” I glance to the front of the room where two men in suits are standing on a small stage near a large screen.
“Mr. Parks,” I say to the two men as I near the stage. Both men turn toward me. The largest of the two is a barrel of a man with dark hair and a goatee. He dabs his nose with a hanky and gestures to the other man. Greg Parks turns and nails me with a huge smile. I feel like a butterfly pinned to cardboard, and I try to smile back. There is something familiar about him, but I can’t quite place why. Maybe I do read the newspaper. He’s certainly easy on the eyes; he’s wearing a gray Armani suit with a blue shirt and a black silk tie. But I think more than anything it’s his navy eyes that catch me off-guard. After all, what other explanation is there for the instant rush I’m feeling? Besides, he has wavy dark blond hair, and I like men with dark hair, don’t I? He’s definitely tall and I like tall but—
He’s holding out his hand so I switch the briefcase to my left hand and hold out my right for the shake. He laughs for a second before shaking my hand. He has a nice grip. Why is he laughing at me? Then he leans toward me and whispers, “Can I have my briefcase?”
Oh God. “Of course,” I say, handing him the briefcase. “Your other laptop bit the dust huh?” I say nervously.
He looks at me for a second and then gestures to an empty chair in front. “Why don’t you have a seat?” he says smiling.
I nod and quickly take my seat. I’m still holding the stack of questions from the audience. I don’t know whether I should give them to him now or not. He’s busy setting up the laptop, and Steve Landon has already left the stage, so I just keep them in my lap. As the laptop is opened, Greg glances to the side of the room and I follow his gaze over to a cameraman standing in the corner setting up a tripod. This must have something to do with the commentator position Margaret mentioned Greg Parks was going after. Sure enough, when the cameraman turns around I note he’s wearing a blue badge reading Side Court TV.
“Thanks for bearing with us, ladies and gentlemen. This won’t take me long. Technology, huh?” Greg says, still plugging things in. The audience laughs politely. Uh-oh. He was going to have to do much better than that if he wanted to be on television. Americans eat boring people alive, even if they are easy on the eyes. As an actress I could give him a few tips for spicing up his act, but it will cost him. I’m growing bored so I start to leaf through the stack of questions in my lap
.
How much annual revenue do businesses lose to shoplifting? What? I swallow. Do stores have a right to ask customers to check their purse at the door? Huh? Yeah, right, I think. First of all, you’ll piss off the nonshoplifters and lose revenue. Second, customers would accuse the stores of snooping through their purses, yakking on their cell phones, and using their lipstick while they’re shopping. What a dumb question. Besides, even if you take our purses we still have pockets. I see a dark shadow fall across the note cards. I look up to find Steve Landon hovering over me.
“Are those the questions from the audience?” he says reaching for them.
“Yes,” I say, scrambling to arrange them in a neat little pile. “Here you go. Sorry.”
“Greg, why don’t we take a few questions while you’re setting up?”
“Good idea,” Greg says. “I’m almost there.”
Steve picks up a note card and turns to the audience. “When will they come out with Sensormatic tags that can’t be cut with scissors?” he reads. I glance at my purse where my own scissors sit guilty at the bottom along with several said Sensormatic tags. Oh God. What is this? Is this some kind of a sick joke? I glance at the camera again. Am I on Candid Camera? Stop thinking about yourself. This is work. No one is looking at you. “Greg? This is your area of expertise, I’m just your Vanna White today,” Steve says good naturedly. The audience laughs. Uh-oh. He’s a tad funnier than Greg. Are they competing for the commentator position?
“They have come out with smaller electronic sensors now that aren’t as visible to the consumer,” Greg says. “But the sales associate has to be able to find it and remove it for the customer without damaging the material. The truth of the matter is, you can never depend on a tag to protect your merchandise. Cameras, security guards, sensor tags, they’re all helpful. But they have to work in concert with your employees to successfully catch and prosecute a thief. There’s no quick fix, and of course ultimately our goal is to deter theft in the first place. But shoplifters are a pretty smart bunch, and they’ll find a way to cut any sensor they come out with. Believe me. Next question?”
“Why did they give Anita Briggs such a lenient sentence? Is it because she’s a celebrity?”
I gasp. Greg glances at me before speaking to the audience but I tune him out. Anita Briggs. The actress who walked out of Barneys last year wearing thousands of dollars worth of stolen merchandise. Her arrest was a media blitz. It was all over the—
I do read the newspaper! Greg Parks. The Loss Prevention Consultant who worked with Barneys on her arrest. I feel faint. Water. I need water. I can’t breathe. I need to breathe water! Stop thinking of naked midgets with bananas! “Okay, good questions, and we’ll get to more after the presentation.” I hear the telltale chimes of Windows booting up. Get me some goddamned water! But before I can reach for the pitcher on the table in front of me I’m stopped by a collective gasp from the audience. But it’s not until I hear the poised Greg Parks say under his breath quietly, but distinctly, “What the fuck?” that I dare look at the screen.
And there I am, not just one, but multiple pictures of me, Pinocchio Girl, tiled across the large screen. Every ambition I ever had to be an actress dissolves on the spot. Trina Wilcox saved me to the Windows desktop. I never thought my crotch would reach so many people.
Steve Landon stands and kneads his hanky. “Greg?” he says in a shaky voice. “What’s this?”
The audience laughs nervously. Greg peers at the screen. “Apparently it’s ‘Pinocchio Girl,’” he says. The audience roars. The cameraman moves closer. Greg’s head snaps to the camera; he had forgotten it was there. The cameraman peers out at him and gives him thumbs up. Greg looks at me, back to the screen and then back to me. “Is that you?” he says.
Oh. My. God. I jump up. “No. It’s a question from the audience,” I say, waving the note cards. Steve Landon moves toward the screen like he’s approaching a tiger’s cage. I hold up a card. “The question is—”
“Stand next to me,” Greg interrupts.
“What?”
He holds up the tiny microphone attached to his shirt. “I’m sure everybody wants to hear this,” he says, eliciting another laugh from the audience. Who knew the man had an inner comedian?
With shaking legs I walk up next to Greg and speak into his tie. “This picture of me was taken at a party,” I say, pretending to read from the card. “Although it appears to be—something—uh—else—I am simply doing a Keith Richards impression. The wooden spoon”—here I point to the screen—“is supposed to be a microphone.” Greg tilts his head and looks at the picture. “I don’t have a wooden penis and I’m not a culinary sex freak,” I “read” over the laughter, “but someone has plastered this picture of me on a Web site. Is this legal?”
Greg Parks is biting his bottom lip. The cheeky little bastard. He’s trying not to laugh. I give him a dirty look. He folds his arms across his chest and moves a few feet away from me. “Interesting question from the audience,” he says. “Can this audience member take legal action against the Web site? Is that the question?”
I nod. “Against the person who sent the picture to the Web site,” I clarify. “Like defamation of character or something like that,” I say dropping the card. “I’m assuming that’s what the audience member wants to know.”
“That depends on a few things,” Greg says. I wait as he paces in front of the picture. At least he’s taking me seriously now. “Does this person know who put the picture on the Web site? An ex-boyfriend maybe?” We hold eye contact. Is he flirting with me?
“I know exactly—I mean the audience member knows exactly who did this.”
Greg nods again. “Very good,” he says. “One more question.” He points to the wooden spoon sticking out of my crotch. “If she tells a lie,” he asks with a big grin, “does it grow?”
The audience is still roaring when I walk out. I keep my eye on the exit praying to the Saint of Grace to get me out of this without further incidence. Everyone is looking at me, but I’m just focusing on the exit. This too shall pass. Tears pool in my eyes and threaten to spill, but I order them to wait. Get out, get out, get out. I make it into the hall. I push the button for the elevator. Okay. I’m in the elevator. This isn’t so bad. I press L. I start to cry. Just as the elevator doors are closing, a gray arm reaches through and pries them open. Greg Parks steps into the elevator with me just as the doors start to close and the elevator begins its descent. I try to wipe my tears. Greg reaches the panel and pushes a button, and the elevator lurches to a stop.
“You’re crying,” he says. “Don’t cry.” This makes me cry even more. “I’m such a jerk,” he says. “Hey, hey please don’t cry.”
“I can’t stop on cue,” I say angrily.
“I’m so sorry,” he says. “I wasn’t trying to hurt you. It was them. They were laughing you know? And I was being filmed for this—work-related thing—and it just—it threw me you know? At first I didn’t know how to handle it so I tried a joke and—it worked. So I just—I guess, you know, I usually can’t get them to laugh like that.” Oh I know, I thought bitterly. “I got carried away. And I swear—what’s your name?”
The question stops my tears. “Melanie Zeitgar,” I say.
“Melanie,” he repeats. “I’m Greg.” He holds out his hand for a real handshake. I compose myself and shake his hand. He has a nice firm grip; there’s nothing clammy about him.
“Melanie,” he says. “I promise—they have no idea that was your picture. They’re all looking around to see which one of them it is. And don’t worry—it’s down now. I’ve got pictures of tulips up there now or something equally as manly.”
Despite myself I laugh again. “How did you know it was me?” I say, praying that he doesn’t say that I actually look like the ugly she-male on the screen.
“Your uh—breasts,” he says blushing. “The similarity was uncanny.” We both laugh again. “And the look of horror on your face when you saw the picture,” he
admits. “I hope you don’t play poker.” I wipe my eyes and pray to the Saint of Mascara that mine isn’t smeared all over my face.
“Listen, I have to get back in there but—you work for us now right? You’re a temp?”
“Yes,” I say. “I’m normally an administrative assistant—”
“Great. Let’s continue this conversation later and I’ll help you with your uh—predicament. In the meantime you should send an e-mail to the Webmaster and ask him to remove the picture. Feel free to name drop our firm. That should do the trick.”
“Thank you,” I say. He turns and pushes the Open Door button on the elevator. “I always get them mixed up,” I say. “That was probably the wrong one.”
“No,” he says. “It was the right one.” He pushes it again. Nothing happens. He glances at me, laughs nervously, and pushes the button again. Nada.
“Try pushing another floor,” I say, leaning forward and pushing three. It lights up but the elevator doesn’t move. I giggle.
“This isn’t funny,” Greg says with a nervous laugh.
“No,” I agree. “I have to pee.” Did I just say that in front of my new boss? I look at him in horror, but he’s collapsed against the back wall. At first I think he’s feeling around for a trapdoor, but then I notice his shoulders shaking with laughter. Reflexively, laughter spills out of me too, and I have to bite my bottom lip to stop myself from barking like a seal. We’re trapped. And I really do have to pee.
Chapter 8
Unlike the movies, neither of us makes a move to rip off our clothes and slam the other against the wall in an awkward yet passionate embrace, and I have to admit I feel a little ripped off. Not that I want to make love to Greg Parks. I’m in love with Ray. But still, why isn’t he attacking me? Is it because I mentioned the thing about having to pee? On the other hand we’re not stuck in here with a pregnant woman near her due date either, so I guess I should be grateful. And then, as if reading my mind, Greg takes a step toward me, his hand reaching for my breasts. Oh my God. Is this sexual harassment? I’m not actually going to let him feel me up am I?
