Pulpy and Midge

by Jessica Westhead

  He stopped spreading and arranged the top half of the pastry over the bottom half. ‘I probably won’t be able to call you at lunch today,’ he said. ‘Because of the potluck.’

  ‘I have a life of my own, you know,’ she said. ‘I don’t just wait around for you to call me on your lunch hour. In fact, after I’m done my route today I’m going to have coffee with Jean. What do you think about that?’

  ‘I think that’s good.’

  ‘Are you finished?’ She pointed to the knife he’d used.

  He nodded. ‘I can try to call you from my desk later on, though.’

  She plucked the knife off the counter and licked jam off the blade.

  ‘Be careful,’ he said.

  She put the knife on the table. ‘I’m done with it,’ she said, and left the kitchen again.

  It wasn’t until Pulpy put on his boots that he remembered he’d left his coat at work, and on top of that he had to stand on the bus. He gripped a pole with one hand and cradled his pastry, which he’d wrapped in wax paper, with the other. People shoved past him on their way on and off and he had to keep shifting his weight to balance himself. Spearmint gum and strong perfume and various other up-close smells surrounded him, and he was cold without his coat.

  When his stop was coming up, Pulpy tried to make eye contact with the passengers who could reach the dinger, but nobody looked back at him. ‘Ma’am?’ he said to a lady sitting near him who was wearing a parka.

  The lady fluffed up her hood and turned away.

  He saw his stop getting closer and reached out with his pastry to tap her on the shoulder.

  She flinched and glared at him. ‘Please don’t touch me with your bread.’

  ‘It’s puff pastry,’ he said. ‘Could you please pull the dinger?’

  She made a disapproving sound and gave the dinger a yank, but the bus kept going.

  Pulpy frowned and leaned in to pull the dinger again.

  The bus driver went on the intercom. ‘Please stop playing with the bell. This is not a contest. You’re not going into the bonus room.’

  ‘But that was my stop,’ said Pulpy.

  The bus pulled over at the next stop and Pulpy stood on the step to get off. The doors didn’t open. He pushed on the yellow bar.

  ‘You have to push on the yellow bar,’ said the driver over the PA. ‘The one that says “Push.”’

  ‘I am pushing,’ said Pulpy.

  ‘On the yellow bar.’

  The woman in the parka glared at him again.

  ‘GET OFF THE BUS!’ another passenger yelled.

  ‘The bar isn’t working,’ said Pulpy. He shoved the puff pastry under one arm and leaned his shoulder against the bar. It wouldn’t budge. Then a green light blinked on overhead and the doors gave all at once. Pulpy tripped down the steps and lost his footing on the icy sidewalk. The bus pulled away as he fell backward and landed on his potluck contribution.

  When Pulpy stumbled, shivering, into the welcome area, the receptionist was bent over, stacking files in the small space between her desk and the photocopier. She looked over her shoulder at him. ‘Why aren’t you wearing a coat?’

  ‘I left it upstairs,’ he said. ‘Where’s Beatrice?’

  ‘She’s not here, so I’m blocking off her pathway.’ She dropped a telephone book on the pile. ‘She comes through this opening to sneak up on me, and I don’t like her creeping around my workspace like that. When she comes back in she’ll have to go around the regular way like everybody else.’

  He rocked back on his heels. ‘The potluck’s today. She’ll probably be here for the potluck.’

  ‘Do you know what he said to her the other day, in front of me? He said, “You’ll be inheriting this documentation.” Meaning my documentation. Like I was dead. Like I’d even put her in my will if I was dead.’ She sat in her chair and crossed her legs. ‘And now with the filing she keeps asking me, “What’s the FN number? Tell me the FN number.” Even though “FN” stands for “File Number.” I want to scream at her, “You’re saying what’s the file number number! Just say F number, or FN or file number. Don’t say FN number.” It’s repetitive and it’s unnecessary. I can’t stand it.’

  ‘Did you get the email I sent, about the potluck?’ said Pulpy.

  ‘I already told you I can’t go to the stupid potluck.’

  ‘But did you get it? I sent it last night.’

  She reached for her mouse and squinted at her screen. ‘Yeah, I got it. Hey, did you get my email, then?’

  Pulpy nodded and swallowed. ‘I did.’

  She grinned. ‘Wasn’t it funny? Did you see the answers? They were at the bottom, if you scrolled down.’

  ‘They were?’ He shook his head. ‘I didn’t see them. But what I was going to say was, maybe it’s not a good idea to send me those types of emails.’

  She pulled in her chin. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘It’s just that, well, I’m flattered, but –’ He took a deep breath. ‘I’m in love with my wife.’

  ‘Yeah, you told me that already.’ The receptionist frowned at her screen and clicked her mouse a few times, hard.

  Pulpy felt the back of his neck heat up. ‘Well, anyway, it’s probably not a good idea to send those types of emails at work. Because Dan could see them – they’re all on the company server.’

  She looked back at her computer. ‘I don’t really care.’

  He cleared his throat and headed for the stairs. ‘I can bring you something from the potluck if you want.’

  She didn’t answer him.

  ‘Pulpy!’ said Dan when Pulpy walked by his office. ‘Come in here and keep me company!’

  Pulpy stepped over the threshold and stood there.

  ‘Take a seat anywhere.’

  Pulpy sat in one of the cushiony chairs.

  ‘Actually,’ said Dan, and pointed to the two hard-backed chairs in front of his desk, ‘I said anywhere but I’d prefer you to sit in one of these seats here.’

  Pulpy moved.

  Dan laced his fingers together. ‘What’s going on with you, Pulpy? And by that I mean what’s going on with this potluck? You sent the email last night. How are people supposed to bring anything when they only found out about the potluck this morning?’ He shook his head. ‘I thought we discussed this.’

  Pulpy pinched the crease down the front of his pants. He was wearing the black ones. ‘They could bring their lunches to share.’

  ‘I do not think lunches are a viable option.’

  He took a breath. ‘The email was just a reminder. People have known about the potluck for a week now, since I posted the sign-up sheet.’ He saw that Dan’s big ‘Back off – it’s early’ mug was on his desk, next to the receptionist’s smaller duck mug.

  ‘Yes, well.’ His boss frowned. ‘What did you bring, anyway?’

  ‘Puff pastry with jam.’

  ‘That sounds pretty good.’ Dan nodded. ‘I brought Jamaican patties. Spicy ones. They need to be nuked.’

  ‘What did Beatrice bring?’

  Dan coughed into his fist. ‘Beatrice couldn’t make it today. The Jamaican patties are from both of us. She had some appointments.’ And then he grabbed both mugs by their handles and banged them together with a crack, dislodging a small chip of red porcelain from ‘Back off – it’s early.’

  Pulpy put his hand over his mouth and looked away.

  ‘Dammit!’ Dan shuffled some papers on his desk. ‘So. Back to work.’

  ‘Okay.’ Pulpy stood up. ‘Um, so when and where is the potluck, exactly?’

  ‘One o’clock in the boardroom. I thought I told you that already.’

  ‘No, I don’t think so.’

  ‘Well, now you know.’

  ‘I’ll send a follow-up email.’

  ‘Yeah, you do that.’

  ‘All right.’ Pulpy started to leave.

  ‘Wait just one minute,’ said Dan.

  Pulpy stopped.

  ‘Now, that right there was my work face. This r
ight here –’ Dan smiled ‘ – is the Dan you know and love. So, tell me. Is there anything you need, Pulpy?’

  Pulpy stood in front of Dan’s desk with one foot placed slightly behind the other. ‘I’m not sure what you mean, Dan.’

  ‘Is there anything I can do for you, to make your job easier? I want you to be happy.’

  ‘Hmm.’ He pointed his back foot and tapped that shoe on the floor, then blinked at his now-grinning boss. ‘I guess my keyboard tray is slightly too low.’

  Dan stood up and walked around his desk. ‘Then let’s go fix it.’

  The two of them marched to Pulpy’s cubicle and stood there together with their arms crossed.

  ‘Show me what’s wrong,’ said Dan.

  ‘Okay.’ Pulpy sat down at his desk and pulled out his keyboard tray. ‘See there? How it hits my legs like that? I asked Building Maintenance to fix it and they tried, but they didn’t get it right.’

  ‘That Building Maintenance man is no good,’ said Dan. ‘Let me in there.’

  Pulpy wheeled his chair out of the way, and his boss dropped to his hands and knees and crawled under his desk.

  Eduardo leaned around the partition. ‘What’s going on?’

  Pulpy pointed to Dan’s rear end wiggling at them.

  Eduardo’s eyes widened.

  Pulpy coughed.

  Dan started banging on the underside of Pulpy’s keyboard tray. ‘Is this what the Building Maintenance guy did?’

  ‘Sort of,’ said Pulpy. ‘He wasn’t quite so loud, though.’

  Dan banged some more. ‘Ow!’

  Pulpy watched Eduardo grin and reach for his phone.

  Dan emerged, sucking on his knuckles. ‘I don’t know what’s going on down there.’

  ‘That’s okay. You tried.’

  Dan stood up and frowned at Eduardo, who was laughing into his receiver. ‘Well, back to work.’

  ‘Back to it,’ said Pulpy, and watched Dan walk away.

  Eduardo put down his phone and rolled his chair around to Pulpy’s side of the partition. ‘He’s an idiot,’ he said.

  Pulpy shrugged and jiggled his keyboard tray.

  Eduardo frowned. ‘Why’s your coat on the back of your chair?’

  He looked sideways at his co-worker and felt the soft bulk of his coat pressing against his back. ‘I was cold so I brought it up with me.’

  The other man wheeled closer to him, and lowered his voice. ‘What did you see last night, Pulpy?’

  ‘Nothing,’ he said quickly. ‘I sent the potluck email and I left.’

  ‘Have it your way, then.’ Eduardo crossed his arms. ‘Just so long as you don’t go having a heart-to-heart with your pal Dan.’

  ‘He’s not my pal.’

  ‘That’s good to hear, Pulpy.’ Eduardo slid back around his corner. ‘Have fun at your potluck.’

  At one o’clock, Pulpy, Dan, Cheryl from Active Recovery and Roy from Customer Service sat around the boardroom table with four dishes of food between them.

  Dan bit into one of his Jamaican patties. ‘The team spirit in this place is embarrassing.’

  ‘Good sticky rice, Cheryl,’ said Pulpy, serving himself a second helping.

  His co-worker ducked her head. ‘Thank you. My husband made it.’

  ‘Your husband, eh?’ said Roy with a wink. ‘I think that’s cheating, Cheryl. I went and purchased my shortbread cookies all by myself!’

  ‘At least it’s homemade.’ Dan licked his lips at Cheryl approvingly. ‘Anything homemade is delicious.’

  Roy lifted the box the Jamaican patties had been in and peered at Dan through the plastic window. ‘I guess you whipped these up and made the packaging too. Or was Beatrice the chef? Where is Beatrice, anyway?’

  Dan took his eyes off Cheryl, who looked flustered, and said to Roy in a low voice, ‘My wife had some appointments to attend.’

  Roy put the box down and shrugged. ‘More for us.’

  ‘We should’ve thought to bring drinks,’ said Pulpy. ‘We have food but no drinks.’

  ‘A complete lack of interest.’ Dan brushed some crumbs off his sleeve. ‘That’s what we’re dealing with here. Total employee apathy.’ He turned back to Cheryl. ‘Except for our intrepid and, might I add, quite lovely Active Recovery specialist over here.’

  Cheryl squirmed under his gaze. ‘Like I said, my husband deserves all the credit.’

  ‘I’ll bet he does,’ said Dan.

  ‘Al didn’t do this sort of thing,’ said Roy. ‘He pretty much just let us go about our day. Sometimes he’d suggest a spontaneous get-together, like a bunch of us would take a longer lunch at a pub or whatever.’

  ‘Those were good times,’ said Cheryl.

  ‘Well, Al isn’t in charge anymore, is he?’ said Dan, raising his voice. ‘Isn’t that right, Pulpy?’

  Pulpy ate some sticky rice and swallowed, hard. ‘Right,’ he mumbled.

  Dan broke a shortbread cookie into tiny pieces and then crushed them into powder. ‘How does sitting around in a pub foster team-building? You tell me, because I can’t figure it out.’

  ‘It was fun,’ said Roy.

  ‘It was,’ said Cheryl.

  Pulpy nodded, but when he saw Dan glaring at him he looked around quickly at the Crock-Pot of sticky rice and the paper plates of Jamaican patties, shortbread cookies and his flattened jam-filled puff pastry. ‘But this is fun too. Look at all this food.’

  Dan shook his big head. ‘Something needs to be done about this.’

  ‘Pulpy, could you pass me some more of your pastry?’ said Roy.

  ‘Me too,’ said Cheryl.

  ‘I’m glad you like it,’ he said. ‘It’s not supposed to be squashed like that.’

  ‘I propose,’ said Dan, ‘that we do something about this.’

  Nobody said anything. The sound of chewing filled the room.

  Dan brought his fist down on his plate, flattening what remained of his lunch. ‘This potluck is a piece of crap!’

  Pulpy, Roy and Cheryl looked at each other, and Dan stood up and walked out of the room.

  When he’d finished eating, Pulpy brought a plate of food to the receptionist.

  ‘Thanks.’ She scratched her cheek. ‘What is this, strudel?’

  ‘It’s puff pastry. It’s supposed to be puffier. It’s got jam inside.’

  ‘Huh. Why’s this rice so sticky?’

  ‘It’s sticky rice.’

  She picked up the plastic fork he’d given her and dangled it above the plate. ‘Wait, what did he bring?’

  ‘The Jamaican patty’s his.’

  She lifted the patty by the edges with her thumb and forefinger and pitched it into the garbage. ‘There. That’s better.’ She looked at him. ‘Nobody in this office cares whether I live or die, except for you. You’re the only one.’

  He focused on the pearly grains of rice on her plate, clumped into a small peak. ‘That’s not true. Nobody wants you to die.’

  ‘Pulpy!’ Dan yelled from the top of the stairs. ‘In my office, please. Emergency Social Committee meeting. I’ve got Beatrice on speakerphone.’

  ‘Coming!’ he called back, and then shrugged at her. ‘I’d better get up there.’

  The receptionist gave his pastry a jab. ‘Duty calls.’

  ‘Beatrice, I’ve got Pulpy here,’ Dan said to his phone.

  ‘Pulpy!’ Beatrice said, loud enough to distort the speaker.

  ‘Hi, Beatrice.’ Pulpy waited for Dan to tell him where to sit.

  ‘How’s Midge?’ she said.

  ‘She’s fine.’

  ‘That’s good. We miss her!’

  ‘Enough chit-chat,’ said Dan. ‘We’ve got a situation here.’

  ‘What’s the situation?’ said Pulpy.

  Dan rolled his eyes. ‘Were you not there at one o’clock?’

  ‘Was it fun?’ said Beatrice. ‘I’m sorry I didn’t make it. I just didn’t feel like leaving the house today.’

  ‘It was nice,’ said Pulpy.

&nbs
p; ‘Oh, good. Did everyone like the Jamaican patties?’

  ‘Everyone,’ said Dan, ‘was four people.’

  ‘Only four?’ she said.

  ‘It could’ve been five,’ Dan muttered.

  ‘What was that, dear?’

  ‘Never mind. What we’re here to talk about is staff morale, of which we are sorely low on. Of which we, in fact, have none.’

  ‘Maybe people just weren’t very hungry,’ said Pulpy.

  ‘Or maybe they didn’t know about the event,’ said Dan.

  Pulpy’s arms dangled at his sides. ‘I sent the emails.’

  ‘You sent them too late.’

  ‘I posted the sign-up sheet early.’

  ‘I saw your sign-up sheet. It was very well done,’ said Beatrice. ‘I liked the font you used.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  Dan slapped his palm down on his desk. ‘We are not operating on optimum drive at this office! We’re operating on something more like non-optimum drive.’

  ‘What does Pulpy think we should do?’ said Beatrice.

  Pulpy tugged on the lanyard around his neck. ‘I think things are fine the way they are.’

  ‘Well, you’re wrong,’ said Dan. ‘In the ideal state of affairs, things would be the way they should be, but they aren’t. This is not an ideal state of affairs.’

  ‘You should make a policy, honey,’ said his wife. ‘You make really good policies.’

  ‘Thanks.’ Dan trailed a finger along the side of his handset. ‘Maybe I should.’ He looked at Pulpy. ‘What are you and Midge up to tonight?’

  ‘Tonight? Oh. Well –’

  ‘Great. Tonight it is. We’ll all make a policy together.’

  ‘I’m not sure if I can make it,’ said Beatrice. ‘I’ll see how I feel.’

  Dan shot an angry look at his speaker. ‘I’ll call you later,’ he said, and hung up on her. ‘I’ve made reservations for the four of us at our new favourite restaurant, Pulpy. You and Midge can meet us there at seven.’

  ‘I’ll have to call her,’ said Pulpy. ‘I think she might have plans.’

  Dan stared at him. ‘Seven o’clock.’

  He nodded. ‘Seven will be fine.’

  Pulpy sat down at his desk and dialled home.