Pulpy and Midge

by Jessica Westhead

  ‘The earlier we choose our teams, the earlier we rally our team spirit. Which is exactly what we need around here. An injection of oomph.’

  ‘I’ll give you an injection of oomph,’ Eduardo muttered.

  Dan tilted his rectangular head so that one side of his neck was stretched taut. ‘Haven’t you already been doing that to someone else, Eduardo?’

  A ripple of murmurs passed around the semicircle.

  Eduardo reddened and aimed a glare at Pulpy.

  Then the boardroom door flew open and Beatrice sashayed in with an armload of shopping bags. ‘Sorry I’m late, everyone. Whose team am I on?’

  ‘You’re on Eduardo’s team,’ said Pulpy.

  She jutted her hip out sideways. ‘Am I now?’

  Eduardo growled and walked out of the room.

  Pulpy looked at Dan, but he was looking at his wife and smiling.

  ‘I didn’t think you’d make it,’ he said.

  Beatrice rolled her eyes. ‘Don’t go getting all grateful on me. I’m not here because of you.’ She blew a kiss at Pulpy. ‘I came to support our captain!’

  The smile died on Dan’s face as quickly as it had sprouted there.

  ‘Okay!’ Pulpy clapped his hands together. ‘Let’s get back to picking those teams!’

  After the picking was over, Pulpy sat at his desk and pulled out his keyboard tray. It clacked and rattled and banged onto his knees and he said, ‘This is ridiculous.’ He got off his chair and crawled under the desk and flipped onto his back. He squinted up at the underside of the tray, where it fit into the docking device. ‘It’s not level,’ he said, and reached up and moved the tray along and off the track and then into the proper position, higher up. He checked to see that the grooves were aligned on both sides, then crawled back out, brushed himself off and sat down in his chair to test his work. The tray slid out smoothly and noiselessly and there was now a good inch between it and his knees. He slid his keyboard tray in and out, enjoying the easy motion.

  Then he thought about the receptionist leaving, and he thought about going downstairs and saying goodbye. He would give her the mug back and that would make her so happy. ‘Could I ask you something?’ he would say.

  She’d look at him. ‘What is it?’

  ‘Your name,’ he’d say. ‘You told me once but I forgot it.’

  ‘Oh,’ she’d say, and smile. ‘It’s –’ And she would tell him her name.

  ‘That’s a nice name,’ he would tell the receptionist.

  ‘Thank you,’ she’d say. ‘Thank you, Pulpy.’

  ‘What did you think you were trying to pull in there?’ said a low voice behind him.

  Pulpy turned quickly to see Eduardo sneering around the partition. ‘Nothing,’ he said. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

  ‘Didn’t I tell you not to mess with me? What goes on between yours truly and the boss’s wife is private.’

  Pulpy’s palms went cold and he pressed them against the fabric of his chair. ‘Are you sure about that?’

  Eduardo wheeled closer, his shoes smacking out a staccato on the plastic floor mat. ‘What the hell are you playing at, Pulpy?’

  ‘Dan knows, Eduardo. And not because I told him.’ He was sweating now, an icy sweat that felt like it could freeze his collar to his neck.

  Eduardo blinked. ‘How would he know if you didn’t tell him?’

  ‘They have an arrangement.’ Pulpy formed his mouth around the shape of the word. ‘And if you want to know something else, you’re not the only one.’

  His co-worker’s flashlight eyes dimmed. ‘What?’

  ‘Why don’t you give Building Maintenance a call? Tell them you need something fixed.’ Pulpy reached into his coat and took out the mug. ‘See you later, Eduardo.’ He pushed back his chair and stood up.

  ‘Yeah.’ Eduardo was staring across the room toward Dan’s office, his hands clasped together in his lap. ‘See you.’

  ‘I would’ve thought they’d do a cake,’ said the receptionist.

  She was sitting in her chair with her coat on. Her now-full cardboard box was on the floor by her feet.

  ‘Don’t forget your international garden calendar,’ he said.

  ‘It can stay.’ She waved a hand at February’s flowers, all lined up with their faces pointed toward the sun. ‘I was using it to count down the days before I was out of here, so I guess I don’t need it anymore. I took everything else.’ Her desk was empty now except for her computer, her phone and a red bag with crinkly silver paper poking out the top.

  Pulpy pointed to it. ‘What’s in there?’ His other hand was behind his back.

  She sneered. ‘My parting gift. It’s peach spray. She hands it to me and says, “Here you go.” She just hands it to me like that – no ceremony or anything. I would’ve thought a cake, at least.’

  ‘She gave you the peach spray,’ he said. ‘Everybody likes peach.’

  ‘It’s peach spray lotion.’ She made a face. ‘Who ever heard of lotion you spray on? I’m leaving it here. I don’t want it in my house because it stinks. It stinks and it’s cheap and it would give me hives.’

  ‘It’s peach.’

  ‘Exactly. And I didn’t even get a card. Everybody else gets a card when they leave.’ She put her hands on her desk and pushed the bag aside. ‘I thought at least they’d do a cake for me.’

  Pulpy stood there feeling sad for her. ‘People are talking about you leaving. I heard someone say they’d miss the way you did things.’

  ‘Really?’ She looked a bit happier. ‘Who said that?’

  ‘I just heard it,’ he said. ‘I didn’t see who it came from.’

  ‘I hate this place,’ she said.

  He crossed one foot over the other. ‘I got you something.’

  ‘You did?’

  ‘I found it, actually.’ And he brought his hand around and gave her the duck mug.

  She put both hands around the mug and pressed it down hard on her desk. ‘Where?’

  He cleared his throat carefully. ‘Dan had it.’

  She nodded. ‘He takes my mug and she gives me hives.’ The receptionist lifted her mug again and stuck her nose in. ‘Smells like coffee.’

  ‘I think he drank coffee out of it.’

  ‘Only tea.’ She held the cartoon duck level with her eyes. ‘There’s only ever been tea in here. Are you all right, duck?’ And she tapped it on the bill.

  ‘Quack,’ said Pulpy softly.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Nothing. I should probably get back upstairs.’ He stuck his hands in his pockets. ‘Well, so long.’

  She stood up. ‘Hold on a minute.’

  ‘Yes?’ He waited with his ears wide open.

  ‘Here.’ She thrust the mug at him. ‘You keep it. I don’t need anything reminding me of this stupid job.’

  ‘Really?’ He removed his hands from his pockets and took it from her. ‘Are you sure?’

  She hoisted the cardboard box onto her hip. ‘It’s from the staff cupboard, anyway.’

  Pulpy smiled. ‘I’m glad you went to that seminar, even if it wasn’t as good as you thought it would be.’

  ‘Me too,’ she said.

  He made an awkward writing motion with his free hand. ‘Should I maybe get your –’

  She shook her head. ‘You wouldn’t call it, anyway.’

  ‘No. I guess I wouldn’t.’

  ‘Besides –’ She headed for the door. ‘I’m going to forget you as soon as I walk out of here.’

  ‘I wanted to get you a cake,’ said Pulpy.

  The receptionist turned to smile at him. ‘I know,’ she said. And then she was gone.

  Pulpy stood there looking at the space she’d occupied, and then he heard clapping, and Dan’s voice behind him.

  ‘Well, now, wasn’t that touching?’

  He turned around slowly to see Dan and Beatrice perched at the top of the stairs, grinning down at him.

  ‘I’m not sure Midge would feel the same way, tho
ugh, do you?’ said Beatrice.

  ‘How long have you been sitting there?’ said Pulpy.

  ‘Long enough,’ said Dan. ‘And now if you and the duck don’t mind, I’d like to see you both in my office.’

  Beatrice came down the steps, pointing her pointy shoes ahead of her, and slid past Pulpy into the receptionist’s chair. ‘What an ungrateful bitch,’ she said, frowning at the gift bag.

  ‘First things first,’ said Dan when Pulpy reached the top of the stairs, and he grabbed the receptionist’s mug out of Pulpy’s hand.

  ‘Hey!’ he said, and saw Beatrice scurry under the desk as Dan tossed the mug over the railing into the welcome area below. It hit the tile floor and exploded. ‘Why did you do that?’

  Dan dusted off his palms. ‘Because I can.’

  Beatrice reappeared and put her hands on her hips. ‘I’ll call Building Maintenance to clean this up.’

  ‘I bet you will,’ Dan said, and ushered Pulpy into his office. ‘Sit down, Pulpy. In front of my desk here.’

  Pulpy lowered himself into one of the hard-backed chairs, every rigid contour conspiring to make him uncomfortable.

  Dan sat in his leather recliner and leaned forward. ‘Things are not looking good for you right now. You stole that mug from my desk.’

  ‘But it belonged to the receptionist first.’

  ‘Don’t give me excuses, give me results!’ Dan was yelling now. ‘You’re a thief, Pulpy! And you knew she went to that seminar. You demonstrated a wilful and reckless disregard for the front desk. That kind of behaviour will not be tolerated.’

  ‘All she wanted was to improve herself. And she had everything prepared.’ Pulpy’s hands were shaking all the way up to his forearms. ‘Besides, Al told her she could go to the seminar.’

  ‘Al, Al, Al! Al this, Al that.’ Dan’s voice was mock whiny. ‘I’ve had it with hearing about Al’s way of doing things. Al retired, Pulpy, and he’s not coming back. He doesn’t care about this office and he doesn’t care about you. He abandoned ship to get old and grow vegetables, and in case you didn’t notice, I took over when he left!’ Dan slammed his elbows down on his desk. ‘You are in some kind of serious shit here – this is your job! Forget about that promotion we were discussing yesterday. Right here and right now we are talking about the very polar opposite of a promotion.’

  Pulpy shrank back against the chair.

  ‘You were a regular Bonnie and Clyde outfit, you and that secretary.’ Dan made the last word sound like the worst word in the world.

  ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ Pulpy whispered.

  ‘We saw that dirty little email she sent you.’

  He blinked. ‘How did you –’

  ‘We bought software, Pulpy. We’ve been monitoring things.’

  ‘But … it was just a forward.’

  ‘Is that all it was? Then why didn’t you delete it?’

  ‘I was going to. I just hadn’t gotten around to it yet.’

  Dan rocked his big head back and forth, and his voice went soft. ‘Poor Midge.’

  ‘I love my wife,’ said Pulpy. ‘I love my wife more than anything.’

  ‘I wish I could believe you.’

  ‘But there’s nothing to believe. I love Midge.’

  ‘Have you talked to her today?’

  ‘She stayed over at a friend’s house last night.’ He looked at his lap and his upturned palms resting there, the fingers rubbery and useless. ‘But that doesn’t mean anything.’

  ‘Oh dear.’ Dan leaned back and crossed his arms. ‘I hate to say it, Pulpy, but in my experience that means a lot.’

  ‘We’ll get through it.’

  ‘Will you? Because this is big. This is big, big marital badness.’

  Pulpy’s mouth wasn’t working properly. His tongue was too heavy and his jaw was too tight. ‘So what should I do?’

  ‘Let me help you. Let Beatrice help you.’ Dan’s gentle baritone lapped Pulpy’s ears. ‘Give Midge a call. Tell her you want to put the spark back with some mutual adventure. Tell her a vote for mutual adventure is a vote for your future together.’

  He shook his head. ‘She’d never go for it.’

  ‘Then just get her over to our place and we’ll take care of the rest. Tell her it’s just for dinner.’

  Pulpy rubbed his chin. ‘I really don’t know about this.’

  ‘Your job and your marriage are on the line here, and you’re hesitating?’ Dan made a sad face. ‘I’m not sure you’re the man I thought you were, Pulpy.’

  ‘I’m not hesitating. I don’t know if this is the best thing for us, that’s all.’

  ‘Just get Midge over. We’ll have a nice dinner. Then we’ll see what the best thing is for all concerned. And no pressure – just good times with good company.’

  Pulpy felt Dan’s quality wood pressing against his back. His arms went limp and he let them dangle. ‘If that’s all it is, then I guess I could give her a call.’

  ‘Yes!’ Dan made two shooting guns with his hands, twirled them in the air and holstered them at his sides. ‘Now there’s the Pulpy I know and love!’

  ‘Just dinner, right?’

  ‘We’ll take it slow.’ Dan winked at him. ‘Trust me on this.’

  Beatrice wasn’t in the welcome area when Pulpy went downstairs for lunch.

  A broom and dustpan were leaning against the desk, and the broken pieces of duck mug had been swept into a little pile in front of the garbage can.

  He peered down the hallway. It was empty. He headed for the kitchen, glancing at the men’s room door as he passed.

  The kitchen was empty too. He opened the fridge and a large Tupperware container full of something dark and wet fell out and hit the floor. The contents sloshed as Pulpy tried to shove it back in, but there were no empty spots. The shelves were crammed full with plastic tubs and Thermoses and colourful fabric lunch cozies, climbing on top of each other all the way to the very back.

  He crouched and groped for his plastic bag, nearly toppling milk cartons and juice boxes and a pyramid of yogurt cups. He finally located the spongy cushion of his white loaf and the hard cylinder of his jam jar in the right-hand crisper, which wasn’t where he’d left it, and forced the Tupperware container into its place.

  He put two slices in the toaster and took a knife from the cutlery drawer, and waited.

  ‘Smells good!’

  Pulpy jumped, but relaxed when he saw Roy in the doorway. ‘It’s only toast.’

  Roy looked pale and his smile was set at an odd angle. ‘Smells better than toast.’

  ‘Toast is like that sometimes.’

  ‘I guess you have a point there.’ Roy walked over to the bulletin board with his hands in his pockets and began to read the postings.

  Pulpy moved the toast-colour indicator from yellow to light brown. ‘Are you all right?’

  Roy didn’t say anything for a moment. Then he turned around and said, ‘You’re a family man, aren’t you, Pulpy?’

  The elements heating his bread glowed bright orange. ‘I guess I am, yes.’

  ‘You have a wife, don’t you, and an apartment together?’

  Pulpy nodded, watching a tendril of smoke curl up past the coiled wires.

  ‘See, there you go. You’re all set up. Guys like me envy guys like you.’

  ‘Really?’ His toast popped up, only slightly burned.

  ‘What do you mean, really? You have a woman at home who loves you. Shit, Pulpy.’

  He tried to open the jam jar but the lid was stuck, so he tried harder.

  ‘Your wife had that bird that died, didn’t she?’

  ‘That’s right,’ he said. ‘Mrs. Wings.’

  ‘Man, that sucks. That sucks that had to happen.’ Roy shook his head. ‘But, you know, you should tell her what a great party everybody thought that was. We all still talk about it.’

  ‘Thanks.’ The lid came off with a sucking sound. ‘That’s nice.’

  Roy heaved a sigh. ‘The chick I’
m doing it with is doing it with somebody else. I just found out.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Pulpy. ‘I’m sorry to hear that.’

  ‘The guy’s got a tool belt. He fixes things. How am I supposed to compete with that?’

  Pulpy paused with the knife in the jar, sunk down into the sweetness, and turned to look at the empty fishbowl on the staff break table. He remembered Roy’s hand on his shoulder in the men’s room, after the fish died. The knock on the door. And Beatrice in the hallway.

  ‘Pulpy? You okay?’ said Roy. ‘Hey, buck up. I’m the one telling his tale of woe here.’

  ‘Sure.’ Pulpy turned back to his co-worker. ‘I was just thinking that you’re probably better off without her.’

  ‘Yeah, well.’ Roy shrugged and turned back to the postings. ‘Did you do this Frisbee sign-up sheet here?’

  Pulpy started spreading Peach Delight on his toast. ‘Yes.’

  ‘Why did you do a sign-up sheet if the teams have already been decided? There’s nothing to sign up for.’

  ‘You’re right,’ said Pulpy. ‘I guess it’s more of a team allocation sheet, then. I should change the title and print it out again.’

  ‘No, you shouldn’t. Frisbee is stupid. Who wants to play Frisbee at work?’

  ‘Not me, that’s for sure.’

  Roy grinned at him. ‘I always knew you were all right, Pulpy.’

  ‘Really?’ Pulpy focused on evening out the layer of jam.

  ‘That potluck you organized, that was pretty good.’

  He stopped spreading, his hand gummy with Peach Delight. ‘Thank you, Roy.’

  ‘You’re welcome. I’ll see you later, Pulpy.’ Roy smiled again. ‘And take care of that wife of yours.’

  ‘I will, thanks.’ He watched the other man leave, and then looked in dismay at the crumby, sticky mess he’d made of everything.

  He hadn’t even used a plate, for heaven’s sake.

  Midge had given him a list of emergency contacts for his wallet, printed in multicoloured ink on a recipe card. He pulled it out and flicked it against the pay phone, then held it in front of his face and let the quarters drop into the slot. This was definitely an emergency, he thought, and dialled Jean’s number.