“When my grandfather had a stroke, he took me to the airport and sent my mother this enormous fruit and cheese basket,” reported Kate. “He made her day. My mother really likes Gouda.”
“Also, Michael says Gus can play the guitar like really well. And that’s just hot.”
“So, have you told him you like him?” asked Marjorie. “Either of you?”
“Oh, no. He is way too proper for that!” exclaimed Lydia. “He’d never. That’s part of why we adore him.”
Marjorie was having trouble reconciling this characterization with the man who had dismissed and berated her earlier. “He must not like me.”
“Don’t worry,” said Lydia, “he’ll warm up to you.”
“I hope so. Otherwise I might freeze to death.”
Marjorie returned to her igloo soon after and worked until Gus popped his head in, hours later. He looked surprised. “Oh. You’re still here.”
“No one told me to leave and I’m not done, so…”
“Sorry. I’m used to the girls coming and going on their own. I didn’t think to let you off the hook.”
“It’s fine. I’m about finished with the second box. I’ll send you the spreadsheet now.” Biting her lip in concentration, Marjorie entered one last date, then saved and attached the file and e-mailed it.
When she looked up, Gus was watching her. He glanced away, as if caught.
“What?” Marjorie brushed at her mouth. Did she have leftover crumbs on her face from the three protein bars she’d eaten for lunch?
“Nothing,” Gus said, his face redrawn in a scowl. He looked her up and down.
“What?” she repeated. “What is it?” Marjorie chided herself silently for her tone, but the man was infuriating.
“Nice sweatshirt. You look like a twelve-year-old mall rat, Train Wreck.”
“It’s not mine!” she yelped. “And that’s not my name!” But he’d already stalked back to his dungeon.
23
Marjorie had no time the next morning for an argument with her mother or a face-off with her former friend.
She’d arrived home the previous evening around 9:00, planning to gorge herself on sesame chicken and dumplings with her roommate—compensation for the day’s deprivation. But Fred had a last-minute gig, so she’d have to wait for the scoop on Gus’s attitude problem. Mac was hosting a St. Germain cocktail–sponsored party at DIRT in honor of a new coffee table book and the socialite author’s ease at calling in favors.
Left to her own devices, Marjorie channel surfed, lamented the suckiness of summer TV, then gave up. In her room, she applied a blue clay face masque, then lit her candle, more for entertainment than contemplation.
Bored, she turned to cyberstalking. Gus’s Facebook profile revealed no clues as to why he hated tall redheads. His wall was blank except for perfunctory birthday greetings and posts from Michael, ribbing him about the Phillies. He was tagged in some pictures: on a beach at sundown, in a dark bar, manning a BBQ—all with hot women. He was good-looking, she conceded. He had options. Propriety was probably not the only thing keeping him from a “love affair” with Lydia or Kate.
Marjorie made a turkey sandwich for work the next day, soggy bread being preferable to protein bars. Then she climbed into bed and fell fast asleep.
By 9:30 the next morning she was back in the conference room in cutoffs and a tank, but with layers close at hand, sorting the third box of DVDs. Kate was at a class and Gus was at a meeting, but Lydia welcomed her back with a tooth-cluttered smile and the offer of a caffeine fix.
“There’s a coffee machine here?”
“Of course! Did you think we were heathens?”
Marjorie got the sense that Lydia only feigned addiction to project sophistication. “I noticed Gus with a cup from somewhere else yesterday.”
“Yeah, something about liking the place’s owner? He’s a mysterious man.” Lydia floated back to reception.
At half past noon, Marjorie sent the final spreadsheet to Gus. She opened the door of her cave; the front desk was unmanned. In the kitchen, she pulled her now gloppy sandwich from the fridge and ate it standing up, tossing the crumb-filled ziplock into the garbage. Then, on second thought, she moved it to the recycling bin; on second thought again, she moved it back to the trash. Who could keep the rules straight?
With time to kill, she explored the cabinets and settled on a cup of Twinings English Breakfast tea. Playing a solo game of bartender, she added nondairy creamer, brown sugar, cinnamon, and honey, then sipped, winced, and tossed it.
Empty-handed, she wandered back to her “office.” Gus hadn’t responded in the fifteen minutes that had passed. She checked her personal e-mail—just a note from her mother, solidifying future dinner plans. At a loss, she turned to Instagram. Perusing the feed, her heart sank: Pickles had posted a picture with Vera and Brian from July 4th. So they had gotten together without her. She was officially odd woman out. And, sitting in a foreign office in July, wearing a fisherman’s sweater and skullcap, she looked like the odd woman too. She stared at their sun-kissed faces, reminding herself that Pickles likely spent the weekend delivering fascistic lectures on the importance of breast-feeding and the dangers of vaccinations, while the others name-dropped and exchanged dull stories about boats and traffic patterns. Marjorie didn’t want to be there anyway. Right?
Suddenly, she was desperate for distraction. Pushing down nerves, she left the conference room and approached her boss’s half-open door. Inside, Gus looked anxious. His hands were planted on either side of his head, fingertips pressing into his temples. He grumbled an expletive and pulled his palms down his face, kneading his eyes like a sleepy baby.
“Knock, knock,” she said and immediately regretted it. Why not just knock?
Gus glared at Marjorie like she was the most annoying person on earth, a Hayden Panettiere–Rush Limbaugh–Carrot Top hybrid.
“I finished the spreadsheets and, since you’re paying me, I thought you might want me to do something else.” She crossed her arms over her chest.
“Whatever.”
She exhaled. “Look. You’re clearly stressed. You look like a train wreck. I don’t really care, but maybe I could help. If the problem is work-related, that is. If it’s to do with your personal life, from what I’ve witnessed of your social skills, I’m sure that would require years of professional intervention.”
He shrugged. “I guess I have no alternative.”
“I’m gonna choose to ignore that. So, shoot.” She paused. “That’s an expression, BTW. I’m not sure how much you hate me, so to be clear: I’m not inviting you to shoot me.”
“The films you’ve been logging are from festivals we need covered.” Gus leaned back, his chair sighing. “We’re supposed to have four days to review them before other distribution companies get access. That’s important because we can make early offers.”
“Right, I get that. Remember when I said I wasn’t a moron?”
“Remember when I said that remains to be seen?” He paused. “Anyway, now they’re saying we only have two days.”
“Are these important festivals?”
“They’re not flashy, but they’re big ones for short films, and our bread and butter is from licensing those to airlines and cable networks.”
“So now you have to go through hundreds of movies in two days.”
“Yup.”
“And Michael isn’t here.”
“Yes.”
“Why don’t you ask Lydia and Kate for help?”
“They both have class this afternoon and all day tomorrow. And even if they were available, we’ve tried to farm stuff out to them before. They’re both whip smart, especially Kate, but they’re not that sophisticated yet.” He covered his face with his hands again, as if their youth was the final insult.
Marjorie brought a hand to her hip. “Well, here’s a crazy idea, boss. Why don’t you let me watch some?”
“You?” He peeked through his fingers. “But you don�
��t know anything.”
“Why, thanks.”
He dropped his hands to his lap. “No. I mean you’ve worked here for less than two days. You don’t know what we need for our markets.”
“I’ve seen movies before. It’s not that rarefied a concept. Let me watch some. Since I don’t know your buyers, I’ll write up minidescriptions with recommendations about whether they’re good and you can decide which to bother rewatching.”
Gus frowned. “Like coverage. Not a terrible idea.”
“Occasionally, I have a decent one.”
“I’ll start you off with something unimportant in case you suck at it.”
Marjorie dropped her arms to her sides. “Wow. Don’t mince words for my sake.”
Gus motioned her over to his side of the desk. She wove around, then stood awkwardly beside him, careful to keep her distance. At this proximity, she couldn’t help but notice that Lydia and Kate were right: His arms were kind of incredible. She cursed the girls for pointing that out and tried to focus on what he was saying.
“You can’t see from there.” Gus motioned Marjorie closer, so close, in fact, that she could smell peppermint gum on his breath. He pulled up the second of her spreadsheets and scrolled down. “See the titles marked ‘Experimental Video’ and ‘Social Commentary’?”
“Yes. I made the spreadsheets, remember?” It was hard to snap effectively within a foot of him. What the hell was wrong with her? Why was she eyeing the tanned back of his neck, wondering if Lydia and Kate had noticed that too?
“I need reports on those. You can watch in the conference room.”
Marjorie backed toward the door, tripping over a stack of DVDs and toppling them. “Shit.” She bent to pick them up.
“Don’t worry about it.” He gestured her toward the door. “Just start.”
“Sorry, sorry, sorry,” she said, hurrying out.
“Hey, Train Wreck?”
She turned before she could stop herself from responding. “What?”
“Why are you wearing a wool hat? It’s the middle of summer.”
“Unbelievable.” She glared at him, returning to her icy nook.
24
Marjorie spent the afternoon and evening watching what seemed like the most god-awful films ever made. (But then she had not attended the feelings-themed, Cymbalta-sponsored Seattle high school festival the previous week, where teen angst met two hundred days of nonstop rain and digital video cameras. Parents actually fled the auditorium.)
Nevertheless, Marjorie’s afternoon was not without agony. Watching and synopsizing largely unedited experimental films was almost as torturous than having to create spreadsheets in the tundra. Though she applauded the filmmakers’ initiative, even the better films were too offbeat for distribution.
Just after 10:00 P.M., she pulled off her hat, sweater, scarf, and leg warmers (yup, leg warmers) and left the conference room. How strange to bundle up indoors and strip down to go outside. She knocked; Gus looked up from his TV screen, pressing Pause.
“You look different.” He eyed her, standing in his doorway in short shorts and a thin tank top.
“I took off my snowsuit.”
He swallowed hard, then coughed. “No. I mean, you look bleary-eyed.”
“I finished those films and sent you descriptions. Nothing good yet.”
“Ah. That explains the exhaustion. Sorry. I meant to order us dinner.”
“No problem. Do you need me to stay and watch more?”
“Nah.” Gus looked around his office at nothing in particular. “I’ll leave soon too. We should both get some rest. Especially you. You look awful.”
“Gee, thanks. Can you repeat that at least one more time?”
“Tomorrow may be a late night, assuming these summaries are okay. I’ll pay you overtime, don’t worry.” He raised a hand in good-bye, already absorbed in the document she had sent. “See you tomorrow.”
Marjorie returned to the conference room, shut down the computer, and organized her pens. She was starting to feel ownership over this subarctic enclave. As she reached the exit, she heard a booming laugh from inside Gus’s office. And she smiled, despite herself.
EXPERIMENTAL VIDEO Short Films
Descriptions by Marjorie Plum
1. ELECTRIC KOOL-AID & ALL THAT JAZZ
In b&w. The shadow of a fan plays on a white wall in a dim, cavernous room. The shadow of a fan plays on a white wall in a dim, cavernous room. The shadow of a fan plays on a white wall in a dim, cavernous room. A door opens. A door shuts. The shadow of a fan plays on a white wall in a dim, cavernous room for 22 more minutes. Why, God? Why???! [27 minutes]
2. A BAD NIGHT
A 24-year-old filmmaker playing a hard-living 64-year-old (read: stuffed midriff, sprayed gray hair) saddles up to a bar and orders a drink from an underage bartender with a very real Road Runner tattoo on his arm. The drinker has had a rough day, but don’t get too excited because we never find out why. This is a silent film, after all. The only text: “This is the worst night of my life, a very bad night.” And then “May I please have a Budweiser. I don’t like Coors.” Superbowl ad? [19 minutes]
3. SURREALISM & THE MELTING CLOCK
A young film student wants to be Fellini. Sadly, he is not. [32 minutes (I will never get back)]
SOCIAL COMMENTARY Short Films
1. TWITTER BUG
To the tune of a jitterbug, sepia-filtered screen shots of Twitter feeds, Pinterest boards, Facebook pages, Instagram photos, Tumblr accounts, Linkedin connections, and even Friendster and MySpace profiles, proving that old people (aka the film festival judges) still fall for it when twenty-somethings drop the term “social media.” [11 minutes]
2. MAN ON THE TOWN
Man sees girl in park. Man stalks girl. Man buys weird large fake flower for girl, perhaps like a clown? I start to think Man is special needs. Man follows girl home. Girl goes inside. Girl’s boyfriend comes over. We realize that girl does not know Man exists. Man goes home and discontinues his Match.com profile. We pan to Man’s wall. It is (gasp!) plastered with pictures of girl. He goes to sleep wearing a T-shirt with her picture on it and masturbating. Then I die of boredom. Why not disgust, you ask? Hard to say. [38 painful minutes]
3. PASS THE BUCK
We’ve all seen this in other incarnations. It’s the pass-the-dollar movie, questioning currency’s inherent value. At a gas station store in “Nebraska” (actually off I-95 in NJ), a man buys cigarettes with a crumpled dollar. Then a NYC “career woman” on a business trip gets it as change for Certs. She takes the bill to the Museum of Natural History. It goes on from there, making its way to fake Africa (Brighton Beach, maybe?), where the dollar buys a pen of chickens for a happy Kenyan family. No irony included. [22 minutes]
25
That night, to Marjorie’s chagrin, Fred was out again, but she’d left a note on the kitchen counter:
My Dearest Marjorie Morningblatt!
I haven’t seen you in eons! Don’t we live together or something? Save Thursday. That’s the real party night anyway. We’re going to get crazy at the club (couch) with bottle service (box wine), farm-to-table haute cuisine (takeout & stolen tomatoes), and foreign films (something terrible with Katherine Heigl).
I’m expecting some good stories about your stalker/lover. Prepare accordingly.
Love, Moonlight, & Twinkletoes ’til then! xoFredericka
Marjorie smiled. Fred was out of her mind in the best way.
She managed a half-civil phone conversation with her mother, watched an episode of MTV’s Awkward, remembered how awful being fifteen could feel, then packed a bag—she’d stay at Mac’s after tomorrow’s film marathon. Then she went to sleep.
At the office the next day, the reception desk was unmanned. Apparently, Gus hadn’t gotten desperate enough to rally the college troops. Marjorie poured herself a cup of coffee and threw her lunch in the fridge. She hadn’t gone grocery shopping, and the sandwiches were getting progressively sadder. T
oday’s special was almond butter and marmalade on stale olive bread, an innately bad combination. She walked down the hall and swung the conference room door open, ready to settle in.
Marjorie froze in the entrance. All her supplies were gone: her office laptop, her organized pens, the scissor—her scissor! Had she mistaken Gus’s laughter at her summaries the night before for approval when it was mockery? Was she about to get fired?
As Marjorie stared at her disassembled workstation, PTSD from years of Brianne’s abuse reared its head. Her surprise turned to anger; her hands balled into fists. She would lecture Gus on disrespect, citing his arrogance and the misery that no doubt awaited him when he died alone!
Startled by a tap on her shoulder, she whipped around and almost smashed into the scoundrel himself. He ducked, protecting the Java the Hutt cup in his hand.
“Whoa! I was about to give you this coffee, but maybe you’ve had enough caffeine this morning.”
Flushed—from humiliation or fury?—Marjorie glared. She cursed how relaxed and golden tan he looked in his thin blue button-down, untucked, over jeans. In place of an articulate insult, she managed a petulant, “Where’s my stuff?”
Gus didn’t register her upset. He nodded toward the hall. “I moved you to Michael’s office. Can’t have you freezing your ass off all day. Plus, you looked ridiculous in that wool hat.” She peered at him, uncomprehending. He held out the coffee; she took it. “I got you a soy latte. No idea what you like, but that’s what they do best and I figured it was safe in case you can’t do milk.”
The thoughtful gesture only confused her more. Marjorie stood for a stupid beat, staring at the drink like she’d never seen one before. Gus pried the cup of crappy office coffee from her other hand and tossed it in the trash. He beckoned her to follow. “C’mon. I’ll show you.”
He’d transferred Michael’s belongings to a cardboard box in the corner. In their place sat Marjorie’s work computer and office supplies (the scissor!), plus a packet of highlighters gathered in a red Moroccan-style cup. A thermostat pronounced the room a very temperate seventy-two degrees. Recovering herself, Marjorie ran a finger along the penholder’s etched glass. “This is really pretty.”
Will You Won't You Want Me?: A Novel Page 16
