Okay, I admit I’ve masturbated. Once. Tried to, anyway. But I couldn’t climax, and I just got sore. Yeah, I’m pretty screwed up.
But maybe if I found the right guy…
If Russ wasn’t already with Sharon…
“Today, I’ll be teaching you the importance of goals and strategy when dealing with a competitor,” Martin showers on the front row. “Pretend you are a new company wanting to break into the laundry-detergent industry. Your strategy is your roadmap. If implemented properly, it will help you reach your goals. Your strategic plan should be grounded in knowledge about your customer, research about your competitor, and your firm’s current performance.”
I so don’t understand what he’s talking about.
Maybe if applied it to boyfriend stealing…mmm. This could work!
Goal: get Russ to date me.
Now let’s see. I need knowledge about my customer, research about my competitor and understanding regarding my firm’s current performance.
My customer: Russ. What do I know about Russ, other than he’s hot and unavailable? I flip to the Understanding the Customer section of my strategy textbook for appropriate businessy terms.
1. Brand loyal. Russ is not very brand loyal. He’s joined twelve clubs since starting school and can’t decide on a major. He’s always up for a drink, a joint or a smoke break. He can’t seem to make up his mind about anything.
2. Easily influenced. Russ is easily influenced by peers. He has not cheated on his girlfriend (yet), but he gives off vibes that he has a tough time resisting temptation.
3. Potential impulse buyer. Does Russ acquire merchandise on impulse? I certainly hope so, if I’m the potential merchandise.
Not bad. Not bad at all. My heart speeds up. I can do this!
Now, for my competitor analysis: Sharon’s goal is probably to marry Russ. What I don’t know is how close she is to achieving that goal.
Okay, here we go. Find Sharon’s vulnerability and attack. She lives in another country. How can I use that to my advantage and turn “Absence makes the heart grow fonder” into “Out of sight, out of mind”? Obviously, I need to do some research.
Is this horrible? What kind of a person actively tries to steal someone else’s boyfriend?
A person like Cheryl.
An evil person.
Not necessarily. It’s nothing personal, just business, as they say. A matter of economics, supply and demand. (I demand what Russ is supplying?) If business is war, then so must be love! And so, if capitalism is at the heart of the American Dream, I’m doing my patriotic duty.
Besides, if he loves her so much, what the hell was he doing flirting with me?
All right, then. Time to review some vital statistics:
1. He’s not married.
2. He’s not engaged (yet).
3. He’s dating someone who lives in another city. Another country.
4.
5. A guy doesn’t get poached unless he wants to get poached. (I’d be doing Sharon a favor if I win; she doesn’t deserve to spend her life with someone who doesn’t really love her.)
6. And last but definitely not least, I’ve caught him staring at my boobs on more than one occasion.
I spot Nick in line for lunch. “Hey, you.”
“Hey, dude,” he says. How can I be called dude with this cleavage? “What’s going on?”
“Not much. Just hungry. Where’s your sidekick?”
“Marketing meeting. Real estate club. Who knows with that guy?”
For once I’m glad that Russ is missing in action. I want to talk to Nick without interference.
I pick a few vegetables from the salad bar. “Mind if I join you?”
He blankets his plate with a glob of macaroni and cheese. “I was going to head back to my room, but we can eat here if you want.”
“Why not? We could use the break.” I try to appear blasé, as if a break is the reason I’m here. We chitchat for a few minutes while I try to come up with devious and clever ways to uncover information about Sharon. “How’s the studying going?”
“Not bad. Having some trouble concentrating, though.”
“A side effect of pot, I’m told.”
He smiles sheepishly. “Is it that obvious?”
“The Visine gave you away.”
“Russ is the one who’s paranoid about anyone finding out.” And then finally he throws me an unintentional bone. “He’s nerdy that way. Afraid some girl in second year will tell his girlfriend or something.”
Covert research is easier than I thought. “Does Sharon have spies?” I ask jokingly.
“I think she has a friend at LWBS.”
Oh. I take a bite of salad and try to appear thoughtful. “She doesn’t know he smokes?”
“Nope. She doesn’t approve.” He shoves a forkful of macaroni into his mouth. “This is really terrible.”
I try to sway the conversation back to Sharon. “Is she controlling?”
“Who?”
Who? Must I do all the work here? I stop myself from rolling my eyes. “Sharon.”
“I don’t know. Maybe. She makes him call her every night. I think it annoys him.”
Excellent. “Why didn’t she move here to be with him? Are they not that serious?”
“They’re serious, but she has a job teaching in Toronto. She didn’t want to give up her seniority, and besides, it’s not easy getting a visa to work here. Immigration laws are really tight. I think he’s planning on going back to Canada, anyway.”
What? My Prince Charming wants to live north of the border? Don’t they live in igloos up there? Kidding. Kind of.
“I can’t believe we still have two classes left today,” he says, abruptly changing the subject. “Mondays and Wednesdays are way too long.”
“At least we have no school Fridays,” I say, then quietly finish my salad, absorbed in my thoughts.
I’m told it’s easy to immigrate to the U. S. if you’re married to a citizen.
I spend Economics updating my strategic plan.
She’s closer to achieving her goal than I thought if he’s planning on moving back to Canada. I mentally review her weaknesses. She’s controlling, she’s bossy, she’s prudish (schoolteachers aren’t slutty, are they?), and she’s not here. Time for an attack!
Strategy: Illustrate that unlike Sharon, I am not controlling.
· Tactic: Smoke pot with him.
· Tactic: Never tell him what to do.
Strategy: Illustrate that I am not prudish.
· Tactic: Wear revealing clothing.
· Tactic: Allude to sex during conversation.
Strategy: Since he is not brand loyal, show him that there are other, better brands available.
· Tactic: Show him how compatible we are. Play up the business/LWBS power couple angle.
· Tactic: Show that our schedules coincide and Sharon’s and his don’t. (Too bad Toronto is the same time zone.)
Strategy: Since he is easily influenced by peers, make sure that his peers approve of me and not Sharon.
· Tactic: Smoke pot with Nick.
· Tactic: Make Nick believe that Sharon is a bitch.
Strategy: Benefit from his impulse-buying tendencies.
· Tactic: Increase my exposure #1
(i. e. practice borderline stalking).
· Tactic: Increase my exposure #2
(i. e. wear less clothing).
· Tactic: Increase my exposure #3
(i. e. combine #1 and #2, especially when his defenses are down).
When the bell rings after IC, Nick pulls back his chair and says to Russ, “Time for a four-twenty.”
I lean over their desks in my tighter, lower-cut, redder outfit. “Please, shed some light on this four-twenty.”
Nick laughs and Russ looks embarrassed. “It means, it’s time to smoke a joint,” Nick says.
“I think it’s the police code in California for drugs,” Russ says.
“No, dude,” Nick says.
“That’s a myth. It was some group in the seventies who met at 4:20 every day after school, and they used four-twenty as their code for marijuana so they could talk about it in front of teachers and parents.”
“Ah. Just like you two. And it’s now-” I use my right arm to point to the watch on my left hand, thereby pressing together my breasts and enhancing my cleavage “-four-twenty.”
Nick nods. “Pretty clever, huh?”
“I think I’ll join you,” I say. Strategy in motion.
I haven’t smoked since college. Wayne wasn’t into it, so I wasn’t into it. But duty calls.
“Are we meeting now?” Lauren asks, poking her annoying head between the boys.
“No!” I say.
“But what about the Organizational Behavior assignment?”
Why is she butting into my tactics? “We’ll meet at five,” I say, leading the boys away. Once back at the Zoo, Nick opens the window in his room, then shoves a towel into the crack between the floor and the door.
I plop down onto Nick’s bed, my back against the wall. Nick sits backward on his computer chair, as if he were riding a horse.
Russ sits next to me. Excellent.
Nick opens a drawer and pulls out what looks like a wooden jewelry box. He takes out his stash, a shot glass and a long pair of scissors.
Russ closes his eyes and leans his head against the wall.
“Tired?” I say.
He blinks. “Yeah. I think I signed up for too many activities.”
Time to commiserate. “This place is a killer. I know just how you feel.”
I let my shoulder gently touch his.
He doesn’t move away.
jamie snoozes and loses
Monday, October 27, 8:39 a.m.
The alarm on my clock radio sounds again. Eight thirty-nine. Only a moron like me would choose nine minutes for a snooze time. Why not ten?
October 27 floats somewhere above the time. The significance of that date weaves through my semiconscious state. Twenty-nine years ago today, my sister Dara died.
I hit the snooze again. And then again.
Shit. Three minutes to nine. I’m never going to make it on time. I might as well skip the class. I haven’t done the reading, anyway. I haven’t even bought the books. That’s what I’ll do. Sleep for another hour and then get my books and make it to Accounting. So tired…
Knock, knock.
“Go away.”
“Jamie, you slept through your first two classes, you jackass.” It’s Nick.
I slither deeper under the sheet. “Tired.”
“We’re all tired. Open up.”
Grumbling, I open the door, then flop back onto the bed.
Nick sits on my computer chair. “We got back our OB papers.”
“How’d we do? Another B-plus?” We’ve already gotten loads of B-pluses. The professors seemed to have made a communal decision that we’re good but not that good.
“Nope,” he says, smiling.
“Not a B-plus? Are you sure? How about a B?”
“Nope.” Still smiling.
“A-minus?”
“Nope. An A, dude. We got an A. We’re now the A team.
Mazel-tov! “An A? How is that possible?”
“We’re brilliant, what can I say? Who knew? We’re celebrating tonight at Kimmy’s. It’s her birthday, so now we have twice the reason to party.”
Kimmy’s room! I’m finally getting back inside Kimmy’s room! She’s been looking so hot lately. Low-cut shirts, pushup bras, tight leather pants-it’s fantastic. She even started bringing lollipops to class-bright, big red ones she licks and sucks, turning her lips bloodred.
“Pat yourself on the back, dude,” Nick says. “It was all your wacky ideas and stellar writing that got us the mark.”
“I’m the king of the world!”
And my queen awaits me.
After lunch, I stop back at my room to get the list of books I need to buy, and the phone rings.
“Good afternoon!” I say brightly.
“Jamie?”
“Marnie! How are you?”
“Fine thanks, how are you? How’s school?”
“So far so good. How’s the store?”
“Busy as usual. I wanted to let you know that I delivered the daisies this morning.”
“Did she answer the door?” I ask.
“Yup.”
“How’d she look?”
Pause. “She was in her bathrobe.”
Same as every year. I thank Marnie and hang up.
Twice a year, on October 27 and April 20, Dara’s birthday and the anniversary of her death, my mother locks herself in her room and I send her flowers. When I was a kid, I’d sit by her door and listen to my mother cry. The year I was six, I called ten florists until I found Marnie, who agreed to deliver thirteen dollars and twenty-five cents worth of daisies, my mother’s favorite flowers.
My mother has never thanked me for them, but she keeps them on her night table until they die. She never talks about Dara, either. Neither does my dad. There’s only one album of her, and my mother keeps it in her room, separate from the family albums overflowing with photos of me, Amanda, Erin and Erin’s four-year-old daughter, Jenny. There aren’t too many photos of Dara, anyway. She died when she was about six months old.
Amanda was only two when Dara died of SIDS, Sudden Infant Death Syndrome, so she doesn’t remember anything, but Erin was five and remembers a lot of screaming, a lot of crying, and police and relatives swarming the house.
The flowers are my way of saying I’m sorry, even though I know I’m not responsible.
If Dara hadn’t died, my parents wouldn’t have had me. My mother had always wanted three kids.
I get dressed and head to the bookstore. Unfortunately, the books I need are nowhere in sight. I find a clerk counting LWBS T-shirts, and I ask for help. He checks his computer and says, “None left.”
“Can you look in the back?”
“None left,” he repeats. “Sorry.” He resumes counting.
Oy. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”
He looks at me like I’m an idiot. “We ran out a month ago. Sorry.”
“How am I supposed to do my reading?”
“Tell your professor you waited too long. Maybe he’ll order more.”
I’m sure that’ll earn me an A.
russ spins the bottle
6:30 p.m.
My face is bleeding.
Twenty-six and still don’t know how to shave properly. Having to do it in public isn’t helping the situation. I don’t know how to floss properly, either. The Toronto dentist I went to warned me my teeth would fall out if I don’t start flossing. The dental hygienist actually demonstrated the right way to do it: wrap the floss around the middle finger so you can use your thumb and index finger to maneuver it. Every night. Come on! Does anyone floss every night? I bet superheroes don’t need to floss.
“Getting pretty for the big night?” Nick says, slapping me on the back.
“Beard was bothering me,” I lie.
“See you in Kimmy’s room?”
Kimmy’s room. Haven’t yet been inside Kimmy’s room. Did everything possible not to be in Kimmy’s room. Being in Kimmy’s room can’t lead to anything good. Actually that’s the dilemma. It can lead to something good, and I’m not talking ethics. “See you there.”
“You can make it? No javelin club or anything?”
Nick thinks it’s funny that I’ve signed up for every club at school. “There’s no javelin club.”
“No? I hope you’re not paying membership fees to all the clubs you’ve joined.”
“No membership fees. Just my blood.” Truth is, I may have piled too much on my plate. Yesterday, after class I played some ball, then met with the marketing association, then the real estate association, then with the group to work on our OB assignment, then had a smoke with Kimmy and ended up talking to her for two hours. Sharon would kill me if she knew how much I was smoking
. Cigarettes, too. But it seems like such a natural thing to do here. After the smoke, I finished up my presentation for Integrative Communications then called Sharon, and then I couldn’t sleep so I went downstairs to the common room. Kimmy was there, said she couldn’t sleep, either, so we went for another smoke.
“No one will care if you drop one or two,” Nick says.
I think someone will. Especially because I’ve somehow managed to be on the executive committee on everything except basketball. “Maybe I’ll drop basketball.”
He clutches his hand to his chest. “A spear through my heart, dude. Anything but basketball.”
“See what I mean? I can’t choose. I don’t think I’ll drop any of them. Besides, I like them all. I wouldn’t want to miss out.”
“I may be out late tonight,” I tell Sharon, pressing a tissue against my still leaky chin. “I’m going to a party. Should I call later?”
“How late will you be back? Where’s the party? Don’t you have class tomorrow?”
Oh, man. Lately Sharon’s been grilling me about everything I do, and it’s getting on my nerves. And now she’s mad at me for not coming in for Canadian Thanksgiving. “Don’t know, at a friend’s place, and yes, I have class in the morning.”
I don’t tell her that the friend’s name is Kimmy. And that I spent the entire day watching Kimmy licking her red lollipop. I sat in class, mesmerized, watching her insert it in her mouth and out again…in and out…in and out…When I asked her what I should bring to the party, she purred, “Just yourself. Just come.” She emphasized the word come. At least I think she did. Did she? I think I’ve been letting my other head do the thinking lately. I’ve spent all day imagining her in a black push-up bra and matching thong and holding the string of a red balloon.
“Don’t be snarky,” Sharon says. “I was just asking. Excuse me for taking an interest in your life. Maybe if you came home once in a while…”
“You know I’m sorry I couldn’t come home. But I’ll come in for American Thanksgiving.”
“Whatever. If you have time.”
Why is she always making me feel guilty? Doesn’t she realize how important my education is? “I have to go.”
Monkey Business Page 10
