by Claire Adams
“All right,” I tell her.
“And chew one of these,” she says, pulling a tin of mints from her pocket. “We’re not going to get very far if they know we’ve been drinking.”
I take a mint and we walk through the front door.
“Good evening, Mrs. Bliley,” the guards say in near-unison, standing.
I’m not entirely sure I want to know how they know her this well.
“Hey guys,” Wrigley says. “This is Tom Durant, he’s my new assistant, and I’m showing him what it’s like to work late. Is Phil in?”
“He’s out for the night,” one of the guards answers.
“That’s a shame,” she says. “Oh well, I guess it’s just the two of us, then. They haven’t locked up already, have they?”
“Nope, the floor’s open.”
“Great. You guys have a good night,” she says.
“You too, Miss Bliley,” the guards say, and we walk to the elevators.
Barely moving her mouth, Wrigley whispers, “Not a word until we’re on the elevator. Until we get where we’re going, you and I are simply professionals acting professionally, got it?”
I nod.
The elevator door opens and we get on. She presses the button for the 36th floor, and we stand quietly as we wait.
The doors open again and we get out. I trail half a step behind her because I haven’t the slightest clue where the hell we’re going.
We pass a man in a suit standing outside one of the bathrooms, and I try to figure out whether I’m walking “professionally” enough.
In a voice so soft I can barely hear it, she says, “Some companies like to keep exercise rooms and that sort of thing in the building so their employees spend more time in the office. I don’t know if it actually works or not, but that really doesn’t matter.”
“Do you work here?” I ask.
“No.” What?
“Then why do they know your name?” I ask.
“You know, it’s kind of disconcerting that even after knowing each other a couple of months, you still don’t know my last name.”
“You don’t know my last name, either.”
“Dane Paulson,” she says. “It helps if you pay attention. Quiet. We’re almost there.”
We pass another man, but he doesn’t give us a second look.
We turn a corner and there’s a glass door at the end of the hall. The lights are on, and I can see a few ripples in the water.
“I think someone’s in there,” I tell her.
“I know someone is,” she says. “Don’t worry about it.”
“Why not?” I ask. “Didn’t you say something about how we could get arrested?”
“We’re good,” she says.
“How do you know that?”
We stop at the door and she looks up at me. “Because Phil’s gone home for the night.”
She opens the door, and the sound of people laughing and splashing fills the hallway.
“Come in,” she says. “I’d like to introduce you to some people.”
This just got weird.
I walk through the door, and while I’ve known Wrigley long enough to expect this sort of thing, I am wholly unprepared for what I see in front of me.
“Welcome to skinny swimming night,” she says, and sets her briefcase on a table. She opens it up and pulls out the bottle. “Don’t worry,” she says, “there’s always plenty to go around.”
“Hey there, Bliley!” a naked man in his 50s, but easily in better shape than me says. “We didn’t think you were coming.”
“You know me,” she answers as we walk over to a table holding about 20 different bottles, “swimming naked with you degenerates reminds me not to take life too seriously.”
I’m not quite sure what she means, but I’m far too absorbed with the whole scene to ask about it.
“Don’t stare,” she says. “That’ll get you kicked out.”
“What happens if someone walks in here?” I ask.
“It’s the middle of the night,” she says, placing our bottle on the table and immediately picking up a different one. “That, and we’ve got a couple of guys on watch.”
“You don’t mean—”
“Yeah, the guys in the suits: they actually do work here. We struck a deal with them—well, one of us did. I think it was Robinson. She’s the one over there with the pixie cut—”
“The guys in the suits,” I interrupt, trying to get her back on track.
“Right,” she says. “They let us come here once a week, and in exchange, they get to join us in rotating shifts. The hard part was getting the security guards in the front to buy that we all work in the building and that it’s not weird they only see any of us once a week and always after midnight.”
There are about 20 people in the pool. There are men and women, almost in equal distribution.
“Don’t get the wrong idea, though,” she says. “It’s not a sex club or anything weird like that. It’s just a bunch of people who like swimming naked, but don’t want to swim in polluted shit. Take your clothes off.”
“I’m sorry, what?”
“I said take your clothes off,” she repeats. “You’re not getting in the pool dressed like that.”
I take off my shirt, but before I can get to the pants, Wrigley stops me.
“A few rules first,” she says. “First, don’t stare at people. When you’re talking, look them in the eyes like you would at any other time. Otherwise, it’s just disrespectful, and let’s be honest, pretty fucking creepy.”
“Got it.”
“Rule two,” she says. “Everyone showers before they get in the pool. It’s a hygiene thing. Yeah, it’s not really different than if you were wearing a bathing suit, but it’s just best to be clean. Oh, and with that, if you have to pee, get out of the pool and go to the restroom. It’s possible that no one would notice if they didn’t put a chemical in the pool that changes color in the presence of urea.”
“That’s an urban legend,” I tell her. “There’s actually not a chemical that detects urine in swimming pools. That one’s been around since the 50s.”
She just raises an eyebrow and glares at me.
“Not that I’m going to pee in the pool, though,” I tell her.
“Rule three,” she says, still giving me that look, “is that while you’re here, you don’t get completely wasted, and belligerence will not be tolerated.”
“That’s simple enough.”
“Finally,” she says, “keep your hands to yourself. Any kind of touch that you wouldn’t perform in a business meeting is off-limits. Handshakes are fine, so are high fives and the occasional pat on the shoulder, so long as there’s context and you don’t overdo it. Other than that, no touching anyone, got it?”
“I got it,” I tell her.
“Okay,” she says, “now you can drop your pants.”
“Oh, one more thing,” she says.
I scoff. “You know, for such a free-thinking group, you’ve got a lot of rules.”
“They’re rules to ensure mutual respect between everyone,” she says. “Which leads me to this: the occasional erection is just going to happen. However, in the event of an erection, your hands are to stay at or above the surface of the water, you’re not to draw any attention to it, and you’re certainly not to stand closer than two feet away from anyone while you’re facing them with a boner. When possible, you are to stay in the water until the situation has resolved itself.”
Of all the things I thought I’d be doing tonight, this is absolutely beyond and outside what I could have imagined.
“All right,” I tell her. “Where is the bathroom?”
She points to a door on the other side of the pool.
“The showers are in there, too,” she says. “After you’re done peeing, don’t forget to at least give yourself a good rinse. You can drop your pants now.”
I laugh and do as I’m told.
The air is pretty warm in here, so I don’t ma
ke a bad showing. I can only hope that the shower water isn’t too cold.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Butterfly
Leila
It’s been a week since I left, and I’ve just been trying to keep my mind on my job.
While I was an intern, I figured that I was learning enough on top of my college education to just be able to walk onto any broker job without any adjustment period.
I was wrong.
My first day, I’m pretty sure I almost got fired when I gave a bad tip to a client. That may sound like a silly thing to get fired for, especially on one’s first day, and it would be silly if the tip didn’t lose my client about $350,000 in 20 minutes.
That was a tough explanation to my boss.
I think I’m starting to get acclimated to everything, but it’s a stressful job.
It’s not helping that I can’t stop thinking about Dane and the way I left things.
I wonder what he’s doing tonight.
Oh well. Tonight, I’m going out with Annabeth.
I’m a little nervous that, in preparation for our night out, she bought me a white cotton shirt and told me to sleep in it for three nights then put in in a sealable sandwich bag. While I’m not sleeping in it, she told me, I have to keep it in such a bag and store it in the freezer.
I really don’t know why I go along with these things.
The knock lands on my door around 8 o’clock, and I invite her inside to see the apartment.
“Nice place,” she says dismissively. “Have you been wearing the shirt?” she asks.
“Yeah, but I don’t know why—”
“Is it in the freezer?” she asks.
“Yeah,” I tell her.
“All right, then grab it and let’s go,” she says. “We’re running late.”
“Before we go anywhere, I want to know why I’ve been stuffing a shirt in a freezer bag and then wearing it while I’m sleeping.”
“Just be cool, baby.”
I shudder. “You know it weirds me out when you call me that.”
“Whatever,” she says. “Just grab it and let’s go. I’ll tell you on the way.”
We’re in the car and she’s about two sentences into the explanation, and I’m ready to go home and call the night a bust.
Apparently, we’re going to something called a Pheromone Party. The object of the shirt is to capture one’s scent for the inspection of others. If someone likes the way your shirt smells, apparently, they have their picture taken with the shirt, which bears a number only you know. If you find the person attractive, you approach them and let them know the shirt they had a picture taken with was yours.
It’s farfetched enough that I’m clinging to some hope that she’s making the whole thing up, but this is exactly the sort of thing Annabeth would be into, so I’m not putting money on it.
“Where’s yours?” I ask.
“On the floor of the back seat,” she says. “Why?”
“No reason.”
The reason is that I’m getting the sneaking suspicion that this is all a ruse and I’m about to walk into some extremely humiliating situation. That is also the exact sort of thing Annabeth would do.
Sure enough, though, we pull up to a building in Trenton, and there, on a fluorescent sign by the front door, are the words: “Pheromone Party Tonight!”
I sigh.
This is going to be uncomfortable.
The reason, I guess, that I’m not telling Annabeth to take me home right now is that I really need to get my mind off of Dane. This isn’t how I wanted to do it, but I’m pretty sure this whole scenario is going to crowd out any other thoughts in my head. For that, I guess, I should be grateful.
I start feeling a little less grateful as we walk into the door and I see dozens of people smelling shirts out of plastic bags.
“This is too weird,” I tell Annabeth.
“It’s not that weird at all,” she says. “Before cologne, perfumes, and you know, running water, someone’s scent was a huge part of the mating dance.”
“You know, it sounds even worse when you describe it like that.”
“Don’t worry,” she says, trying to reassure me, “these are normal people just like you and I. You’ve done speed dating. I don’t see how it’s that much different.”
“Oh, it’s different.”
Still, I play along.
My number is 560.
“There aren’t that many people here,” I whisper to Annabeth as the woman with the clipboard writes down my name and number.
“They just do that to keep it more random, I guess,” she says. “Ooh, check this out.”
She pulls out her phone and pulls up the internet.
“What are you doing?”
“I’ve got a gematria calculator,” she says. “We’re going to find out what your number means.”
I roll my eyes.
“560,” she says. “It means a few different things, but the one I like most is butterfly.”
“Butterfly?” I ask. “How does the number 560 mean butterfly?”
“In Hebrew, every letter is also a number. I guess the Hebrew word for butterfly adds up to 560.”
“Yeah, whatever,” I tell her. “How long do we have to stay?”
“Oh, we just got here,” she says. “Let’s get a drink and keep an eye on that wall.”
As we walk over, I watch the wall. Picture after picture of men and women, holding up bagged shirts with numbers flash across it, and I don’t know if there’s enough alcohol in this place to make that not seem a little creepy to me.
I guess we’re going to find out.
“So,” Annabeth says, “it’s not as bad as you thought it would be, is it?”
I’m not listening.
“Lei-Lei?”
I’m watching an older gentleman burying his face in the bag marked 560, and there’s a weird dichotomy going through my head at the moment.
One part of me feels kind of violated having a stranger sniff my very worn, very unwashed shirt. The other part of me hopes he goes over and takes his picture with it. I know it sounds weird, but I really don’t want to have to go through that kind of rejection.
I smell good, damn it.
The man puts my shirt back on the table where he got it, and I’m about ready to walk over there and ask him just what’s so unattractive about the way I smell when Annabeth puts a hand on my shoulder.
“You all right?”
“Yeah,” I say. “He didn’t get his picture taken.”
She giggles.
“I told you you’d have a fun time,” she says. “Freak.”
“Why wouldn’t he want to get his picture taken with my shirt?” I ask. “I’ve got a good smell.”
“Don’t take it personally,” she says. “Different people look for different things. Sometimes, it’s just an instinct thing. What are you drinking?”
“Tequila,” I tell her.
“Yeah,” she says to the bartender, “can I get a tequila sunrise—”
“No sunrise,” I tell her, “just the tequila.”
If I’m going to make it through this night and all the weird rejection issues it’s bringing up, I’m going to want to get pretty buzzed.
“What number were you?” I ask after she finishes ordering our drinks.
“68,” she says. “Don’t even ask me what that one means.”
“That guy’s holding up your bag,” I tell her, and point at the wall.
She cringes.
“What’s wrong with him?” I ask.
“He’s got the stalker eyes,” she says. “Notice how his eyelids are a little too open and he’s just got that blank expression on his face? Yeah, I’m not going through that shit again.”
“Again?” I ask.
“Yeah,” she says. “Not really something I want to talk about right now, though. Hey, look at that,” she says, nudging me. “560! Go up and introduce yourself.”
I look at the wall, and there’s a tal
l guy with long blond hair holding my bag and giving the camera a thumbs-up.
“He’s way too excited about my dirty laundry,” I tell her.
She shrugs.
Our drinks arrive, and before the bartender can walk away, I order another one.
“You ready to go sniff out some hotties?”
“I’m nowhere near drunk enough to even handle that idea,” I tell her.
“Come on,” she says, “it’ll be fun. Let’s find someone who smokes weed and see if there’s a party to go to.”
“I didn’t know you’re a pothead,” I tell her.
“I’m not,” she says. “Stoners just seem to like the best music. Come on.”
I laugh and drink my second shot.
“Hold on,” I tell her. “I’ve got one more coming, then we can go.”
She waits—I can’t say patiently—while the bartender hands me my shot and I drink it down. When she’s not looking, I ask for one more and drink that down before I’m ready to go partake in something that I can’t claim to understand.
“How much B.O. should I be expecting here?” I ask. “On a scale from one to vomiting, what are we looking at here?”
“Well,” she says, “I’ve only been to one of these before, but most guys seem to take pretty good care of themselves hygiene-wise. You will get the occasional stink bag, but they’re not as common as you’d think. But hey, some chicks go for that.”
“Some women go for guys that smell bad?” I ask.
“It’s an evolutionary thing,” she says. “I don’t know. You’re supposed to be able to tell whether a prospective mate is healthy by the way they smell.”
“Well, thanks for bringing me to the Discovery Channel,” I titter.
“Just be cool, will you?”
We get to the table and Annabeth tosses me a bag with a blue number card on it.
“What am I supposed to do here?” I ask.
“It’s not brain surgery,” she says. “Open the bag and take a whiff. If you like what you smell, go up there and get your picture taken with it. If not, move on to something else.”
“This is too weird,” I tell her.
“It’s really not that bad,” she says. “Did you know that in Japan, they have vending machines that dispense used women’s underwear?”
