Office Girl

by Joe Meno

  “Don’t get excited or whatever. I’m not gonna give you a handjob or anything.”

  “What? No. I didn’t think that.”

  “Yeah right.” Odile blushes a little and then looks back at him with a slight frown.

  “Okay,” he says, tilting the tape recorder toward her. “Question Number Four: do you ever get depressed?”

  Odile smiles. “I don’t know. I guess so. I think it’s natural. I think you’d have to be an idiot not to. I mean, it’s pretty weird out there. I’m pretty sure the world is going to end in a year and everything.”

  “It is,” he says in full agreement. “It really is.”

  “And even if it doesn’t,” she says. “It’s only a matter of time anyway.”

  “That’s how I feel. I get depressed sometimes.”

  “I get depressed because I haven’t made anything I’m really proud of in a long time. So that gets me upset. Other things too. I don’t know.”

  “I know what you mean,” he says.

  “Everything I’ve ever made seems so useless. Or small. Or insignificant. But I go to these gallery shows and make fun of other people’s stuff anyway. I think I’m pretty mean-spirited when it comes down to it. That’s why I stopped going to art school. I just felt so mean all the time. It was frustrating. I didn’t like what anybody else was doing and they didn’t like what I did. I made this painting for my class one time and I worked my ass off on it and everyone kind of ignored it. If they hated it, that would be one thing. But the professor, well, he just ignored it, like it wasn’t even worth discussing. So it stopped being fun. And then I didn’t want to go to class. I only have like two or three classes left to take. That’s it. I could still graduate but I don’t think I will. It just seems, I don’t know … Everything people made just seemed so mediocre. Like it was supposed to be shocking or something but it wasn’t. I mean, like there’s all these movies and TV shows and books now and it all seems so dumb, you know? Like don’t you think it’s weird that everything has to be a movie now? Like that’s all people can understand. Like that’s the greatest thing in the world, a big loud movie. But it isn’t. Because most movies are pretty dumb, like they mostly make them for dumb people now. Because people are too ignorant to read or go to a museum or something. And it’s exactly like what’s wrong with the radio. It’s like … anything that tries to appeal to everybody always ends up sounding so cheap. Like pop music or blockbuster movies. And I don’t know. I get discouraged. Because I don’t make things that could be turned into pop songs or blockbuster movies. I like to make things that are weird or small. I like things that don’t make a whole lot of sense to anyone but me. At the same time, I get depressed if everyone doesn’t like what I make. It’s weird.”

  Jack nods, switching off the tape recorder.

  Odile stands, brushing her bangs with the fingers of her left hand, and walks over to the window. “It’s still snowing. It’s been snowing for practically two days straight. I think I’m going to have to take the bus to work tonight.”

  Jack rises to his feet and stands beside her, parting the shades with his hand. “Wow,” he says, seeing the parked cars on the street slowly losing their shapes. Below there is only a field of soft white.

  “It’s like being on the moon,” Odile says.

  And they stand there like that, watching the snow for a few moments, not moving. And then he can feel Odile looking at him, staring at the left side of his face.

  “What is it? What’s wrong?” he finally asks.

  “Did you know your one ear is smaller than the other?”

  He nods and smiles, touching his left ear. “Yeah. It’s weird. I had an infection in my left ear when I was younger and it stopped growing. That’s the same size as it was when I was four.”

  “It’s one of the best things I have ever seen.”

  “Really?”

  “Really.”

  “I always thought it was kind of funny-looking.”

  “No. It’s perfect.”

  And then she leans in beside his left ear and whispers, “Shhhhhhh.”

  And he blinks. And smiles wetly.

  “Can you hear that?” she asks.

  “Yes.”

  And then she leans close again and says, “We are the only two people left in the world. Did you hear that?”

  “Yes.”

  “We are the only two people left.”

  And Jack does not know where to look or what to do and it feels like they are about to kiss, but nothing is happening, and then she looks away and says, “I should probably get some sleep before work tonight,” and he says yeah, me too, and she says okay, see you later, and he says you bet, but what they are saying has nothing to do with what either of them is thinking and they smile at each other and he walks his bicycle into the snow, staring at the world as if the sky, the trees themselves, have just met.

  TROUBLE.

  Before work, the phone rings as Odile is trying to shave her armpits. (There is no mirror in the bathtub and her mother taught her to shave her underarms with a mirror, so this is what she does every few days, after her shower, wearing a dirty pink towel.) The phone keeps ringing. No one else—neither Isobel nor her boyfriend—is around to answer it, so Odile has to walk over to the phone with her left armpit full of shaving foam, holding the arm over her head. She grabs it on the fifth ring and says hello, and guess what? It’s Paul.

  “Hello, Paul,” she says, sounding not nearly as sarcastic as she would like.

  “I was just thinking about you,” he says.

  “Really?”

  “Really. I haven’t seen you in a couple weeks. Not since our little taxi ride. I had no idea you were such an exhibitionist.”

  “It was the one day I was really feeling happy about something.”

  “It made me pretty happy too.”

  Odile rolls her eyes. “Paul?”

  “Yes?”

  “Are you still married?”

  “What?”

  “Are you still married?”

  “Does the answer to that question actually matter to you anymore?”

  Odile thinks about it for a moment and then, smiling, she says, “No. Not really.”

  “Do you mind if I stop by and see you? I’m in the neighborhood right now.”

  “Really? You just happen to be in the neighborhood?”

  “You’re not the only person who lives in the East Village, you know.”

  “I know.” She thinks about it for a moment and then says, “You can stop by, but I’m not fooling around with you.”

  “Fine. I just thought I’d say hi.”

  “Yeah right,” she says, disappointed by how excited she is to see him.

  “Great. I’ve got a surprise for you,” he says, and even though she knows he doesn’t, she will decide to buzz him up. And then what? She doesn’t even know.

  ON HER BICYCLE THEN.

  Off she rides through the snow at 5:19 p.m., almost twenty minutes late, locking it to a parking meter in front of the narrow office building. There is the chemical green scent of Paul’s aftershave all over her neck and hands and lips, which she tried to wash off twice, but now it’s everywhere. She lowers her green hood away from her face once she is through the revolving doors and takes the elevator up to the thirty-fifth floor and then finds her way to her small gray cubicle before Gomez can yell at her, and there she finds a small, folded note waiting for her. She picks it up and then peeks over the cubicle wall at Jack, who is doing his best to look busy.

  “What’s this?”

  “Nothing. Just a note.”

  “Should I open it?”

  “Sure. If you like.”

  And she does, carefully unfolding the slight edges, seeing it is written on a pink phone message sheet. It says:

  “Wow. Some compliment,” she says, smiling. “How long did it take you to come up with that?”

  “Well, I didn’t want to give you the wrong idea. I mean, okay isn’t actually all that great
. Okay is pretty average, actually.”

  She nods and says thanks and puts the note into her parka pocket. Is she blushing? It looks like maybe she is blushing. He nods and picks up the phone to answer a call, disappearing back behind the cubicle wall. A moment or two later, Odile’s face appears, the expression in her eyes shielded by the glare from the fluorescent lights above.

  “I feel like I need to tell you something,” she says.

  “You do?”

  “I ran into that guy I was seeing today. It’s kind of weird. But I think we’re maybe seeing each other again.”

  “You are.” And his voice sounds outright despondent.

  “I think so. Maybe.”

  Jack does not know what do with his eyebrows, his mouth, his face. “But what … what happened? I mean, I thought he never called you.”

  “I know. But then he called. And then we hung out. It’s weird but it’s nice to be with someone who knows what he wants. Because I know I don’t.”

  Jack nods, his neck feeling stiff.

  “But we can still hang out. I just felt like I should say something. I don’t know why. I mean, it’s no big deal, right?”

  “Right. It’s no big deal. We were just hanging out.”

  “Right,” she says, and Jack wonders if either of them believe this particular lie. “Well, I should probably get back to work,” she says.

  “Sure.” And he nods and stares at the unringing phone, twisting his hands together, wishing he had something to strangle.

  And then the girl, Odile, peeks her head back out from behind the cubicle and says, “I forgot to tell you. I’m doing another project. Tomorrow. Are you interested at all?”

  “Maybe,” he says. “What is it?”

  “It involves finding some old bedsheets. Do you have any?”

  “Probably. Why? What’re they for?”

  And she takes his right hand and on his open palm, in black pen, she draws the shape of two ghosts.

  ANOTHER ACT OF ART TERRORISM.

  At the bus stop, people crowd around each other, avoiding the snow on that Friday morning. There is an old lady with shopping bags. Two teenage girls in blue-and-gray uniforms waiting to go to school. There is an older Mexican man in a pair of blue coveralls. Among these people at ten a.m., Odile and Jack stand, Odile holding a brown paper shopping bag, inside of which are two long, mostly white sheets. When the Division Street bus arrives, Odile and Jack climb on last, taking a pair of seats near the front that run perpendicular to the rest of the rows of commuters. The other riders are busy reading paperback novels or staring at the dull gray world outside. Before the bus has reached Wood Street, Odile pulls out the two sheets, finding the holes she poked for eyes, and hands one to Jack. The other she pulls over her head. Somebody, somewhere on the bus, begins to laugh. Jack turns his head to hear it. He feels pretty certain someone is going to throw something at him. But instead, Odile, with the sheet over her head, places her hand beside Jack’s, and they sit there, holding hands, two ghosts, two friends, riding as passengers along the Division Street route. It is the first real time they have touched, and Jack feels the sensational panic of her palm against his own, and someone titters, someone says something indistinguishable, but the two ghosts ignore it, still pressing their fingers together. They sit like that all the way until Western Avenue when someone, from somewhere in the back of the bus, throws a soda pop can at the side of Jack’s head and then calls them faggots, at which point they finally climb out.

  At the bus stop on Western, the ghosts make their way off, Odile pausing with her silver paint pen to write ALPHONSE F. WAS HERE on the bus stop sign, before she turns and sees Jack holding his head. There is a jagged scratch along his temple where the pop can hit, and it is a little bloody, sticking to the edges of the white sheet.

  “Wow. That doesn’t look so good,” she says.

  “It really hurts. I think I’ve got minor brain damage already.”

  “How far do you live from here?” she asks.

  “I dunno. It’s pretty far.”

  “We can go to my place then,” she whispers, and gently touches his forehead. And taking his arm in her own, she says, “Okay. Let’s go,” and off they stumble, dumping the sheets in a trash can.

  IT’S NOT ROMANTIC.

  Because his forehead is bleeding pretty bad and Odile insists on putting a Band-Aid on it. Off come their wet shoes at the door. They take their coats and hats and put them over the green sofa, and then Jack sits there and Odile walks into the bathroom and begins picking through the medicine cabinet and then she stands before him and gently places the plastic bandage over his cut.

  “I’m so sorry,” she says. “I didn’t think people would throw stuff at us.”

  “Me neither.”

  “Do you want to lie down?”

  “No, I’m good.”

  “Good.”

  She paces around a little and then asks, “How about a soda pop? Do you want a soda pop? You can drink some of my roommate’s.”

  “I’m okay,” he says. “I think I might go home, if that’s all right.” He stands and the small apartment goes a little blurry in the corners.

  Odile takes his arm, steadying him. “Don’t go. Wait a few minutes. Until you’re sure you’re okay.”

  “I’m okay. Really.”

  “No, now I feel bad. This was all my idea. And you were the one who got hurt.”

  “It’s no big deal. I’ve been hit on my bike plenty of times. It’s no worse than that.”

  “I always end up ruining everything. I swear. I can’t help it.”

  Jack holds the sore spot on his temple and thinks about kissing her again. What would she say or do?

  Before he can go through with the thought, she takes his hand and says, “If you don’t want to talk to me again, I understand.”

  “I still want to talk to you. I just need to go home for a while.”

  “Okay.”

  And then he turns at the door and, without thinking, ignoring the throbbing of his head, he says, “You know I like you, right? That I’m interested in you? You know that, right?”

  “What?” Her wide face goes flush, like a far-off stoplight.

  “I mean, you know I like you, right? You’re aware of that?”

  “Please don’t talk about it,” Odile says, putting her hands up over her ears.

  “Why not? I mean I do.”

  “Please, let’s not talk about it. Things are so weird right now as it is. I’m leaving in a few weeks and there’s Paul, and I dunno. Let’s not discuss it.”

  “Okay, I just wanted to know if you were aware. Of the situation, I mean.”

  “Please,” she says, unable to look at him, still covering her ears with her hands. “Let’s just drop it.”

  “Okay.”

  And she does not look at him for a few moments, just stands, staring down at her stockinged feet.

  “Are you sure your head’s all right?” she asks, her eyes hidden by her dark brown bangs.

  “I’m okay.”

  “Okay. Well. Then. I guess I’ll see you later.”

  “Sure.”

  “Okay. Bye,” she says, her voice, for the first time since he met her, sounding unsure of itself.

  “Bye,” he says, and then he tramples down the moldy carpeted stairs, partially wounded, out into the snow.

  ON THAT FRIDAY AFTERNOON.

  Unbelievably the bandage stays in place as Jack rides his bicycle to the restaurant on Grand Avenue to meet his stepfather for lunch. At Gene and Georgetti’s it’s all polished wood and red vinyl chairs, with cloth napkins folded in little red tents everywhere. It’s a place Jack could never afford to go to on his own. His stepdad, David, is seated near the back, already helping himself to a glass of Canadian Club whiskey. It’s a few minutes after twelve and seeing his stepfather drinking so early makes Jack a little apprehensive. David’s face looks long and tired, the hair on top thinning, the eyebrows more gray than he remembered, the eyes them
selves small and sedate.

  “Hello, David.”

  His stepfather stands and wraps his narrow arms around him, kissing him on the forehead.

  “There’s my boy. There’s my pal. What happened to your noggin there?”

  “I got knocked off my bike again.”

  “Jackie, when are you gonna give up riding that thing and think about taking public transportation?”

  Jack does not have an answer and so he shrugs, taking a seat at the table across from his stepdad.

  “I have a little present for you,” David says, reaching over to the chair beside him. “Close your eyes. No, don’t close your eyes. Here, close your eyes and put out your hands.”

  And Jack obeys and feels the weight of something being placed before him. He opens his eyes and finds a brown paper shopping bag, its handles looped over his open fingers.

  “What’s inside?” Jack asks, and begins to open it.

  “Only the most important gift I’ve ever given anyone in my life.”

  Jack reaches inside and lifts out a smooth cardboard LP cover. It’s Miles Davis, Kind of Blue. Jack smiles. He picks out another, Dizzy Gillespie. He picks out another, Lionel Hampton. And then another, a forty-five, the Flamingos, “Golden Teardrops.”

  “You used to play these for us when we went to bed.”

  “I know. I think it was the best thing I ever did as a temporary parent.”

  “I loved these records so much. I used to fall asleep to that one part on this Dizzy Gillespie record every night.”

  “I know it,” his stepfather says excitedly. “I used to come in and look at you. Your mother hated that I played these for you. She thought it was too black. She thought it was going to turn you into a dope fiend or bank robber or something.”

  “I don’t know what to say. These are really amazing.”

  “You don’t have to say anything. Take them and be happy.”

  “I will,” Jack says, inspecting each record cover, turning them over to look at the liner notes. He stops at a small forty-five that’s slightly warped, the label itself faded and worn. “What’s this one?”