Office Girl

by Joe Meno

  ON WEDNESDAY AT ONE O’CLOCK P.M.

  But then the phone rings and Jack is in bed, taking a nap, and Odile is in the shower and so Jack answers the telephone without looking at the caller ID and there is a strange beeping noise for a moment and a couple of clicks and then there is Elise’s voice and he knows it is her voice but he cannot believe it.

  “Hello?” she keeps saying, and Jack does not what to say, how to answer, and finally he gets the word out, “Hello?” and she says, “Jack?” the way she always used to, a little unsurprised, a little disappointed, and he says, “Hello. Who is it?” even though he already knows who it is, just so she might think he has already forgotten the sound of her voice, and she says his name again, exactly the same way, “Jack?” and he says her name too, “Elise?” sounding more interested than he would like, and she says, “I had to call you. I had a terrible dream about the cat. Is everything all right?” and Jack feels relieved and a little heartbroken at the same time, and he says, “What?” just to make sure he isn’t dreaming this nonsense, and she says, “I had a bad dream about Tiny. I wanted to make sure he’s okay,” and Jack says, “He’s fine. The two of us are great,” and she asks, “Have you been giving him his stool softener?” and Jack reels at the thought: the what? But he says yes anyway and then, “We’ve decided to change our names. After you left. We’ve started new identities,” and Elise, the girl he married when he was only twenty-four, fresh out of college, still in love with the possibility of being in love, does not laugh.

  “What are you talking about?” she asks, and he says forget it. And then Elise says, “Well, that’s it. I was just worried. Otherwise things have been okay. School is really good. It’s hard, but the teachers here, the professors … it’s really pretty great,” and Jack wonders, from her words, how they could have lasted so long, even made it a year, and he says, “That sounds good,” and she says, “I should probably go. I was just going to leave you a message. This is probably costing me an arm and a leg,” and he says, “Sure, I get it,” and she asks, “Hey, isn’t it the middle of the afternoon? What are you doing home from work?” and he says it’s a holiday, and she says, “What?” and he says, “Never mind,” and they begin to say goodbye when finally he figures out what he wants to say, and he mutters, “I just want you to know you don’t have to worry about me.”

  And the phone clicks and buzzes and she says, “What?”

  And he repeats it. “I just want you to know you don’t have to worry about me. I’m getting along okay. Things are actually pretty great,” and she sounds a little surprised and says, “Well, that’s good. I’m glad to hear it,” and then he says, “But you shouldn’t just call here and ask about the cat,” and she says, “What?” and he says, “You can’t just call here and ask about the cat like everything’s okay. Like this is all normal,” and there is a pause where he can hear the distracting hum of the international telephone line and she says, “I should really probably get going,” and he says, “I’ve been thinking a lot and it’s not that anyone did anything wrong. We just didn’t know what we wanted. We weren’t the people we were supposed to be yet,” and she laughs and says, “Have you been watching daytime talk shows?” and he says, “No.” And then he says, “I just hope you’re happy in your future life,” and she says, “What?” and he says, “I want to wish you the best in your future life,” and she does not laugh this time but asks, “Are you sure you’re okay?” and he can hear the faucet being turned off, the shower no longer running, and he says, “I’m doing great,” and she says, “Okay, I really have to go,” and they make their goodbyes, and after he has hung the phone up, he knows, somewhere deep inside, he will not be talking to Elise again.

  Odile emerges from the bathroom, freshly scrubbed and dew-wet, and the heat from the bathroom has made all of the windows in the adjoining bedroom filmy with condensation. And she pauses and writes something on the closest window with the tip of her right finger:

  I AM OKAY.

  YOU’RE OKAY.

  And then there is a general shuffling of limbs as the two of them fall back into bed. And later they lie on the couch watching French movies until it’s time to go to work. And even there, separated by the silver-green glow of the fluorescent lights, the bombastic, unrepentant dullness of the instrumental office music, and the odd angles of the carpeted cubicles, it’s clear that what’s happening between them is that, actually, well, they’re probably both falling in love.

  AFTER WORK ON WEDNESDAY.

  Odile says, “I have another idea. Let’s make a dirty magazine.” And they ride to her apartment and she grabs her old Polaroid camera and Jack asks, “What’s that for?” and she winks at him and off they go on another odyssey, this time Odile taking a snapshot of Jack’s ear as they wait at a red stoplight.

  Jack asks, “What’s this about?” and at the corner of Augusta, she unzips her jacket and lifts her blouse up and points the camera at her chest, and what develops is a close-up of her nubbly black brassiere, and she shoves that picture into her pocket with the others, and then two blocks after that, she lifts her dress and takes a picture of her upper thighs, and there is the filmy white, triangular composition of her underwear, and then she hands him the camera and says, “Now, your turn,” and Jack asks, “What am I supposed to do?” and she says, “Everybody’s forgotten how to be shocked by the weirdness of the human body,” and Jack says, “What are you talking about?” and she says, “Just take a picture,” and he says, “Fine,” and opens his mouth and pushes the rectangular button, and the camera flashes, and he places the picture of his tonsils inside his jacket pocket and still they’re riding, Odile in front, Jack behind, trying to hold the camera and pedal at the same time, and at the streetlight a block away, they stop, and Odile takes the camera back and then grabs the front of Jack’s pants and forces it into his underwear and she snaps a picture and Jack says, “Come on, nobody wants to see that,” and Odile laughs and what comes through is an unnatural portrait of his genitalia and Odile shakes the film, waiting for the streetlight to turn green, and then she says, “You could never tell it’s you. You know? It’s actually pretty impersonal. I wonder why people get so hung up on it. It’s actually pretty inconsequential—sex, I mean,” and Jack shrugs his shoulders and they ride off again and he watches her as she wedges the photo into her pocket, but it sticks out like a white flag.

  “Now what?” Jack asks, and Odile glances over her shoulder and only laughs. At the next stoplight she grabs Jack by his ear and forces her tongue in his mouth and then takes a picture of that. And then a block later she sticks her cold hands down his pants again, and takes a picture of that, her fingers wrapped around his testicles. The camera becomes their accomplice until the film runs out and then they ride over to the twenty-fourhour corporate copy shop where Odile’s roommate works, but she is not on duty tonight, and so they place the Polaroids on the glassy surface of the copy machine and begin to assemble a small zine, page after page, eight pictures in all, the final picture being the one of Odile kissing Jack, and they only make ten copies and on the cover of the booklet Odile writes, ALPHONSE F. IS IN LOVE, and they leave these ten booklets in odd places all over the neighborhood, placing them under windshield wipers of parked cars, in mailboxes, in the gaps of metal fences. And as they ride on Jack begins to think this: As a boy, all I ever wanted was this: a life dedicated to art; every idea, every breath an artistic gesture. And here is this girl before me, blowing on her hands to keep warm. And why am I so worried it’s not going to last? But he mentions none of this to Odile and then they return to his apartment once again, faces frozen from the cold, laughing at each other’s runny noses in the teasing way they do. And then again and again they’re kissing.

  BEFORE WORK ON THURSDAY.

  Odile asks Jack if he wants to go to an art lecture and he asks, “What?” and she says an art lecture and Jack asks, “An art lecture on what?” and Odile only laughs and so he follows her on his bicycle and they end up at a small
bookstore off of Milwaukee, and the bookstore is crowded by a serious-looking audience, most of whom are in sports jackets or turtlenecks, and Odile elbows him hard in the side, and Jack looks at her, and then over to where she is glaring, and there is the professor, the one from the gallery, with his white Van Dyke beard, and he is sitting on a folding chair at the front of the audience, and Odile whispers, “I knew he’d be here. This guy, he’s like that asshole’s favorite art critic. He’s got a whole book on Pop Art,” and the speaker goes up to the small wooden lectern and opens a tiny red book, and whispering into the microphone he begins to speak. “I’d like to start off with a quote. By Rilke. If I may.” And everyone murmurs in agreement at what a great idea that is.

  And then the art critic, who has large spectacles and a long face, clears his throat and intones: “No great art has ever been made without the artist having known danger …” and it’s then that Odile begins to boo, and it suddenly becomes clear that that’s why they’re here, to disrupt this poor art critic’s lecture, and Jack grabs her arm, but Odile keeps calling out, “Booooo,” and the art critic looks so alarmed, so completely befuddled that someone beside him should be speaking, let alone replying with such nastiness, that he does not know where to look. “Booo!” Odile shouts. “Booo!” And by then, Odile and Jack are scurrying out, past the crowd of listeners that extends out the door, and they are laughing, and Jack is staring at her, wondering, Who is this girl? and then, again, they are almost late for work.

  AND THEN WORK IS LIKE THIS.

  Meaningless. Boring. Work is marked as the time in between lungeful kisses.

  AFTER WORK ON THURSDAY NIGHT.

  They do not talk. They do not look at each other. They ride back to the apartment and undress and climb beneath the crocheted quilt and watch a marathon of Twin Peaks, and do it, like that, watching television again, and Jack puts his hands on her breasts from behind, and she does not say anything or move his hands away, and almost by accident he murmurs, “I love you,” and she says, “What?” and he says, “Nothing. I just had to sneeze.”

  AND THAT NEXT MORNING AT SEVEN A.M.

  It’s Friday and Jack gets another surprise telephone call, this one from his friend Eric who he hasn’t spoken to in weeks. Jack sits up in bed and whispers a hello, just as Odile pulls a pillow over her head, and Eric asks, “How would you like to make a couple hundred bucks right now?” and Jack asks, “Doing what?” and Eric says, “We need a substitute teacher. For an art class at my school. The regular art teacher broke her leg and we need someone immediately,” and Jack, scratching his nose, says, “What do I know about teaching art to kids?” and Eric barks a laugh and says, “What does anyone know?” and then Eric says, “It’s only for a few hours. You can still make it to your job afterward,” and Odile pops her head up and asks, “Who is it?” and Jack says, “It’s my friend Eric. He wants me to be a substitute art teacher. I don’t think I’m going to do it,” and Odile smiles, tilting her face up to him, and says, “You should do it,” and he says, “Really?” and she says, “Are you kidding me? You should definitely do it,” and he says, “I don’t know. What if they laugh?” and she says, “What do you have to lose?” trying to convince him, and he asks Eric, picking up the phone again, “Do I have to wear a tie?” and Eric laughs once more and says, “You can pretty much wear whatever you like. It’s private school,” and Jack asks, “Can I think about it and call you back?” and Eric says, “What? No way,” and so Jack says, “Well, I guess okay.”

  “Okay?” Eric asks, excited.

  “Okay,” and this is how Jack becomes a substitute teacher. He decides to wear a tie anyway because he is afraid of how young he looks and it’s one of the first questions the students ask and he makes a joke out of it and tells them he’s twelve years old. He has a blue tie on, the only one he owns, and there is a room full of fourth graders, most of them white or Mexican or Puerto Rican, a few black kids in the back, staring at him, waiting for him to do something.

  And so finally he does.

  On that first day he talks about Surrealism. And he has them do self-portraits of themselves as regular household objects. Some girl does a drawing of herself as an ironing board, and a boy with sharp blue eyes makes himself into a bathtub.

  And another class, the eighth graders, he describes postmodernism to and has them each make a paper mask of their favorite dead person and there is a chilling number of George Washingtons and Michael Jacksons. When he explains that Michael Jackson is not dead, the three girls who made the Michael Jackson masks tell them that they know and don’t care. They just really wanted to make Michael Jackson masks. And then he thinks, Wow. This might be the job for me.

  AT THE END OF THE SCHOOL DAY.

  The principal, a heavyset black woman, peeks her head into the classroom and asks how he liked it, and he says, “I really loved it,” and she nods and smiles and says, “What’s your next two weeks look like?” and he says, “I think they look pretty good,” and she asks if he’s interested in returning until Mrs. Epps, the regular art teacher, is back on her feet, and he says, “Yes. Without a doubt,” and as he’s riding his bicycle home at three p.m., he feels like things are really going to be okay. The city is so clear now; the snow has stopped and everything looks like it’s made out of ice. Suddenly the possibilities, the days looping before him in their unpredictable order, with Odile waiting somewhere for him, seem endless.

  MEANWHILE.

  On Friday afternoon, while Jack is becoming a substitute teacher, Odile rides her bicycle to her former art school downtown and, using her old school ID, she skulks around, up to the ninth floor of the art and design department, and there she asks the student worker at the front desk what classes Professor Wills is teaching this semester, and look at that, she happens to be in luck. He has a Painting Two seminar on Tuesday, Thursday, and Friday, and so Odile waits around until two p.m., when the class is over, and she peeks from behind an old issue of ArtForum and she follows him with her eyes as he enters the office and then disappears for a few minutes, collecting his things. And as he puts on his coat and scarf and enters the next available elevator, Odile follows him, eyes cast down, careful not to do anything to get his attention. Then they are out on Michigan Avenue and Odile is following him at a short distance and sees how Professor Wills, with his salt-and-pepper hair and Van Dyke beard, seems to drag his left leg a little, making longer dashes in the slippery snow, and then she follows him across the street and into the warmer dark of a nearby parking garage, Odile moving from shadow to shadow, some twenty, thirty feet back, and it’s there, finally, on the third floor of the parking garage, that she sees Professor Wills climb into his modest teal Subaru, Odile looking down at her watch, seeing it is almost three o’clock now. She waits there in the shadows of a monumental SUV, and only after he has backed up, only after he has driven away, does she return to the street to where she has her bicycle locked up. And then, in her small green notebook, she writes all of this down.

  BUT THERE ARE PHONE MESSAGES.

  And since Odile hasn’t slept at her apartment in a few days, she decides she probably ought to at least stop by again, as she’s run out of clothes and clean underwear and needs to shave her armpits. And so she rides back to her place and drags her bicycle up the stairs, cursing a little at the third-floor landing. When she opens the door, she finds a bunch of notes from Isobel and one of them says, Check phone messages. And she does, kicking off her boots, still wearing one of Jack’s T-shirts—the one of the banana and the donut—and she hits play on the answering machine.

  “Hi. It’s me. Haven’t talked to you in a while. Just want to make sure you’re good. Call me when you’re free.”

  A message from Paul, an incongruous tone of concern in his voice.

  Must be fighting with his wife.

  Fuck him for being married and for pretending to be worried.

  She hits the machine again and there is a message from Jeannie, her friend in New York, from the day befor
e.

  “Hey, it’s Jeannie. Just wondering if you’re still coming out. My roommate is definitely moving and I need to know in the next few days. I think it’d be great. Give me a call when you get a chance.”

  And then the answering machine beeps again and Odile looks up. It’s only like eight days away but Odile hasn’t talked to Jeannie and still hasn’t done anything to get ready to move. She looms over the answering machine and erases all the messages and then takes a long, hard look at herself, at the apartment around her, at what it is she thinks she’s doing. And there are the cardboard boxes she’s been collecting the last few months, stuffed into a corner. There is her bedroom and all the things she should be packing or getting rid of, but she hasn’t done a thing. She thought she might be able to sell some stuff by having a garage sale. But it’s been too cold and snowy out. Why does she always wait until the last minute? What has she even been waiting for? And what will she do about Jack? Because now all she can think of is his meek little laugh. The weird shape of his nipples. His groaning against her neck. Taking a shower together, listening to Nico singing “Chelsea Girls.” The last four days where everything has finally made some sense. And why is she so ready to throw this away? Because. Because eventually every relationship she’s been in has turned to shit. Eventually she ends up screwing everything up. So maybe it’s better to leave now before people’s feelings get hurt. Maybe it’s better to leave while it’s good, before everything goes to crap. And then, like that, it’s been decided—in a matter of moments, in less than a minute. And so she walks off to her bedroom to begin to pack.