I’m on break, having missed going with Kurt and Chloe because I got on the line with a Jamaican woman who yelled for 45 minutes. Her accent was so thick I could only understand “Baybee,” “Huuny,” and “Sweety.” I managed to escape only when I noticed that two months ago, there was a note that a payment from her was received by our Research department address, not to a payment address. The note said it was to be forwarded to the payment address, but it never appeared. I cut in long enough to tell her that I was transferring the call to Research so they could find her money. She managed to scream once that this wasn’t why she was calling, but it was too late, as she swirled into her banishment in transfer oblivion.
I’m zoning to CelebrityNewsNow!, listening to the grim soundtrack of the dying screams of my brain cells as they are flooded with an endless stream of horror, carnage, terrorism, sports, weather, and entertainment, all grouped in convenient time slots for my news-hounding mind. Of course, the alternative is cramming myself into the sweaty bodies pressed and salivating around the other television as it broadcasts a game of whatever sport is popular this season, maybe ping-pong, or poker, or something like that.
I snap to consciousness as a body twists around behind me, pulling the chair out next to me. “Rubin Valentine,” Alicia says with a broad smile on her face. “You haven’t said a word to me in two days. I was worried that you were avoiding me.”
I tear off the IV’s of ChancesareNotNewsworthy being pumped into my veins and spin around to break eye contact with the box and make it with Alicia. The newsertainment gods cry out in rage, their curses pounding in my brain. I grasp her hand and squeeze in a motion I have practiced in my head so many times, but still have a hard time doing. “I hope you can forgive me. I’ve been maintaining a tough regiment of self-abuse.”
“Sounds exciting,” she says trying to sound dry, but I see right through it.
“Yeah, endless drama,” I moan in response and stretch.
“Tell me about it,” she demands playfully. “I’m dying to know the trials and tribulations of the world’s greatest poet.” With her other hand, she clasps mine. “Spill your problems on this girl, Great Valentine. I can handle it.”
We stare at each other for a few moments, and I want to kiss her really badly. I even bring myself in closer, and even think I’m about to do it, but then draw back, because, after all, we are at work, and I exaggerate and crane my neck to see what is behind her, which, of course is just the plain wall, and I pull back, smiling broadly, hoping to god she believes it. “It’s too much to spit out at work,” I tell her. “Why don’t we get together tonight, and I’ll lay it all on you.”
She winks. “It’s a date.”
“Which would make this number two, and that would be time to divulge our self-loathing issues as well.”
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