Office Girl (5 page)

Odile stands, walks across the room, and opens up a small white jewelry box. Inside the box is a mood ring, some jelly bracelets, a terrible necklace her ex-boyfriend Brandon once gave her that he got out of a toy machine at a supermarket, that's shaped like a poodle, and two hundred and thirty-two dollars in wadded-up cash—it's her part of the rent. And she counts the money, then again, and even though she doesn't want to, she hands it over to Isobel.

“I don't want you to have to worry about this,” Odile says. “But I don't want to have to go with you again. To the appointment, I mean. I just can't. It was too weird last time.”

“Okay, I'll get Edward to.” Isobel stands to hug her. It is the first time they have hugged in a long time. Odile thinks it feels good. Isobel's shoulders are firm and bony. “I'll pay this back as soon as I can,” she says.

Odile nods and watches her hurry out of the room. She hates how easy everything always is for Isobel, even something awful like this. She knows she is never going to see that money again, so why did she do it?

And now she doesn't have enough for rent, and now she doesn't even have a job. And she is thinking about maybe moving back to Minneapolis or going out to New York, but she's still on the lease here for one more month and even if she wanted to move now, she hasn't got the money for it. And what is she going to do now? What would anyone do?

MUZAK SUPPLY COMPANY.

One of the first want-ads Odile sees is for a phone operator at Muzak Situations
.
Apparently it's where dentists and insurance agents get their waiting room music, the kind of music that's advertised on late-night television. It's only a temporary job but promises to pay well. The ad stipulates that all potential applicants must have some customer service skills and a college degree. Why would someone need a college degree to answer the telephone? She does not have an actual college degree but the pay looks pretty decent and the fact that it is another night job seems like a good idea, because she and Isobel always get on each other's nerves.

“Do you have any experience with customer service?” the interviewer, a nervous, overweight man with a droopy mustache, asks. The office is ramshackle, there are unpacked boxes everywhere, and it looks like what's going on is slightly illegal. One of the lights in the small conference room keeps cutting out. And the interviewer is particularly sweaty.

Odile looks across the faux-wood desk and nods. “Yes, I worked for a place in St. Paul for two years and that's all I did. This last place, here, was telephone surveys. And then the other one,” she points at the line on her resume that mentions her short stint at the orthopedic company and the interviewer nods and asks, “Do you have a college degree or are you still in school?” and Odile asks, “Why?”

“Because people who go to college are responsible. And they don't turn out to be trouble.”

Odile frowns, biting the corner of her mouth, and then lies, saying, “I'm finishing up right now, but don't worry, it won't interfere with work,” and the interviewer does not ask her to prove it. He hands her a sample script to take home to memorize and, moments later, the job is hers.

You: Good evening, this is ______ with Muzak Situations. Thanks for calling. What can I help you with tonight?

Caller: I'm interested in your
Moonlight and Love
two-CD set.

You: Wonderful. That's one of my favorites. Are you a fan of instrumental music?

Caller: Yes, I am.

You: I am too. Did you know we also offer a four-CD set of contemporary romance hits which I am able to offer to you as part of our special qualifying period for being a new customer?

Caller: Tell me more.

You: It's called
Modern Magic
and it has some of today's most romantic hits by some of the world's best contemporary instrumental artists. It's perfect for any home, office, or medical setting.

Caller: Thanks, but I'm not interested.

You: I can tell you're having a hard time trying to decide. You can try out any one of our CD sets for thirty days and send it back postage paid if you decide that it's not the best instrumental music you've ever heard.

Caller: Wow, that sounds great.

You: I thought you'd be interested. Now if I could just get your name, address, and credit card information …

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

HELLO PAUL.

Odile rides her bicycle through the evening, right in the middle of the gruesome glare of the stalled traffic, happy for the first time in a long while. She wants to call someone to tell them about her new job but does not know who would be happy for her, other than her mother, and she doesn't want to tell her she has a new job because that will only make her worry and so she is stopping beside a phone booth and dialing Paul's number, and later, if she doesn't say anything stupid, they will meet and kiss in the backseat of a taxi and she will know even then that these moments, his gray scarf scratching her bare neck, his hands on the rumpled shoulders of her green coat, the taste of his mentholated aftershave on his throat, these moments are over before they even begin. And although she does not want to, she dials his number anyway, because in those frightful seconds, the city is just too big and too full of people to be alone.

Hello, she says, once the individual sound of the numbers being dialed are done beeping. Paul? Are you there? Paul, are you there?

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

THOUGH IT'S SNOWING AT TEN SECONDS AFTER EIGHT A.M.

On that Monday at the end of January, Jack Blevins, a questionable young man of twenty-five, rides his blue bicycle beneath the flurry, with tape recorder in hand. The snow falls in dark wet flakes across his eyelashes as he listens for something interesting to record. But today there's nothing. The buildings downtown have become a soft white blur while the rest of the city has gone silent. At the moment Jack is wearing his frayed blue winter hat, pulled tightly over his ears, the ball at the top bouncing back and forth; also the amateurishly repaired black plastic glasses which have been taped in two spots and are now fogged up with frost—the prescription for the glasses several years out of date—a gray winter jacket, and a red scarf which is fitted firmly over his nose and mouth. Beneath the gray coat is a black tie and a white dress shirt that's two sizes too small. In his left hand, which is covered in a threadbare black glove, he holds the handlebars and does his best to steer the blue ten-speed through the snow; in his right hand, he holds the silver tape recorder, daring to record anything beautiful—the pneumatic hush of the chrome bus doors as they whisper shut, a murmuration of pigeons swooping overhead, the squeak of a wisecracking child walking along in green rubber boots. It's still dark out, the sun reluctant to rise. Did he shave today? No. He did not. And his brown hair is falling in his eyes. And then he runs into a girl he knows—waiting at a bus stop on the corner of Damen, reading some French novel—and does what he has to to ignore her.

BECAUSE TODAY HE DOESN'T WANT TO TALK TO ANYONE.

He doesn't want to have to explain to anyone about Elise and so he pedals on before the artless, shifting crowd of commuters downtown, all of the other office workers huddled beneath their unwound scarves and bulky winter coats, and then he circles around to record the sound of a pink balloon disappearing above an electronics store and almost falls off his bicycle doing it. People stare at him, wondering what it is he thinks he's doing, watching him hold out the silver tape recorder, slush spinning from the bicycle chain, darkening the bottom of his gray corduroy pants. Ten seconds of the balloon hovering there and he says “A pink balloon” into the small circular microphone and then rides on.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

THE ASYMMETRY OF ADULTHOOD.

At an earlier, perhaps less pathetic time in his life, Jack had been recognized as a boy who was terribly handsome, with a swath of dark hair sticking up along the back of his head, an expressive mouth with lips that were flattering but drew no attention to themselves, handsomely proportional ears, a nose that was neither snub nor Roman, and curious gray-green eyes, which no one else in the family possessed. But now, at the ripe old age of twenty-five, in the first flush of adulthood, a decided awkwardness has crept into the lines of his cheeks and forehead, and overall, the feeling one gets when looking into his face is that of an unquestionable anxiety. There is nothing the least bit remarkable about him; everything, including his facial features, is completely, hopelessly average. Watching him ride through the early-morning traffic, it's as if this young man had not so long ago entered an age of dreaminess and confusion, and the features of his face only recently rearranged themselves to match. What is he doing with himself? Where is he headed in life? When, if ever, is he going to do something great? Is this, his average face, his lack of ambition, the reason Elise is going to Germany? He checks his calculator watch and sees he is going to be late again.

BECAUSE AT THIS POINT IN LIFE JACK IS KNOWN FOR ONLY ONE THING.

Jack is famous for having taken his testicles out at last month's holiday party—taking his testicles out of his pants and putting them on the punch ladle, and then walking around the frolicking office, offering his testicles with the ladle, and pretending like nothing was the matter. There are now several descriptions of this incident in his personnel file. Although he was severely reprimanded the next day at the office, Jack did not feel bad. To be honest, this is what Jack has always done whenever he gets drunk. Ever since high school, even on the tennis team. When he drinks too much, he ends up taking his testicles out, which he knows is inappropriate and weird but always ends up happening.

Maybe
, he thinks, as he's riding on through the snow,
maybe this is why she's leaving. Maybe she fell in love with me when we were kids. And now: and now: and now: we're not kids anymore.