Pulpy and Midge (25 page)

She nodded. ‘He takes my mug and she gives me hives.' The receptionist lifted her mug again and stuck her nose in. ‘Smells like coffee.'

‘I think he drank coffee out of it.'

‘Only tea.' She held the cartoon duck level with her eyes. ‘There's only ever been tea in here. Are you all right, duck?' And she tapped it on the bill.

‘Quack,' said Pulpy softly.

‘What?'

‘Nothing. I should probably get back upstairs.' He stuck his hands in his pockets. ‘Well, so long.'

She stood up. ‘Hold on a minute.'

‘Yes?' He waited with his ears wide open.

‘Here.' She thrust the mug at him. ‘You keep it. I don't need anything reminding me of this stupid job.'

‘Really?' He removed his hands from his pockets and took it from her. ‘Are you sure?'

She hoisted the cardboard box onto her hip. ‘It's from the staff cupboard, anyway.'

Pulpy smiled. ‘I'm glad you went to that seminar, even if it wasn't as good as you thought it would be.'

‘Me too,' she said.

He made an awkward writing motion with his free hand. ‘Should I maybe get your –'

She shook her head. ‘You wouldn't call it, anyway.'

‘No. I guess I wouldn't.'

‘Besides –' She headed for the door. ‘I'm going to forget you as soon as I walk out of here.'

‘I wanted to get you a cake,' said Pulpy.

The receptionist turned to smile at him. ‘I know,' she said. And then she was gone.

Pulpy stood there looking at the space she'd occupied, and then he heard clapping, and Dan's voice behind him.

‘Well, now, wasn't that touching?'

He turned around slowly to see Dan and Beatrice perched at the top of the stairs, grinning down at him.

‘I'm not sure Midge would feel the same way, though, do you?' said Beatrice.

‘How long have you been sitting there?' said Pulpy.

‘Long enough,' said Dan. ‘And now if you and the duck don't mind, I'd like to see you both in my office.'

Beatrice came down the steps, pointing her pointy shoes ahead of her, and slid past Pulpy into the receptionist's chair. ‘What an ungrateful bitch,' she said, frowning at the gift bag.

‘First things first,' said Dan when Pulpy reached the top of the stairs, and he grabbed the receptionist's mug out of Pulpy's hand.

‘Hey!' he said, and saw Beatrice scurry under the desk as Dan tossed the mug over the railing into the welcome area below. It hit the tile floor and exploded. ‘Why did you do that?'

Dan dusted off his palms. ‘Because I can.'

Beatrice reappeared and put her hands on her hips. ‘I'll call Building Maintenance to clean this up.'

‘I bet you will,' Dan said, and ushered Pulpy into his office. ‘Sit down, Pulpy. In front of my desk here.'

Pulpy lowered himself into one of the hard-backed chairs, every rigid contour conspiring to make him uncomfortable.

Dan sat in his leather recliner and leaned forward. ‘Things are not looking good for you right now. You stole that mug from my desk.'

‘But it belonged to the receptionist first.'

‘Don't give me excuses, give me results!' Dan was yelling now. ‘You're a thief, Pulpy! And you knew she went to that seminar. You demonstrated a wilful and reckless disregard for the front desk. That kind of behaviour will not be tolerated.'

‘All she wanted was to improve herself. And she had everything prepared.' Pulpy's hands were shaking all the way up to his forearms. ‘Besides, Al told her she could go to the seminar.'

‘Al, Al,
Al
! Al this, Al that.' Dan's voice was mock whiny. ‘I've had it with hearing about Al's way of doing things. Al retired, Pulpy, and he's not coming back. He doesn't care about this office and he doesn't care about you. He abandoned ship to get old and grow vegetables, and in case you didn't notice,
I
took over when he left!' Dan slammed his elbows down on his desk. ‘You are in some kind of serious shit here – this is your
job
! Forget about that promotion we were discussing yesterday. Right here and right now we are talking about the very polar opposite of a promotion.'

Pulpy shrank back against the chair.

‘You were a regular Bonnie and Clyde outfit, you and that
secretary.
' Dan made the last word sound like the worst word in the world.

‘I don't know what you're talking about,' Pulpy whispered.

‘We saw that dirty little email she sent you.'

He blinked. ‘How did you –'

‘We bought software, Pulpy. We've been monitoring things.'

‘But … it was just a forward.'

‘Is that all it was? Then why didn't you delete it?'

‘I was going to. I just hadn't gotten around to it yet.'

Dan rocked his big head back and forth, and his voice went soft. ‘Poor Midge.'

‘I love my wife,' said Pulpy. ‘I love my wife more than anything.'

‘I wish I could believe you.'

‘But there's nothing to believe. I love Midge.'

‘Have you talked to her today?'

‘She stayed over at a friend's house last night.' He looked at his lap and his upturned palms resting there, the fingers rubbery and useless. ‘But that doesn't mean anything.'

‘Oh dear.' Dan leaned back and crossed his arms. ‘I hate to say it, Pulpy, but in my experience that means a lot.'

‘We'll get through it.'

‘Will you? Because this is big. This is big, big marital badness.'

Pulpy's mouth wasn't working properly. His tongue was too heavy and his jaw was too tight. ‘So what should I do?'

‘Let me help you. Let Beatrice help you.' Dan's gentle baritone lapped Pulpy's ears. ‘Give Midge a call. Tell her you want to put the spark back with some mutual adventure. Tell her a vote for mutual adventure is a vote for your future together.'

He shook his head. ‘She'd never go for it.'

‘Then just get her over to our place and we'll take care of the rest. Tell her it's just for dinner.'

Pulpy rubbed his chin. ‘I really don't know about this.'

‘Your job and your marriage are on the line here, and you're hesitating?' Dan made a sad face. ‘I'm not sure you're the man I thought you were, Pulpy.'

‘I'm not hesitating. I don't know if this is the best thing for us, that's all.'

‘Just get Midge over. We'll have a nice dinner. Then we'll see what the best thing is for all concerned. And no pressure – just good times with good company.'

Pulpy felt Dan's quality wood pressing against his back. His arms went limp and he let them dangle. ‘If that's all it is, then I guess I could give her a call.'

‘Yes!' Dan made two shooting guns with his hands, twirled them in the air and holstered them at his sides. ‘Now there's the Pulpy I know and love!'

‘Just dinner, right?'

‘We'll take it slow.' Dan winked at him. ‘Trust me on this.'

Beatrice wasn't in the welcome area when Pulpy went downstairs for lunch.

A broom and dustpan were leaning against the desk, and the broken pieces of duck mug had been swept into a little pile in front of the garbage can.

He peered down the hallway. It was empty. He headed for the kitchen, glancing at the men's room door as he passed.

The kitchen was empty too. He opened the fridge and a large Tupperware container full of something dark and wet fell out and hit the floor. The contents sloshed as Pulpy tried to shove it back in, but there were no empty spots. The shelves were crammed full with plastic tubs and Thermoses and colourful fabric lunch cozies, climbing on top of each other all the way to the very back.

He crouched and groped for his plastic bag, nearly toppling milk cartons and juice boxes and a pyramid of yogurt cups. He finally located the spongy cushion of his white loaf and the hard cylinder of his jam jar in the right-hand crisper, which wasn't where he'd left it, and forced the Tupperware container into its place.

He put two slices in the toaster and took a knife from the cutlery drawer, and waited.

‘Smells good!'

Pulpy jumped, but relaxed when he saw Roy in the doorway. ‘It's only toast.'

Roy looked pale and his smile was set at an odd angle. ‘Smells better than toast.'

‘Toast is like that sometimes.'

‘I guess you have a point there.' Roy walked over to the bulletin board with his hands in his pockets and began to read the postings.

Pulpy moved the toast-colour indicator from yellow to light brown. ‘Are you all right?'

Roy didn't say anything for a moment. Then he turned around and said, ‘You're a family man, aren't you, Pulpy?'

The elements heating his bread glowed bright orange. ‘I guess I am, yes.'

‘You have a wife, don't you, and an apartment together?'

Pulpy nodded, watching a tendril of smoke curl up past the coiled wires.

‘See, there you go. You're all set up. Guys like me envy guys like you.'

‘Really?' His toast popped up, only slightly burned.

‘What do you mean, really? You have a woman at home who
loves
you. Shit, Pulpy.'

He tried to open the jam jar but the lid was stuck, so he tried harder.

‘Your wife had that bird that died, didn't she?'

‘That's right,' he said. ‘Mrs. Wings.'

‘Man, that sucks. That sucks that had to happen.' Roy shook his head. ‘But, you know, you should tell her what a great party everybody thought that was. We all still talk about it.'

‘Thanks.' The lid came off with a sucking sound. ‘That's nice.'

Roy heaved a sigh. ‘The chick I'm doing it with is doing it with somebody else. I just found out.'

‘Oh,' said Pulpy. ‘I'm sorry to hear that.'

‘The guy's got a tool belt. He
fixes
things. How am I supposed to compete with that?'

Pulpy paused with the knife in the jar, sunk down into the sweetness, and turned to look at the empty fishbowl on the staff break table. He remembered Roy's hand on his shoulder in the men's room, after the fish died. The knock on the door. And Beatrice in the hallway.

‘Pulpy? You okay?' said Roy. ‘Hey, buck up. I'm the one telling his tale of woe here.'

‘Sure.' Pulpy turned back to his co-worker. ‘I was just thinking that you're probably better off without her.'

‘Yeah, well.' Roy shrugged and turned back to the postings. ‘Did you do this Frisbee sign-up sheet here?'

Pulpy started spreading Peach Delight on his toast. ‘Yes.'

‘Why did you do a sign-up sheet if the teams have already been decided? There's nothing to sign up for.'

‘You're right,' said Pulpy. ‘I guess it's more of a team allocation sheet, then. I should change the title and print it out again.'

‘No, you shouldn't. Frisbee is stupid. Who wants to play Frisbee at work?'

‘Not me, that's for sure.'

Roy grinned at him. ‘I always knew you were all right, Pulpy.'

‘Really?' Pulpy focused on evening out the layer of jam.

‘That potluck you organized, that was pretty good.'

He stopped spreading, his hand gummy with Peach Delight. ‘Thank you, Roy.'

‘You're welcome. I'll see you later, Pulpy.' Roy smiled again. ‘And take care of that wife of yours.'

‘I will, thanks.' He watched the other man leave, and then looked in dismay at the crumby, sticky mess he'd made of everything.

He hadn't even used a plate, for heaven's sake.

Midge had given him a list of emergency contacts for his wallet, printed in multicoloured ink on a recipe card. He pulled it out and flicked it against the pay phone, then held it in front of his face and let the quarters drop into the slot. This was definitely an emergency, he thought, and dialled Jean's number.

‘Hello?' said Jean.

‘Hi, Jean, it's me, Pulpy.'

She made a disapproving noise. ‘She doesn't want to talk to you.'

‘Please, Jean, it's really important.'

‘I can give her a message, that's the best I can do.'

Pulpy saw the teenage conference caller then, standing around the rib place with some of his friends. He was wearing the suspenders again. ‘Sometimes we have to wait,' he said quietly.

‘Wait for what?' said Jean.

‘Nothing, sorry. I saw someone I know. Some teenager.'

‘Who do you know that's a teenager?' She made a disgusted sound. ‘First it's secretaries and now it's people half your age? You're not the man I thought you were, Pulpy.'

‘Put Midge on the phone, Jean,' he said. ‘This is about my job.'

‘Your job? What about your job?'

‘Just put her on.'

Jean let out a half-grumble, half-sigh. ‘Okay, Pulpy. But she really doesn't want to speak with you.'

Pulpy turned back to the food court and blinked. The conference caller was walking toward him, chomping on a rack of short ribs.

Midge came on the line. ‘I can't talk long,' she said. ‘Jean's teaching me how lustre crystals can make a candle glossier.'

‘Midge!' said Pulpy. ‘How are you?'

‘I'm fine.'

‘Midge, I love you. And nothing happened between me and the receptionist, you have to believe me. I love you more than anything.'

The kid stopped in front of him. He had a rib sticking out between his teeth like a cigar. ‘I need the phone,' he said.

‘Well, I'm on it,' said Pulpy.

‘What?' said Midge.

The kid took the rib out of his mouth and dropped it on the floor. ‘I said, I need that phone.'

‘Tough.' Pulpy turned his back to him.

‘Who are you talking to? Hello, Pulpy? I'm going to hang up.'

‘No! Midge, please don't. This is really important.'