The World: According to Rachael (2 page)

“Hi, this is Graham Jackson, at future President Jones’s campaign office.” My eyes roll so far in my head, I swear I see my brain. We’ve been trained to spew that nonsense each time we speak to anyone. Something about if you say it enough times it’ll come true, or some kind of bullshit like that. “I’d like to place an order …”

I drone on, essentially placing the same order I call in every day, except this time it’s in larger quantities. My shoulders slump forward. Another pet peeve of mine. Good posture is supremely important. Nothing says unsure-of-oneself like a rounded back. Right now, I don’t care. I’ve got twelve weeks, three days, and five more hours of this horrible job until I can quit for law school. I might have to solicit the help of my perfect, beautiful, and very intelligent four-year-old niece in making a countdown chart. This has got to be the worst job ever!

Then, as if the universe decided to further piss on my parade, I hear a few bars of my school fight-song play, alerting me I have a text. Before I look, I know exactly who it’s from. Max and Jacob are crashing in my apartment. Begrudgingly, I extract my phone from my pocket.

Max:
Just waking up. How come there’s only beer in the fridge? Your place sucks.

I mumble to my phone, “How about some mayo potato salad?”

The phone goes back in my pocket without a response because I just can’t take my friends’ snide comments at the moment.

If there were any justice in this world, I’d be just waking up at my apartment right about now. Max, Jake and I would hit the local hot dog stand on the corner and head to the park to toss the football. Then, when it started getting dark, we’d go back to my place for showers. A night of sheer debauchery would follow: girls, booze, and everything red-blooded American men hold dear.

Instead, I look around at the sparse office space future President Jones’ campaign office occupies. The walls are painted a dull, pale yellow. Yard signs are stapled onto the sheetrock. We have more piled in the large room we use as a storage closet. The place is damn depressing.

I assumed my first job out of college would have mahogany-wood paneled walls, and rich leather chairs. My secretary would be named Sylvia, and be a former model with waist-long blonde hair that she keeps up in a tight bun. Maybe some glasses? She could rock the sexy librarian vibe.

Instead, I’m the secretary in a drab office space where I share a small room and “desk” space with twenty other staffers just like me. The only difference is Lucas has decided every shit job is mine.

Pushing my metal chair back, I come to the conclusion that it’s better to wait for the food at the deli then sit here watching Lucas shove more donuts in his mouth while Steve barks orders at anyone who’ll listen to “clean this place up.”

As I make my way toward the door, one of the other staffers grabs my arms, and says with a look of panic etching her otherwise very nice features, “Rachael will be here in one hour!”

The look on her face reminds me of some bad B-movie horror flick. She could be clutching my arm and screaming, “The aliens will be here any minute to suck our brains out of our skulls,” while she brings the back of her hand up to her forehead in a dramatic faint.

Touching her arms, I attempt to reassure her that it’ll be okay. “I’m off to grab the food,” I say as if I’m talking to my niece. “It’ll be okay.”

“Good,” she says, pushing a stray piece of brown hair out of her eyes. “Good thinking. Maybe food will keep her from firing all of us.”

Fireworks go off in my head. There are ringing bells, and a choir of angels sings “Hallelujah.” Fired? That doesn’t sound half bad. There’s not enough time before law school starts to get another job. I could spend the last couple of months hanging with my friends. Drinking beer. Sleeping in. SOLD.
Dear God, please let us be fired
.

Before I have a chance to respond, Steve is yelling at her about some figures that need to be prepared.

I continue my quest to escape and push open the bathroom door, slipping inside, grateful it isn’t occupied. Standing in front of the mirror, I actually look at my reflection. I’ve been avoiding this since before graduation because I know my image is not the man I want to be. I look like me. My dark brown hair is fixed in the rumbled style popular now because of Sawyer on
Lost
. Thank God for Visine, because my blue eyes are no longer bloodshot from one-too-many beers. I did shave this morning, and put on a pair of plain black pants and a white dress-shirt, tucked in with a thin black belt. Of course, I didn’t forget to pin “Jones for President,” complete with the waving flag, on my shirt pocket. My build is still as muscular as it was when I was playing lacrosse. Now, though, I just play on a local weekend-warrior kind of team. Most of the guys are trying to recapture their college years. Thank God I’m not part of that group.

I stare at my reflection, pondering how in the hell I ended up so wishy-washy about my future. Mr. Most Likely to Succeed now looks more like Mr. Most Likely To Follow In His Father’s Footsteps. Why? Because what better option do I have. I’m grown up, according to society, and have no clue what I want to do with the rest of the seventy years I hopefully have on this earth. Two degrees and law school at least delays moving back to Texas and being a junior partner in my dad’s accounting firm for a couple of more years.

I slap the marble bathroom counter and hope for the best. “Come on, Rachael. Live up to your reputation and fire us,” I speak to myself in the mirror before I make my way to the deli.

The aspirin has done the trick. My headache is back to a dull throb, and my stomach doesn’t revolt when the smell of salty French fries floods my nose. I slip onto the barstool at the counter, and am greeted by the blonde waitress who I flirt with every day.

“Hi Graham,” she says, leaning forward on the counter to show me her more than ample cleavage. “Your order will be ready in about fifteen minutes. Y’all must have something big going on. That’s a lot of food.”

“Big boss is paying us a visit today. Steve decided to be nice and buy the office lunch.” I grab one of the discarded, grease-stained
Washington Post
s lying nearby.
Catch the hint. I don’t want to talk to anyone today.
The top story is something about the Middle East. I scan the article, but don’t really read it.

“What DO I care about?” I ask myself instead of reading. The whole office is in a panic because they’re worried about getting fired. What’s wrong with me that I’m hoping to hear those words? A smile forms on my lips. The idea of being fired is the first time that I’ve smiled when I’ve thought about my future. Pathetic.

Mentally, I bang my head against a wall. There’s got to be something wrong with me. I picture being destitute and living on the streets to induce the feeling of stress. I picture having to call my dad and tell him that I lost my law school opportunity because I was fired by the she-devil, Rachael.

Nothing. I feel no sense of panic. I can’t even get my breathing to pick up speed.

I really am an apathetic loser.

“Peace in the Middle East. What an elusive idea,” says a lyrical voice next to me.

“Yeah.” I half-heartedly chuckle, attempting to ignore the voice by burying my nose deeper in the newspaper. This is one of the things I liked about ditching Texas. No one strikes up random conversations here. You look forward, and mind your own damn business.

“I’d like a Diet Coke to go please,” the voice says to the flirty blonde waitress who must be hovering nearby. Her cheap perfume burns the inside of my nostrils.

Then to me, she says, “Have you gotten to page four yet? There’s a great article on future President Jones.”

I mean, I’m clearly holding the newspaper and perusing the second page – not that she can probably tell.
No, I haven’t gotten to page four yet, and hopefully the waitress will hurry my order up so I never have to read it.
“No, I just started reading the second page.” I’m giving off the biggest don’t-talk-to-me-lady vibe I can. Just let me stew in my apathy.

“Would you mind turning to page four, and reading the article?” the voice asks. My Texas radar goes off, and I detect a faint hint of southern accent. Should have known. Talking to a stranger. Asking for absurd favors. Only someone from the south.

I put down my newspaper, expecting to turn and give her a quick lesson on how D.C. works. We all ignore each other; that’s some free advice to make her stay here more pleasant.

Then my heart begins to race. Not in panic, like I was trying to induce earlier. No. This is because this girl literally steals the oxygen from my lungs.

The voice belongs to Tinker Bell. Not the sorority girls dressed in slutty Halloween costumes that showed up every year at our Halloween frat-party version of the fairy. No. She’s the Tinker Bell that Walt Disney drew that my niece is obsessed with. The woman is stunning, with light-blonde hair pulled tightly away from her heart-shaped face. Soft white bangs sweep across her forehead and disappear behind her ear. Her eyes are captivating. They’re way too large for her face, but they’re the greenest green that I’ve ever seen. Her nose is a pixie nose, tiny and cute, and just the tip points to the ceiling. I find myself longing to touch my lips to it.

But it’s her mouth that makes my dick take notice. Her lips are so deeply red that they look burgundy. She’s captivating, sitting on the barstool next to me in a green business suit. Her body is tiny, like a pixie, and her legs, Jesus Christ. I let my eyes travel down to admire her bare, alabaster-toned legs. As if just to torture me, one of her green heels is dangling off her big toe, revealing her red, perfectly manicured toes. Feet are a big deal. They have to be well cared for. Huge, flat toes that look like rocks are major turn-offs.

The top of her head only meets my shoulder.

I’m staring. I know I am, but I can’t help myself. This woman isn’t close to my type. I normally like very tall women. There’s nothing sexier than a woman who almost reaches my six-foot one-inch height. I also like long, brown hair. But my type flies out the window as I check out my fairy next to me.

She smiles, revealing gorgeous, straight, white teeth. I long to run my tongue over those teeth, exploring the smooth porcelain before I nibble on her maroon lips.
God, I need those lips.

What’s wrong with me? I’m Graham Jackson. I don’t chase girls. Girls come after me.

“Your order is ready.” Tinker Bell tilts her small head and nods to the pile of food in front of me.

“What?” I ask, clearly forgetting where I am, and what I’m doing in this cramped deli at noon on a Thursday.

She picks up a white Styrofoam cup and purses her lips around the tip of the straw. My dick takes notice, and all but begs those lips to move further south.

“Isn’t that your food?” she asks again. Her dark brown arching brows meet together in confusion.

Food. Yes. The reason I’m in a deli. Yes. Rachael, A.K.A. Attila the Hun will be at our office in just a few minutes. “Yeah. Sorry,” I mumble as I stand up, and grab the mound of stacked sandwich platters and white bag filled with the salads.

I balance the four plastic platters on my arms and put the bag on top, making my way for the door.

Desperately, I want to turn around and take in one more sight of Tink before I enter my personal hell, but I don’t dare. I can’t afford to do anything that throws off the balance of the trays.
Yay! I was fired for dropping Attila’s food.

“Let me get the door for you,” the polite southern voice calls from behind me.

My heart falls in relief. I can see her one more time. “Thanks. That would be awesome of you.”

When she rushes past me to push open the glass door, I notice just how petite she really is.
She is a pixie.
I don’t think she’s even adult height, but she’s so in proportion, almost as if a mature, athletic female has been left too long in the dryer.

I scoot past her, turning on my southern charm. “Isn’t it my job to hold the door for you?” Is there a worse pick-up line? No. I don’t think so. FAIL.

“Well, how I was raised, you help out your fellow man.” She pauses, and adds, “Or woman whenever they’re in need.” She doesn’t say it catty or mean-spirited, like a lot of girls I know would have. It’s said in a very matter-of-fact, self-assured tone. I like that. And she’s not making me feel like an idiot for dropping such a lame line.

Next, she’s opening the double doors of my office building.
How’d she know where I was going?
Who cares? She’s apparently coming upstairs with me.

“Second floor?”

“Yes. Thanks for your help. My boss’s boss is visiting today, so the whole office is freaking out. He’d kill me if these,” I nod toward the pile of food, “didn’t arrive in pristine condition.”

“Planned visit?” she asks as she leans against the elevator railing, crossing her arms over her chest. I’ve yet to see if she has nice tits, but for once, I don’t think I care.

I find myself not wanting the elevator ride to be over.

“Arrives any minute. Apparently it’s been scheduled for a couple of days, because all we’ve done is prepare. Like, a work stoppage.” I roll my eyes so she knows just exactly how I feel about this.

“What your boss’s boss like?” she asks conspiratorially.

“Never met her. Word in the office is she’s a real ball-breaker.” Fuck! I just said the words
ball-breaker
to Tinker Bell.

“Really?” Tink asks. I carefully examine her face to see if I’ve offended her. Fortunately, she seems okay.

The elevator doors open, and she walks ahead of me, opening the campaign office’s doors. As soon as she does, I hear the roar of greetings from inside.

My stupid, beer-soaked brain from last night actually ponders for a moment why she’s getting such a nice greeting. I mean, she just hit buttons and opened doors for me. Then, the light bulb turns on inside my head.
Oh, shit! Tink is Attila the Hun.
But where is her facial hair?

If I could kick my own ass, I would.

I just told her—the enemy—our secrets. Reviewing the conversation in my mind makes it even worse. My chin falls to my chest, and I pretend to carefully watch what I’m doing as I begin to arrange the trays across our conference room table.