I nod and roll my eyes at her before leaving her office and stalking off down the hall. Why is everyone so surprised when I try and do something nice? It’s not like I’m one hundred percent pure evil. Just like forty percent. That’s less than half.
Taking in a deep breath, I seek out Joe’s office, which is located at the end of the floor, between all the different departments. I’ve only been in there a few times, and Joe is pretty much the stereotype of your disgruntled, ornery editor. You would think I’d know how to work him a bit better because of that, but maybe we were too much alike.
His door is closed and I can hear him yelling at someone inside, so I wait a few minutes. I watch some of my colleagues in their cubicles. Some are furiously typing while wearing ginormous headphones, others are on their cellphones while talking and transcribing notes, others are just staring blankly at their screen. Then there is my friend Neil who is running a file over his nails, his expertly arched brows furrowed in concentration.
Every one of the writers—Neil excluded—looks invested, involved, and dedicated to what they are doing. It stings, just a bit, knowing I don’t have that in my own life.
Finally the door opens and Mia, a writer I know, scampers away with her eyes down, papers in her hand, her cheeks flush with either anger or humiliation.
Oh great. So he’s in a bad mood, too.
Before I can change my mind, I knock on his door and call out, “Sir?”
“What?” he barks, and I take that as a sign to come on in.
Joe sits at his desk, dress-shirt sleeves pushed up to his elbows, showing off the ape-like quality of his hairy forearms. His hair is slicked back which only accentuates his crazy widow’s peak, and it looks like he has some kind of food stains on his collar. His office is a mess of loose papers, copies of the magazine, and discarded paper coffee cups.
“Oh, you,” he says, derisive. He barely looks at me. “You work with the ads. Why are you here?”
I step in, just a foot, in case I get sucked into his vortex of mess, and say, “Actually, I have a story idea and Lucy told me to run it past you.”
That makes him pause. “Story idea? You? Let me guess, you want to make your margarita Mondays into a column?”
How the hell did he know about that?
“No, wait,” he goes on. “Something about dating in the city and what a drag it is.”
I frown. I have no idea how he knows about my dating woes either. Maybe I’m more of an open book than I thought.
“No,” I say slowly, crossing my arms. “It’s actually for a charity of sorts.” I go on and explain about Bram’s project, hoping that by the end of it he’ll be somewhat impressed.
No such luck. His eyes have totally glazed over. He rubs at them and sighs.
“See if someone will write about it. If no one will, you’re out of luck.”
“Well, what if I write it?” I ask.
“You?” He practically stutters. “No, no. We may be laughed at from time to time, but we’re trying to bolster our serious image, not detract from it. Writing isn’t your forte.”
“How do you know?” I ask, unable to bite my tongue.
He looks at me sharply. “I’d ask for you to prove me wrong, but I don’t have the time.” He sighs and looks down at last week’s copy in his hand. “But the story does fit into our new agenda. Go find someone to write it for you.”
At that moment I want to kill Bram for putting me in this position. Still, I thank Joe and leave the office. I set my eyes on Neil and march over to him.
“Neil,” I say sweetly, putting my hands on his shoulders and giving them a massage.
“What did I tell you about sexual harassment in the workplace?” he says mildly, his nails nice and shiny, his attention focused on an inbox of a million emails.
“You told me it only counts if I have a cock.”
He makes a small sound of agreement. “And if you had a cock, I’d be all over you. Remind me again why you haven’t set me up with your brother?”
I squeeze his shoulders extra hard, hoping I’m hurting him. “Because you’re a total manwhore and I love Toshio to death. I’d hate to have his heart discarded on the streets of the Castro.”
“For one,” he says, wincing at my touch, “that’s so cliché. The Castro? Get with the times, Lieutenant Sulu. That’s where the uncouth hang out. For two, he’d find someone else in a minute. I’ve seen how cute he is. Just like you. And by the way, if I’m a manwhore, you’re a cockslut. Own it, bitch.”
I roll my eyes. “Look, before we get all racist and crude—“
“Whatever, I’ve called you Sulu for the last five years. Just like you won’t stop calling me Diego. And I’m not even Hispanic.”
I ignore him. “I need a favor from you. Actually, I need a favor for a friend, but I’m having troubles, um, fulfilling it.”
“Ugh, favors,” he says. I take my hands away. “Don’t stop,” he commands, patting his shoulder quickly.
I keep massaging. “It’s a good deed.”
“Double ugh. And why are you doing good deeds?”
I shrug. “I don’t know, I just am. But I need your help.” For the third time that day, I explain Bram’s predicament.
“But this isn’t even the guy you’re fucking,” he points out. “Aren’t you still on that stupid vow of cocklessness?”