LJ Idol, Week 16: Open Topic
ACHTUNG!: This is a continuation of Week 14's entry...
...but you should be able to get along just fine without it.
Behind the open bar of my media-mogul boss's epic birthday extravaganza, the man froze. I plucked two glasses of scotch from his hands and gulped down one of them. The other I would savor, because it was not likely this bartender was going anywhere--not while the plump lips and dexterous tongue of my vain, vacuous, and voluptuous coworker inadvertently simulated fellatio on one very, very lucky buffalo wing. After an eternity, Gretchen let out a tiny groan and pulled a naked bone from her mouth.
If you're curious, that exact turn of phrase did not pop into my brain at random.
Suddenly, her head jerked around, as if it had been smacked by a thought that had been hurled across the room by a slingshot. "Oh! Did Myron tell you?"
Myron was my editor, and I hated it when he told me anything. "Possibly," I replied, "but I tend to tune him out."
She punched me in the shoulder before stuffing a wad of bubblegum into her mouth. "Max Fuentes," she said between chomps, "you crack me up!" And she laughed.
That laugh.
"I'm your new photographer!"
What? "That's," I said. "That's," I said again. "That's eventful."
"I know, right?"
The tiny devil sitting on my left shoulder whispered into my ear, Who do we kill first: Myron, Gretchen, or us?
On my right shoulder, the angel whispered, Man, I wish I were that chicken wing. Or that barstool. Or that black, satin bra. Or...
"What do I pay you for?" I asked them.
"To take pictures," Gretchen replied.
"I need to take a walk," I told her.
"Do you want me to tag along, Max Fuentes?"
"No."
"Okay!"
I plunged into the crowd. The last thing my sex drive needed was more revving. That would be like dropping a three-stage Saturn V rocket into an already souped-up muscle car. I steered myself out of doors, where my inevitable explosion would kill the least number of people.
But then something yanked on my emergency brake, and the last thing I said before all the breath left my body was, "Oh my."
From her regal bearing, to her shimmering, green cocktail dress, to the way her almost black hair swept over her face, to the eyes that were such a deep blue they were almost violet, everything about this woman in front of me was sultry.
I blinked. "Hi," I said to her, "I'm Max."
"My name's September," she replied.
I'll take it from here, the devil on my shoulder told me.
Take it away, the angel told both of us.
I told her, "Between the alcohol and all the music, I could have sworn you just told me your name was September."
She took a coy sip of her martini and let out a chuckle.
"No nickname, then?" I asked. "Like Seppy? Or Tember?"
She shook her head.
"Um." There was no way I could tackle this entire conversation by myself. Desperately, I tried, "what's your connection to Mr. Lloyd?"
"My date did some graphic-design work on one of his Web sites."
My spirits fell. "So which one's your date?"
She pointed. "He's over there, dancing with his boyfriend."
My spirits rose.
"And what brings you here, Max?"
"I came here, specifically to this tiny little space where I'm standing," I said, "to inform you that there are about a thousand puns I could say about your name, and that I will not use any of them, and that restraint is a great sacrifice on my part, so you should take it as a gift, like I brought you flowers or something."
"Really."
With a well-oiled snap of my wrist, a business card was in my hand. "Give me a call if you ever feel like thanking me." Without another word, I resumed my trek to the front door, because my knees were only moments from failing.
Since I just didn't give a fuck, I lit up a fat joint the moment my feet hit pavement sucked the whole thing down during a brisk walk around the block. Mellow, I returned to the entrance, only to find my editor sharing a cigarette with my desk-mate and fact-checker, Bill Cunningham.
"Is this a great party or what?" Bill yelled at me. "It's a fucking blast!"
Oh, the devil on my shoulder moaned, not Bill.
Come now, said the angel, he's a confused young man in need of friendship and guidance.
He's an asshole, replied the devil.
Well, there's that.
Bill pointed to his companion. "Have you seen the tie on Myron's head?"
"I like to cut loose at these things," Myron admitted.
"Well," Bill said, "It's really fucking funny. Because it's on your head, instead of on your neck."
"Hilarious," I replied.
"You look like you've been taking bong hits," Bill said to me.
"Is this a great party or what?" I replied.
"This party sucks!" Bill declared. "I can't believe I'm forced to attend a vanity ball for the fucking rich media fuck who built a statue of himself in his hometown. How self-absorbed can one man be?"
At this point, what little color existed in Myron's face vanished as he observed something behind the still-ranting Bill. I followed his stare and sobered up at the sight of Mr. Lloyd, the rich media fuck in question, strolling toward us, right out of a bad comedy.
Mr. Lloyd measured six feet, five inches. Bill, on the other hand, stood only five feet, six inches; so when Bill realized we no longer watching him, he turned to face what we were watching and received an eyeful of Mr. Lloyd's chest.
Bill said, "Well here's the king amongst his peasants."
"I'm going inside," I told everyone.
After a few minutes, Bill came back in and headed for the bar, but I grabbed him before he made it.
"Look," I growled, breathing deeply to avoid saying something I might regret, "I know I'm not your boss, but you're a vital part of my team, and now, more than ever, I need you to stay sharp. Lord knows I'm going to have my hands full with that overprivileged, underqualified, unwelcome airhead, Gretchen. So do me a favor, Bill: next time you're going to go off on someone, look behind you to make sure they're not standing there." To illustrate that last phrase, I turned around, only to see Gretchen.
She didn't shout, cry, or storm off in fury. She just stated in a clear voice, "I begged Myron to let me your photographer because I thought you were cool and a good role model." And with that, she disappeared into the crowd. I wish she'd shouted, cried, or stormed off.
"The good news," I said with a shrug, "is I don't have to pretend to like her anymore."
I turned back to Bill, but he'd been replaced by a wide-eyed September. "You have no soul," she snapped before stomping away.
It's true, said the angel on my shoulder.
Yeah, said the devil, it kinda is.