In case anyone’s wondering, my job at Precision Machine is totally glamorous. Take today, for example. It’s not even 10 a.m., and already I’ve 1) opened the mail; 2) made a Dunkin Donuts run; 3) did the dishes in the break room sink; and 4) un-jammed the photocopier. And if that doesn’t sound convincing enough, Stu, one of my bosses, just asked me to go buy some more toilet paper.
“But don’t get the scratchy cheap shit, Laney,” he told me. “We like the cushy stuff. Don’t we, Lou?”
Lou wholeheartedly agreed. “Yeah. Definitely. I have some with hearts on it at home. It sounds gay, but it’s soft on the ole tush. See if you can find that.”
So...gay toilet paper that’s soft and has hearts on it. Got it.
At Precision Machine, I’m on the front line. I get to answer the phone and deal with pissed-off customers who want to kill someone (namely, me) because their air jet valves didn’t ship on time, or because no one has visited a job site to figure out why the turbo-charger bracket they ordered didn’t fit properly. And I get to deal with my bosses, or what I call the “Stu and Lou Show.”
It’s quite a show, let me tell you. Stu and Lou are forty-five-year-old high school buddies who joined up as business partners to create what’s become one of the most successful machined parts companies in New England. Stu’s about six-three, two hundred and sixty pounds, bald as a cueball with a big nose and a perpetually red, perspiring face that he mops about twenty times a day with the handkerchief he drags out of his back pocket. He’s basically a heart attack waiting to happen—main food staples are burgers, fries and beer, all to excess—and I’m always cautioning him about eating less and exercising more, partly because I’m scared shitless he’ll collapse and I’ll have to give him mouth-to-mouth. His wife got him a Fitbit for Christmas a few months ago, and judging from his continuously-expanding waistline, it didn’t quite take.
Lou is shorter, around five-ten, and in better shape—he’s recently divorced and has been hitting the gym to both exercise and scope out women who are much younger and much more attractive than him. He’s not a bad-looking guy...clean-cut, thick hair, decent features—but he doesn’t seem to get that women might not appreciate his roving eyes and raunchy sense of humor. One of his major skills is maintaining eye contact with my nipples like a boss, and I mean that both ways. I’ve been tempted to draw little up arrows on my shirt, as in, hey, Lou, my eyeballs are up here. I’m always careful not to wear cleavage-y tops and will wear bulky clothes whenever weather permits, but it doesn’t seem to matter. He knows what lies beneath.
So like I once told my BFF Madeline, my job basically equates to lying underneath a hairy fat guy and faking an orgasm from 9 to 5. If I haven’t been clear, I want to get the hell out of my job, and by hell, I mean fuck.
But...there’s the money. It’s pretty good. Also, I have like a ten minute commute, and it’s not as if I’ve seen a lot of other job openings in Ellsworth, Maine. I’ve looked, believe me. So for now, I’m stuck under the hairy fat guy.
What I really want to do? Open my own coffee shop. It’s been a dream of mine to have my own business, and I’ve always loved the idea of having a cozy café for people to get together and relax, forget about their worries. I can picture it all: the smell of coffee brewing (one of the best scents ever) complemented by the aroma of freshly-baked muffins, the colors I’d pick to make the place warm and inviting, the comfy furniture, the music I’d play, the pretty window boxes I’d have outside, filled with purple petunias and baby’s breath...ohh, a girl can dream, right?
I even know which building I want. Corner of Main and School Street, downtown Ellsworth. It’s so cool-looking—Mansard roof, ornate brickwork and huge, arched front windows looking out onto the street. It used to be a dress shop and just went up for sale. Which makes it almost worse, because now I know it’s available and someone is going to buy it and that someone can’t be me, because I don’t have the money. Maybe I’m a glutton for punishment, but since my BFF happens to own a realty company, I asked her if she could show me the building. The place was even better than I expected. Hardwood floors, high tin ceilings with beautiful detail. It had this hush about it...like it was waiting, poised on the edge of a promise. Unfortunately, just not a promise for me. Maddie said she’ll keep me posted on it. She’s offered multiple times to lend me money, but I’ve staunchly refused. Like I told her, I don’t want to take something from someone, even my best friend, when I can’t give back anything in return. I’m almost hoping it goes under contract soon, because that way, I can shove it out of my mind where it belongs, keep saving what little money I can, and continue faking it at work as the DD girl (Dunkin Donuts)...picking up Boston Kremes and extra large black coffees for the Stu and Lou Show, listening to them bitch and moan about the donuts being upside down in the bag and watching Stu rip apart the brown paper and lick the chocolate frosting while sometimes winking at me.
Did I mention that I really hate my job? Annnd now I’m off to Walmart to buy toilet paper.
I’m heading out the door of Precision Machine into the brisk March breeze when I hear my ring tone, muffled in my purse. It’s either a telemarketer or more likely, my mother, who always seems to forget I have a job and calls during the day. Since she and Dad got divorced (thankfully, amicably) a few months ago, she’s totally redefining herself at the age of forty-eight. I affectionately refer to her as a Jack Russell terrier on crack.
“Hey, Mom.”
“Hi, sweetheart. What are you up to?”
“That job thing I do.”
“Oh! That’s right.” A little laugh. “It is Monday, isn’t it? Well, I won’t keep you...just on my way to java therapy.”
“Java...therapy?”
Another laugh. “Starbucks with Cecile. We call it java therapy. She has a small part in a Penobscot Theater production and wants to go over her lines with me. She’s even encouraging me to audition for the next one!”
“I can totally picture you doing that. You should.” I start up my Hyundai Sonata and pull out of the parking lot.
“Thanks, honey bunches. I just might. What are you doing for fun these days?”
“Oh, nothing real exciting...going to bars once in a while, and a girls’ night here and there.”
“How is Madeline doing? Is she still seeing that contractor you told me about?”
“Oh, yes. She’s happier than she’s ever been. She and Jack are like a couple of teenagers in love for the first time.”
“I’m so happy for her. I haven’t seen her since she came to Bangor for that waterfront concert last June. Maybe I’ll get to see her soon, and meet him. Speaking of meeting men...have you?”
Why did I know this was coming?
“No, Mom. Like I’ve told you, I’m pretty soured on men since I’m constantly watching the Stu and Lou show.”
A classic maternal sigh. “Delaney, you know all men aren’t like that. I wish you’d be open to the idea of at least dating someone. You’re much too beautiful and fabulous to be single.” She pauses. “Unless...”
“Unless what?”
“Are you a lesbian, Laney?”
Jesus, could this day get any worse? Now my mother’s questioning my sexuality. “No, Mom. I’m not a lesbian.”
“Because it’s absolutely fine if you are. There has never been a better time to be gay, sweetheart. And I’m totally on board if you are.”
“Thank you. But I’m not gay, Mom.”
“That owner of the Italian restaurant I’ve seen you post on Facebook...what’s her name? Amanda? You’d make a great lipstick lesbian for her.”
Answer: Yes, this day can get worse. “Mom. I’m not gay. I’m just not interested in dating men right now. And I have to go.”
“All right, honey. We can talk about this more later. Women have needs, just like men do, and I hope you can find someone to meet those needs. I want you to find someone as special as you are.”
We say our I love you’s and hang up. I take some deep cleansing breaths, because my mother just said I’d be a good lipstick lesbian, and also I’m going into Walmart.
It would be fine if I were gay—maybe it would be even better, because I’ve come to believe that women are kinder and way more sensitive than men. But I’m straight. Straight, celibate and single, and I’m planning to stay that way.
And no one needs to know the real reason why.