Hannah Gersen
Home Field
FOR NANCY RUSSELL
But, ultimately, what have you got against aphrodisiacs?
Evie M
TODAY I PHONED and had a cup of coffee, created/distributed a handful of B-20s, then phoned and had a cup of coffee. We ran out of powder creamer, but there were creams from McDonald’s in the break area mini-fridge, which I just disinfected. Around 4:40 I decided to cruise hyperlinks until close of business. There was something about our President, and news that a small plane had crashed somewhere in Illinois. A sullen pop diva will guest-star on a Thursday night prime-time. It’s sweeps. Her crimson lips were parted in the photo, and for an instant I couldn’t help but picture myself ejaculating — I guess. Accurate or not, I felt despicable, and quickly went to scrub my hands. I must remember to remember her name, to purchase her recordings. I drove home.
HOME, where the shows are on. Between five-thirty and seven: utter contentment. The reruns allow me to nod off for a few, and then rejoin any story, anytime, without worry. They showed us these same shows in the female barracks’ dayroom, and in the females’ Quonset at the marshaling base, and you could even watch them at forward ops (where we shared the rec tent with the men). Usually a nap, followed by a quick Swiffer-sweep of the apartment, will help me to unwind, before the new episodes come on at seven. I know everything, until the new episodes come on, at seven.
Only, today, someone has called and the red light blinks. No one ever calls. I am terrified to check the message, so I do not, and then do not sleep.
BACK to work. Somebody left the coffee machine on all night, so the break area smelled burnt and the pot had a veneer of tar-stuff on the bottom. I picked it up and looked into it, considered scrubbing it, considered smashing it into the brushed-steel sink, my knuckles grinding the shards, but then put it back and trod down the long hall to another break area, where I poured a cup. There were pyres everywhere in the desert. There was plenty of powder cream, here. Near my partition a thin clerk shrugged his shoulders at the scorched pot. The back of his khakis were wrinkled from having been worn too many times without a wash. I told him about the other break area, but he just stared at me. I told him there was plenty of cream.
Later, my supervisor stood at the edge of my work space and flashed his perfect, glazed teeth. It made me nervous, which I think he enjoyed. Enjoys. He’s younger than I am but doesn’t act it. He told me he’s been listening in on my customer calls, and that I needed to Master the Art of Inflection. Told me that I had a lovely voice, but that if I didn’t sound interested in our product, I could not expect anyone else to get interested in it. Could I? Huh?
At lunch, my hands and face were filmy from a French dip. I finished half of it before I had to rush to the women’s room to wash. There was only an air-dryer, so I used toilet paper to pat myself, and ended up with tissue pills all over my chin. After that, I drove to McDonald’s for coffee. I asked the woman for a handful of extra creams and she glared at me as if I were the cause of something awful, like a tumor. She spoke into a headset, then slammed the window. As I pulled away my exhaust made a grumbling sound, like rocks tumbling in a pipe, like the collision of track gears on an M113A3 personnel carrier. I simply cannot afford any extra expenses, car repair or anything. I put the car in park and sat in the lot, rubbing my thumbs against the corrugated thimbles of cream, rubbing and rubbing until another headset person knocked on my window and ordered me away.
Supervisor came by, again. He stood over my shoulder, breathing through his nose. At some point I had to turn and look up at him. His smile, the clinical porcelain of his incisors, made me feel like a schoolgirl humiliated by her teacher. (In elementary, I was given remedial tooth-brushing lessons after the red, plaque disclosure pill polluted my mouth.) The Art of Inflection, Evie, he said to me again. He then squeezed my neck, kneaded it and walked off. I spent the rest of the day refreshing my in-box. Someone sent a joke email that showed a fat cartoon woman in black lingerie. Her beet-red nipples were spilling over the top, and her vagina was bisected by the panties. A stick-thin bald man dressed in only an undershirt, and with a small, limp cock, said that Victoria’s secret was out: models were one thing, but nobody’s wife looks good in these outfits. It wasn’t funny. I sent it on to my account reps.
THE red light was a message from Helen — I finally checked, I had to sleep. We broke up because she took a job elsewhere. Maybe this wasn’t the end of the world, but it wasn’t so goddamn good either. The thing is, we sat Indian-style on the wooden floor in her empty living room, the window light gentle and lemony, the moving trucks already gone, and she promised that she would hang in there if I hung in there.
I have to stop thinking about it, her, now. If you heat an individual serving (two) of Rich’s frozen glazed donuts for between twenty-nine and forty-two seconds they’ll be as hot and fresh as fresh. We had this little bitch dog in the desert, this black-and-white mutt that found us, just wandered into camp out of nowhere. We fed it chunks of dehydrated pork patty and whatever from our MREs, and someone named it Sheeba, that name my god I hated that name. Growing up I’d never been allowed to have a dog, so I gave it every leftover from my meal packet, gum and salt and powdered cream and everything, and it began to sleep under my cot every night, and I’d dangle my hand down there on her ribs for as long as I could stay awake, and. . And you’d pat it, her, Sheeba, and puffs of dust would fly from her fur it was so funny so dirty, and once she was outside the compound berm, out there in the sand, pawing at a beetle, springing back from a tiny bug or something, crouching on her front paws and growling at it like she was a puppy, and a few of us laughed and then went in the tent and some guys from the motor pool took bets and shot it. Her. It depends on how frozen the donuts are. You can tell they are ready when they are spongy but not hard as the tines of your fork test them. Then: stop. Any longer in the microwave and the dough seizes up, and the glaze will coagulate. I know this.
SUPERVISOR’S teeth are actually only clean on the front. He uses those grocery-store whitening strips instead of going to the dentist. I want to tell him about his yellow side-teeth. Wanted to tell him today when he smiled and told me to remember — told me twice — that Annual Evaluations are upon us.
I was sitting on the floor next to the copier when he said this. I can’t bear it when the copier spool gets dry because of too much usage. It’s precarious, because you’d think you could just relubricate the plate glass with a wipe of oil, like greasing a cookie sheet. But you absolutely cannot put an abundance of copier oil on it, or it won’t feed right. Just a film, a light au jus. Unfortunately, if you’re out of copier oil and still have to bundle stapled and sorted sets of product logs for supervisors with white front teeth, you know that this will take your entire day: press the green button, get through (at best) one set, deal with the jam. Repeat repeat repeat. Empty Duplicator. Replace Last Two Originals In Document Feeder. Repeat repeat repeat. Close Document Feeder. Repeat. It kills you after about an hour or so. Finally, you just sit on the floor, dying over the fact that if you wait for the repairman to arrive and relubricate, your ass is over. Annual Evaluations are here.