Russell Wiley Is Out to Lunch (15 page)

“Look,” I say. “Here’s an article you may want to read. It’s about creative anarchy. I hear the guy who wrote it is pretty good. And don’t get too bent out of shape. Let’s wait and see if this Martin thing actually happens before we worry about taking Rachel down.”

After Liz leaves, I take my iPod out of my bag, put in my ear-buds, and sit staring with unfocused eyes at the work spread across my desk.

This hasn’t been a good day. Ben’s been fired. That Chinese fisherman’s son died of cancer. And I’m falling behind in my two most urgent projects.

On days like this, I’d like to think that people’s basic goodness would shine through. We should be mourning Ben’s departure. We should be bonding as a team. We should be pulling together. But it seems that everyone around me is thinking first and only about themselves. Meanwhile, Jarvis Cocker’s not helping. He’s singing in my ears that cunts are still running the world.

I turn off the music and lay my iPod down. I think about myself. I think about Sam. I think about Sam and me having sex. Then I tell myself to stop thinking about sex. Thinking about sex in the office is never a good thing.

I flick through an old Livingston Kidd presentation and apply sticky notes to some pages I may want to adapt for my new version. This is better. One project at a time. Stay focused.

I head down the hall to make some photocopies. I’m thinking only about work. No thoughts of sex will be allowed to enter my mind while I’m in the office ever again.

I walk into our copy room and find a young Asian woman kneeling on the floor.

It’s Kiko. She’s crouched by the side of the open copier, trying to remove a paper jam without touching any of the CAUTION, HOT SURFACE stickers inside the machine.

“So sorry,” she says, gazing up at me with a sweet, smooth face and a look of fear and excitement in her eyes. She’s wearing a red mesh tank over a sleeveless pink T. Her outfit is completed by a tartan miniskirt, tall white socks and black shoes with wedge-like heels. I’m not sure if this look is inspired by the street fashions of the East Village or Shinjuku, but the whole effect is doll-like, cartoonish.

“Not a problem,” I tell her.

She turns back to the machine and fiddles with the large black roller inside. I study the Japanese brand name that appears in raised lettering on the side of the copier. I hear paper tearing.

“Let me help,” I say.

Kiko stands up and backs away.

“So sorry,” she says again, this time bowing slightly. Her skinny arms and legs look pliable, seemingly muscle-free. Kiko is here on a work visa arranged through our international department. She wants to find out if she’s suited for a career in graphic design. She’s here because her father is one of our Tokyo office’s largest clients.

Despite her shy persona, rumor is that Kiko has been partying hard since she got to New York while making hundreds of new friends on MySpace. Her dad rented her a furnished apartment in a midtown doorman building, and apparently she likes to invite guys up to see more than the view.

“Shit,” I say as my hand touches the hot metal inside the copier. I suck my finger, perform a visual check to make sure the skin’s still there, then make a halfhearted attempt to clear the jam for a minute more. I make sure not to look at the band of skin between the top of Kiko’s socks and the hem of her miniskirt, bouncing my glance off the wall as I stand up.

“You better try on the other side,” I tell her. “I’ll ask Barbara to put in a service call.”

I hurry back to my desk. Sometimes I wish I kept a flask of whiskey in the bottom desk drawer. But that’s not the solution to my problem. My problem is waiting for me at home. And it’s time for me to do something about it.

I already have my bag on my shoulder when Judd appears. He thinks we have a four o’clock meeting. Barbara confirmed it, he says. I look on my calendar. There’s nothing there.

I’m sorry, I tell him. I don’t have time. We’ll have to reschedule. I’m dealing with a crisis situation. An urgent project that truly cannot wait.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

I cut out of the office at 4:05. My plan is to beat the rush, get a seat on the F train for the ride home, and arrive at the apartment ahead of Sam. I still have one foolproof seduction routine I reserve only for true crises. I call it the Emergency Cleaning Method. It’s a technique that demands obsessive attention to humdrum household chores, whether they need doing or not. Because only when I lavish attention on grease, mildew and shower scum does Sam return the favor and lavish attention on me.

I haven’t left the office this early in a while, but as soon as I approach the subway station I realize I am part of a pre-rush-hour frenzy every bit as crazed as the charge of the five o’clock brigade. As the doors close, I jam myself between an exceptionally tall woman in a floral dress and a Chinese man with several bags containing small boxes of toys that dig into my legs. I am still twisting myself to limit the bruising to my calves when the train stops in a tunnel and the lights go out. Someone says, “Move your hand,” and another passenger says, “Sorry.” The lights come back on and the conductor announces we will be delayed due to a police action at Thirty-fourth Street. Everyone tries to remain polite. With my arms pinned to my side, I have plenty of time to study the prominent Adam’s apple of the increasingly masculine-seeming, big-handed woman at my side.

When Sam gets home from Artyfacts, I’m on my hands and knees scrubbing the kitchen floor. I’ve changed into a T-shirt and khaki shorts. The oven is preheating to 350 degrees.

“Hi,” she says to my ass.

“Hi,” I say, not turning round.

“You’re home early,” she says.

“Do we have any more fabric softener?” I ask. “I have to run down to the laundry room to put stuff in the dryer once I’ve finished this floor.”

“What are these?” she says from the living room. I bought a cheap bouquet from the Korean deli where I usually shop, which is across the street from the one Sam favors.

“I thought they’d brighten the place up,” I say.

“They’re lovely,” she says. “Look in the cupboard next to the cupboard under the sink.”

I take my bucket of dirty water to pour down the toilet. I take off my rubber gloves, wipe my brow with the back of my forearm, and wash my hands.

“Kiss,” says Sam.

“Stop it,” I say and rush back to the kitchen.

I put my tuna casserole in the oven, find the fabric softener, throw it into our laundry basket, and head down to the laundry room. When I get back upstairs, Sam is on the couch, flicking through the pages of a home decorating magazine. I get out the vacuum cleaner.

“Something smells good,” she says.

“Lift your legs,” I say as I zip around the area rug.

“Sit with me,” she says when I put the vacuum away.

“Hush,” I say. I go to the kitchen to stir my casserole, mix the breadcrumbs into some margarine, and sprinkle them on top. I put the casserole back in the oven, set the timer, then rush into the bathroom to scrub the toilet.

Ten minutes later I’m uncorking some wine, lighting a candle, and inviting Sam to join me at the small glass-topped café table in the corner of the kitchen. It’s a table Sam bought from Shila six months ago in exchange for three weeks’ salary.

“So how was your day?” I ask. Now that my housework is complete, I’m able to focus on my wife.

Sam tells me about a large new consignment Shila has acquired following the death of an elderly woman in the neighborhood. She’s wearing a purple lipstick I haven’t noticed before.

“You wouldn’t believe the treasures she had,” says Sam. There have been times lately when Sam’s nose and chin have been set so hard they seemed pointed. But at moments like this, when she’s relaxed and smiling, her features seem much softer. “She’d lived in that house for, like, sixty years.”

Sam is wearing a dark blue V-necked top that exposes the smooth triangle of skin above her cleavage and a thin necklace adorned with antique black glass beads. I focus on the principles of the attentive listening seminar I attended four months ago. I nod continually and say “uh-huh” or “go on” during pauses in Sam’s anecdotes. At the end of each story, I paraphrase it back to her to show I’m really taking it in.

“Wow. So she lived there sixty years. You guys must have a lot of stuff to sort through.”

Sam has seventeen exquisite freckles on her nose and cheeks. She explains that the surviving family members take the really good stuff first—the jewelry, the silver, all the heirlooms they want to keep—and then they sell the rest off as a job lot.

“Wow. So after the family takes all the obviously valuable stuff, you get what’s left.”

Sam explains that a lot of the leftover stuff, which might have been considered junk just a few years ago, can be fixed up, polished and re-sold for quite a decent markup, especially to young people just buying an apartment or house for the first time. Sam thinks her seventeen facial freckles are the only ones she has. In a short while, I plan to inspect her naked body for verification.

“Wow. That’s really fascinating,” I say. “I guess it’s cheaper than buying new stuff and has a little bit more personality too?”

Sam tells me I’m exactly right. Of course, you can buy some new things cheap, but they are all mass-produced and lack the character of an older piece that has sat in someone’s house for a few decades.

“This is so interesting,” I say, pouring a little more wine. I’d love to point out the miracle that allows her to have just enough skin to cover her entire body. Instead I say, “What kind of customers did you have today?”

She tells me about her customers, and I repeat back key snippets.

“So you thought she was trying to steal the hat until you remembered she bought it from you two weeks ago? That’s hilarious!”

I insist on doing the dishes. Sam hugs me from behind, presses her body against me.

“Thanks for a great meal,” she says. She leans her cheek against my back. I’m scrubbing at the casserole dish with a wire pad.

“No biggie,” I say.

She touches me through my shorts.

“I’m not so sure about that,” she says.

“You’re distracting me,” I say.

“Why not leave the rest?”

I take off my rubber gloves, and she leads me by the hand to our bedroom. I pad along after her, trying not to display any signs of eagerness.

Sam pulls the curtains. She usually prefers darkness. But she doesn’t complain as I switch on the light.

She stands me at the foot of the bed, unbuttons and unzips my shorts. I’m already hard. I raise my arms as she pulls my T-shirt over my head. I’m conscious of the smell of dried sweat, but she pretends not to notice. I let my arms fall back to my side.

She pulls down my shorts and underwear. I lift my feet one by one as she takes them off. I’m breathing heavily through my nose. My heart is beating fast.

Sam kisses the insides of my thighs, nuzzles my balls, licks the shaft of my cock. This is highly unexpected. Not that I’m keeping count, but Sam hasn’t given me a blowjob this calendar year. Tonight, however, she seems intent on performing the act. I can’t let that happen. If she puts me in her mouth, this party might be over before it’s even started.

Plus, there’s something else I need to do.

I reach down and pull her up from under her arms. I kiss her hard on the mouth, then pull away.

“I have to pee,” I say.

“Hurry,” she says.

Back in the bedroom, Sam is under the covers. She’s turned off the overhead light and switched on the vintage basket-shade lamp on her side of the bed. Her clothes are in a pile on the floor. I’ve missed watching her undress, but I pretend I don’t mind. I pull back the comforter and look at her naked body. She curls herself on the bed and raises her eyebrows mischievously. The lamplight gives her skin a warm glow.

I jump onto the bed and press my body against her. I run my hand up her leg as I bend my head to suck at her nipple. She parts her thighs, and I feel her wetness. I rub my fingers against her in a circular motion. She raises her hips to respond to my touch. I watch myself slide one, then two fingers inside her.

She pulls my face to hers and kisses me with parted lips, her tongue plunging—soft, warm, forceful—into my mouth.

I climb on top, and she guides me inside her. I raise myself up on my arms. Like a mountaineer who has reached a new summit, I concentrate on savoring every aspect of the view. I move slowly at first. Sam looks at me intently. Her small breasts are flat against her ribcage. She’s pushing herself against me, matching my undulating motion.

Then we’re kissing again, this time more urgently. I’m thrusting deeper and harder, trying to pace myself, listening for the change in breathing that signals her approaching orgasm. Suddenly she wraps her legs around me, a move almost calculated to push me over the edge. I stop moving.

“Let’s go slow a minute,” I say.

“God, I was so close.”

Sam unwraps her legs and we lie still a while. I curse myself inwardly. I know from experience that it will be difficult for Sam to build back to her crescendo if she thinks I’m going to come any second.

I close my eyes, start reciting to myself as much of Marc Antony’s speech to the Romans as I can remember. When I start rocking against her, Sam doesn’t respond immediately. I take my time. I want to make this last. Gradually my rhythm grows less tentative. I feel her moving with me again. I kiss her neck, caress the side of her legs, her torso.

Suddenly, it seems, we have regained our connection. We’re moving together in a way that’s intuitive, animalistic, spiritual, electrifying.

I feel powerful, completely in control. I’m waiting for her now. Ready to let myself go as soon as her orgasm erupts through her body. This is the way it should always be, I tell myself.

Sam’s breathing shortens, and I can sense her starting to come. I thrust harder, faster, finally letting myself go, pulsing fiercely inside her. My orgasm lasts longer than usual. I feel my body sag, but I continue moving, slower now, enjoying the afterglow.

I open my eyes and smile down at Sam, who is staring at the wall.