Pulpy and Midge. Jessica Westhead

something musical, because you used to like music so much.’

      ‘That was then,’ he said.

      ‘Oh, hush. I want to see more of that side of you. Your creative side.’

      ‘I don’t have a creative side.’

      She giggled. ‘Tell that to the bedsheets!’

      ‘Midge!’ But he smiled.

      ‘Then I got thinking about those keyboards that already have music programmed in. They’re very smart, the keyboards today. They’re very intuitive machines. We could play backup to a song!’

      ‘Keyboards cost a lot of money, Midge.’

      ‘Not when they’re on sale! I’ve been scanning the flyers and I found one that’s very reasonably priced. I picked it up because they said supplies were limited. Listen!’

      Pulpy pressed the hard circle of the receiver against his ear and heard Plink! Plink! Plink!

      ‘Hold on,’ she said. ‘It gets better.’

      When he got back to the office, the receptionist said to him, ‘You notice anything missing from my desk?’

      ‘Um …’ Pulpy looked at her mug, her eraser dish, her magnetized paperclip holder, her tape dispenser, her pen-and-pencil cage, her hole punch and her stapler.

      ‘Water,’ she said.

      He glanced from side to side. ‘You don’t have any.’

      ‘That’s right. Receptionists can’t drink water because do you know why? Because we can’t leave our desks, that’s why!’ She leaned forward. ‘The flyer for my performance-improvement seminar says, “A little hydration goes the distance.” Think about that when you think about all of us dehydrated receptionists.’

      ‘All right,’ he said.

      ‘Tea doesn’t count, though,’ she said, and took a loud slurp from her mug, which showed a cartoon duck dressed like a secretary. It had drops of sweat flying from its head and was wearing glasses that were comically askew. In its wings the duck held a pencil, a phone off the hook and several loose documents in disarray. The caption underneath read ‘Not another crisis … my schedule’s full!!!’ She wielded the mug at him. ‘I can relate. When it comes down to it, it’s just me and the duck,’ she said, ‘against the office. How was your lunch?’

      ‘It was nice, thanks.’

      ‘Well, mine wasn’t. I was sitting reading my book at the kitchen table, and then Cheryl from Active Recovery comes over and says, “Do you mind if I sit here? Don’t let me interrupt you.” And she sat down.’

      ‘Cheryl’s nice.’

      ‘Nice. She put me on the spot. “Don’t let me interrupt you,” she says. What does she think I’m going to do, sit there and read while she eats her lunch? I hate that there’s two chairs. If there was only one chair there would be no problem.’

      ‘It’s a big table.’

      ‘Not big enough,’ she said.

      ‘So that ought to do it,’ said the man from Building Maintenance that afternoon. He stood up and put his hands on his thick hips.

      Pulpy sat in his chair and pulled himself toward his desk. He slid out the newly adjusted keyboard tray. ‘It’s still doing it,’ he said. ‘The bottom of the tray. I can still feel it on my legs.’

      ‘Huh.’ The man pulled the front of his shirt away from the roll on top of his jeans.

      ‘That’s why I called Building Maintenance. That’s why I placed the call.’

      ‘Relax, fellow, relax. Let’s see what we’re dealing with here.’ The man got on his knees again and crawled under the desk to examine the tray-docking device. ‘Oh yeah, I see it. Now I see it.’

      ‘They let you wear jeans?’ said Pulpy.

      ‘Uh huh. At the start we had to wear suit pants, but then I said to Al – I was the one who said it – “I’m not getting down under desks and wearing suit pants because do you know what it’s like under there? It’s dusty as hell down there. Unless,” I said, “you want to buy the suit pants for me.” That shut him up like a clam. So now we wear jeans.’

      The man’s rear end wiggled as he worked. Pulpy looked away.

      ‘That ought to do it.’ The man stood up again. ‘Give her a go.’

      Pulpy got back into his chair, and something on the man beeped. Pulpy jumped a little.

      The man from Building Maintenance glanced down at his pager, then back at Pulpy. ‘That’s me. Mind if I use your phone?’

      ‘Go ahead.’ Pulpy pulled out the keyboard tray and the man picked up his phone. Pulpy frowned. The tray was lower now.

      ‘Yeah?’ said the man into the receiver. ‘It’s Davis here.’

      He pushed his knees up and the tray rattled and clicked. He put his knees down and felt the edges of the tray pressing hard against his thighs.

      ‘It’s Davis, I said. Yeah.’

      ‘Um,’ said Pulpy.

      ‘So what’s the call? Who’s calling?’

      Pulpy tried to get his hands in between his legs and the keyboard but there wasn’t enough room.

      ‘Over there? What’s their problem? Do you even know who you paged? You paged me, and I’m Davis.’

      ‘You did it the wrong way,’ said Pulpy.

      Davis didn’t acknowledge this. ‘Okay,’ he said into the phone, ‘so you do have the right guy, because that’s me. There’s also Richards, but he’s off today. I’m the one who’s on, and I’m Davis.’

      Pulpy sighed and sat there with the tray on his legs.

      ‘Yeah. Yeah. I’m on my way.’ Davis put the phone down. ‘So you’re all set here, then?’

      ‘Well, actually –’

      ‘Do you know what they said on the other end there? They didn’t even know –’ Davis shook his head. ‘People are ignorant. They don’t even know who they’re calling when they call. I had to tell them, can you beat that?’ He hitched up his jeans and headed for the door.

      ‘So –’ said Pulpy.

      ‘It was good meeting you, fellow,’ said Davis. ‘You need that tray looked at again, you just give me a buzz. You know where I live.’ And he winked.

      ‘I guess I do, yes.’

      Davis gave Pulpy a quick salute, and then he was gone.

      Pulpy looked at the empty space where the man from Building Maintenance had been standing, and he pushed the tray back in again.

      Pulpy went to the Coffee Island on his break.

      ‘Hi,’ he said to the girl behind the counter. ‘Roco-Coco, please, and a dozen doughnuts.’

      ‘Sorry, we’re all out of the R-C.’ She shoved aside the leaves of the inflatable palm tree by the cash register. ‘That’s always the first kind to go. Every morning. I told my boss, “Buy more Roco-Coco. They all like that kind.” But he keeps on buying the same stock every month. He doesn’t listen to me.’

      ‘But you’re the one dealing with the public,’ said Pulpy. ‘You’re the front-line staff.’

      ‘Exactly! You know what I’m talking about.’ She shook her head and her ponytail flew. ‘I can do you a Bongo Berry, how does that sound?’

      ‘Sounds good.’ He watched her manoeuvre around the palm tree to pour his coffee and pack his doughnuts.