Coral lowered the phone. "Anton, where's the Center of Theodore?"
"That would be just north of Theodore's navel."
Coral--always the professional--cupped the receiver. "Anton, I'm serious; is there any kind of Theodore in the city with a Center in it?"
Though the writer-in-me was feeling like shit--the thieving bastard hadn't written anything in days--I was, moreover, an old soul, and we old souls weren't the kind to get another in trouble just so the creative child in us could shine. So I bucked up, responded like an adult. "That would be The Theodore Center."
Coral showed me the cupped phone. "This lost lady really needs to get here--for an interview, or something. How does she get here from there?"
It was pretty easy getting here from there. Then again, I--never the professional--really needed to talk to Coral. "It's pretty hard getting here from there. Tell the lost lady to head west, over the mountains, then call back."
Coral kindly relayed my instructions, but it appeared the lost lady hadn't taken to them kindly. "I can relate," Coral said, forcing kindness. "I'm from out of state myself."
Coral, getting an earful, rolled her eyes my way, pointed at the receiver, mouthed the word, "Bitch." This bad-girl side to Coral spirited the cheerleader in me. Of course, I--always the straight male--could do no more than pump my blond eyebrows like pompoms.
"That is a problem," Coral said to the lost lady, "you being up here from LA. See, I'm down here from Alaska. In Alaska they teach us east from west." Coral slammed down the receiver, stuck her tongue out at the phone.
And, oh, what a nice tongue it was.
"I hate this desk," Coral said, glaring at me as if I were part of it.
I'm always learning stuff at the Front Desk. Take today; I learned how a guy can lose a jaw remembering what a nice tongue it was.
"Anton, close your mouth. You look like an idiot."
I closed my mouth, bit my tongue for good measure. No, a guy can only compound his idiocy by asking a girl to stick out her tongue a second time.
"What?" Coral said. "Never seen a good girl go bad before?"
"It's not that," I said, talking through my teeth. "It's just that I've taken a recent turn for the bad myself."
Coral didn't say anything.
Boldly displaying an index finger, I stepped behind the Front Desk. "Excuse me, Coral; there's a button of yours I'm going to push."
Coral swiveled away in her chair. "Button?"
I advanced my index. "Marge taught me this. There, now all calls will go to E-mail."
Giggling, Coral gave a look that said, 'Who knew bad could feel so good?'
Giggling, I gave a look that said, 'I'm about to say something I'll regret.' No, that's what bad boys do; they let fly the tongue good boys bite. "Really, Coral, I like you better now--laying into that LA bitch and all."
"Ya," Coral said, giggling some more, "I learned that in a feminist workshop my mom dragged me to. We were supposed to learn how to stand up to men. What I learned was how to fight bitch with bitch." Coral checked her giggle. "Anton, I was a total bitch over the phone. You're totally sick if you like me better now."
"Hey, you were a total bitch that first day in the orchard. Remember? You called me sick that day too."
"You had it coming."
"Ya, well, maybe I was nervous that day. It's not easy to know what a girl wants to hear. Hell, most girls would have laughed their asses off over that bug stuff I laid on you. But, no, not heavy Coral Score."
Coral didn't say anything.
"Bad is one thing, Coral, but no guy likes a girl who's mean."
Coral was gazing off as if she hadn't heard a word I'd said. "You know, Anton, you should steal me."
"What?"
"Steal me--at the Front Desk. You know, for a short story."
It was times like these we old souls wished we were less evolved. Why? Because a lesser male would have taken her first two words--steal me--and run with them. But, no, I was an old soul, and a story teller to boot, so I took to listening to her story. It went like this: Once upon a time there was this miserable girl who had been totally nice her whole life. Then she got a job that required her to be nice. Which turned her into a total bitch, of course. And, of course, she lived happily ever after.
Like all stories with happy endings, Coral's story left me blue. Besides, the two-word short story, "Steal me," was, by far, the superior work of literature.
A good way to cure the blues is with some pink. The only pink I could think of was Coral's tongue. Yes, old soul or no, I was this close to asking her to stick it out again.
My cue to leave.
Passing my box, however, I remembered why I had come to the Front Desk. I stopped, put my hand in my box. "Say, Coral, today isn't your birthday, is it?"
"No, it's this Sunday. And my friend is coming to town so I won't be working the Desk Sunday."
I left campus to get my sidekick. Now that Bob had dumped Joni, he was back to needing groceries. Banging away on my glove box door, Bob said, "Why so blue, little buddy?"
"Not blue," I said. Though I thought it totally unfair Coral wasn't working The Desk on her birthday.
"Well, green up," Bob said, "this is the day Grasshopper gets his lesson on how to pick up a chick."
My eyes got big. Yes, about time I got some bang out of my sidekick buck.
Bob, the master womanizer, started class by stating the obvious: "You and I have an advantage over our fellow males because we are writers." He then asked questions only Master could answer. "How does a grasshopper get a chick in the hay? With lies and lines. Who are the masters of lies and lines? Writers."
After his roll in the hay with Joni, Bob had gotten it in his pig head he was up for a change in type--open to chasing natural beauties. So, today, I was trucking him to a different cut of grocery store: Wholesome Food on Division.
Standing across the street from Wholesomes, waiting to jaywalk, I took note of the dark cloud over Wholesomes. Yes, just the doom a writer needed to foment a scene. "See that dark cloud, Bob? Bad omen. What's it clearly telling you? Not to go inside. Are you going to pay it any mind? Not on your life. Why? Because no soldier can call himself brave unless he marches into the valley of death."
"Valley of death?"
"See those glass doors, Bob? No girlie-girls behind 'em. What's dug in behind those doors, Bob? Strong women, Bob. Women who fear no men; fear no going-out-in-public-as-God-made-them."
"Don't get me wrong," Bob said, "I fear what God made as much as the next guy. But now that I see there's an upside to strong women, I look death in the eye and spit."
Bob spit towards Wholesomes, but his spit hit a passing car. Eyeing his spit heading west on Division Bob took note of a patch of blue in the sky.
Once, when driving Bob, I forgot who I had riding shotgun. After pointing out a patch of blue and calling it as I saw it--a good omen--Bob nearly soiled his shotgun laughing at my superstitious ways. Of course, now, whenever Bob saw a patch of blue, he had to mock what I had said that day in all seriousness.
"Good omen," Bob mocked, "about time things went my way." Laughing, Bob turned his back on his patch of blue, then gestured to a break in traffic. "Hop to, Grasshopper; time for class."
Following Bob across Division, I got my laugh in. No, if my soldier sidekick had had a brain in his head, he would have gone the way of blue.
Entering the glass doors reflecting the dark cloud overhead, I asked Bob what he meant by 'upside to strong women.'
"Truth is, Anton, deep down, I always feel a little guilty after dumping a girl--thinking of her sitting at home crying. But with strong women, well, I can't imagine a lumberjack crying. So, see, I can go ahead and lie my way into her pants and not feel bad for having taken advantage of her."
****
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