inch of her cubicle wall.
She really bugged me. I wasn’t jealous of her or anything like that; it was her whole I’m-better-than-thou attitude that really got under my skin.
I remember a time when she peered over my cubicle wall and smirked, “Hey, did you get nominated for the Excellent Service and Sales Award last month?”
“No,” I gritted curtly.
“Well I did, and I WON. Again. Tee-hee-hee,” she crowed hysterically.
Give me a friggin’ break. Who the hell cares?
So I basically ignored her most of the time, which mind you, was quite an arduous task since she encroached upon my space and tried to get in my face every chance she got. And now that the bitch is gone, I welcome Truong with open arms.
“How do I pronounce your name?” I ask my new neighbor. “I want to make sure I say it right.”
Truong smiles pleasantly. “It’s like the word trunk, you know, like tree trunk, but with a ‘g’ at the end instead. Or, you can just call me Trunk.”
My gaze shifts down to his scrawny chicken legs. He looks severely underfed. All skin and bones. A bag of bones.
Calling him Twig would be more suitable than Trunk. So I decide to pass on Trunk and try his real name.
“Okay, Truong,” I say, testing the waters. “How’s that?”
“You nailed it.” He beams and begins unpacking.
Humming a happy tune, he sets a ceramic rooster on his desk and steps back to admire it.
“Oh! You collect roosters!” I exclaim delightedly. “I adore the chic French Country theme. Or are you trying to create a Rustic Barnyard look?”
“No, Maddy. This is not a looster,” he tactfully corrects. “This is a cock.”
There is a slight pause as I digest this. It becomes apparent to me that Truong can’t pronounce the letter ‘R’. And a rooster and a cock essentially mean the same thing—they’re both male chickens, so he must prefer the word ‘cock’ for obvious reasons.
“Oh…” I trail off. “Well how cute.” I cast a lopsided grin.
“Um-hmm,” he hums, angling the cock a smidgen to the right.
Since Truong appears absorbed with this task, I reach for my latest issue of US Weekly.
“Maddy?” he purrs, as I’m leafing through the pages.
I jerk my head up. “Yeah?”
His eyes glint with mischief. “Would you like to stroke my cock?”
I’m rendered speechless. And when it finally sinks in, I giggle good-naturedly. “Truong, cut it out!”
Truong is what you’d call a flamer, he’s very much on the frou-frou side. He dons a Hermès scarf to work every day, year round. Always dapper and debonair, he exudes a sort of Parisian air.
So really, it should come as no surprise that Truong collects cocks. And what a collection he has!
My mouth slackens as he whips out rooster after rooster. Soon, his whole desk is cramped with cocks.
Gawping at his colorful collection, I ask, “Truong, weren’t you on Dawson’s team before?”
He nods in affirmation and continues decorating his cubicle with finesse and flair. I watch, slightly entranced. Every cock is meticulously and aesthetically placed for optimal serenity and balance. Very feng shui, if I may add.
“Well, why did they move you here?” I probe, seized by a surge of hope that perhaps they fired that bragasaurus Mina or Nina whatsherface.
“My Not Ready time sucks, so I’m sentenced to time in the Not Ready correctional facility.”
“Ahh, I see.” I smile, feeling a sudden kinship with Truong.
I can already tell we’re going to become chummy friends.
“Well, Truong, welcome to Gulag camp,” I say cheerfully.
He snickers. “Hopefully Hillary doesn’t break me.”
I give a little laugh. “Let’s hope not! What would this center do without the ABC?”
Truong is known in this center as the ABC. And no, he is not American Born Chinese. Truong is 100% Vietnamese.
He’s called the ABC because he’s the first to broadcast any news, gossip, scandal and hearsay. Seriously, Truong is a Perez Hilton in the making.
And today, the latest and juiciest news to hit the wires involves my best friend. I’m completely thrown when Truong gives me the exclusive on Kars and Bob the Married Man.
“It can’t be true,” I cry in a strangled voice.
Karsynn would never stoop to something this low. She dated plenty of losers in college, but they were never married.
“Well, you know what they say.” He flicks his scarf. “Where there’s smoke, there’s fire.”
But I still don’t believe it. Not until I hear it from the horse’s mouth. I need to talk to Kars about this in person—right now, as a matter of fact.
Beep!
I guess the inquisition will have