Year 28 - J.L. Mac Page 0,7
and if there is any truth to it, I want the details… like yesterday. “And many more,” they chorus, then break into applause.
“Thank you all very much,” I give a saccharine grin and blow out the cartoonish candles—gaudy fluorescent pink numbers, two and eight. They snuff out and within an instant they fizzle back to life. I laugh tightly, glance around at my grinning team. They collectively cackle and whoop at the prank candles. I scowl at the wax dribbling down and with a stiff smile puff them out yet again. They spring back to life and I grumble, snatching the offending numbers from the top of the cake. I promptly plunk them down into the glass of sparkling water on my desk. Everyone laughs at the gesture, amused by the afternoon theatre taking place in my office. They chatter, and smile, and nod, and begin passing plates amongst themselves while pouring coffee into paper cups from an insulated carafe. Fabulous. My office is now a staff lounge.
“Please, allow me,” I chirp, snagging the serving spatula that doubles as a knife with a sharpened edge on one side. I slice like a fanatic and plop large portions of chocolate cake on everyone’s paper plate, eager to boot them all from my office so I can dive back into work and pretend I don’t have a flight to catch in three hours.
“I know it’s not your birthday today, but I figured since you’ll be gone for it…” Bethany smiles and shrugs sheepishly. She’s clueless, but sweet, really. In another life—perhaps the one I had pictured for myself as a teenager, I would be the type of woman that accepts her offer of friendship. It’s a pity I’m the me I am, and that she works for a bitch like myself. In another life, under different circumstances, I think she and I could have been great friends. She’s one of those perpetually bubbly, outgoing types. She’s pleasant to be around, even with her tendency to sing like a bird when questioned about nearly any topic.
“Thank you Bethany,” I say conjuring as much sincerity as I can manage. “I appreciate it.” She bobs her head, grinning while I fight the urge to click my ring fingernail back and forth against my thumbnail.
As it turned out, flying first class was a luxury lost on me and my wallet considering no amount of VIP boarding, supple leather seating, and complimentary beverages could have made me relax during my flight from DC to good old Louisiana.
More booze may help, Practicality chimes in as I stand in front of the counter at the car rental desk. Bethany said she rented a midsize sedan on my behalf, but according to the attendant they only have a green hatchback four-cylinder economy car that I fear runs on dashed hopes and dreams booked under my name.
Great. I’ll be rolling around Palmetto Grove in something that resembles a pregnant roller skate in the shade ‘Sinus Infection’.
“It’s a stick shift,” the attendant lifts one over plucked brow in warning. I note her flimsy plastic badge hanging from a lanyard around her neck, displaying her name.
“Of course it is, Patty,” I reply dryly with a stiff smile.
“That gonna be okay, hon?” she asks, surveying me as though she can physically see whether I know how to drive a car with a manual transmission. I haven’t driven a stick shift since I was a teen hopelessly in love and cruising all over town in a cherry red mustang which was the other love of my life back then, second only to him. It’s been a while, but that’s the thing about stuff like this. It’s muscle memory, and picking up where you left off is just a matter of jumping in and doing it.
“I’ll manage,” I declare. “Any other surprises?” I ask with a return lift of my brow. The attendant chuckles, her belly jolting repeatedly as a result.
“Nope. That’s all.” She slaps down folded paperwork and keys in front of me. “Now, if ya want, I could call our other location and see what they have on hand,” she offers.
“Not necessary, but thank you,” I say, plastering on my most diplomatic smile. “This will do fine.”
“Palmetto Grove is what—an hour and some change away? Good thing this sucker gets thirty miles to the gallon,” she says with a nod, clearly not considering the fact that a woman wearing a Givenchy shift dress with coordinating Jimmy Choo heels would not necessarily be the type