This is what Merton says when he sees me eating an ice cream cone over the sink in the office break room. “And Jen? he adds, “I’m talking real death.”
Merton is a rope burn of a person, but he’s my boss’s fiancé, so I have to play nice. “No, Merton,” I tell him, “ice cream is perfectly safe.” I take a big, long lick. “See?”
“Lactose intolerent-o” he half-sings, pointing to himself as he opens the fridge door and holds up the Merton milk, really a carton of Lactaid with his name in black magic marker, “Remember?”
As if I could forget. The cabinets in the break room are filled with Merton coffee and Merton granola bars. Everything mail-ordered from Liveforever.com. Merton is scared to death of everything.
I finish my ice cream cone and head back to my cubicle. Merton calls out after me, “and remember – it’s Merton, not Martin!”
“Okay, Milton,” I say under my breath.
Merton is tapping at 40. About the same age as my boss, Patricia. They are what the casual observer would call “a handsome couple.” She, with her Christie Brinkley good looks and Merton, who likes to shop at haberdashers and gentlemen’s furnishings shops — places where they sell smoking jackets and ascots.
Patricia met Merton last summer while antiquing in the Hamptons. She still likes to call him her “fabulous find.” Even right in front of him. All I know is, they both make me feel like a total frump with my outdated “thin clothes” that sat for a year in my closet after I ate myself into a tizzy over Paul McGregor.
*****
Paul McGregor. He was the Sales Manager at my last job. After dating for six months, he calls me into his office and dumps me. Tells me that relationships have a “cyclical nature,” and that ours was in a bit of a downturn. I half expected him to whip out a PowerPoint.
After that I came to work for Patricia. She is such an inspiration. She started this company when she was thirty because, as she put it, “I like to drive.” Her story is on the company brochure. I was sitting in my kitchen after my first divorce, it says, a younger Patricia mixing cake batter, and it hit me – I needed to be a shaker, not a baker. She took her entire divorce settlement and started Patricia Conner, Inc. the very next day.
Everything was perfect, till she hired Merton last October. She sat us all in a circle and handed each of us a china cup filled with steaming cinnamon coffee.
“Everyone, this is Merton. And he is very, very important to me.” she said. I could tell by the way she looked at him, that she meant he was very, very good in bed.
“Merton is going to join us.” She looked over our heads, choosing her words carefully like grapes. “He’s going to head up the Western Division,” My eyes shot over to Crane, balding and rumpled, who, I knew, had no idea he was being replaced.
Patricia scooped in, “now I realize that Mr. Crane is our Western rep, but we can all work together.” She looked Crane dead in the eyes. “Can’t we?”
*****
Merton quickly settled into Crane’s office, and Crane moved into the cubicle next to mine. He crammed the walls with all the things that he had had room for in his office, pictures of his ex-wife and him waving from the top of Cadillac Mountain – look how god damn happy we are! And then picture after picture of his post-divorce girlfriends numbers one and two.
Later that morning, Merton passed by and asked “who likes donuts?” I had fallen for this the first time Merton asked, but Crane, poor baby, was still fresh from the hermetic seal of his office and raised a timid finger, “I do” he said.
“Well, don’t” Merton said, “Potassium sorbate, cellulose gum – don’t you know that stuff will kill you?
After Merton walked away, I said, “Welcome to the neighbourhood.”
“I hate that guy,” Crane said.
*****
Months went by, and winter was freezing in our office. Colder inside than out, but Merton had read somewhere that heat is bad for the human body. Something about potential blood curdle. Patricia called us in for another cinnamon meeting where she explained “that we will be keeping the office thermostat at 50 degrees, so bring a sweater.”
“Can I bring a toboggan?” Crane said, looking dead at Merton.
Patricia stepped between them. “We’re going to try to get along, right?”
“I’m sorry, Patricia,” he said.
“It’s just that it’s been pointed out to me that heat makes the body sluggish, the blood can’t deliver oxygen and –“ she looked at Merton who took over “and in short” he said, “you could potentially die from it.”
A perfect word tango, I thought. I imagined this is how they were in bed – kiss, touch, flick, now you…” For all his faults, Merton did have an undeniable sex appeal. The perfect silk of his necktie. The woodsy cologne. His manliness poked through all his little whimperings about coffee and donuts, and I completely got why Patricia put up with him.
It was the same reason I put up with Paul McGregor. A total car wreck, that one – moody, unreliable, but whenever he gave me his “let’s have sex” smile, I simply could not look away. Whenever I saw Patricia looking longingly at Merton, I felt a little sorry for her. Now that, I would think, that will really kill you.
By spring, April to be exact, Merton had ordered new wallpaper (toxic paste), ripped up the carpet (who knows what was living in there?) and replaced all the overstuffed armchairs with chrome folding chairs. Foam, Merton said, is the devil’s headrest.
*****
I can just imagine how it went down. Merton running straight to Patricia, because right after lunch, Patricia bolts out of her office and looks me straight in the eyes. “Jen,” she says “is everything all right?”
“Of course, Patricia,” I say, “I was just going to call Rutgers again. They have a new rep there, and I want to make friends.”
“That’s nice, dear” I like when she calls me dear. “But I hear you’ve been eating ice cream.”
Patricia looks so completely serious, it almost breaks my heart. “Yes,” I bought a cone downstairs” I say. “Don’t worry; I didn’t leave any in the fridge.”
“It’s your health” she says, “I need my staff in ship-shape.”
“Patricia,” I say, “it was only ice cream.”
“Yes, I know, dear,” Patricia says. But it’s not just the lactose intolerance. All those chemicals. And you really don’t know what kind of bacteria it’s been exposed to.”
“I’m fine, Patricia, really.”
“I just need your cooperation, Jen” she says. “Can I get it?”
I feel Crane’s eyes though the cubicle wall. Right through his wife’s picture.
“Can I?” Patricia asks again.
“I will never bring ice cream in here again.” I say.
“That’s good, “Patricia smiles. “You have to know I mean the best for you.” she says “and it’s true, you really could die from it.”
*****
That night, Crane calls me at home. “We’ve got to do something.” he says.
“Do something? Like sex? I’m not ending up on your cubicle wall, okay?”
“I mean about Merton,” he says. “Besides, you’re not my type.”
“That’s Merton, not Martin.” I say. “And I’m your type if I choose to be.”
“I’m serious” he says in the same tone he would use to tell me he has malaria.
“Okay, what?” I say, though I’m really watching the 6:30 news. Monkeys are going up into space again.
“Patricia has lost her mind over this guy.” Crane says.
One of the monkeys is being “interviewed” in the studio. He is even wearing a suit.
Crane continues “and the Western Division is shot to shit.” he says. “I still have people calling me to clean up Merton’s mess. I swear I could kill him.”
The monkey is sitting across from the newswoman, who is asking questions. What do you think it will be like in space? and What are your plans when you come back to Earth? The monkey leans back and forth, hitting the arm of the chair with his fist. The newswoman leans forward, trying to focus his attention. Her cleavage is aimed right at him; her high-heeled legs are crossed. The monkey stops fidgeting and looks at her. For a moment there is sexual tension between them. The monkey in his handsome suit, the newswoman dangling a shoe off of her foot.
“Are you listening? I hear Crane say.
“Yeah,” I answer. “Kill Merton.”
*****
Not that I haven’t thought about killing Merton myself. I have. Lots of times. Like when he reminded me in front of everyone how fattening everything is, and how I don’t want to balloon up again, now do I?
The only other person I ever thought about killing was Paul. I imagined rigging his computer to explode. I fantasized about buying a gun and going to his apartment at 1 a.m., but I figured I couldn’t really pull that off, so why bother. Instead, I began to eat. Every time I bit into a Twinkie or a slice of pizza, it was Paul I was trying to hurt. And that’s how I turned into a balloon.
And I stayed a balloon until Merton’s comment. It really hurt me, made me want to pick up a carton of Merton milk and bash him over the head, right there, right in the break room. But that wouldn’t kill him, and he’d just end up feeling superior, so instead, I worked really hard, took the weight off so fast, you would have thought I used a sledge hammer.
*****
The next morning, when I pass Crane’s cubicle, I am about to tell him that we’re better off forgetting about Merton, when I see his computer screen is open to a food allergy website. Big peanut shells circled in red with a “no” slash running through them, a carton of milk wagging its white-gloved finger. “This is perfect” Crane says, leaning back in his chair. “Milk is hidden in everything.” he says. “He’ll never know what hit him.”
I look at Crane like I suddenly get it that he’s the villain in the movie. “Don’t you think that’s a little drastic?” I say this carefully, the way you would dismantle a bomb.
“We could give him hives. Something like that.” Crane says.
“People die from hives.” I say, even though I don’t believe it myself. “Or maybe that’s bee stings.”
“Anybody stupid enough to die from a bee sting doesn’t deserve to live.” Crane says.
*****
Maybe I had Crane all wrong, I don’t know. Maybe Merton does have it coming. Still, I keep thinking about telling Merton. I’m thinking about it a lot. I keep thinking about that way Patricia looks at him. I would do it just for her.
But what would I say? “Hey, Merton, look out for any milk-laced scones?” He would think I’m crazy, and Patricia, she wouldn’t believe me. She thinks everyone means well. Has a great inner core. That kind of crap.
That’s when I decide to call Paul McGregor.
*****
The Paradise Diner is jammed with the lunch crowd. Waiters navigate like football players. I know all of their names. Two years of BLT’s and coffee. When I was putting on my twenty pounds, this is where most of it came from. I am queen here.
Paul is already sitting at a corner booth. After two years, he is still handsome. He is touching the pink cloth daisies on the table. They are obviously fake, but he leans in to smell them anyway. It’s the kind of thing I’m glad I didn’t see when we were dating. I realize at that instant what he is, what he always was – a boring and ordinary man.
When I get to the table, he takes a long look.
“You seem different” he says.
“Yeah, you too.”
“No, like something happened.” he continues as I slide in the booth.
“Look,” I say, “After we broke up, I gained and lost twenty pounds. My skin just went back different.”
“Okay, okay, let’s order,” he says as if we’ve been dating all this time and just came from a movie.
The waiter comes over, Henry, 30 and practicing to take his LSAT’s.
“Hi, Henry,” I give him a smile unlike any I’ve ever given him and add a lilt to my voice. Henry is visibly taken aback.
We order coffee and Henry takes the menu. I can see he is still confused.
“So what’s all this about?” Paul says. “I have to get back to work.”
“I wanted to ask you something,” I say, “but first, I’m curious. How come you broke up with me?”
“That was two years ago,” Paul says.
“I’d still like to know.” I see his eyes searching the room. I think of the monkey in the news program, how much Paul suddenly reminds me of him, sitting across from me in his smug little suit.
“What’s the difference?” he says.”
“Yeah, I guess.” I say. “Listen, how would it make you feel if I told you that I had thought about killing you?
“Really?” suddenly he seems interested again.
“What?” I say, “that turns you on?”
“A little,” he says. “A lot.”
Henry comes back. “I brought you some pie.” He sets a peaky meringue square in front of me. One fork. “I thought you’d like it.
“Take it back,” Paul says, putting his hand over mine. These are the head-butting rams you’ve seen on the Discovery Channel. “We don’t eat pie.”
“I eat pie,” I say, pulling my hand away and picking up the lone fork. “That was very sweet of you, Henry.”
Henry glares at Paul and leaves. I ask Paul if he’s mad.
“About the pie?” he says, still looking at Henry. “You kidding?
“No, about me wanting to kill you.” I say. “I need to know if it would have upset you to know that.”
“No,” he says, getting up to leave. “I told you, it kind of turns me on.”
*****
Back at the office, I’m still confused. Crane doesn’t come back till 4 o’clock. When I see him, I rush over to him, “where the hell have you been?”
He steps back, “See this is why you’re not my type.” He is holding a plastic supermarket bag.
“What’s in there? I ask.
“Nothing,” he says, looking around to make sure no one is listening. “Something” he winks.
“Look,” I say “I want my name off of this project.” That’s something I’ve heard Patricia say once or twice and it really sounded sexy.
“Not possible.” he says, pulling out a carton of whole milk. He opens up the fridge and takes out the Merton Milk. “He’ll never know what hit him.”
“I’m begging you,” I say, but I can see that Crane is having too much fun, pouring the whole milk into the other carton.
“That’s just going to give him diarrhea.”
“Yeah,” Crane nods, his eyes fixed on the cartons. “All day.”
*****
The next morning, I am a mess of regret and anxiety. Why did I egg Crane on? Why on earth did I call Paul McGregor? My head is spinning around, my thoughts clunking into each other. This cannot be a good thing.
As I get to work, just before I walk into the building, I stop at the bagel stand and order two with cream cheese. I haven’t done this in at least six months. It’s not that I’m hungry; I’m just trying to stop up my head, fill it with something, anything but worry.
*****
Upstairs, everything looks normal. Patricia and Merton are fussing over a droopy ficus in the reception area. “You don’t talk to it,” she is explaining to Merton. “That’s why we’re losing it.”
“Is Crane in yet? I ask Patricia, who nods. I rush over to his cubicle. When he sees me, he leans back in his swivel chair. He smiles and simply says, “Done.”
“You are so seventh grade.” I tell him.
I sit down and run the scenarios through my head. Tell Patricia. Tell Merton. It’s Patricia. She is the logical choice. I will tell her plainly, simply. “Yes, I knew what Crane was up to, but I didn’t want to interfere.” I will sound like one of those mothers you see on the news. Yeah, I thought Junior was building a bomb, but y’know, I didn’t want to be nosy.
*****
By 11 o’clock, I can’t take it anymore. I don’t know if it’s too late, but I can only hope. I rush down the hall to Patricia’s office and knock. Merton opens the door. “
“You’re okay” I say.
“You’re not so bad yourself,” he winks and whooshes by me out the door.
Patricia is her usual cheerful self. Beautiful in a pink suit, the kind that make me look like an Easter egg. “What’s up, Jen?” she says.
“I have to talk to you,” I say.
“Well, all right,” she says, motioning me to sit down. “I’m listening.”
“Did Merton drink any coffee today? Merton coffee, I mean. Or did he drink any Merton milk?
“I don’t track his every move.” she says.
I decide to come right out with it. “Crane is trying to kill Merton,” I say.
“What?” she says, laughing.
“Well, not kill him exactly,” I explain about the milk switch and how I tried to talk Crane out of it. “Actually,” I admit, “it started out as my idea.”
“Really?” she says, interested now.
“You know how Merton always thinks everything can kill you.” I say. “I thought it would be funny.” Patricia sits there, lacing her fingers and nodding. “Ironic funny, I mean.”
“And how does Crane fit into this?” Patricia asks.
He thought it would be funny to switch the Merton milk with real milk” I say, “just to give him diarrhea.” I hear what an idiot I sound like. I want to point at myself and stare.
Patricia laughs again. “You’re right, Jen. That is funny.”
“So you’re not mad?” I say. “And Merton, Merton’s all right?
“Jen, I have something to tell you,” She says this in the same tone of voice Clark Kent uses to admit he’s Superman. “Merton is not lactose intolerant.” she says. “He’s eaten many things that have milk in them. He just didn’t know it”
“Then why?” I ask.
“He read an article.” she says. “His symptoms matched.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Look, Jen, the thing about men is sometimes you have to let them believe what they want to believe.” she says. “You know what I mean?”
I have no idea what she means. Merton’s not allergic to milk. Or anything else, apparently.
“Thing is, Jen. I love Merton. He’s good to me. We have lots of fun.”
“I guess.”
“You understand, Jen.” she says. “Men can be such—” she begins searching for the right word.
Do not say monkeys. I think. Do not say monkeys.
*****
Two hours later, I am back in my cubicle. I have decided to construct my own list of things that can kill you. I’m not sure why. Maybe I like the idea of being a neurotic. Seems to work for Merton. So far, I have drowning, fire, the usual things. I have at least ten that come very easy before I get stuck. That’s when the phone rings. It is Paul McGregor.
“Can you die from jumping off a building?” I ask him.
“Only if it’s a high building,” he says. “Otherwise you just maim yourself.”
“Thanks,” I say, crossing it off the list.
“See, that’s what I dig about you,” he says. “Who else says hello like that?”
“I’m making a list of all the things you can die from. It’s a research project.” I say. “What have you got?
“There’s always drowning and fire.” he says.
“Got those,” I say. “What about everyday stuff.”
“Jumping off buildings isn’t everyday stuff.”
“True.” I say.
“Why are you so interested in death?” he wants to know.
“My boss, Patricia. She’s hung up on this guy Merton. All he talks about is death. He thinks everything is out to kill him, and Patricia can’t get enough of him. So I was thinking that maybe it’s an attractive quality and I want to know what to watch out for.”
“It’s not attractive,” he says. “I’d lose it.”
“Love.” I say. “Love can kill you, right?”
“If you’re in love with a bottle of strychnine, then yes.” he says.
“That’s how I want to die,” I say, “dead from too much love.”
“You want to go out with me sometime?” he says.
I take a deep breath. “I don’t think it’s a good idea,” I say. “So yes.”
*****
The next day, I meet Paul for lunch at the Paradise. He has brought me a dozen roses and insists that we leave them on the table. He cranes his neck to look for Henry. When a different waiter, George, 50-ish and paunchy, comes over, Paul points to Henry. “We want that guy.”
“Will you stop?” I say. Then to George, “I’ll have a cheeseburger deluxe.”
“Would you like me to put those up front for you?” George says, reaching for the bouquet.
Paul clamps George’s wrist. “We’re fine.”
“Paul, let go.” I look at George helplessly. “I’m sorry.”
George pulls back from Paul and straightens himself. “I’ll get your food.”
When George walks away, I whisper roughly “what the hell?”
“Big fucking deal,” Paul says. He is looking straight at Henry who is picking up plates of tuna melts and steak sandwiches. The whole place is buzzing and humming but Paul can’t take his eyes off every move Henry is making. I get it now. This isn’t a date. This is all about Paul marking his territory. If I were a tree, I’d be peed on by now.
“Can we go?” I say. “You’ve already assaulted one waiter. I don’t need you going for two.”
“You haven’t changed at all.” he says.
“Neither have you.”
Paul slides out of the booth. “Don’t forget these.” He thrusts the roses at me. I half expect a bee to shoot out and sting me. Then I might end up as one of those people Crane said was too stupid to live.
“You know,” I say to Paul,” sometimes there’s hidden stuff inside these bouquets.”
“Yeah, “Paul smirks and rolls his eyes. “You can add that to your list. Killer flowers.”
******
As soon as I leave Paul, I call Patricia from a pay phone and tell her I’m not feeling well and that I need to go home. I ditch the flowers in a wire trashcan. I dip into the subway, and by the time I am through the turnstile, I realize I will never see Paul McGregor again.
The train is crowded; backpacks are sticking into me on both sides. I think about Paul and wonder when he turned into a maniac, grabbing strange waiters by the wrist. Backpack #1 goes deep into my rib. I flinch a little. By tomorrow, this will be a delicious bruise. I probably won’t even remember how I got it. By next week, the bruise will be gone. Getting Paul out of my head will be another story.
*****
When I get home, there are 18 messages on my machine. All of them from Crane.
“You must get a cell phone” he says when I call him back.
He tells me to meet him. Something about big news and not trusting the telephone.
“Anywhere but the Paradise,” I tell him. “Long story.”
*****
We meet at a coffee house on 71st and 3rd. One of those funky places with mismatched couches and yoga flyers on the wall. I order a latte. Crane and I sit on a beige couch that reminds me of my Aunt Lu’s apartment when I was a kid. Soft and springless, with a faint mildew odour.
“You’re not going to believe this.” he says, looking around to make sure no one is listening “but Patricia called me into her office last night after everyone left.”
I know exactly where he is going with this. “Where was Merton?”
“Oh, he was there, too.” he says. “To me, they are just one big person. Patricia and Merton.”
“Patrerton”
“This is serious” he says. “She threatened me. She said I could quit quietly or she would kill my career.”
“Kill?” I say. “She said kill?”
“She swears she can make it so I never work again.” he says. We both know he’s right. Patricia knows everyone. Everyone loves her. “She could really poison me.”
If I’m going to confess, it’s now. I know it. Instead I take a sip of my latte. “That sucks.” I say.
*****
The next morning, the office is colder than usual. I pull out my emergency sweater from my desk drawer. Don’t forget to pick up some whale blubber on the way home, I am thinking when Patricia rings my intercom. She says she needs to see me.
When I get to her office, Patricia is pacing back and forth, tapping a pencil across her fingers. Merton motions me to a chair and sits on the front of Patricia’s desk. “I’ll do it,” Patricia says to Merton. He sighs and walks over to the window.
“You know how much I like you, right Jen?” Patricia says, her voice low, her eyes looking down. Merton walks over to her and taps her on the arm.
“What Patricia is trying to say is that you are fired,” he says.
Patricia walks over to the window now while Merton continues. “Just like your buddy, Crane.” He looks very, very happy. “The two of you have become much too toxic to keep around.”
I wait for Patricia to look at me, to mouth the words, help me! He has a gun!
When she doesn’t, I realize that my beautiful Patricia, the self-sufficient woman I was going to pattern myself after, is dead, and that she started dying the minute she brought Merton into all of our lives.
*****
That night, Crane and I meet at a diner on 53rd and 9th. Cosmo’s Country Grill.
“We ought to make this our place.” I say. “It’s nowhere near that loony bin.”
“I don’t know,” Crane says, “I haven’t tried their cheeseburgers.”
“Ah, cheeseburgers.” I say. Fat AND cholesterol. When the waitress comes, I order two.
“We ought to start our own business.” Crane says. “That way no one could sneak attack us.” As soon as he says this, I know I will never see Crane again after this meal. He trusts me too much. If I tell him about my talk with Patricia, he won’t be able to stand me. If I don’t, I won’t be able to stand myself.
The idea is tempting though. My own business. Me, as my own Patricia. I try to drink in as much of Crane as I can when the waitress sets down our plates. Voluptuous cheeseburgers and oily fries.
“It wouldn’t kill you” he continues, “just to think about it”
I pick up one of my cheeseburgers, the dough, soft as a cloud. I think of my poor arteries and what they are about to go through.
“Maybe not,” I say, as I take a deep, lethal bite.