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Benefits Included?

Published September 10, 2010

In case you missed it, here’s my recently published silliness. Hope it entertains you (or at least the rockin’ Lynyrd Skynyrd video does) while I get my rear in gear and write this soon-to-be-due newspaper article on surviving the local economy… 

Also, Happy Birthday to my dad and brother.

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Benefits Included?

            Sleeping with your boss the first day on the job is generally not encouraged in my neck of the world. And doing it before the lunch hour has chimed is, quite frankly, considered scandalous. Which would explain why, at 1:26 pm, when Harold Pulmick, owner of Harold Pulmick Drafting, returned from lunch, I was still blushing hotter than a flaming terracotta oven in the Mojave Desert.

            I’m not one for scandal; I never have been. I only took the secretarial post because, for a middle-aged housewife who hadn’t worked professionally in eleven-plus years, it appeared a blossom of respite from the daily tedium of talk-shows and dirty laundry. A little typing, answer the phone, input figures into an accounting program, and every so often, send an email. However, let’s be clear about one thing right up front. The suggestion of an occasional mid-morning romp was nowhere on the employment description. Had it been, I most certainly would have declined due to my firm view that such things should only be done with one’s spouse in the dark, after the dog is put out and the kids to bed.

            “Maryanne,” Harold murmured, depositing a sandwich and the mail beside me, “were you able to print off those business cards?”

            I took a sip of coffee and avoided the urge to look up. “They’re on your desk.”

            He leaned over my cup. I heard his inhale.

            “Mm, that smells good. Make me some?” The sudden brush of his fingers against mine caused me to slosh drops of the mug’s black liquid onto my new floral dress. Ugh. How tacky can I be?

            I pulled my hand away and coughed, my throat squishing all wet and tight. “Um, sure . . . in a minute,” I sputtered.

            It was a full seven minutes before I took his drink in to him. He smiled, thanked me, and then winked. I reddened and found myself giggling at his remark about my ability to make the tepid coffee steam.

            Furnishing an excuse, I hustled back to the front room, cringing at my indulgence of him. Such behavior was clearly inappropriate; it didn’t help that I was flattered beyond rational sense. I plopped down at the computer and stared at the frog hopping across the screensaver. The main problem, I thought, as I unwrapped my limp sandwich, came down to an issue of respect. Me, for myself. He, for my professional abilities. The work place, being one of legitimate business. I chewed my food and worked over the best way to address the improprieties taking place between us and the obvious conclusion that they must not happen again. Not unless I intended on ending up as some bubble-gum-smacking office bimbo.

            The phone rang–Fran, my best friend, calling to check on my first day.

            “Good,” I assured her. “Quiet though . . . real quiet. . . . What? Uh, no. Nothing much. . . . Later this week? Saturday? I’ll have to run it by him, but I’m sure it’s fine. . . . All right, Fran. Thanks for calling. Bye.”

            I hung up. And blushed again. What would Fran think if she knew? Even worse . . . what would my reading club say?

            Two hours and four cups of coffee later, I’d nearly worked myself into a full-fledged feminist. My resolve was settled. I punched the computer’s off button and walked down the hall to knock on Harold’s door.

            “Come in.”

            There he sat, relaxed. Smiling. Just ignore the smile. “Ahem. Harold. I . . . I want you to know how seriously I take this job. Therefore, from here on out, all, er, romantic exercises will have to be relegated to after 5:30 p.m. on business days. Is that clear?”

            He frowned. “What? Why?” He waved a hand in the air like he hadn’t a clue what the big deal was.

            “Look,” I said, firming my tone. “I agreed to be your secretary, not to give out fringe benefits. Understood?”

            Harold rolled his eyes.                             

            I glared.

            “All right, all right, Maryanne. No need to get huffy about it. But, uh, what if I gave you a raise?”

            “Harold!”

            “Fine, fine. It’s just that . . . well, sheesh, honey. You’d think after twenty-two years of marriage I’d earn the right to make love to my wife anytime the mood struck. Even during working hours.”

            “Yes? Well, think again,” I huffed. “Now wash up. Tuna casserole will be ready in half-an-hour.”

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What’s the mood noise of the moment?  Lynyrd Skynyrd:  Sweet Home Alabama

Tags: day job writing, short story, SLO Nightwriters, tolosa press short story