After His Banana Page 2

  “You also have dementia.”

  “Bullshit. My mind is a steel trap, just like it has always been.” She paused, got a far-off look in her eyes, then slammed her fist on the counter. “What were we talking about?”

  I rolled my eyes. “Hilarious. If you weren’t on your last legs, I’d say you should take up a career as a comedian.”

  “Everybody is on their last legs, dumbass. Unless you know of a place to get replacements.”

  I shook my head. Sometimes it was best to just pretend Grammy hadn’t spoken, or she’d drag the conversation into a spiral of nonsense. “I’m a grown-ass adult. I’ve got my own life and my own career. I don’t need shit from my father, but that doesn’t make him any less of a prick for not offering it.”

  “You don’t seek his approval, but you’d like to have it.”

  I grinned. “Asshole.”

  “Look, don’t lose sleep over it. Or do. I really could care less. But if your dumbass Uncle William is worthy of a position at Galleon, then the turd I laid last night is worthy, too.”

  I set down the muffin I was about to take a bite of. “Believe it or not, I could’ve lived a long, happy life without picturing what you do behind closed doors.”

  “If you wait until the door is closed to fuck, you’d miss out on all the best sex. Besides, you couldn’t even imagine what I’ve done, or who.” She punctuated the last horrifying line with a mysterious twitch of her eyebrows.

  I winced. “I bet I can imagine. You probably gave a blowjob to King Tut. Or let Abraham Lincoln in your back door.”

  Grammy made a disgusted face. “Not likely. King Tut was very young when he died. I think that was illegal, even back then. And Lincoln? If you even realized how hot I was when I was your age, you’d know how laughable that idea is.”

  “Seriously, how old are you?”

  “Not so old that I couldn’t still kick your ass if you keep asking.”

  I would’ve laughed, but Grammy had thrown enough things at me with surprising force that I wasn’t sure she couldn’t Mr. Miyagi me into submission if she wanted.

  “Alright, well, food time is over. I’ve got to get to class.”

  “Business classes,” Grammy said with a touch of accusation.

  I picked up one of my books and shoved it in my backpack. “Yeah. And?”

  “It’s just kind of sad. You could be like your uncle, but you try so hard to be like your dad. You think going the extra mile is going to make your dad notice you. It’s just a little pathetic, is all.”

  I decided not to acknowledge her accusation. “You hate Uncle William.”

  “I love to hate him,” Grammy said. “There’s a difference. He’s like the puppy who keeps shitting on the carpet. Yes, you have to clean up his messes all the time, but you still like having him around.”

  “So you’re saying if I wanted, I could shit on the carpet, too?”

  “I’m just saying your dad and your uncle are like oil and water. You’ve always been more like your uncle than Bruce. Your uncle doesn’t give two craps if Bruce approves of him, and unless you learn to feel the same way, you’ll drive yourself crazy.”

  “I don’t try to be like dad, either. If I really wanted that, I’d just shove a broomstick up my ass and change my diet to only include bananas.”

  Grammy gave me a look, then pointed at the banana muffins.

  “Coincidence,” I said with a groan. “I’m going to class.”

  “Liar. You’re probably going hunting for some ass.”

  I grinned. “I’m a single man again. Maybe I should.”

  “You’ve never been in a relationship longer than the line at a Smashmouth concert in 2020.”

  Squinting, I stopped at the door to look at her. “I’m not even sure what that’s supposed to mean.”

  “It means you saying you’re single is about as surprising as finding a man over sixty who can keep it hard without a little medical intervention.”

  I closed my eyes, which was a mistake because it only flooded my brain with images of Grammy’s sexual misadventures. “People who want to lose weight should just strike up a friendship with you. I think I just lost my appetite until next week.”

  “Have fun. And get some ass!” Grammy added cheerily.

  * * *

  By the time I got to the office, I felt dead. My boss had given me permission to come in later so I could fit my classes in, but it made for long days. I slung my bag off my shoulder and set it on my desk when I arrived.

  I worked at an advertising agency. Basically, we did the same sort of thing my dad’s company did, but on a smaller scale. We represented all sorts of clients, from individuals to million-dollar corporations. They paid us a fee, and we managed their advertising. Simple as that.

  My boss, Kale—yes, that was seriously his name—stuck his head out of the conference room and beckoned me over. “Miles. We need that brain of yours.”

  I glanced at the pile of unread emails I had, but headed to the conference room, anyway.

  Kale and his right-hand man, Paul, were sitting at the huge conference table by themselves.

  “What is it?” I asked.

  Kale showed me his laptop screen and spent the next few minutes explaining the problem. Then they showed me the ad for a laminating company that wanted us to emphasize how durable their work was.

  Hilariously, Kale and Paul had decided it was a good idea to create a hundred-thousand-dollar campaign that featured a smiling woman in business attire explaining how he can even “take a sheet” in the pool if he wants.

  I covered my mouth, trying not to smile as I read some of the responses on Twitter. It was already generating a flurry of memes, some of which were actually pretty funny. Generally, though, people were making fun of the company and assuming the humor hadn’t been intentional.

  I straightened, then took a deep breath. “Okay. Here’s what I think we should do. If you try to cover up the mistake and apologize or ignore it, we’ll look out of touch. The best thing to do is embrace it and make it part of the company’s brand. Make it funny, and people will relate. We could launch some new campaigns to show the phrasing was intentional. Like… I love this sheet! Sheet, you mean there’s free deliveries, too? I sheet you not, you can get your copies laminated for half the price.”

  Paul and Kale exchanged excited looks, then turned their focus back on me.

  “You really think this could work?” Paul asked.

  I shrugged. “You could always promote me to a position where I’d be responsible for this sort of thing. If my name was officially on the idea, you’d be welcome to blame me if it failed.” I’d chosen my words as carefully as I could. The truth was that these two assholes had been freeloading on my ideas for years. The routine was that they’d pull me in here, get me to fix their problems, then present it to their bosses like they’d come up with everything. I knew they probably never planned to promote me because I’d start getting all the credit.

  I also knew it would be useless to start a war over it. The system was rigged. If I raised hell and got fired, I’d get blacklisted by the Good Old Boy system almost all the top advertising agencies in the cities operated by. Either I found a way to make it to the top here, or I’d be out of the business entirely. At least, barring the unlikely possibility that my old man would offer me a position at his company.

  Kale flashed a greasy smile. “Let’s table that idea for now. This is risky, and if we put this all on your shoulders, I’d worry what would happen if the idea backfired. But absolutely. It’s on our radar now, right?”

  Paul nodded. “Absolutely. Good shit, Miles.”

  I left the conference room. I’d swallowed moments like this nearly every week since I started working here. Still, it felt like acid going down. I slumped into my chair and started going through my emails. Not for the first time, I wondered why I even fucking bothered. One of the first was from a co-worker, Amy. She asked if I could meet her privately in the break room. She had onl
y sent the email half an hour ago, so I shot off a quick reply, saying I could.

  Amy walked into the break room and glanced behind her like she was worried she was being watched.

  I felt a little pang of fear that she was going to come onto me. Amy was young and pretty, but not my type. She’d been our secretary for about four months. The last thing I needed was another round of rumors that I was fucking someone who worked in the building, let alone someone from our floor. But I noticed her makeup was smeared like she’d been crying. I frowned. “What’s going on?”

  “I didn’t know who else to talk to. I’m sorry for dragging you into this.”

  I briefly considered keeping my nose out of it, but inwardly groaned. I had a feeling I knew that look in her eyes, and if it was what I thought, I couldn’t let it go. “Drag me in, and don’t be sorry.”

  She hesitated, folding her arms in front of herself. Suddenly, she shook her head and started to back toward the door. “No. I’m sorry. This was a mistake and I’m being a baby about it. Forget I s—”

  “Hey, hey.” I stepped forward, putting my hand on her shoulder, then thinking better of it and pulling it back. “Just talk to me.”

  I listened for five minutes while she described every slimy, disgusting thing Kale had said and done to her since she started working here. Groping her in passing, inappropriate pictures he’d texted her, and even trying to convince her to meet him for a dinner date last week. It all apparently culminated in an encounter in his office this morning, where he’d suggested she knew exactly what had to happen if she wanted a promotion.

  As she talked, I felt the certainty over what I was going to do solidifying. I kept my voice calm. “Can you email everything you just told me to HR? Include anything he actually sent you, too.”

  She nodded. “Okay. But what if he—”

  “Trust me. Based on what you said, he’s fucked. I know the guys at HR, and they’re not in his circle of ass kissers.” I felt a wicked grin tug at my lips. “Getting fired sounds like he’d be getting off easy, though, right?”

  Amy’s eyes were still red and puffy, but she smiled a little and nodded. “Yeah? What else could I do, though?”

  “Follow me if you want to watch.”

  Amy followed me out of the break room and toward the conference room. I opened the door and motioned for her to come inside.

  Kale stood, looking at Paul for a second and then at Amy and me. “Everything good, Miles?”

  I thought about every shitty thing he’d done, and not just to me. I was willing to bet there’d been more Amy’s in the past, just like there’d be more in the future if I let this slide. Maybe I wasn’t going to make it in the advertising world, but if all I ever did was knock this fucker down a peg, I wasn’t sure it would all be a waste.

  I walked toward him and stopped just outside arm’s reach. “I don’t believe in sucker punches, so this is me telling you I’m about to punch you in the face.”

  “Wh—”

  I slammed my fist across his jaw, snapping his head to the side.

  It felt good. It felt even better when he squirmed on the ground and made a pathetic little whimpering sound. “What the fuck?” he cupped his jaw.

  “Wait,” Paul said. “We can work this out. Think about it, Kale. We can figure something out, right?”

  I could’ve laughed if I wasn’t so pissed. They were probably willing to keep me around so they could continue to leech my ideas, even after I’d knocked Kale on his ass. “Don’t bother. I quit. And no, I’m not sheeting you.”

  Amy mouthed “thank you,” as I walked out and grabbed my things.

  Well, I thought. I hadn’t planned to quit my job when I woke up today, and I definitely hadn’t intended to do it like that.

  I ran a hand across my stubble once I got outside, wondering if I’d just fucked up my life, or if I’d just unfucked it. I guess time would tell.

  3

  Rey

  I took a clay sculpture class with one of my few remaining elective credits. It was one of my favorite parts of the day, but I stopped when I walked in the classroom, noticing the desks were all arranged in a semi-circle. Slowly, I found myself a spot and set my things down. There were only a few students in the class, but my professor was at the board, writing something.

  “What’s going on?” I asked.

  My professor was in his forties with a wild explosion of brown, curly hair. He turned, giving me a sly look. “Nude model. Male.”

  I cleared my throat. “What?”

  The only response he gave was an ominous wiggle of his eyebrows before he turned around to continue writing.

  Now, I was no blushing virgin. Luna was right. I did have a lot of trouble introducing myself to new people, and I could be painfully awkward at times. But it wasn’t like I had a disease. Yes, I’d dated guys before. Yes, I’d seen dozens of penises. Granted, some of those had been unsolicited dick pics. Okay, most of them.

  And one had been so small that I’d accused the sender of trying to give me child pornography, which had resulted in the most epic backtracking I’d ever seen from a guy.

  Usually, I just snapped a shot of my big toe—the one that didn’t have a toenail anymore—and sent it back with the caption: “You showed me yours. Here’s mine.” I was also much better at seeming carefree and socially competent when I had time to draft and re-draft my text messages, which helped.

  So far, I had a one hundred percent success rate of stopping cock snappers in their tracks.

  A nude model was going to be an entirely new version of unsolicited penis in my life, though.

  I spent the last remaining minutes before class started trying to get inside the psyche of a nude male model. What kind of deranged, screwed-up person would sign up for something like that? Either an absolute narcissist or someone with zero self-awareness, I decided.

  I felt the overwhelming need to pee and decided to get up, despite the risk of missing the unsheathing of the penis that was probably going to happen any minute. I’d have all class to stare at the thing, so somehow, I figured I’d survive.

  I stepped into the women’s restroom and saw a tall guy with his back to me. He was wearing a slim fitting suit, which looked oddly out of place on campus.

  “Uh,” I stammered. “This is the girl’s room.”

  The guy turned. Apparently, he’d been fiddling with his belt, which he tugged a little tighter and shimmied into place. “Yeah? And?”

  I swallowed as I took in the full picture of him. I guessed he was in his late twenties or early thirties, and he was the kind of gorgeous that was only supposed to exist after a session of photo editing. It was the kind of attractive that made people stop what they were doing and stare. To wonder what that guy did because someone who looked like that had to do something of note.

  Wild, dark blond hair shot up, back, and away from his forehead and then spread in no particular direction. The hair at the sides of his head was equally untamed. Despite the blond up top, his eyebrows were black and thick in a way I found oddly appealing.

  And from the neck down, he was broad, and just the right touch of muscular—with a lean body I was almost certain would be covered in clearly defined bulges of muscles in all the perfect places. I dragged my eyes away from their greedy exploration and tried to focus them back on his face.

  He reached up and adjusted his tie. “I’m Miles.”

  “Miles, you’re in the women’s restroom.” The words slipped out of me before I could stop them. I’d added a flirtatious note to my tone, hadn’t I? I knew several things, most important of which was that this guy might as well be a different species for all the chance I had of him being interested. Flirting was just going to be a sure path to embarrassing myself.

  Miles jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “The men’s room had a developing situation going on. But damn, common wisdom says you girls are cleaner than us. That’s apparently bullshit. You seen in there? It looks like someone got stabbed and pissed the
mselves, all while hovering a few inches over the toilet seat. Absolutely brutal.”

  I had about twelve questions bouncing around in my head, but I stuck with the most obvious. “Why not just go to another floor and use the men’s room there?”

  I couldn’t help playing psychologist as I watched him try to think up an appropriate response. I knew one thing. Someone who looked that good was bound to be screwed up in the head. He probably walked through life like he was floating on a cloud. I imagined girls spontaneously stripped off their underwear and threw them in his face the moment he showed up at a party. I imagined he also managed to skate his way out of trouble with a charming smile and the perfect line more than a few times.

  And I bet he loved every second of it.

  Asshole.

  Another thought bubbled to the surface. He probably was royally screwed up. In other words, he probably would be a knockout subject for my psychology paper on abnormal behavior.

  Miles tapped his chin. “Why am I here? In a philosophical sense, or a literal one? On the one hand, it all started with my father’s testicles, I guess. Then it led to my mom’s—”

  I held up my palm, wincing. “Less literal.”

  “I suppose we’re all here for a reason.” He titled his head, then narrowed his eyes—eyes that I noticed had distractingly long and thick eyelashes. “Maybe we’re all just waiting until the right one comes walking into our bathroom on a Tuesday. Maybe some of us walked into a particularly smelly men’s bathroom, really had to piss, and also left their class because they were bored out of their minds.”

  There was a teasing edge to his voice. Almost like what he said didn’t matter so much what his eyes said. If I didn’t know better, I would’ve said he was flirting.

  Flirting.

  With me.

  Alarm bells went off in my head. This was just like the simulations. All the dreams of hot guys shouldering their way into my life and sweeping me off my feet. Granted, those dreams had never taken place in a bathroom. Still, I needed to play it cool and try not to ruin this. I needed to act like I wasn’t desperate, for starters. “We’re in the girl’s restroom… I didn’t walk into your bathroom, you walked into mine.”