Failing Upward

Chapter 1 (part 2): Tabula Rasa

Shit, some other old fart thinking I was gay again? It happened more times than I could count. I looked over at the flowers ready for delivery on the floor and blinked, trying to figure out which order was his.

"He wanted to get your name and asked how long you'd worked here. You know, questions like, if you grew up here and how long you'd been in college, stuff like that."

"You didn't tell him anything did you?" I fumbled with the corner of my smock. Shit.

"I told him your name is all, and maybe your address," Anderson looked down at his feet, scratching his head.

"You don't go telling people who you think are perverts other people's names and addresses! Anderson, you giant prick! What were you thinking? Or should I say drinking?" I could feel my cheeks flush and pushed my hands into my jeans to still them. I could have throttled him. The dumb fuck. Well, he wasn't a friend of mine even if he pretended to be to get girls--a friend wouldn't share that information.

"Actually, I was up to my seventh shot of whiskey about then," he admitted. I began searching my brain trying to determine who this stranger could be. Which order was this that I took?

"About how old is this guy?" I asked. "What did he look like?"

"I don't know. I don't check guys out. Ask Sherlock."

"Jeez, you don't remember his friggin' face? Were you that drunk?" I studied him. He probably was that drunk. His face had that ashen I've-just-spent-the-morning-puking-my-guts-out look. Still, he had an incredibly high tolerance to alcohol; I probably would too if I drank seven nights a week. I hesitated then said, "Sherlock will know."

"Well, he didn't drink much last night," he paused. "He was the designated driver."

"He's always the designated driver, he never drinks, and he always remembers," I said as I walked over the business phone.

"What are you gonna do? Make a personal call on store time?"

"Shut up. My iPhone is dead. You gave out my personal information to a stranger, and then you give me crap about a phone call? Now, give me his number so I can call him."

"Surprised ya don't have it memorized. He's your best friend."

"It's in my phone. I don't remember it. It's in your phone, too. Look at it up and give it to me. Now."

"Ok, you're such a tight ass," he said. "It's 269-555-5463, but I guarantee you he's still in bed sleeping--we didn't get home until late."

"Too bad," I pointed receiver at the showroom floor. "You better get those deliveries out. The Moore funeral is at 11:00, so you'd better move your ass."

"Ok...sorry," he bent down to pick up the arrangement off the floor. I noticed he was holding his head in pain as he did. I couldn't help wishing his brains would splat out on that dirty door runner.

"Wow, you can be so touchy sometimes. Are you PMSing it or something?"

"Shut up!" I threw my pen as hard as I could at him, and it clipped him on the very same temple the stupid ass had rubbed a moment before. Fuck, that felt good. I turned and dialed Sherlock, when it crossed my mind that throwing a pen might be a bit passive aggressive.

"After you get done talking to Sherlock, maybe you should call '1-800 find a gay lover.' Oh, wait. You don't have to! You're already calling Sherlock!" He grabbed the funeral basket and stumbled out the door fast.

The phone rang and rang, and I was about to hang up when I heard Sherlock's voice.

"Hello? Sherlock?" I asked before realizing I'd gone to voicemail. Why do people put stupid recorded messages that sound like it's them answering? I chewed my lip waiting for that damn tone. Either he must never delete his messages or else he's really popular.