The Wench Whisperer

It’s a crappy day at the office. Layoffs loom, my manager gives notice, and I’m passed over as her replacement, a position which goes instead to a friend and colleague. Despite years of Buddhist practice, I don’t transcend easily, so I opt for a practice I have mastered.

“I need a stiff one. Bad day,” I say when Horst picks up the phone. “Want to go for drinks?”

“Yeah,” he says. “Let me put the groceries away and I’ll meet you somewhere.”

We both live in Paly, and we agree to meet at a place on Main Street – an easy bike ride for me and a two-minute walk for Horst. I get there first and find a table near floor-to-ceiling windows that open onto the sidewalk, so we can drink and people-watch. Horst strides up shortly after, and folds his athletic 6’3” frame into the rattan café chair.

“First things first,” he says, and gestures to the waiter. I order a cosmopolitan and he orders his usual, an extra dry martini with three olives. “So, what’s up?”

“I’m not ready to talk about it,” I say, and disclose my true reason for calling: “I need a good laugh.”

More than talking about it or drinking about it, I need to laugh. Laugh about the day, yes, but really, a good laugh or two about anything will help me shake the mood. And Horst can make me laugh; he has since my first week on the job three years ago. Although I’m not sure he believes it, I’ve told Horst that had it not been for his regular check-ins and the fact that I could look forward to a good ROFL (roll on the floor, laughing) at approximately 4 p.m. daily, I would have left within the first four months of joining the company.

Our drinks come and Horst proffers the plastic stir stick with the three vermouth-soaked olives. As is customary, I pluck the one off the end.

“So you need a good laugh. Great,” he says. “Let’s talk about your love life.”

“Shut up,” I say. “Let’s talk about yours.” Horst is in relationship limbo while his girlfriend Linnea travels the globe for a year.

Horst teases me, but I know he’s fishing to see if this is where the day’s trouble lies. He knows about Doc, and before Doc, Aaron. He knows it’s been a hard few months, and after both breakups, he checked in many an evening and got me laughing when, I suspect, he suspected my fingers might be itching to do some drunk dialing or emailing. I return the favor when I know he’s missing Linnea.

“Anyway, I’m not really dating right now,” I say.

“Good,” he says. “I was having a hard time keeping the names of all your men straight: Male Dom, the S&M gentleman who offered to dominate you; Playah Dom, Writer Dom, Geek Dom – oh, and let’s not forget . . . Nostril Dom-us, your guy with the third nostril . . . “

I crack a smile. “Fuck off. And it wasn’t quite a third nostril anyway. More like a large flap of excess skin.”

“Nostril. Flap of skin. Whatever. Enjoy your freedom, Wench. You’ll find true love someday – someday when you’re least expecting it. It’ll happen, hmmm, in the produce section at Safeway, right here in town. Yeah. That’s it. You’ll both be standing there, feeling up the avocados, squeezing those soft green orbs ever so gently – mmmm, ooooo, mmmm – and your eyes will meet, and then. . . “

He gets a giggle out of me. “Goofball.”

We order another round of drinks and add some appetizers. Over a shared calzone, Horst moseys the talk around to work.

“So it’s ‘strategery’ season,” he says.

“Boy howdy.” I nod. As is annual tradition, our management are circulating the business strategies for the new fiscal year. Email volume has increased threefold. Always a treat.

“I’ve been giving our company’s business strategy a lot of thought,” says Horst. “It’s been keeping me awake nights. And you know what? I think I have one that might work.”

“Oh?”

“I’m serious. And it’s so simple that I can boil it down to a three-letter acronym.” I roll my eyes; companies here in Silicon Valley are replete with TLAs; ours is infamous for them. “It’s short, sweet, catchy. Easily communicated.”

“So, what is it?”

“SFP.”

“SFP?”

“Yeah. SFP. ‘Sell Fucking Product.’” I snort my drink through my nose as a belly laugh catches me.

Horst lifts an eyebrow and purses his lips. “That’s really attractive,” he says. “And now you need more booze. You just blew half of it. Literally.”

We order another cosmo and martini, and eventually I tell Horst everything about the day and my conversation with my boss, including the part of the story where I might have come across as, shall we say, less than diplomatic. “Hmmm,” he says, “You fucked yourself for sure on that one. Here’s a consolation prize,” he adds and extends another olive.

“I know,” I say. “I just wish I knew how to shut up. Sometimes I’m a little too direct, and I know that’s uncomfortable for the nonconfrontational.”

“Nah,” he says, “I like your honesty. I admire that about you. I’m sure you had thoughtful, valid points, and I can’t imagine you were mean about it. Direct perhaps, but not mean. And don’t forget,” he says, trying to keep a straight face, “‘Courage’ is one of our prized corporate attributes.”

Another eye roll from me. “Yeah. Right.”

Horst pauses. But I’m ready to hear it; the drinks and the olives and the laughter have lowered my defenses, and I know he won’t be unkind. “Seriously, here’s the thing, though,” Horst says. “I’ve been in your friend’s shoes, stepping in as acting when a manager leaves. Look, Wenchie, I know you’re feeling a little unhappy about all the change in the situation; you’ve been dealing with a lot recently. And I think you did the best you could on the spot with the news today.”

I take a big gulp of my cosmo. “But . . . “

He nods. “That’s right; screw your courage to the sticking point . . . but . . . now it’s time to wish your manager well and get behind your friend and make things work.” He pauses. “And I know you will. I’m just saying.”

“I know.”

“I know you know.”

“I know you know I know.”

I sigh. Horst nods and makes a silly frowny googly-eyed face at me. Childish, yes. But I laugh anyway. It feels good.

It’s late when we finish our drinks. I’m missing the headlight on my bike and Horst is too inebriated to drive, so we swing by his house and he outfits me with a jacket and a flashlight. I bike home, cheerful, crappy day mitigated, thanks to better living through laughter.

Horst emails me the next day at work: Getting back on your game? I hope so. And by the way, Wench, I might have been a tad tipsy, but not tipsy enough to forget that you’ve taken my only tennis jacket AND my flashlight. Cough it up.

I reply: Will do. (Cough. Cough.) And yes, I’m better. Much better. Thank you.

He emails back: All in a day’s work. And signs it: The Wench Whisperer, at your service.

***

The Word Wench’s Weblog is a fictional memoir, and any resemblance to any person living or dead (you know who you are!) is purely coincidental. Please subscribe to weekly Sunday updates through RSS feed or by sending an email to TheWordWench@gmail.com

Tags: fiction, Fictional Memoir, friendship, Personal, work