Off Script

1. Carlisle

1

Carlisle

N ine minutes.

Five minutes.

Shuffling papers around, I feign productivity while watching the clock like a hawk, antsy for my workday to end and my weekend to officially begin.

Two minutes.

As the hands on the clock count down closer and closer to quitting time, the fine hairs on the back of my neck raise in silent warning. I can feel Mr. King's presence lurking somewhere nearby. With a deep breath, I steel myself for another run in with my boss and hurriedly shut down my computer.

Popping in my earbuds, I connect them to my phone and press the volume button up as far as it will go so that I can't be able to hear Mr. King calling my name. I’ll gladly risk insubordination and hearing damage to avoid another uncomfortable conversation with him. Especially on a Friday afternoon when I'm minutes away from freedom. Crossing my fingers, I stride from my cubicle out to the winding hallways of the old office building.

Perhaps if I keep my head down and move quickly, I’ll get lucky and avoid running into Mr. King .

But when have I gotten lucky?

Certainly not anytime lately, and I don’t get lucky this afternoon either.

Given his size, Mr. King moves toward me with surprising speed, and he manages to corral me in a corner. Like a choreographed dance that we’ve routinely practiced over the past five months, he steps forward, and I step back. But then I hit the wall behind me.

Just as tall as he is wide, Mr. King towers over me. He's left mere inches of space between us, and when he reaches out to stroke my cheek, I tuck my chin so that his hand lands harmlessly on the side of my head. Still uncomfortable and most definitely awkward, but less so than if he'd caressed my face.

"Do you have a date this weekend, Carlisle?" When I shake my head, Mr. King looks pleased.

Retreating a step, his eyes rove lazily over the length of my body.

Sadly, this type of interaction is nothing new. As the lone young female in the small company, I put up with a lot of unwanted attention from my boss. Within weeks of starting work, I learned the hard way to avoid being in a room alone with Mr. King. In addition to making inappropriate comments, he’s prone to getting a little handsy if unchaperoned. Unfortunately, since he's the owner of the business, my avenues of recourse are quite limited.

As is my bank account. Quite limited, that is. For now, all I can do is suck it up until I land another job.

“Don’t go too crazy this weekend, Carlisle.”

“Wouldn't dream of it, Mr. King. Tell Mrs. King hello for me.”

One good tactic for rebuffing his advances is to remind him that he has a wife. I’ve never met the poor woman but given the number of times I bring her up in a week, you’d think we were besties .

"Remember to keep your work phone on you. I might call if I need something."

One of my job responsibilities includes being on call every weekday, and occasionally, Mr. King likes to call me. He claims it's to confirm that I'm keeping up with my essential job duties, but I fear there's more behind his motivations than that.

He retreats another step, creating an opening for escape and I take advantage of it.

"Will do," I reply over my shoulder as I scoot by him.

Pushing open the door, I step outside, and I take a deep breath for the first time all day. Lifting my face to the sky, I slip off my cardigan to bask in the warmth of the southern California sun as I stroll towards the bus stop. With each step I take away from the office, I feel the tension ebb from my body.

I have got to find a new job. Preferably one without a creepy boss.

The bus is crowded, and I step over an elderly woman who's reading her Bible to stake my claim on one of the few remaining empty seats. I slump into my seat as the doors hiss closed.

Bored, I scroll through my social media accounts and then thumb over to my email inbox. The only email of interest is yet another rejection letter regarding a position I applied for at a nonprofit organization.

Thank you for your interest. We value every applicant, and we appreciate the time and effort you spent applying for the position. Unfortunately, we will not be moving forward with your application at this time.

Disappointed, I return my phone and earbuds to my bag and watch the streets slide by. Listening to the honking horns and the conversations swirling around me, I marvel at how different the crowded, concrete jungle of LA is compared to my native Mississippi. Gone are the slow talking drawls, the sounds of cicadas at dusk, and the fireflies that light up the sky on a dark summer evening. As difficult as it was to leave the only home I’d ever known, it had become too claustrophobic to stay. Too many painful reminders of everything I'd lost.

The muffled ringing of a cell phone jars me from my reverie, but it isn’t until my seatmate raises her head from her reading and shoots me a pointed look that I realize the sound is emanating from my purse. I groan, recognizing it as my work phone’s ringtone.

Is Mr. King calling already?

I glance at the number and I'm relieved to see that it isn't my boss calling. But it is from a restricted caller, which is unusual.

Who needs to block their number when they call an office supply company?

“Carlisle Matthews,” I chirp, plastering an insincere smile across my face. We had a human resource meeting this week about the importance of smiling while speaking on the phone. Apparently, callers can hear your smile. I think it's BS, but I smile anyway.

Ironically, we never have HR meetings about sexual harassment in the workplace.

“Umm, hi. Hello,” utters a deep voice on the other end of the line.

I wait for the caller to continue before prodding him, “Yes? Can I help you, sir?”

“Carlson Matthews… is this a design firm?” The male caller inquires, sounding perplexed. He has a nice voice, low and gravelly, but his sexy timbre doesn’t negate my annoyance at having to field work calls after hours on a Friday evening.

Given the caller’s hesitation, I have a sinking feeling.

In a perverse twist of fate, my work cell phone number is only one digit off from a popular phone sex hotline. Who knew those even still existed? Unfortunately, it’s common for me to field some of their calls when someone misdials. I would have thought it was too early for the horndogs to start calling, but I guess people get their rocks off at all hours.

“No, not a design firm. Carlisle Matthews is my name,” I reply, blowing out a breath in barely controlled frustration. “May I ask why you’re calling?”

“Joanna Garcia gave me your number,” the caller replies haltingly in his deep voice. “She said you were expecting my call?”

Perhaps he isn’t trying to call the sex hotline, but I don’t think he’s trying to reach me either. “I’m sorry, but I don’t know anyone by that name. Are you trying to reach someone from Staples King?”

“No, I’m not. Your number isn’t 213-555-7399?”

And my original assumption was correct. That’s the number for the sex hotline. Rolling my eyes, I surrender all semblance of professionalism.

“Listen here, you kinky perve. You dialed the wrong number. This isn't the sex hotline and I’m not a phone sex operator, so lose this number, buddy.” My hand hovers over the button to disconnect the call as a loud bark of laughter bursts from my phone’s speaker.

What the hell? Why is he laughing at me?

Irritated yet curious, I raise the phone back up to my ear as I scowl.

“Phone sex operator? I have no idea what you’re talking about,” the rumbling voice replies. “But your southern accent really pops when you’re salty. Not gonna lie, that’s kind of sexy.”

His response reignites my ire, especially coming off my latest uncomfortable encounter with Mr. King. “Men! All y’all think about is sex. Sex, sex, sex!” I spit out through clenched teeth. Unwittingly, the volume of my voice rises in connection with my anger. “Obviously, you’re a loser who calls sex hotlines because you can’t feel the flesh of a woman in real life! You probably own a blow-up sex doll and still live in your mother’s basement.” I retort, continuing my diatribe.

It feels good to lash out. While I’d love to yell at Mr. King, the mystery caller is a fine substitute.

But when I hear an astonished sputter from the woman sitting beside me, I switch my focus from my phone call to my surroundings.

“Oh my god, I’m yelling about sex in the middle of a crowded bus,” I mumble, mortified. I feel the heat from a violent blush sweep across my face.

My Bible-toting seatmate glances at me furtively, alarmed as if she might catch an STD simply from sitting near me. She pantomimes the sign of the cross and then begins furiously rubbing the rosary hanging around her neck. As I apologetically smile at her, she refuses to meet my gaze. When the bus comes to a stop, she hops up, scurrying to claim an available seat across the bus.

Feeling defensive, I try to explain the asinine situation to her. “Ma’am, I apologize, but I’m not… I’m not a phone sex worker! He’s the pervert, not me!” I holler, pointing to my phone. “He called the wrong number and accidentally reached me. It was a wrong number, damn it!” My voice quietens as even more people look my way after my outburst. “Great. Now everyone on the bus thinks I’m a sex worker.” I slouch deeper into my seat as laughter continues to reverberate from my phone.

“Carlisle Matthews, are you trying to convince people you aren’t a purveyor of telephonic erotica?” My unidentified caller quips with another snicker.

“A purveyor of telephonic erotica?!” I yelp loudly, offended at his insinuation.

Oops, I did it again .

OMG, I just inadvertently quoted Britney Spears. It's official. I've lost the plot.

I glance up, hoping that my second gaffe went undetected. No such luck. Those sitting around me are still blatantly eavesdropping.

“No, you douche canoe, I’m not," I hiss, lowering my voice to a whisper. "But I don’t have to explain myself to you. You’re the one who called the number. You can’t tell me that you didn’t realize the last four digits of the phone number you dialed—7399—spells sexy? Likely story.”

A pregnant pause follows before he groans. “Ugh, Joanna! I am going to kill her. I promise, I thought I was calling an interior designer to discuss artwork for my living room.”

His practical joke theory sounds plausible, but I’m not convinced.

“You must have a phone number close to the hotline’s number. Is this something you deal with a lot?”

“Yes, my work cell phone number is only one digit off. You wouldn’t believe the number of weird calls and voicemails I receive.”

Raising my gaze, I'm relieved to see that fewer people appear to be listening my conversation, but in doing so, I make eye contact with a teenage boy. He's sporting a mullet, acne, and a lecherous stare aimed in my direction. He has the audacity to wink at me while biting his lower lip.

Are you there, God, it’s me, Carlisle? Please get me off this bus.

“Might I suggest changing your number? Seems like an easy fix.” The soothing voice tugs my attention back to my phone.

“Thank you for the suggestion, Mr. Helpful. I never would've thought of that,” I respond, my voice oozing sarcasm like honey from a beehive. “Unfortunately, my boss already had my business cards printed, and he doesn’t want to pay to reprint them… even though we’re an office supply company and could reprint them ourselves for pennies.”

“What is it that you do exactly? Since you’re obviously not involved in the lucrative dealings of phone porn.”

Is it lucrative? Maybe I should give it a shot.

“I’m an assistant to the CEO of the Staples King office supplies stores.” I sigh deeply. May as well rip the band aid off and tell this perfect stranger about my idiocy. “Turns out that Staples King has nothing to do with the Staples Center, as I naively believed because I’m an absolute dumbass and did zero sober research before accepting the job.”

“Sober research?” His laughter quickly turns to full guffaws. "Please tell me the rest of this story."

“Kindly shut up.”

“Do you like it? Your job? Other than fielding the sex calls, of course.”

“No.”

“Why not? ”

He sounds genuinely curious, which tempts me to be honest with him. But how do I explain that through a short series of idiotic mistakes on my part, I’m stuck living in a perpetual loop of Office Space with a little sexual harassment on the side?

“I doubled-majored in general business and mass communications at Ole Miss. It's frustrating that four years of hard work culminated in a job where my duties consist of cold calling grocery stores to see if they’ll sell our brand of staples and bringing coffee to my libidinous–”

“Libidinous? Impressive word selection.”

“Please,” I scoff. “Just because I’m from the south doesn’t mean that I don’t know my polysyllabic words.”

“If you don’t enjoy your work, why don’t you switch jobs?”

“Believe me, I’m trying.” Over the course of our conversation, the fighting spirit has drained out of me. I lean forward and rest my forehead against the seat in front of me, staring down at my shoes. “I can’t afford to quit until I have another job lined up, so I spend my free time scouring the help wanted ads. Unfortunately, each company wants someone with more work experience than I have,” I respond glumly, my latest rejection fresh in my mind.

“I’m sorry.” There’s a brief pause and I assume we’re about to hang up when he surprises me and inquires, “Can we quickly revisit the whole Staples King/Staples Center mix-up you mentioned earlier? How does one so well-versed in polysyllabic words make that kind of error?”

“Ah, rude! I can hear the amusement in your voice!” My umbrage doesn’t pack much oomph though as I chuckle and take a moment to figure out the best way to summarize my situation without spilling all the family tea. “My dad and I don't have a great relationship. After my college graduation, he gave me a new car, and then announced that he was cutting me off financially. Effective immediately. Naturally, I did what anyone would do.”

“You got mad and wanted to prove him wrong?”

“Pretty much. My best friend, Harper, and I got really drunk, and I applied for every available job in LA. Harper already had a job lined up here and moving far away from my dad seemed like a wonderful idea—especially after four glasses of wine. I spotted the Staples King job posting. I got excited, made a few hasty assumptions, applied without reading all the fine print, and then accepted the job offer the next morning while I was definitely hungover and quite possibly still drunk.”

“I have to be honest. I don’t understand how you confused the two. ”

“The LA Kings play at the Staples Center. Staples Center. LA Kings. Voila, Staples King.” I pause. “The details are hazy, but it made sense to my alcohol addled brain. Honestly, I was so relieved that I had a job offer that I didn't even care where I was going to be working so long as I had a guaranteed paycheck.”

“You said your dad gave you a car. If you have a car, why are you riding the bus?”

A giggle bubbles up in my throat. “I tell you all that and that’s your question?”

“I have a lot of questions. This is just the first of many, Carlisle.”

“My dad gave me a five-series BMW sedan, which costs a fortune to fill up because it requires premium gas. Do you know how much gas I’d waste idling in LA traffic? And don’t even get me started on the costs to maintain and insure that thing. I literally can’t afford to drive it.”

"That's still a nice graduation present though."

If I didn't know my dad as well as I do, I'd agree. Maybe I'm cynical, but I'm sure there was something in it for him, like a tax break or the car was a lemon that he couldn't sell.

"My dad owns several car dealerships, so while it was a nice present, I think you're giving him too much credit," I explain reluctantly.

"Couldn't you sell it? Or trade it in for something more economical?"

"Not easily," I huff. "The car title is in my dad's name."

"So, you can't sell it without your dad's permission."

"Bingo, buddy. And I'm too proud to admit that I'm struggling."

Struggling . Ha! That's putting it mildly.

But I guess that's one way to describe barely making ends meet, being cut off from my remaining family, and feeling lonely as shit.