5. Rumpelstiltskin #2
...
How can she be typing for this long?
“Come on. Come on, Nisha…” I gnaw on my thumbnail. “You’re my only hope.”
At long last, my phone dings.
“Rumpelstiltskin,” I read.
“Huh?” I show Angie her reply.
Angie frowns. “Seriously? Like the little elf who spun straw into gold?”
Nisha
Sorry. Autocorrect. His name is Rhys Stiltskine, and he works at Greene Energy. Are you sure you want to connect with him? He’s a giant prick.
“She sounds drunk,” Angie notes. “And not a fan of Rumpelstiltskin. Didn’t he blackmail the miller’s daughter into giving him her baby?”
“If I had a baby,” I mutter, “I’ll gladly give it to him if it means I can keep my paycheck.”
“Hell,” Angie counters, “if I had a baby, I’d give it to him too if it means we won’t have to move to Riverside.”
I’m on my laptop immediately, tracking down Rhys Stiltskine.
I find his LinkedIn profile, except it’s the most bare bones profile I’ve ever encountered.
No headshot. A skeletal résumé, including, yes...
confirmed: Sr. Data Analyst at Greene Energy.
But no mention of the ASSET. No wonder I missed him on my initial search.
It’s as if the guy doesn’t want to be found.
My phone dings again.
Michelle
Rhys Stilt-something. Didn’t catch his last name after I tossed my drink in his face. Fat phobic piece of shit.
I meet Angie’s eye. “That’s gotta be him. How many guys named Rhys do you know in L.A. who’s a giant tool?”
“Rumpelstiltskin was a tool,” Angie says, pulling up the fairy tale on her phone, “probably on account of his tiny elf dick.”
“He definitely sounds like an incel,” I mutter, prompting Michelle to send us photos (not of his dick, but hopefully from his dating profile).
I’m already imagining a tiny man with a malicious scowl and pointy little shoes.
“Shit. She didn’t meet him through a dating app,” I say, reading her reply. “Her aunt set them up.”
“Well, does she still have his number?” Angie asks.
“You’re a genius!” I say, promptly thumbing my request to Michelle. And here I was planning on messaging him on LinkedIn, which he clearly never visits. “Got it. Okay...”
Taking a deep breath, I compose a message to Rumpel— Rhys Stiltskine.
Hi Rhys! My name is Carina Wu, Director of Data Analytics, ASSET division, at Rylan Industries.
As a fellow ASSET enthusiast, I’d love to pick your brain and share the knowledge.
We can both benefit from a mastermind. Over lunch?
I know this is short notice. Are you free tomorrow?
Any time. Anywhere. My schedule is open.
It’s the biggest pile of BS I’ve ever written, and I’ve banged together memos piled with corporate jargon so mindless your brain will leak through your ears if you try to read them.
I show my message to Angie for approval. “What do you think? Do I sound too desperate?”
“Yes,” she says, “but you are desperate. Maybe lose the ‘my schedule is open’ part. You’re the Director of the ASSET division. You’re supposed to be busy.”
“I’m not busy.”
“But he doesn’t need to know that.”
I make the change and take a deep breath. “Here goes nothing.” I send the text and set my phone face down on the coffee table.
We wait in silence.
“He probably won’t respond,” I say, already preparing to be ignored. “If he doesn’t get back to me by tomorrow, I’ll make a trip downtown.”
“Really?” Angie pads to the kitchen, tosses me a bottle of water. “You’ll show up at his office?”
“If I have to. I was ready to sacrifice my firstborn child to Rumpelstiltskin, so afternoon traffic to downtown is nothing.”
She whistles. “You really don’t want to move to Riverside, do you?”
“Do you?”
“Hell no. I’m a beach babe.” Sitting back down, Angie regards me with a suggestive side-eye. “What if Rumpelstiltskin won’t help you spin straw into gold?”
I frown. “Meaning he won’t help me with the ASSET? He has to...” I toss my hair and shoot her my most charismatic smile. “I’m very convincing.”
“Suppose he agrees to help you, but not for free.”
“Like he wants money?” I shrug. “I have money.”
Angie chews her bottom lip. “Suppose he wants a service?” She studies my blank expression. “Suppose he’s sick of being an incel and wants you to change that.”
I scoff. “Then he’d better settle for an unenthusiastic hand job.”
Angie laughs, then peers at me again. “Really?”
“No! Not really.” I pull back, affronted that my best friend would think I’m capable of prostituting myself to keep my job. “I was joking!”
“I knew that,” Angie says.
And we both gaze out of our window. It’s too dark to see that sliver of Pacific, yet we know it’s there. With both of us being so busy with our jobs, we never have time to appreciate how lucky we both are in our living situation. Until now.
“An ocean view,” I say, “is not worth whoring yourself out to a mean little elf.”
She nudges my shoulder. “But if his dick is small enough, you won’t even get a hand cramp.”
“Shut up!” I smack her with my throw pillow. “If you’re so obsessed with the elf, why don’t you fuck him?”
“Ah! Watch the hair!” Laughing, Angie shields herself from my attack. “Oh I will! I’ll straddle his little elf dick. It’ll probably feel like... like a microprick!”
We’re both howling like hyenas until my phone dings and we immediately sober up.
Rumpelstiltskin has responded.
“Oh shit, oh shit,” I say, squinting at my screen.
“What’d he say?” Angie peers over my shoulder.
“Nothing. He sent a Yelp link.” Taking a deep breath, I click on the link, and it directs me to a fast-casual cafeteria in California Plaza, Downtown.
Another text pops up.
Rhys
Tomorrow. 12:30.
“He certainly gets to the point,” Angie says. “I think he just agreed to a date. Better stretch your wrist because I see an unenthusiastic hand job in your future.”
Rolling my eyes, I reply:
Great! I’m looking forward to meeting you, Rhys!
True to form, Rumpelstiltskin does not reply.