You’re Not Who I Think He Is #2
“I’m sorry, I don’t want to be rude, but we really just need to speak with Micah,” Rebekkah said, patience frayed.
“The possible bribery and work-place coercion and who’s a monster and who’s not a monster all need to go on the backburner.
If we don’t figure out a new way to clean, what do we have now fellas? Three?”
“I think we actually have five now,” Japheth answered, thinking of WWJD’s bulging duffels.
“Five! Five body bags of…” Rebekkah began, and Betty blanched.
“Body bags?!” she squeaked.
“We’ve been busy,” Rebekkah said, apologetically shaking her head.
“Well, not busy enough. And we’re losing daylight here. Will you please call Micah? He’s gonna know what to do,” Ronald pleaded.
“Like I said, no one named Micah works here. I don’t have a number for a Manhattan office. We don’t even have a…” the receptionist began, then trailed off as something about Kia Rios turned a dusty gear in her memory.
“It’s okay guys. Let’s all just take a breath,” Japheth said, dialing his phone with trembling determination. “I’ll try to call Micah again and if he answers I’ll put him on speaker so we can all figure out what’s going on.”
He stabbed at the keypad on his cell phone with nervous impatience. It started to ring and it sounded… close. Very close. Like there was an answering echo to the ringing phone he held in his hand.
“Wienus, Weinus, and Ware,” came a voice, nasal and officious, from the phone but it also sounded like it was in the wall.
“Micah?” Japheth asked, eyes narrowing. “Are you okay? You sound like you might have a cold?”
“Yes! Ahem,” he coughed. His voice had pitched down an octave and when he spoke again, he did so with heroic urgency, “Yes. Hello. How can I help? Have you been in a slip-and-fall accident? Are you seriously hurt?”
“Micah, it’s me, Japheth! Your message and your muse?” Japheth reminded him, just as Rebekkah elbowed him in the ribs, a not-so-subtle reminder that he was not a solo artist. “Oof! Rebekkah and Ronald are here too, from Trinity?”
“Right, right. Of course, you did a wonderful job with my commercial. Ware Wear to be specific–since this morning.
It was not unbecoming. It gave her a bit of a rocker edge, especially with the new hair.
The guys exchanged a glance and looked back at Rebekkah, nodding their approval.
All three wheeled on the wheedling man behind the bureau.
As a villain, Stanford/Micah Weinus, Weinus or Ware was not particularly brave though he was certainly brazen.
Nor did he possess a threatening quality that inspired chills or the urge to look over one’s shoulder while running away.
His demeanour was more of one that resulted in his present company donning expressions of pity, anger, and befuddlement.
Betty, for example, was still scanning the room for cameras while tucking strays into her chignon in case they really were being filmed.
Weinus rolled his desk chair between himself and the mob protectively and snapped at them, “I would have gotten away with it too if it weren’t for you meddling kids!”
“We do medleys but meddle we do not!” Japheth corrected him primly.
His heart was breaking with each passing moment, knowing without wanting to know that his chance at romance was nothing but an elderly man masquerading as the real Micah.
If there was a real Micah. With each donning realization, his heart caved into itself further.
He had truly believed that maybe, against his wildest hopes, that he and Micah were really and truly meant for each other.
Like some kind of Prince Charming meets Prince Eric fairytale.
He blinked back the tears welling up and threatening to fall, embarrassed at his stupid, childlike fantasy.
When would he grow up and realize that fairytales were not built for boys like him?
“I’m so confused. Who and where is the real Micah?” Ronald asked, palms up and scanning the room again, as if the six-foot-four male model could have been misplaced somewhere.
“On a cereal box. Or a dandruff shampoo bottle. Cresting a snowbank on a snowmobile–probably shirtless, tan and with that megawatt smile,” Weinus sighed.
“More confused,” Ronald admitted.
“Micah is made-up! He doesn’t work here,” Weinus said, flinging the confession like a spoiled handkerchief.
“So, if he’s not a Weinus, a Weinus or a Ware… who is he? Are any of the credentials on that billboard even true?” Japheth pressed.
“A stock photography model! I paid $19.99 to use his photos on that billboard and on our new website which we were going to be launching today. And I would’ve gotten away with it too! If it weren’t…” Weinus shook a fist for emphasis.
“Yeah, we know,” Rebekkah waved him off.
“Wait! What about Ware Wear & Wares? We did a commercial for Micah’s new fashion line. And he emailed me after, saying I was his message and his muse!” Japheth wailed, his romantasy a tower of Jenga blocks teetering under the gravity of the precarious pile of prevarications.
“You were great, Japheth. And if you hadn’t sniffed out my cock and bull story, Micah would have…
well, I would have hired you for an exclusive brand deal.
But you ruined that plan!” Stanford sniffed.
“I never wanted to be a lawyer! Do you think I like filing cabinets? Do you think I’m enamoured by manila folders?
No! There’s so little colour, so little panache permitted in an attorney’s attire.
Micah and I could have been the next Dean and Dan Caten.
Weinus & Ware Squared. But you squandered it! ”