The Squeeze

He’s a total metrosexual, or whatever it’s called: bleached teeth, carefully coifed hair, abnormally tan. Sartorially gifted, his stylish glasses exude sensitivity, yet he’s man enough to pull off pairing a lavender gingham shirt with navy pinstripe. Underneath it all, though, there’s a pep in his step that just screams out for Valium. Trent’s not perky, he’s tense.

As of Friday, I completely understand why.

For over two weeks, she’d been calling easily once an hour. How do I know? I’ve got caller ID and unless they're blocked, repeated numbers tend to stick in my head. It’s simply a defense mechanism: when you’ve got over 300 published numbers all ringing at your console, the autodialers offering “free” trips to Jamaica or hawking timeshares and newspaper subscriptions drive you beyond nutty unless you hang up on them immediately. I consider frequent callers a nuisance because it means I have to work, at least a little bit. But I had no idea just what an interesting nuisance she would become.

Appearing suddenly in my lobby, she doesn’t offer her name, but she asks for Trent, and she’s pissed. It’s her. I recognize the voice. The ears never lie. Well, that and the trendy necklace with her name in crystal pave; sparkly, pink cursive. Marta. Marta from Fishbein & Stokemeyer.

She doesn’t have an appointment, but right now, that’s a minor consideration. Since my personal tawdry interests trump all others, Trent is immediately advised of his guest. He responds with an uncharacteristicly tight-lipped “Uh..., I’ll be right up”. Looking at her, 'high-maintenance' doesn’t even begin to scratch the surface. No wonder he’s twitchy. He’s married with three kids, and his side dish is grumpy enough to strut her junk down to his workplace and pout conspicuously in the foyer. I consider this a potentially explosive situation.

I can’t wait.

Clearly apprehensive as he rounds the corner, in the split second before Marta sees him he glances at me, a brittle, Ken-doll smile affixed below hunted eyes. For a second I almost feel sorry for him.

She stands, arms crossed, sees me watching them and whines “Trent…”
“Hey, Marta, how are you?” and puts out his hand to shake hers. Puts out his hand. Clearly the unwished-for gesture, Marta looks at it as if he's offering her a large cockroach. Trent's hand lowers slowly, and for some reason ends up tucked lightly in his pocket, with all the artless and spontaneous realism of a Sears catalog model. He steers her toward the door, and unfortunately it opens loudly enough to cover up what he murmurs quietly to her. But to whatever he says, I hear her response. Boy, do I.

At a volume I am astounded her silicone obscured lungs produce, and coupled with the sharp crack of a tiny stamping stiletto, “No, Trent! NO!” echoes past me, tattling down the tiled hallway into a suddenly dead silent office. Mere moments too late, the pneumatic cylinder slowly presses the door closed. Two people prairie dog, and an internal line rings at my console, an eager gossipmonger on the job.

A few minutes later, a sheepish Trent carefully reenters the office, cheeks just flushed enough to subtly offset his celadon flecked tie. Avoiding my gaze, he makes no mention of it, for once wanting not to be noticed, instead preferring simply to skulk back to office and lick his wounds in peace.

I haven’t seen Marta since, and now she only calls once a day, from her cell phone.

As if I don’t know.