Page 2 of Off Script
"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 arethe 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 callswhen 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 ofa 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.
