Page 45 of Sort of Seeing Someone

Of all the things I’ve tucked in my trusty crossbody bag, the key to the presidential suite at The Brockmeier is by far the bougiest. Bougie is so far from my brand. I have no personal experience withbougie.Still, I can’t help but feel a bit giddy about the plush white bathrobe and slippers that await me after what is bound to be endless hours on my feet tonight.

As I put the finishing touches on setting up my table, I can sense another person approaching from behind me.

“One in 976,000,” the man says. “That’s the odds of us randomly meeting in Chicago. Randomly meetinga second timein The Second City? Well, I’m going to need my TI-83 for that.”

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” I say as I turn around to face none other than @MrFixIt312. Except for this time, I’m seeing him in a new light. Not overdressed for a yoga class, not four beers deep at a pub wearing a hat and sunglasses, but rather in professional and polished attire. He’s about half the age of Mr. Macnider, and giving me all the Alexander Skarsgård vibes.

“What are you doing here?” I ask.

“I work here,” he says. “You?”

“I’m a guest of Mr. Macnider. I’m here for the party.”

“Oh, so you’re a vendor—not a guest,” he minimizes. “We’ve got five of you here tonight, and unfortunately you’re the only one with a set up that is blocking the fire exit.”

Make that acrankyAlexander Skarsgård.

“Let me guess. You’re going to call the City Inspector on me?”

“No. Just the Fire Marshall.”

“What is your infatuation with incessant tattling?” I ask.

“My infatuation is…it’s my job as Acting Chief Civil Engineer to require that the fire exit remain clear at all times. You wouldn’t want our entire staff to perish in a fire, would you? Although I’d have to agree, that’d make for one spooky story to pass along to the generations. Alas, can we go ahead and get this table moved or what?”

“Of course,” I say, trying my best to match his nice-but-not-nice cadence. “I just wish I would have known that I was a threat to societybeforeI set up fifty bags of candles and a hundred pounds of sage. Mr. Macnider didn’t mention anything about the location of the table being a problem, you know.”

“With all due respect, Mr. Macnider doesn’t know how to find a stud in the wall. That’s why The Brockmeier has me on retainer for the time being. Look, I don’t make the rules—but Idoenforce them—that’s part of my contract. And since we only have mere minutes until guests arrive, I must insist that you move your table. Immediately.”

I let out a big huff, like I waited in line for a McFlurry only to have the cashier tell me the ice cream machine is broken.

“I’ll help you,” he concedes. “But if I break anything, it’s not my fault. Don’thexme or anything.”

“Okay, Mr. Reverse Osmosis. You got it. Let’s put the candles back in the box and then slide the table with just the sage on it,” I direct.

The crabby engineer begins moving at a glacial pace. With each candle giftbag he picks up, it’s like he’s being careful not to get any cooties on him.

“Mini Moon Batch Candle by Moonie Miller,” he reads off one of the labels. “Is that seriously your real name,Moonie Miller?”

“Want to see my driver’s license?” I offer, moving at approximately double the speed he is. Before he can ask any more questions, I hit him with the one-two punch: “No, I’m not in the Moonie cult and no, it’s not Swedish.”

I’ve been getting that Nordic-natured question in my DMs a lot lately from my new followers.

“Of course it’s not Swedish. Nothing about that name is Swedish.”

“Oh, did you work at IKEA before you joined TheBrockmeier?” I ask the know-it-all.

He stops with helping, and instead hands me his business card. He strikes me as the kind of guy who gets off when the precise moment to talk about his credentials emerges.

“Allow me to introduce myself. My name is Olrik Zetterlind. Born and raised in Stockholm…Sweden.”

That explains the mystery accent.

“Olrik. That’s a unique name.” I briefly wonder if he ever considered going byKevinto further Americanize himself.

“I go by Ollie,” he continues. “I guess if you put an ‘i-e’ at the end of your name, it’s automatically American, as you can relate. Anyway, are we ready to push?” he asks as if I was the one holding us up.

“Sure. Where to, Captain?”

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