Page 89 of Corkscrew You
Granted, it’s notthemost articulate speech I’ve ever heard. Got the flat tone of a soldier repeating back orders. But he covers all the necessary ground: the equipment that needs to be looked over and serviced, checking the floors and walls in the storage and processing areas for cracks and mould, all the cleaning and sanitizing that needs doing, plus a whole lot of miscellaneous stuff, right down to re-stocking first aid kits.
“And you do all this on your own?”
“Pretty much,” he says.
“Fee?” I ask. Brevity is catching.
He shrugs. “Usual.”
It’s been alooongday.
“Here’s the thing,” I explain. “The accounting in this place has been … haphazard, at best. As an example, every payment to you has just been labelled ‘Cam.’ So you can see my problem, can’t you?”
There’s a substantial pause, where, Iguess, he’s mulling over his response. Who knows? Could be chewing cud, like a cow. He’s got those big, brown cow eyes.
Finally,he names a figure. It’s actually slightly below what I’d budgeted. But I’m tired and in a bad mood, and just looking at him makes me feel inadequate. He’s got arms like freaking John Cena, with a hint of Stallone-style knuckle-drag. I’m in good shape, but he could twist my head off without even breaking a sweat.
“OK, let me get back to you on that,” I tell him.
I don’t say by when. If he wants to know badly enough, he can ask.
This whole conversation has been carried out with minimal eye contact, as seems to be Cam’s normal MO. But he looks right at me now, eyebrows raised ever so slightly.
“Do something to offend you?” he says.
Got to admit, I’m taken aback by his unexpected forthrightness. Caught on the hop, too, because, yeah, Idofind him offensive. He offends my ego. My stupid, childish ego.
But what I lack in maturity, I make up for in mastery of the poker face.
“As I said, the accounting here has been a mess. I can’t commit until I’ve run all the numbers.”
We lock stares, but I havenointention of blinking first.
Sure enough.
“K.”
“Thanks for coming,” I say, as he heads back out the door.
He flicks me a glance over his shoulder but keeps moving.
Just before the door shuts, I hear Shelby’s mom call out “Cam!”
Trying not to be seen, I peer out the tiny slit of a side window, which looks toward the house.
Shelby’s mother is walking across the gravel toward Mountain Moron, huge smile on her face. Can’t see his response to this, but it doesn’t matter because I’m distracted by Shelby appearing in the house doorway. She leans up against the jamb, arms folded, also smiling.
I want her to look my way, and I alsodon’twant that because it would be humiliating to be caught staring at her.
Shelby’s mom and Cam are talking by the corner of the office. I can’t see them, but I can slide the window open a fraction, and eavesdrop. Guess this must be the International Day of Immaturity.
There’s the usual, “How are you?” small talk. Small as to be pretty much non-existent on Cam’s part.
But then from Shelby’s mom comes, “What are you doing right now? Want to have dinner with me and Shelby in Verity?”
Cam makes noises of prevarication.
“Oh, comeon,” says Shelby’s mom. “My treat?”
