Page 7 of Flirtasaurus
“Alright. Room 514… Room 514… Ah, there it is.”
I’m finally upstairs—after taking the stairs, thank you very much—and am rapidly approaching Room 514. I check the time on my phone. Sweet! Still a solid fifteen minutes before go-time. Not bad for being trapped in an elevator, then being swindled into a meet-cute that was neither meet nor cute. Meaning we did not actually meet, and that shit he pulled on me was not cute. You get what I’m trying to say? Ugh, I’m nervous. I’m not usually nervous in new situations. But this job? It means everything to me, and I desperately want to kick ass from minute one. Which, obviously, I will.
“Deep breath… aaaaaand go.”
I walk into Room 514 with supreme—albeit feigned—confidence and instantly lock eyes with some lone burly man sitting at the end of the conference table. He’s wearing black Carhartt work pants covered in saw dust and sipping on a coffee from a Styrofoam cup that he clearly got from the stack set up in the corner alongside some delicious looking donuts. Styrofoam in this day and age? Oh, hell no. The visitor suggestion box will definitely be hearing from me on behalf of the environment, ASAP.
I take in the burly man again, who is making no attempt to speak to me. Huh. He doesn’t look like a scientist. Or a curator. Or a museumgoer of any kind, for that matter. Oh geez, that is really shallow and uppity and just plain lame of me. You can’t tell anything by looking at someone’s appearance. Lord knows I hate it when people spot my freckled nose and my round cheeks and call me “cute and innocent.” FYI: want to hop directly on my shit list? Tell me I look cute and innocent. And now here I am, judging this man by his appearance. For all I know, he could be a huge museum benefactor. He could be the lead excavator on Dr. Knowles’ next dinosaur dig. Hell, he could be my Alf.MyAlf? Ew. Scratch the my. Never said it. Dammit, why am I still thinking about that guy?
Burly man stands and finally opens his burly mouth to speak.
“Bruce, hi.”
Nope. Definitely not Alf. Could this possibly be this guy’s real voice?
“Am I… in the right room?”
“Depends.”
“On?”
“Which rooooooom are you looking for?”
Is it me, or is this guy being super smarmy? Don’t worry. I’m well acquainted with smarm. Best way to counteract smarm is with prim professionalism.
“Orientation for The Trix and Monty Project.”
“This here be that room then. The others should be here shortly. Unfortunately.”
Oh no, he didn’t. This punk just looked me up and down!
“Bruce, was it?”
“I don’t know. Was it?”
“Speak to me in that suggestive tone one more time or dare to drift your eyes lower than my nose, and I’ll report you to your superior.”
“Oh no, you’ve got it all wrong.”
“Do I?”
“Totally. I was trying something new when it comes to making friends.”
“Yeah, whatever that was, it doesn’t work.”
“Damn. Remember the bookstore scene inThe 40-Year-Old Virginwhere Seth Rogen tells Steve Carrell he should—”
“Yeah, I’m going to stop you right there. Don’t take advice on women from a Judd Apatow movie.”
“No?”
“No. Though I think we can all agree that movie is the friggin’ bomb. I’m Calliope, hi. Nice to meet you. “
“Cuh-LIE-oh-pee?” He sounds my name out like we’re in a phonics class, and I have déjà vu to every other frustrating time I’ve introduced myself to someone over the course of my relatively short life.
“Yes. Calliope.”
“How do you spell that?”
