Max Friend

Maxwell Friend awoke Friday morning on the wrong side of his bed. The right side of his bed, which contained all the necessary tools of his masculinity (alarm clock, lamp, condoms in the nightstand drawer), was otherwise occupied. The sheets were pulled all the way up so he could see only the top of a greasy head, knotted and wild from a long night. Slowly, recent memory surfaced from a sea of happy-hour gin gimlets and that second round of tequila shots that he never should have taken.

There was that new intern from the department upstairs that he managed to coerce out with an offer of free Buffalo wings after work. He put on cologne and she brought half the accounting floor. It hadn’t been too bad actually. He bought a lime daiquiri for Cecile, an octogenarian receptionist who took off her wig and winged it across the bar halfway through her second drink.

He remembered finding a booth with the intern, plying her with cough-syrup mixed drinks. He knew her mouth tasted like cotton-candy bubble gum and ultra-light cigarettes and when he sat next to her the pillows of her breasts rested ever so softly against his arm.

A jukebox computer played every top-40 song ever lip-synched. The intern staged her own karaoke night and convinced him to croon “like a virgin” at least seven times. The intern ordered dessert before the kitchen closed and they spooned fried ice cream in between shots of Kahlua.

His intern had been funny and gorgeous, and no more than 110 pounds soaking wet. The hump under his seersucker bedspread, the one his grandmother bought from the JC Penney outlet for his thirtieth birthday, the hump that heaved under the covers like a beached whale huffing its last salty breath. That hump was not his intern.

The lump moved again and he knew it was time for action. He gathered up yesterday’s work clothes in a wrinkled ball and slipped his sweaty feet into the loafers by the door. There wasn’t time to find socks. It was still early, so he could splash some water on his face and sponge the sweat off his armpits with wet paper towels in the first-floor men’s room at work. It was always unlocked. Maybe change clothes in the broom closet next to his cubicle so no one would catch him fumbling with the same pair of khaki pants that he’d worn the day before.

He was almost to the bedroom door and sweet freedom only a few feet away. The timing was vicious in its accuracy. He heard the click as numbers on his radio clock moved into place then a moment of devastating clarity before the grating boom of Ted Kaster, morning host for 94.6FM “The Wave”, blasted from the radio and shook the walls of his studio apartment.

For a moment the snooze button seemed within reach but the lumbering form in his bed shot up with amazing quickness. It was still wrapped in his comforter, haunting the morning like a poltergeist of reasonably priced house wares.

The blanket began to fall away and Max immediately closed his eyes, pressing the lids together as tight as they would go. When he finally opened them, everything with the potential to blind him was covered but then there was the face.

That face…

“Who the hell are you?”

…was not one he’d ever seen before.

Her hair was brown, eyes and skin less so, with flat features lost in a face soft like cookie dough.

“Really?” Her sarcastic smile revealed pretty teeth, white like a toothpaste commercial. “That’s sure what I call pathetic.”

His mind moved frantically, choosing and discarding memories. “I don’t know you.”

She made a move to stand and the bedspread dipped perilously low. Max immediately backpedaled, holding the armful of laundry in front of his face like a shield. “You are trespassing.” He backed slowly towards the door. “I could call the police and have you arrested.”

She laughed and rummaged through the purse on the bedside table. She tossed a slim cell phone across the room to land at his feet, cracking it hard against the linoleum floor. “Use mine. It’s free.”

Max jumped like he’d been shot and grabbed the butter knife off the kitchen counter, wielding it like a horror movie villain. “Don’t come any closer.”

She raised an eyebrow at the knife, still lightly coated with congealed margarine from yesterday morning’s breakfast toast. “I’m getting dressed. Don’t freak out.”

She swept past him into the bathroom, clicking the door lock behind her. Maxwell Friend was left standing in the “kitchen” of his single room apartment, holding a dirty butter knife like it was an assassin’s dagger and feeling overwhelmingly pathetic.

It was quiet save for the sound of running water. Max walked to the locked door of his bathroom and banged on it with the heel of his hand. “Please get out of my house.”

The lock clicked and her face appeared in a crack between the door and the jam. “I know it’s hard. You’ve found yourself in a situation over which you have absolutely no control. Why don’t you do something useful and toast a bagel. I’m starving.”

Max sat at the table, nursing a cup of instant coffee, when she came out twenty minutes later, fully dressed with wet hair and a clean face. She sat opposite him with her legs crossed neatly at the knee. “So.”

Max blew out hard so his nostrils flared like circus tents. “You need to get the fuck out.”

She grinned and licked her lips. “Ooh, nice one. Is that all you’ve got?”

He pushed the table hard as he stood, sloshing hot coffee onto the Formica top, and the smile on her face faltered. “If you don’t tell me who you are, right now, I’m calling the cops so they can lock your ass up for being a fucking maniac.”

“Okay,” she said, making a calming gesture with her hands. “My name is Julie Jones.”

“And…”

“And…” She gave him a prompting smile. “You really don’t know me, do you?”

“No.” His gaze was steely. “Should I?”

“We work in the same building. We’ve shared an elevator at least three times a week for the last five years.”

His gaze was blank.

“Doesn’t ring a bell?”

“No.”

“Well, you sure do know how to make a girl feel special.”

Max leaned back and steepled his fingers. “I only have one question for you.”

Julie leaned forward, smiling. “What’s that?”

“Where the hell is my intern?”