Uncharacteristically pumped and looking forward to the workday, he considers trying to access his would-be telepathy to clear the freeway on the drive to Calabasas. Then the Ghost of Overman Past warns him not to attempt too much too soon. He enters the dealership with guarded optimism, throwing off a casual “hi” to Maricela, anxious to see the reaction on Day Two of his Pennysaver-induced Life Change. The open, inviting smile the receptionist flashes his way leaves no doubt in his mind that the streak is continuing.
People around here had better start getting used it, Overman thinks to himself. I am no longer the invisible irritant who demands to be ignored. I have Lasiked my way into something greater, the potential of which has yet to be fully realized. He turns to see Hal Steinbaum coming his way, wielding a can of Diet Coke. What does this idiot want now? Overman wonders. If he bugs me, maybe I can will some sort of illness on him. Nothing serious like say, tuberculosis, but maybe a cold. Flu, if he really gets on my case.
“Nice job moving that 450 SL,” Steinbaum exclaims, slapping Overman on the back.
“Thanks, Hal,” Overman says, thinking it’s about time this putz acknowledged his accomplishments.
“There’s hope for you, yet!” Steinbaum barks, laughing as he works his way toward Maricela’s desk. “How’s my girl this morning?” he salivates.
Steinbaum is so damned obvious that Overman imagines buckets of drool dripping out of his mouth as he addresses the receptionist. What Overman can’t imagine, however, is where his fantasy will lead. In the middle of Steinbaum’s weak attempt at flirting with Maricela, his mouth literally starts to foam. He takes out a handkerchief to dab it, but there is too much saliva for the Mercedes dealer to soak it all up. The car dealer is gushing as his junior salesmen step over one another wielding boxes of tissues, each wanting to be the first to express his concern for the boss. Maricela stifles a giggle as Steinbaum excuses himself and scampers off to his office. Overman is in shock. Could he possibly have willed such a thing to happen? Was the ability to embarrass assholes like Steinbaum an additional perk of his discount metamorphosis? Or had he simply anticipated that which was about to happen? The thought of it being his doing leaves him ecstatic, but winded.
He thinks about asking Maricela to lunch. Hell, why not dinner? You can only do so much quality bonding over a Chinese Chicken Salad in half an hour. But she has a boyfriend. A buff, tattooed boyfriend, Overman reminds himself. What if she resented the forwardness of his even suggesting they get together? Perhaps the key to the connection they made yesterday was his lack of aggressiveness; the fact that he carried himself like the anti-Steinbaum. On the other hand, maybe the new perks gave him license to behave any way he wanted. It was possible that he could tell the boyfriend to go fuck himself and then, as just witnessed in the Steinbaum incident, watch that very thing happen before his eyes. It was wild, uncharted territory.
Overman decides to hold off on lunch or dinner invitations and take some time to consider the implications of what is unfolding. He also recognizes that whenever these inexplicably good things happen to him, they take a substantial physical toll. Padding back to his cubicle, Overman feels like he has just done fifty push-ups. He then realizes that he has never done fifty push-ups in his life.
As he plops down in the cheap rolling office chair Steinbaum bought from some overstocked lot dot com, the phone rings, perhaps the SL buyer calling to take delivery.
“Overman, may I help you?” he brightens.
“Yes you may, you fat fuck.”
“What do you want, Rosenfarb?” Overman’s sure he’s still pissed and is calling to arrange a re-match.
“I can’t stop thinking about that waitress.”
“What waitress?”
“What waitress? I’m sorry, I forgot who I’m talking to. Oh, now I remember. The broke, paunchy schlamazel who can apparently land any young chick he wants.”
“You mean the waitress from last night?”
“With the lips,” Rosenfarb reminds him. “She was incredible. Can I have her number?”
“Jake, I don’t know if that’s such a good idea.”
“You never were one for sharing.”
“I wasn’t going to call her. I did that to make a point,” Overman informs him.
“You weren’t even going to call her and still you don’t want to give me the number? How do you sleep at night, Overman?”
“What about Rita?”
“You despise Rita.”
“But you don’t. Do you really want to see this waitress?”
“No. I just wanted to see if you’d give me the number. And now I have my answer. Nice talking to you.”
Rosenfarb hangs up on him. What a piece of work this guy was. Overman might assume the friendship was over if he didn’t know better. Beating this head case at love three sets in a row guaranteed that Rosenfarb would continue to be part of his life, like it or not.
The phone rings again. “Overman,” he answers curtly. Better to get this over with.
“Hi,” says the sweet familiar voice on the other end.
“Hi,” says Overman, looking up. He sees Maricela smiling at him as she talks into the phone.
“I didn’t want to come over there because Hal might follow me. Are you doing anything after work?”
“After work?” Overman stammers. “Let me check my calendar.” He shuffles through a day planner that has never been written in. “What do you know? I happen to be free tonight.”
“I thought maybe you could come over to my place, have a glass of wine—”
“I’d love to, but…don’t you have a boyfriend?”
“Yeah. I really want him to meet you.”
There is a long pause. This was not how it was supposed to go, according to the calculations of a man reborn. Thus far, the unique experiences that had recently come his way had been trouble-free. This one was the most exciting, yet had a giant wrench thrown into it.
Maricela sees Overman staring into space. “Is there a problem? Do you not want Rodrigo to be there?” she asks, seemingly willing to cut the boyfriend out of the picture.
“Oh, no, I’d love to meet Rodrigo,” Overman sputters, immediately thinking what an idiot he is because she gave him the out.
“Great. I’ll email you the address. Come by around 8.”
While Overman deliberated on what his evening might bring, Jake Rosenfarb pulled into the driveway of his Laurel Canyon home, relieved to be away from the screamfest to which he has been subjected for most of the day. He had long ago learned that if his upscale Los Angeles clientele weren’t one hundred percent happy with their new plantation shutters, they would become as angry as if they were actually being enslaved on a plantation. It made no sense, but these people seemed to blame their inner unhappiness on subcontractors. All he could think about now was getting in the house, plopping down on the family room sofa and pouring a single malt scotch.
Rosenfarb
