could go to that fancy surf-and-turf under the hotel. Neither of them ate fish but it was the most expensive restaurant in the area. They could get steak. Or chicken stuffed with something.
‘Have a seat.’ Al nodded at the old couch in front of his desk. ‘You coming to my thing?’
Pulpy sat. ‘Yes.’
‘Good.’ Al put down his deer and picked up his camel, and toyed with its hump. ‘Will Midge be there?’
Pulpy made an apologetic face. Weeks ago, on their way home from Couples Ice Dance Expression, he’d asked Midge if she wanted to come.
‘Oh, Pulpy,’ she’d said, flushed from the laps they’d done around the rink, ‘I wish I could. But I think I’d see Mrs. Wings everywhere, and that would just be too much for me.’
‘I miss her too,’ he’d said, and she’d kissed him.
‘I don’t think Midge can make it,’ Pulpy told his boss.
‘Well, that’s understandable.’ Al was wearing a shirt with little acorns all over it.
‘Those are nice acorns,’ said Pulpy.
‘Huh?’ he said and looked down. ‘Oh, yeah. The wife picked it out. You know wives.’ Al pointed the camel at him. ‘Keep up the good work, Pulpy. Because good work is what you do, and I want you to know I recognize that. As a matter of fact, it’s high time I showed you that recognition.’
Pulpy leaned forward. ‘It is?’
‘Anybody home?’ A large, rectangular head poked around the doorway then, grinning big teeth at them.
‘Dan!’ said Al. ‘Come on in!’
Pulpy looked up at the tall man who’d just stepped into his boss’s office, with his broad shoulders and expensive suit.
‘Pulpy, this is Dan.’ Al spread his arms wide, and then romped the camel across his desk. ‘All of this will be his on Monday.’
‘All of what?’ Dan extended his huge hand to Pulpy. ‘I told him, he better take that couch when he goes! I’m bringing in chairs. I’ve got chairs that will put that couch to shame.’
Pulpy moved his own, less impressive hand up to be shaken. ‘Nice to meet you, Dan.’ He winced as the other man compressed the soft meat of his fingers.
‘Pulpy, eh?’ said Dan. ‘What is that, a nickname?’
‘He drank a lot of orange juice in college,’ said Al.
‘Ho-ho!’ said Dan. He winked at Pulpy. ‘Didn’t we all!’
Pulpy didn’t know what to say to that.
‘Dan and his wife are new in town,’ said Al. ‘They just moved in.’
‘Fresh on the scene!’ said Dan.
‘Well, then, Dan and I have a few things to talk about, Pulpy, so if you’ll excuse us –’
‘Oh. Sure.’ Pulpy stood up, and Dan sat down.
Dan shifted around on the couch. ‘How do people sit on this thing? Nice meeting you, Pulpy!’
‘Thanks,’ said Pulpy. ‘You too.’
‘Orange juice, ha!’
‘Ha.’ Pulpy’s knuckles still hurt from the handshake, but he waited until he reached his cubicle to massage them.
Pulpy sat at his desk and spread his hands out on his blotter. ‘Blot,’ he said in a quiet voice.
He looked at the few fair hairs on his fingers and wished there were more of them. He pulled out his keyboard tray and felt the bottom of it graze the tops of his thighs. He decided again to call Building Maintenance to ask them to fix that.
Pulpy pushed the keyboard tray back in, a little harder than he needed to.
Pulpy Lembeck had once been Brian Lembeck. He’d gotten the nickname in college, during lunch in the cafeteria. As he brought a glass of orange juice to his lips, some smart aleck said loudly, ‘So you like orange juice, hey, Pulpy?’
The rest of the table looked at Brian, and he shrugged. His silence apparently signalled his agreement, and the name Pulpy stuck fast. Pulpy didn’t mind – it gave him a story to tell.
The receptionist’s workstation was in the middle of the welcome area, with the white spiral staircase to her right. To her left were the communal photocopier and paper shredder, and the hall to the staff washrooms and then the staff kitchen, which contained a fridge, a microwave, a toaster, a bulletin board, and a table and two chairs.
The receptionist scrutinized Pulpy through her glasses as he came down the steps at lunchtime. ‘Going to lunch?’
He nodded.
‘What’s the weather like out now?’
‘I’m not sure,’ he said.
‘You’re not sure?’
‘I just came from upstairs.’
‘You have windows up there, don’t you?’
Pulpy glanced at the big window by the front door. ‘You’re right,’ he said. ‘We do.’
She wheeled her chair backward, gripping the edge of her desk with one hand. ‘I’m going to take a course.’
‘What kind of course?’ He opened the closet door and peered inside. There were other coats on top of his coat now, so he was going to have to dig.
‘It’s a performance-improvement seminar. The flyer came over the fax, with the registration form on it. I can sign up any time – it says spaces aren’t limited. Al said I could go. But not because I need to improve my performance. Just to expand my knowledge base.’
‘That makes sense.’ He crouched down to sift through the heavy pile of leather and wool. ‘When is it?’
‘It’s in two weeks. It’s called “Be An Exceptional Receptionist.” The flyer says, “Receptionists today must be eager envoys for their workplace.” And that’s very true. “Front-line staff” is what they call people like me, who deal with the public. I am the face of this company.’
He stood up with his wrinkled coat and nodded. The receptionist had told him her name a few years ago but he’d forgotten it, and he couldn’t bring himself to ask her again. The small, brass nameplate on her desk said ‘Secretary.’ But she didn’t like that term.
‘See here.’ She showed him the flyer, a smudgy fax page full of bullet points.
Pulpy’s eyes went to the registration part at the bottom, but she hadn’t filled in her personal information yet.
‘It talks about creating a “Samaritan pretense” that wins people over as
