Darrell Vickers – Chapter Eleven You Better Bite the Head Off That So It Doesn’t Follow You Home
I don’t know what was wrong with me. No matter how great things were getting, no matter how my garden of good fortune kept sprouting new blossoms, I just couldn’t stop thinking about “you know who”. I mean, we spent some time together in the common room and we’d had a drink but it’s not like we were best buddies. If you get right down to it, she wasn’t even my type. Sure, she was beat-your-knob-with-a-claw-hammer beautiful and smelled like springtime in the mountains, but Alchemy was a little too driven for my taste. There wasn’t a lot of “sit back with a Bud and put your feet up” in that girl. Harvey had started posting a Salesman-of-the-Month plaque in the lobby. Her iridescent face had been on that thing ever since it was put up. I was making a South-American-Dictator fortune; I can’t even imagine how much Alchemy must have been pulling down. All I know is, she wasn’t pulling anything else down. Tut tut. There I go, thinking about sex again.
So the point of this is, and I did have a point, is that one morning, I stopped off at a little store on the way into work and got her a present.
Walking into her office was always a little surreal. It wasn’t like walking-into-Punjab’s-space-museum surreal, but it was certainly Twilight Zoney in its own “Alchemy works here” sort of way. My own office was buried under coffee cups and order forms and dubious magazines. Everybody’s was. But not Alchemy’s. If she wasn’t sitting behind her desk like the virginal queen in some Disney cartoon, you’d never know a human being had ever been in that room. Nothing was out of place. Think about that. It means that every time she moved something or used it, she would have to put it right back where it belonged before doing something else. How can anyone live like that?
As I walked into Chez Spotless, Alchemy was putting the phone down. Another successful sale, no doubt.
“Hey, I heard you were salesman/woman of the month again,” I said cheerily. “I bought you a little something to commemorate your achievement.”
I put a silver cup on her desk. I’d had it engraved. Alchemy looked at it in this odd way. She was obviously confused.
“What is it?”
“Why don’t you try reading what it says?”
Alchemy picked it up in her hands that could cure the blind and halt the ocean’s tide and read aloud. “Alchemy – Top Salesman Three Months Running.” She stared at it for a minute.
“Did I spell your name wrong?”
She looked up at me and every poor family’s dinner salt turned into sparkling diamonds. “If you’d been the top salesman, I wouldn’t have gotten you a present. I’d have stayed up all night trying to figure out how to beat you the next month.”
“I know. But that’s who you are and this is who I am. Viva la difference, right? This way, we’re both happy. Congratulations Alchemy, you work really hard and you deserve all the success you’ve achieved.”
With that, I turned to leave. There was glass-framed picture by her office door. I could see Alchemy’s reflection in it as I made my exit. She looked at the cup again and then up at me. Had I made a dent in her maidenly Maginot Line with this gesture? Would I one day be able to storm her soft pink beaches with my mighty tank barrel? Only time would tell.
Speaking of mighty tank barrels, the common room had now become one gigantic dick measuring competition. People only seemed to go in there to show off their expensive new threads and toys. Except for Brian. He still primarily dropped by for the pastries. Nobody was wearing anything that didn’t cost over a grand. And that included their socks. It had become very tedious, but after doing a righteous doob with the equally righteous Miss Dorothy that AM, I had a hankerin’ for something a little on the sweet side. And since Alchemy’s delectable custard machine was not yet available to me, a twenty-dollar pastry would have to do.
Randy and Punjab were standing next to each other with their sleeves pulled up. They had some major chunks of precious metal on their respective wrists.
“This my friend, is a Patek Phillipe 5059 in Rose gold. Full perpetual calendar, retrograde moon phase in a hunter-back rose gold case with matching rose gold Patek deployment. It came complete with box and papers. This is a fucking watch.”
What a dick.
“As usual, you are talking out of your pimply buttocks, my Caucasian compadre. The Daniel Roth 8730 also has the moon phase and a calendar. It is in a rather attractive white gold and comes complete with a winding box.”
There was a pause. Randy was deep in thought. You could practically hear his cocaine-enriched synapses sparking. Either that or he was taking a shit in his pants. I hear that happens all the time with serious coke heads.
“Son of a bitch! You got a box that winds your watch for you?”
Score one for Punjab. He smiled and twisted the knife. “Doesn’t everyone? What kind of a watch of any decency does not have a box within to wind it?”
Randy was still trying to process this information. He turned to me. “Have you got a box that winds your watch?”
Punjab was gesticulating wildly behind him. Sure. I’ll go along with the gag. Especially one that would keep good ole Ran’ up all night, grinding his molars into enamel dust.
“Well, of course. Shit, my watch is so finely jeweled and mind-blowingly intricate, I’d be afraid to wind it by hand.” I didn’t pull up my sleeve because I didn’t have a watch. If I want to know the time, I look at my phone.
I thought Randy’s temple vein was going to explode and kill us all. “You two are fuckers!!”
Randy spun furiously towards the door, just as Brian was coming in.
“Out of my fucking way, Amherst Loser!” With that, Randy pushed him backwards over a Brunschwig & Fils chair and stormed out.
The cinnamon swirl Danish looked especially appealing, today. I grabbed it while Brian was picking himself up off the floor.
I was mucho exhausted. It was the kind of work day that would have left Hannibal’s elephants demanding extra peanuts. Until recently, I’d been happy to take it fairly easy at the office and make a ton of money. But now, I had to make a ton of money on top of a ton of money. I was transmogrifying into Alchemy but without the psychotically tidy office and bodacious bounce buddies. This huge monthly nut I had taken on was beginning to weigh on me. I’d even cut down on my morning visits to Dorothy. Though, you know, not entirely. I still really enjoyed her company. Not to mention the cookies.
Sorry, I got distracted there for a moment, back to the story. So, I wearily swing open the big door to La Mansion and this cute blonde is watering some plant on a pedestal that I’d never seen before. She turned to me and beamed a big game show contestant smile.
“Hi.” I blithely tossed off. This was as close to Noel Coward level wit as I could muster.
“Well, hey there. I’m Gloria! Your new indoor gardener?”
Oh good. Another employee.
“Indoor?” This sounded ominously like I was also going to be paying for an “Outdoor” gardener.
“Uh huh.” She smiled and nodded her head like a synchronized swimmer. Her hair boinged around in that cute girl-hair-boinging way (You know what I mean..) “Polo hired me.”
This explained a lot. Especially the looks. And the outstanding nipple nummies. And the microscopic work attire. One has to give credit where credit is due. Polo had a real eye when it came to choosing my household personnel and their uniforms.
She recited from memory. “My duties are to water and trim all ferns, hibiscus, herb gardens and orchids. Plus, bend over any piece of furniture in the house when requested to do so.”
“Is there a reason you’d be requested to do so?”
Gloria bent her stunning little body over a big chair in the vestibule and pulled up her high-hemlined skirt to reveal her wonderfully pink, naked tush. It looked so good I wanted to build a summer house there, but I was so very, very tired.
“Can you think of a reason you’d request me to bend over something like this, now?”
I just wanted to curl up and go to sleep, but I didn’t want to hurt her feelings. I believe, when a girl is kind enough to offer up her feminines, then the offeree had better move heaven and earth to get his masculines up to show his appreciation. So, I shook myself awake, unleashed the pant troll and slid it into heaven.
And oh, the joys to be found in that sacred place were as numerous as molecules in the universe. Just watching her tight, milky bum jiggle with each thrust was pushing me to heights of such pelvic ardor that my hearing diminished. My eyesight began to wane. It was as if every unnecessary function was closing down so that all possible power and energy could be funneled to my manly apparatus. They do this sort of thing all the time on Star Trek. They shut all kinds of shit down so they can divert the maximum extra POW to the photon torpedoes.
The skirt. The chair. The milky, jiggly bum. Her little moans. Oh my! I fired enough photons into her to wipe out an entire fleet of Klingon ships.
Gloria looked back over her shoulder and smiled suggestively as I tried to catch my breath, “I’m also really good with succulents.”
I then thanked her profusely and gave her a raise.
=DV=
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Darrell Vickers started out as one half of Toronto area band, Nobby Clegg. CFNY fans may remember the cheery song “Me Dad” which still gets airplay. From there, he valiantly ventured to L.A. and eventually became head writer for The Tonight Show with Johnny Carson. Since then, he’s created numerous sitcoms and animation shows in Canada and the U.S. He still writes music and has an internet band called Death of the Author Brigade (members in Croatia, Canada and the U.S.) Mr. Vickers also had a private music mailing-list where he features new and pre-loved music. Anyone who would like to be added to his daily mailing list, just write him at Radiovickers1@gmail.com
Segarini: Don't Believe a Word I Say 
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