Compton Associates
by
D. E. Fredd
I work at Compton
Associates. The
head control freak
is Marsha Sundstrum.
We do interior
office design,
lawyers a specialty.
Marsha’s
associates (when
we’re out
of earshot we
are merely her
staff) are Mary
Lou Weinstein,
Lily Wang (pronounced
Wong for some
reason) and me.
Lily never goes
on business trips
for prospective
clients. There
is a language
issue (pronunciation
mostly) plus a
severe lazy eye.
Garlic breathe
is also a problem.
So, when a new client is at hand, it’s Marsha at the point with Mary Lou
(ML for short) and me as her wingmen. My end of things involves practical matters.
If a giant floor to ceiling aquarium is wanted, it’s my job to tell Marsha
how many people will be killed on the floors below when the weight overwhelms
the support beams. Or how hot the tank will become when the sun comes up and fish
begin to explode. I am also the company’s computer guru and the only one
who can find the rental car in the airport parking lot.
* * *
Marsha crosses her legs any number of times while pitching our services.
This is one of the company’s chief selling features. Once the client has
signed on, they indicate what type of look they’re after. Mary Lou is an
excellent artist so she enters the picture and sketches out a reasonable facsimile
of the space being talked about. Then I’m consulted about electrical wiring,
computer stations and target dates for completion. Finally Marsha sets the price
and hands are shaken. The rest is up to the fine print boys. Chalk another one
up for the team.
* * *
We hate Marsha. Lily, who does Feng Shui design for us, put
it best. “I no like her; all time stuck up nose in air.” The three
of
us are closely united by this Sundstrum animosity. We put up with her because
we get to do what we like professionally as, after the contract is signed, we’re
pretty much on our own. And the money is great. I have a nice condo on West 20th
Street and, at twenty-eight, am socking money away for a time when I feel comfortable
striking out on my own.
Very little is
known about Lily
Wang’s personal
life. She is not
secretive; it’s
just the opposite.
Every morning
she tells us in
great detail what
happened after
work, how she
spent her evening,
and about the
morning commute
from Chinatown.
We can’t
understand a word.
Mary Lou Weinstein
lives in Astoria,
Queens and takes
care of her two
aged parents.
At thirty-nine
her dream of finding
a nice Jewish
man who doesn’t
live near the
“RR”
subway line is
fast fading (the
far reaches of
Long Island being
the ideal). In
the four years
I’ve been
with her she’s
put on five pounds
each year. I’ve
never met her
mother, but I
suspect the glasses
ML wears, her
hair style and
clothing selection
were all in vogue
twenty years ago
and heartily
approved of by
Mama Weinstein.
She is prone to
weeping over her
key board. It
takes Lily and
I minimal coaxing
before she lets
loose with how
depressed she
is over being
tied down by her
parents. We nod
in sympathy at
her plight. Lily
tries to help
by relating a
totally unintelligible
story about her
venerable ancestors
during the Boxer
Rebellion, and
then we end the
office version
of Dr. Phil with
tea, donuts and
a round of Marsha
bashing.
* * *
Though based in Manhattan, we do work all over the United States. When we travel
some distance, Marsha goes first class, ML and I are in coach. Marsha has a suite
(turn down service and complimentary robe) in a posh downtown hotel; we’re at
the airport Econo-lodge
(free HBO). Marsha
tells us it’s
all about making
an impression
on clients us
when she feels
the need to justify
her self-serving
behavior.
Marsha is just over forty, works out at a chic gym each morning, watches her weight
and looks great. She has a bit of the Las Vegas showgirl look to her, platinum
blonde hair pulled back severely into a bun and wears exquisitely tailored business
suits as well as all the designer accessories (Hermes, Movado, Prada). We know
little about her personal life other than Compton was her father’s firm
and, when he died, she took over. She was married (hence the Sundstrum
surname) but no mention has ever been made of a husband. Her office is devoid
of photos or memorabilia. ML has reported seeing birth control pills in her purse
so one can deduce a regular sex life but any partner is a mystery.
She vacations at upscale, power broker places several times a year. Upon her return
she tells us how nice the French Alps were this time of year. Or that Venice is
undergoing a change for the worse, and she will probably never go again.
And Tahiti is not all the travel experts say it is (sewage issues), but there
is a little Pacific island which she doesn’t want to name because people
will find out
about it and then her personal paradise will be no more. Lily, ML and
I always restrain our urge to beg her for the location info.
The Portland,
Maine Affair
On local trips
like Boston we
all fly together.
Boston and Providence
are day trips
so hotels are
a moot point.
Our Portland,
Maine trip last
month
was slightly different.
Marsha had lined
up two “fish”
as she calls them,
both
in Maine. One
was a new law
firm in downtown
Portland while
the other was
a boat design
company in Wiscasset,
forty miles north.
The plan was to
fly to
Portland on Thursday
morning, meet
with the boat
guy in Marsha’s
hotel suite that
afternoon, stay
overnight and
touch bases with
the law firm on
Friday over lunch
before visiting
their space. Marsha
(queen of all
accommodations)
wanted the Portland
Harbor Hotel,
but it was booked
solid with the
leaf peeping season
in full swing,
and all her bribes
couldn’t
dissuade the people
in charge that
no matter how
important she
was, there were
no rooms. If you
can’t go
big and brassy
then you go quaint.
That’s Marsha’s
credo. The Danforth
qualified nicely.
Nine rooms, fifteen
fireplaces, canopied
beds, peaceful
gardens, and plenty
of rustic charm
in the meeting
rooms to make
an impression,
plus staid, Victorian
homes in the neighborhood
for ambience.
There were no
small suites but
a ground floor
business room
was available
for our use.
We arrived at
the Danforth in
time for Marsha
to rearrange the
flowers and furniture
the staff had
set up in the
meeting room and
congratulate herself
on such an excellent
choice sight unseen.
Our prospective
client was Channing
Wentworth II.
He was a boat
architect and
builder for the
well-to-do and
looked it. Silver
gray hair, the
right mixture
of Tommy Hilfiger,
Nautica and Ivy
League charm were
molded together
in one package.
After brief introductions
there were anecdotal
stories of famous
races he’d
been in, names
dropped (as if
any one of us
had a clue to
sailing terms
or history) and
then down to the
brass tacks of
what “look”
he wanted for
the office. He
talked. Marsha
made suggestions.
Mary Lou looked
at photos of the
space and sketched.
Marsha crossed
her legs. He listened
more intently.
I made my contribution
and then lunch
was served, lobster
rolls. ML got
Marsha’s
death stare when
she asked for
fries and extra
ketchup rather
than the usual
side order of
fresh fruit salad.
We finished up
by five. Portland
has an AHL hockey
team, the Pirates,
so I thought I’d
get a quick sandwich
and take in a
game. ML wanted
to shop the Old
Port and, fingers
crossed, invited
Marsha along.
Marsha, perhaps
not wanting to
spend hours on
end looking for
cute cat figurines,
said she would
have an early
night, order room
service and study
tomorrow’s
law firm project.
Mary Lou promised,
since they shared
a room, to be
back by eight,
being as quiet
as she could so
as not to disturb
Marsha’s
sleep.
* * *
I enjoyed the
hockey game. I
sat behind a young,
obese couple dressed
in matching Pirate
game jerseys who
rang a cow bell
when anything
positive happened
on their team’s
behalf. The row
I was in (Section
104) won a free
French fries coupon
from a local Burger
King which I generously
gave to them.
There were two
college girls
next to me. We
chatted between
periods. There
might have been
some chemistry
happening with
the blonde, but
the logistics
for a one night
stand were so
overwhelming that
I just wished
them a happy life
at game’s
end and walked
back to the hotel.
It was a little after ten. I turned on Fox news. They finished a great old
duffer story; the kind where a seventy-five year old had suffered “pedal”
confusion and “parked” his Grand Marquis in the bread aisle of a local
convenience store. Great visuals of shattered glass and scattered pastries were
shown in close detail. Sorry Fox, not enough blood and gore for this tired hockey
fan. I used the bathroom, stripped to my shorts and had just finished stacking
the pillows to my satisfaction when there was an urgent pounding on the door.
My first thought
was fire so I
grabbed my pants
and wallet and
yanked open the
door expecting
to see a yellow
helmet urging
me to save myself.
Instead it was
Mary Lou who burst
past me as if
it was an FBI
raid. She was
swore all the
way to the window
overlooking Spring
Street, picked
up a drinking
glass, turned
and fired it girlie
fashion at me.
I ducked as it
hit the wall without
even breaking
and bounced onto
the bed. As she
calculated the
enormity of her
deed, I took the
opportunity to
put my pants on
and grab a tee
shirt. By that
time she was on
my side of the
room grabbing
on to me for dear
life and sobbing.
We stood there
until she, exhausted,
slumped down on
the bed, mumbling
an apology. I
was trying to
figure out what
could be causing
this uncharacteristic
behavior--bad
news from home,
being attacked
in the Thomas
Kinkade aisle
of some gift store
on Fore Street?
But, as her emotional
storm began to
ebb, the word
“Marsha”
slipped out of
her mouth.
It seems that
Mary Lou had shopped
until she dropped,
gotten back after
nine and, surprise
surprise, Marsha
was entertaining
a male companion
in the room. Through
a crack in the
door ML was handed
her cosmetic bag,
the company credit
card and asked
to please to get
another room for
the night. She’d
immediately come
next door to my
room, but I wasn’t
there. She went
downstairs but
they had no rooms
available. They
were nice enough
to call the Holiday
Inn by the Bay
just up the street
and a room was
available if she
acted quickly.
She’d started
walking over there,
got half way before
she changed her
mind and came
back hoping I
had returned.
By eleven I was
still calming
ML down. I violated
Marsha’s
number one travel rule and opened the mini-bar. I found Hennessey miniatures,
got some ice and had her sip that. She complained of a migraine coming on so she
sat in the desk chair, and I tried loosening up her neck and shoulder muscles.
There were two double beds in the room so sleeping wasn’t
an issue. But,
just when I thought
I’d gotten
her quiet, she’d
come up with another
hysterical indignation
to add to this
most recent one,
and the tension
and tears would
re-emerge.
By midnight things were winding down. She had puked up the brandy and half bottle
of Napa Valley chardonnay. We were sitting on the bed. She was slumped against
me, eyelids getting heavy. All I needed was to pull gently away, lay her down
and tuck the comforter around her. And then it began--a rhythmic knocking from
the headboard on the adjoining wall next door, followed soon thereafter by Marsha’s
unmistakable moans
of pleasure and
a few stage directions
to her companion,
to better enhance
her sensual experience.
It might as well have been a cannon blast. Mary Lou was wide awake as Marsha climaxed.
She leapt up, grabbed her shoe and was about to assail the wall before I tackled
her. “Wait, they‘re done. They’ve probably been at it since
before you
came back from shopping and it’s after midnight. Let it rest; it’s
over.”
I got her back
to the bed. She
had fully accepted
my premise when,
the Poe-like,
gentle rapping,
tapping on our
chamber wall began
anew. It was Marsha
evermore. “Christ!”
I muttered. Defeated,
I leaned down,
handed ML her
shoe then watched
as she vented
and dented her
fury (fucking
slut among other
terms of opprobrium)
upon Marsha.
I don’t know who Marsha was with. The odds favored Channing, the boat architect.
If it was him then I must tip my hat as it seemed every half hour the unmistakable
sounds of his oar being dipped into Marsha came through loud and clear.
Mary Lou, having spent all her emotion, was huddled in the corner
along the far wall, eyes shut tight, hands over her ears like a five year old
blotting out the horror of the holocaust happening around her. My
own situation was less problematic. Sitting on a bed not a foot from two people
engaged in riotous sex for hours, envisioning the attractive Marsha, her
bare feet pointed towards the ceiling and/or other positions was having an arousing
impact on me. Indeed I envied Channing, if that’s who it was, and rued my
decision not to pursue an evening with either (or both) of my nubile hockey seat
mates. Just as I was daydreaming myself into a demimonde of illicit pleasure,
Mary Lou came out of her shelter.
“I
think they’re
done. Nothing’s
happened for a
while now, but
I’m too
wired to sleep.
There’s
a nice irony.
We finally get
them to stop and
we can’t
sleep anyway.”
I nodded agreement,
thinking that
her use of “we”
was a bit too inclusive.
“You
want to go for
a walk? Maybe
there’s
an all-night diner.
We could get coffee
and Danish,”
she suggested.
“It’s
almost one in
the morning, Mary
Lou. We could
still get some
sleep before we
need to be at
the lunch meeting.”
As I was saying
this she was nervously
pacing about the
room.
“Would
the light bother
you if I watched
TV; I’d
keep the sound
on low.”
I sat up. I was tired of babysitting. I was frustrated. Marsha had put me through
sexual hell. I doubted I could ever look at her again without wondering what she
might be like in the sack. So I just blurted it out. “What
would you think
of you and me
having sex?”
Mary Lou braked
in mid-stride,
her form frozen
in the dim light
coming from the
bathroom, her
mouth slightly
open and ready
to speak if ever
her brain came
back on line.
Seeing her reaction
I backpedaled
and quickly clarified
the idea. “I
mean pretend sex.
They kept us awake
so now we make
noise to keep
them up.”
“How
do we have pretend
sex and not, you
know, be naked
and end up really
doing it?”
“It’s
easy. We push on the head board so it thumps the wall, we jump on the bed to make
it creak; you groan, I moan, and we say dirty stuff just like when you’re
really doing it except we’ll have our clothes on.”
She came over to me bright-eyed. “God, that’s brilliant. It will teach
her a lesson she’ll never forget! There’s just one thing though. I’m
not too experienced
in the intercourse department. I’m not sure I’ll know what to say.
What if it’s not the right thing?”
“Think
of all the movies
you’ve seen
or just wing it—say
whatever comes
into you head.”
* * *
At 1:15 AM Eastern
time the performance
began. We knelt
on pillows facing
the wall. ML began
by loudly kissing
the back of her
hand and murmuring
“Oh Mike,
oh Mike.”
I commenced rocking
and knocking our
pretend pleasure
boat against the
wall seconds thereafter.
She came up with
some nice throaty
moans. I grunted
a few times. She
said, “Take
me, take me—make
me a woman tonight.”
I gave her a look
and whispered
my critique that
this wasn’t
a Barbara Streisand
1970’s film.
She shrugged.
I slapped her
ample rear end
a few times. She
got the message
and ad libbed,
“Ride me,
Ride me.”
We stopped every
few minutes just
to hear if there
was any response
from Marsha, but
silence reigned.
We kept it up
for fifteen minutes
until Mary Lou
did a decent Meg
Ryan-style fake
orgasm, and we
both flopped back
on the bed exhausted.
She leaned over
and pecked me
on the cheek.
“God
that was liberating.
I couldn’t
have gotten through
tonight without
you.”
I squeezed her
hand before dozing
off.
* * *
I woke up around
seven. The sun
made a nice orange
glow to the room.
We were both on
our left sides,
my right arm slung
over her shoulder,
her rump tucked
snuggly into me.
Sometime during
the night she
had taken off
her dress and
was sleeping in
a bra and loose
fitting panties
circa 1970. There
were a few moments
of prurient thought
on my part. The
slightest gesture
from me and I’m
sure our mock
escapades would
easily evolve
into a reality.
She stirred and
wiggled herself
closer into me,
reaching up to
touch my arm for
reassurance.
She was a nice
lady, one of the
best designers
in the business.
If I ever went
out on my own,
she’d be
the first person
I want on my team.
But then there
was the thought
of an apartment
teeming with cats,
her parents in
wheelchairs being
bundled up in
blankets even
in August for
their afternoon
walks and a lifetime
of weekend yard
sales or jaunts
to the Poconos.
I disentangled
myself. She flipped
over and stared
up at me.
“Bathroom
and a quick shower,
we can do room
service if you
want.”
She
sat up, bunching
the sheets around
her chest. A more
experienced woman
would have used
a come hither
look to signal
her desires. Instead
she looked away,
bit her lower
lip and asked
me to open the
curtains more.
I showered and
got dressed in
the bathroom.
I came out and
she wanted to
go out for breakfast
if I could find
a spot. She went
into the bathroom.
I grabbed the
yellow pages and
started leafing
through. The room
phone beeped and
I picked it up
thinking it was
a wake up call.
It was Marsha.
“We
need to talk.
Come out into
the hall.”
Well, good morning
to you, Marsha
was my first thought
as I hung up.
I walked to the
door and opened
it. Marsha was
dressed in her
best professional
Jones of New York
outfit.
“Manley
and Kane called.
They can’t
do lunch. Everything’s
been moved up.
We’re to
meet them at their
space on Forest
Avenue by ten.
I can hire a car
service for you.
I’m going
to cab up in a
few minutes just
to show how ‘early
bird’ we
are.”
I nodded. “We’ll
get a cab too.
Was the number
950?”
She nodded then
paused. “I
think last night’s
charade was a
bit juvenile on
your part. One
of these days
you‘ll grow
up and learn what
it is to be an
adult.”
“It
wasn’t an
act. We’re
in love. We’d
like your blessing
for the wedding.”
“Don’t
give me that shit.
She ten years
older, outweighs
you by fifty pounds
and gives new
meaning to the
word ‘yenta.’”
“It
would be nice
of you to apologize
to her; one adult
to another.”
“I’m
one step ahead
of you as usual,
‘ride’em
cowboy Mikey.’”
She handed me
an envelope on
Danforth stationary.
It was addressed
to Mary Lou with
“Sorry!!!!”
in Marsha’s
flowing script
just below the
ML’s name.
She turned and
went back into
her room. I stepped
back into mine.
The shower had
just turned off.
“Were
you talking to
me or is it the
TV?”
“Marsha
stopped by.”
The door opened
and ML appeared
out of the mist
wearing a heavily
monogrammed bath
towel which struggled
to keep her decent.
I handed her the
envelope. She
tore it open while
attempting to
keep the towel
in place.
“She
wants us up at
Forest Avenue
by ten so we’ll
only have time
for a donut.”
I didn’t
know if she heard
me as she ripped
the letter open
with damp hands.
“What’s
she say?”
ML handed the
contents to me.
It was a check
for five hundred
dollars and another
note, Sorry--hope
this makes up
for the inconvenience.
Remember we are
all professionals
and have to work
as a team tomorrow.
I handed it back
to her. “I
feel so dirty,”
She smiled and
gave me a semi-naked
hug. “We’ll
go out and buy
some very expensive
soap when we get
home. This will
make a great story
for Lily.”
“Ah
ha, the next time
we travel we’ll
bring her along
and have a mock
threesome just
to put Marsha
into a further
orbit.”
“As
long as you’re
the one explaining
the threesome
concept to Lily.
Now, do me a favor
and get my travel
bag from next
door while I fix
my face.”
©
2007 by D. E.
Fredd
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