Total pages in book: 106
Estimated words: 99356 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 497(@200wpm)___ 397(@250wpm)___ 331(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 99356 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 497(@200wpm)___ 397(@250wpm)___ 331(@300wpm)
Anyway, I’d bopped out on the streets of Manhattan–a city I still couldn’t quite believe I lived in. Like many people, I’d fantasized about living and working in New York for years. I’d imagined it would be romantic and exciting and life-changing. Honestly, it was all of those things. It also stressed me to high hell, but I was getting better about that. A text came through on my phone from Marley, a friend from Pollard who works in finance. I’m paraphrasing here, but the exchange went something like this:
Marley: Are you coming in today?
Pearl: Yep. Why? Are my clocks wrong? Am I late? Is Jonas looking for me?
Marley: No, no, and no. I just thought you could use a day off. I can run it by Jonas for you, if you want.
Pearl: Why would I take today off? I’m already dressed. I’ve got my coffee. I’m wearing one of my favorite outfits.
Marley: So take your coffee, cute outfit, and go chill in the park. It’s beautiful and warm out there today.
Pearl: Why does it feel like you’re trying to get me to stay away from work?
Pearl: Is there something I shouldn’t see at work?
Pearl: I’M FREAKING OUT! WHAT IS GOING ON AT WORK?!
Marley: Just skip today, Pearl. Please. Trust me.
And that was where the conversation ended. I was no detective, but all of my investigative senses were tingling. Hard. The ESPN was blaring at full volume, and something was absolutely amiss.
Pollard Marketing composed the 8th floor through the 12th floor of the Metford building in the Upper East End. Everybody on my floor worked in design.
Every single person on the floor was gathered around the cork board right outside the elevator. I had to nudge and push my way through the crowd. First thing in the morning, I was five foot six in the morning–you lose a little height throughout the day as you squish down and compress, and you can trust me on that because I’ve measured it. I could barely see anything except the suit-clad backs of my co-workers from my low vantage point.
“Excuse me,” I said, heart still banging away like it was auditioning for The Blue Man Group.
Everybody was murmuring and whispering. There was excited chatter like they were gathered around a dead body. Was somebody dead?
Was I dead? Was this how it happened when you died? You go back in time and show up to work to watch everybody gossiping over your corpse? No, Pearl. That was the anxiety talking, and my anxiety had no business talking. My anxiety was like the constantly high friend whose paranoia made them wonder if the house plants were bugged with listening devices and thought the mailman was their stalker because he drove by the house every day, rain, snow, or shine. It was a nearly constant voice of irrational fears I had to work to keep at bay. If that didn’t work. I needed to simply ignore it.
The last two men finally parted enough for me to see what the fuss was about. The entire corkboard was plastered with the same black and white image. Little cheerily colored thumb tacks were stuck at the top of each page. Only one paper was different–slathered with thick red text almost like it was written in lipstick.
I squinted, moving even closer until I was in front of the crowd. It took my brain a second to piece together what I was seeing. It looked like a woman was sitting on the copy machine bare ass naked. But that wasn’t the worst of it. There were two large, masculine hands planted on either side of her ass and… Yes. That was a pair of balls between her legs. It wasn’t completely clear from the image, but I would’ve bet my grandma’s knitting collection I knew what I was looking at.
That was P in the V right there. Sure as day. I could see the squished, sad little sack. There was a hint of shaft. There was some more smooshed up stuff right there in the valley. Yep. I didn’t even need ESPN for this one.
For a split second, I felt relief. This was what Marley was worried about me seeing. She probably thought with my tendency to overreact and freak out, I’d lose my mind when I saw this. But sex? Come on, Marley. I was a big girl–not literally, because I was more like a below average height girl, but emotionally? Big. Very big.
So what was…
And then I saw it. The tattoos on the fingers. The splayed hands of the man next to the naked ass. There were letters inked into the pad of each finger. “S.U.C.K.I.T.D.U.D.ES.” And yes, the last finger had two letters on it, because the owner of the tattoo had been drunk and thought it was worth breaking the pattern of one letter per finger to make sure all the dudes were told to suck it, not just the one.