X

Lizzy Lemieux

I was hired to fill a quota, which I know because I was told so during my interview. The last female hire, they said, had been too soft. But they did not blame her. Some of the content was too disturbing for women. I assured them I was nothing like my soft predecessor. I had not cried in several years.

As one of the office's only women I was given a wide berth. Out of respect, and for fear of the accidental touch. Before I understood this, I was hurt. Afterwards, I reveled in clearing space around me, like a helicopter as it neared the ground. And I enjoyed being a temptation. In college I had been desired only by a select few. I did not have many attractive features. Once, I asked a boyfriend what he found most seductive about me. The gap in your front teeth, he said. Charmed, I made the mistake of asking why. He stuck a finger in my mouth and said, I wish I could fuck that gap.

I had been employed at X for three months when Lucas was hired. We had adjacent desks. I said only my name as an introduction. Grace.

He held out his hand and waited for mine. A dated gesture. I guess he was older than I was. Mid-thirties. But I could not be certain. I am unsure of men's faces. And his was obscured by a beard. Grace, he repeated. Any advice on surviving X?

The bathroom on the third floor has the shortest lines, I offered. If you go before lunch.

Okay, he said. Thanks.

I went back to my monitor. Began, again, to click through my queue. To pair offensive posts with the appropriate reason for termination. I was a moderator. An innocuous title. I was paid to be, invisibly, in the middle of things. X has offices everywhere. This X was simply a cell of the greater X. A middle American outpost, a virtual laundromat. Keeping the greater X clean and marketable.

During my 10am break, I ran into Lucas by the third floor bathrooms, which I usually had to myself. He was eating from a bag of chips. He had a second unopened one which he offered to me. It had occurred to me that he might be waiting. That I had invited him, and that he might have even seen it as an indication of interest. Which made me sorry I had mentioned it, because now he was on my private floor, expecting something. Anyway, I ate the chips. To be polite.

So, he said. Grace. This is some pretty heavy shit.

Yes, I said. But you'll get used to it.

He snorted. You're used to seeing some fat guy get fucked by his dog? Because that's what I saw this morning.

Out loud, it did sound heavy. To use his word. Pretty much, I said.

Okay.

How do you know it's his dog? I asked.

He laughed. I guess I don't. But I figure, there must be some trust built up. For that kind of, you know, intimacy.

A man who was drying his wet hands on his pant legs gave us a dirty look and Lucas leaned in to whisper, Looks like not everyone is used to it. Which made me laugh. We should go somewhere else, he suggested. Get out of everyone’s way.

Okay, I said, and did not notice where he was leading me until we were staring at a row of urinals, eating chips.

It reminded me of this song, he said, There's this line that goes, Eyes wide as a dog's asshole when it’s shitting.

But the dog wasn't shitting.

No, he said. But it's a good song. There was a long silence, during which a man relieved himself at the far urinal and Lucas shuffled his feet. I'm sorry I brought you in here, he said, rubbing his eyes. It's probably pretty weird.

No, I said, We all have our ways of unpacking.

Yeah. But a men's bathroom? That's pretty disgusting of me.

It's my fault, I said. I should have known that only the women's would be empty.

You could never have predicted this.

I pondered the urinals. It reminds me of a museum, I decided, I've never seen so many Duchamps in the same place.

This soothed him. Yes, he agreed, Very artistic.

Our fifteen minutes were up. We threw away our chip bags and went back to our desks, where Lucas made a point of not looking at me. He did, however, pass a note: Sorry for the awkward first impression. I tucked it in my pocket and glanced around. Paper was not allowed inside X. Writing utensils, too, were prohibited. But I had gone unseen. For the next hour I thought about the note, how it weighed down my body, although it was as delicate as the paper center of a fortune cookie. I thought about telling him this, and then I thought of him saying, This is some pretty heavy shit.

At lunch, I informed him of the paper ban. I didn't know about that, he mumbled, which rubbed me the wrong way. I had thought of the note as a sign that he would go to great lengths for me. A sort of defiant joke, an indication that he understood we were equally radical. But after all it had only been an oversight. Still, I didn't want to seem unappreciative. I laughed and tapped his shoe with my own. Hey, I said. It's okay.

This began a chain reaction. When he wanted, Lucas would spin in his swivel chair and tap my ankle with the bottom of his shoe to say hey. I always flushed, thinking of the skin underneath. Toes, like thumbs, have distinct prints. Sometimes, when he was zoned out, I would swivel and tap the bare place between sock and pant leg, where his khakis had ridden up. This is how we communicated: tactile morse code.

One specific touch was reserved to signal a future convening in the ladies’ restroom. It began with toe on the leg and brushed towards the heel, the same motion as flicking a light switch off. But it had the opposite effect. It closed the circuit and current flowed between us, a shocking sense of completeness. It was the signal that an intimate conversation would be had. Like when I asked, How did you sneak paper in?

Before we’re allowed to our desks, security checks our bags and pockets, and a guard wands the length of our bodies with a handheld metal detector. Lucas turned out the silky lining of his jacket pocket. A hole had formed in the folded peak. It’s old, he said, Sometimes stuff just gets lost inside.

Do you think you could lose some stuff for me? I asked.

He grinned. Sure.

So he brought a pad of sticky notes and a small pencil. The kind used at minigolf courses and silent auctions. At the end of the day we met in the bathroom. I peeled off the top note and gave him back the pad. For safekeeping.

What are you writing that’s so important? he wondered, after about a week of this routine.

I held it out to him. A list of screen-names.

Huh.

Mmhm.

What do you do with them?

I hesitated. Not much. Just check out their pages, I guess.

You're a spy!

Shh!

I mean, like a good spy! Like a vigilante. He made a gun with his thumb and pointer finger and aimed it at my chest, gently touching the midpoint of my ribs. Bam! he whispered, his fingers twitching towards the roof.

But I don’t do anything, I protested. I just look.

Perv.

Whatever.

You can’t just look forever, he said. You’re going to give in. Eventually.

I waved my hand at him as I walked out. Yeah, yeah, yeah. I said. Okay.

He was wrong, I thought, on the way home. He lacked self control. I, on the other hand, was tempered. I could look without intervening. I just wanted to know.

There was no desk in my house. My bed was an all-purpose item. I surfed the web with my laptop on my pelvis. I ate microwave meals off the headboard and disposed of the plastic containers in the bin below. I stashed weed in my nightstand and dumped the ash out into the plastic water bottle I'd drunk with dinner. I slept sporadically. Fucked even less.

That night, I made a TV dinner and a ghost account, and made my way through the list. Most screennames, I found, lead to regular people, more interested in rehabilitated wildlife than kiddie porn. Their reported posts were outliers. One had a habit of commenting on underage girls’ photos and asking them to perform sexual acts which would require surprising flexibility or bodily reconfiguration. He must have been a child himself, or else an old man who could no longer remember the limitations of limbs.

I was supposed to be satisfied, but I hungered for new names. The next day I tried to take down more interesting users, balancing the sticky notes on my knee beneath my desk. Whenever I wrote, I pretended I was scratching an itch. Around noon, one of the managers made his way over.

Your efficiency is low today, he informed me.

I pressed my knee to the underside of my desk and withdrew my hand, as if to say, See? I have nothing to hide. I'm dealing with an eczema flare up, I lied, I find it very distracting.

I hope it's not contagious.

No, I said, I think it's a reaction to my new soap.

He lifted his nose and inhaled.

It's unscented, I told him. Scents are the most common irritant.

Ok, Grace, he said. He gripped my shoulder and squeezed firmly. Feel better.

He walked away and I rolled my shoulders back, as if I could slough off whatever residue he'd left behind. A toe nudged my ankle. Be careful, said Lucas’ lingering touch. Don’t get greedy.

So I paced myself. Cut my breaks short. One or two names a day. After a while I would wake up early and revisit them. I started playing favorites. Returning to the same names over and over. I felt like I was mothering myself, always saying, Look but don’t touch.

Several mornings in a row I found myself on the same user’s page: alfredhitchcuk. I could not pin down exactly what drew me to him. Maybe it was that we were approximately the same age. Or that he had a small amount of inactive followers which allowed me to project my loneliness onto him. He kept a running list of all the movies he had watched, with new titles appearing whenever I refreshed the page. I felt as if I must have been the only one paying attention, and that he must have known. Why else would he expose his tastes so publicly, if no one was watching?

There was one flaw in my scheme. I had written down the usernames but not the reason for their post's termination. And so I did not know why alfredhitchcuck had been reported, although I wanted desperately to find out. I tried remembering. I envisioned my mind like an elastic band, which could stretch back to the moment I chose to write down his particular name in order to associate it with his particular wrongdoing. But it snapped before I could recall. One morning, I opened a chat window.

Saw your post on Being John Malkovich. You have good taste.

I didn’t get a response immediately. It dawned on me that sending a message in the morning might have given me away, exposed the fact that he was my first thought when I woke up, and that maybe I had even unconsciously fixated on him in my sleep. When I didn't receive a reply by the time I arrived at X, I resolved not to care.

We were required to keep our phones in storage lockers for the duration of the day and there was an adage for this exact scenario that I repeated to myself: out of sight, out of mind. Which only made me feel childish, as if I had lost the object permanence I was so fond of as an adult. Anyways, he had probably committed an unspeakable act, and hearing nothing would be better than hearing something I could not stomach.

When I met Lucas in the restroom to pick up my post-its, I was distracted.

I went to a show in this new DIY spot, he said, I think you'd like it.

Yeah. Maybe I would.

Then, he made a joke about how his pockets were not bottomless. I can reimburse you, I offered, unintentionally rendering him mute. It was not about the money. He just wanted to be seen as a provider. He was doing me a kindness which I accepted too freely. Instead of taking down names that day, I wrote him a note. I'm sorry for being off this morning, I said, and passed it under the desk. He tucked it away in his pocket and I was satisfied. An even trade. Plus, he owed me some forgiveness.

I did not want to become indebted. I wanted there to be an even amount of sorrys between us. For us to be equal. And to determine myself in which areas equality was important. For this reason, I did not tell him about alfredhitchcuck. Also, I was angry that he had been right. You're going to give in, he had said, and I had. But I wanted to hold off his knowing. I wanted to feel superior for just a little while longer.

To keep myself occupied, I worked through my break and made it through nearly half my queue before lunch.

Good initiative, said the manager. He held his hand up for a high five and I met him midair. Then, he curled his fingers over and interlaced them with mine. Keep up the hard work and you could be looking at a promotion, he said, not letting go.

Behind me, I heard metal clattering. Lucas stood up from his chair. He covered the ground between us in one stride, holding out his hand. Hey Rob, he said.

Rob regarded his outstretched hand, deliberating whether he should fall for the formality or hang onto me. He gave in. Grace is one of our top moderators, he said, letting go.

Yeah, she’s been showing me around.

Better use her while you got her. She could make manager by next month.

I will. We’re getting lunch today.

Right. Rob clapped his hands together. Get back to work, then, kids.

Lucas rolled his eyes and I smiled at him. We kept our eyes on our screens until lunch.

We had begun to eat together daily, at a picnic table outback near the dumpsters. Usually, he packed two pickles in a sandwich baggy, and saved the one still soaking in brine for me. In return, I brought him an iced tea.

You don’t need to protect me, I said, sitting down.

Lucas handed me my pickle. That dude’s a straight up Nazi.

That’s probably better for me. I pointed to my blond hair. 

He doesn’t even believe in the Holocaust.

That doesn’t make sense. Nazis, like, created the Holocaust.

Whatever.

I opened my tea and then his. I'm pretty sure he ate lead as a kid.

He sleeps with a gun under his pillow.

Okay then.

I won’t feel bad if he shoots his brains out in his sleep.

Me either.

Lucas licked his fingers, one by one, ending with the thumb. Somebody has to protect you, Grace, he said. You don’t even know what you need protecting from.

It was true. He blended seamlessly into the office and accessed secrets I was unable to possess. I rubbed a stain on the front of my skirt. I'm going to wash this out, I told him, and left for the safety of the restroom. There, I sat on the toilet in the handicap stall, elbows on my knees, head in my hands. I thought about the manager shooting himself while asleep. How I agreed to feel nothing in the case of such an event. How it would be a sort of vindication. Proof that something lethal could live inside something soft.

The door opened and shut with a whoosh of air. Through the crack in the stall, I saw Lucas lean against the row of sinks. Grace, he said, I'm sorry.

I picked at the dirt under my fingernails.

You can take care of yourself.

When there was no more dirt I moved onto skin. I peeled it off in thin, white strips.

You just shouldn't have to deal with that bullshit.

No. I flushed the toilet and opened the door. I shouldn't.

I stood next to him at the sink and ran my hands under the tap. The water warmed slowly. Lucas leaned in and I could smell brine on his breath as he parted his lips. He kissed me. Sort of. We were at an awkward angle, and he only managed to wet the corner of my mouth and a small portion of my cheek. Then, he pulled away. In the mirror, I saw the back of his head. Its balding center was thick and rubbery, the texture of scar tissue. If he had shot himself in his sleep this hairlessness would be the exit wound.

Not right now, I said.

What's wrong?

Your breath smells like pickle juice.

He held a hand up to his mouth and breathed into it. Shit, you're right. He covered his eyes with the same hand that had held his breath. Gross.

Watching his shamefulness was uncomfortable. He was a small man. It did not suit him to reduce himself anymore than his stature already had. While I was waiting for him to look at me, I realized that his apology had tipped the scales out of my favor. So I kissed him. I did not miss.

alfredhitchcuck messaged me back that night. I was already stoned and watching a movie that he had posted on his page. It starred a sexy blond who I could not place, which made it possible to imagine that we were the same person. Although we had nothing in common but our coloring.

Kaufman's like an actual genius. Twisted, but a genius.

Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind is my favorite.

Jim Carrey sucks balls. But other than that it's pretty dope.

If you could erase one memory, would you?

No.

I could not reply. Because I did not believe him. He had done something terrible, something worth wiping away from X entirely. And yet he had no regrets. It was almost admirable. Before I could decide on what to say, he sent another message.

Would you?

I thought about X. I thought about automatic rifles, about bullet swarms. Chest hair, penetration, chokeholds. The tips and tricks of discerning a person from a body in less than fifteen seconds. Yes, I replied. I have so much to erase.

Like what? His response was almost instantaneous.

Ever seen a man get fucked by his dog?

Yes. Not. My. Thing.

So what is your thing?

I waited to find out. I checked my email. I took an online quiz. When I looked back, he had sent an attachment. I waited for it to load although I already knew what it would be. My question had been too open-ended, too suggestive.

You into that?

Yes.

Your turn. And I want to see your face.

On this account I was completely anonymous. I did not even have a profile pic. Just several nature photos, which I had taken on a hiking kick. Even my name was veiled. It was only natural that he should be curious.

So I sent him something. An open mouthed selfie with my breasts pushed up. In some ways, it was just another false identity. I continued to reveal myself until I lost track of time. For everything I sent him, he gave me something in return. Photos for questions. How old are you? Where are you from? What’s the worst thing you ever did as a child?

I did not go to sleep until early in the morning. Only then did I remember Lucas. As if reality had been temporarily disabled. I tried not to feel guilty. I had done nothing wrong, I told myself, I owed him nothing. And yet, I stared at the ceiling and thought about him saying, You’re going to do something. An accusation. Worse, a premonition. Foresight being another piece of information I would never possess.

The next day at X, Lucas and I made eye contact only for brief intervals. He was nervous and I did not want to give myself away. The kiss remained unaddressed. It felt as if we had become a married couple who checked in at a hotel and assumed alternate identities for the night. Here we were, sitting at the bar, drinking our respective cocktails, pretending our shyness could impede our sleeping together.

In the afternoon we met in the women's restroom. It was hard to appear unfazed. Returning to the site of the kiss meant the expectation of another one. And I did not want him to question me, because I did not think I could preserve my secret.

So, he said, Anyone interesting to take down today?

In truth, I had paid little attention to screen names. I had been distracted by his proximity. And, in any case, I had alfredhitchcuck. No, I said, Just that shooting. And everyone is posting it. If I took down names, I’d be stalking half of the world.

He did not seem to hear me. Grace, he said, Am I ever going to see you outside of X?

I shrugged. Maybe. I did not want to commit to anything I might regret. Plus, I liked to keep my evenings free, for eating and smoking and true crime documentaries.

I’ve thought about this a lot, he continued, And I think there is something between us. But I don’t think I can keep sneaking around and pretending. I just want to know.

I get that, I said. And I did.

When we got off that night, I allowed him to follow me home in his car. He pulled into the driveway next to me and rolled down his window. I did the same.

Hey. Didn’t think I’d see you here.

We went in through the front door and I lead him to my room, where he sat on the edge of the bed, and I sat with my back against the headboard. I packed a bowl, took a hit, and passed it. He coughed after exhaling. When he kissed me, he crawled on top of me on all fours and I could smell ash on his breath. Which reminded me of the pickle juice, and of the balding backside of his head.

I want to fuck you, he said into my open mouth.

I thought about alfredhitchcuck. How easy it had been to show myself to him when I was just another profile. I lay on my stomach and he trailed kisses down my back. Before he finished, he flipped me over so that he could look into my face and I could remark at how uncomfortable he appeared while coming. Afterwards, he lay with his head resting on my chest. I nuzzled his bald spot.

Stop that, he said.

Why?

It tickles.

I planted a kiss in its pale center. Bullseye.

No really. I mean it.

How about this? I opened my mouth and pulled my lips back from my teeth. Then, softly, I bit down. I remembered when he had kissed me and I first noticed that patch of skin. How it reminded me of a healed-over bullet hole. I scrunched my eyes shut at this memory. Lucas felt like a dangerous thing to have in my bed. As if he might have brought the gun with him. He sat up.

Come on. We're switching.

I stared at him while he wriggled upwards, so his head was above mine.

Do you wanna watch a movie? he asked.

I had not been fully asleep but I was disoriented. Yeah, that sounds like something people do, right?

Yeah, that sounds entirely normal. He sat up and grabbed my laptop. I did not think about what he would find if he opened it and so I did not try to stop him.

What’s this? he asked.

From my angle, the screen was dark. I propped myself up on one elbow to get a better look, but immediately wished I hadn’t. alfredhitchcucks ’s profile was still pulled up on the screen, an open chat window in the corner. Lucas had two fingers on the track pad and was scrolling slowly. He labored over each image. I had a brief fantasy that seeing the photos turned him on and that he would want to fuck me again and therefore forget the ordeal entirely.

Is this guy from your list? he asked. He did not raise his voice.

Yes.

What did he do to get there?

I don’t know.

Jesus Christ, Grace. He began to shake his head slowly back and forth. This is my fault, he said.

No, I said. I didn’t mean for you to see that.

I know. He stood up. He got dressed with his back to me, as if I had not already seen him naked. We didn’t have to do this, he said, if you didn’t want to. I thought you felt the same way about me, but now I know that you don’t.

I feel something, I said. But you are both very different people. I can feel two things at once.

He finished buckling his belt. I hope he’s a terrorist, he said. I hope he blows up.

The front door opened and shut and his car started in the driveway. alfredhitchcuck messaged me later but I did not respond. I smoked the rest of the bowl and ate microwavable chicken nuggets and watched a made-for-tv reenactment of a rape and murder. There was something calming in these specials. Sometimes you could see the dead bodies' chests rise and fall. They were proof that the possibility for violence extended outside of X. Proof that, although it was encouraged, there was no drawing lines between that world and this one.

Lucas stopped bringing me paper and pencils. Which I expected and never asked about. To do so would mean acknowledging what I had done, the breach of X and of his trust. But I could not stop writing down names. I could no longer bring myself to reply to alfredhitchcuck. Every time we messaged I was reminded of Lucas, of how I was willing to give more of myself to this stranger than to him. And now I had lost them both. Although lost is not the right word. I knew how to find them.

I discovered I did not need Lucas. I snuck a marker in myself and used my skin as paper. Eventually, the names washed off in the shower, although sometimes they lingered above the hemline of my skirt for days at a time, always growing fainter, like a cut beginning to heal.

I had not talked to Lucas in several days when Rob came over and leaned against my desk. You seem a little down, he said.

I’m fine.

He let out a low whistle. Well that’s bad news, Grace. Because your efficiency has really tanked. Management thinks you might benefit from some further training.

Can you give me a few more days? I asked.

I don’t know. He reached out and rested his palm on my shoulder and gave a firm squeeze. Maybe there’s something we can do. Follow me to management and we can get this all sorted out.

I tugged my skirt down as we walked. He was a few paces ahead of me, but when we made it to a quiet hallway he fell back until our strides were in sync.

I’m really sorry about this, he said. Do you understand that?

I think so.

He smiled. That means a lot.

We had to wait for the elevator. It was quiet and I tapped my shoe, the marker rolling underneath the ball of my foot. The doors opened and neither of us moved.

After you, he said.

So I stepped inside and waited for him to press the button. I did not know where we were going. Side by side, we ascended. At one point, he looked over at me and smiled. Don’t worry, he said, I want to keep you around. All you have to do is sit through some reorientation videos and you’ll be back on the floor in no time.

Okay, I said.

Then, he reached out a hand and placed it on my hip.

I did not startle. I watched the electronic panel tick away numbered floors. Up and up.

He trailed his hand down my leg, the name on my thigh dangerously close to surfacing. When he reached the hem of my skirt I looked into his face and he looked into mine, and we both knew I would not be returning to X. He peeled my skirt from my skin slowly. One single, labored sweep. Underneath, a name in orange marker like an inverse tan line. As if I had gone sunbathing and revealed only a scant portion of myself. Or else been branded by a hot iron.