Just My Type(12)

It makes me laugh again, and also makes me shiver a little. It feels so… intimate, him whispering like this when he knows he’s talking to me.

About wiping his ass.

Jesus Christ, what is wrong with me? Brooklyn’s right. I need to get laid. A hot voice shouldn’t suddenly wake up my vagina that’s been in a coma with no sign of life for over a year and a half.

I listen to the rest of the hour-long recording of Skanky Giggler asking stupid question after stupid question, never once giving me any kind of real information about who this Baker guy is, like why he’s being interviewed. I don’t even know why it matters. This is just a client I’m doing a job for. A client who made me laugh for the first time in a long time and has a voice like he should spend his time reading erotica from mountain tops, while birds circle him, and a gentle breeze ruffles his clothes and his hair.

Pulling my headphones off, I quickly type up an email to him. You know, just a friendly “thank you for not firing me” sort of thing. Very professional. It’s the least I can do, since he kind of answered my last email with this new file for me to transcribe. Again, it would be rude not to reply. Very unprofessional.

To: [email protected]

From: Ember Hastings

Subject: Re: Shit Mouth Transcription

Congratulations! Your mouth is officially shit-free!

I have consulted the judges, and we have determined that your answer of Field of Dreams when asked what your favorite movie is cannot be accepted. Because it’s cliché as fuck and what every guy who owns a gym would say. Don’t make me stereotype you again. (I TOTALLY AM, BTW)

Great work today, team. Maybe encourage Skanky Giggler over there to try asking a little more hard-hitting questions. While I appreciate knowing you prefer angel hair pasta over fettuccini noodles, no one else cares. Literally. I polled the entire world, and not one person cared. I’m assuming you, I don’t know, want people to read this interview. I’m bored. Entertain me.

Your completed and transcribed file will be sent to you within the hour. Thank you for your business and, please, make sure to fill out a comment card, since we noticed you still haven’t answered the question regarding death row and your last meal.

Ember “Busy Cleaning My Guns and Can’t Talk Now” Hastings

Hitting send on the email without bothering to reread it or second-guess it, I click my cursor over to the trash bin and pull out Brandon’s email with the pharmaceutical article in it. With a quick Fuck off typed above the link to the article, I send that email as well without second-guessing it. I even take a shower and put on a clean pair of leggings and a T-shirt fresh from the dryer after I finish typing up Baker’s interview and mark it as Complete. It only takes me an hour before bits and pieces of miniature Reese’s Cups are melting into the cotton over my boobs, but whatever. Baby steps. The old Ember is stirring back to life.

It could go really well, or I could wind up in prison.





CHAPTER 5





Goddamn Spray Tan


To: Ember Hastings From: [email protected] Subject: Re: Shit Mouth Transcription Due to your repeated need to tell me about your surplus of weaponry, along with the death row question, I’m just going to come right out and ask it. You think I’m writing to you from prison, don’t you? Wow. WOW. Just when you think you know a person. I’m attaching a picture of my current view, just to ease your mind.

And not that I’ve ever thought of this before in my entire life, but my death row last meal would be waffle fries from Chick-fil-A, my sister’s biscuits and gravy with a large glass of 2% milk, a Sonic blue raspberry slush—but from the drive-thru, not the car-side service, because it doesn’t have time to melt—a medium rare filet from Hyde Park Steakhouse served with a double side of truffle butter dipping sauce, four KFC biscuits with butter and honey, and two boxes of Little Debbie Christmas Tree Cakes, and not the stupid Valentine hearts, or the Easter Butterfly Cakes, or those nasty-ass Zebra Cakes. Christmas Tree Cakes only. You know, if I’m just throwing it out there off the top of my head.

I continue to stand by Field of Dreams as the best movie of all time. “Do you wanna have a catch?”

Do I want to have a catch???? You’re goddamn right I do. (SNIFFLES) Continued thanks for your dedicated hard work on this project. It must have been exhausting polling the entire world, but you did it for me. Alas, all that work was in vain. If we’re being honest, I don’t even know if I want anyone to read this when it’s finished. I think it’s an asinine idea. Who the fuck gives a shit about me and what I’m doing? I’m nothing special. (This is where you should say something really great about me to boost my spirits.) I’d really like to know who hurt you at a gym. It’s okay; you can tell me. Was it the Stairmaster? He can be a total pain in the ass when he forgets to eat lunch. Oh, please, please tell me it was a Zumba class. I’m picturing a pissed off woman standing in the middle of the room, refusing to dance, and possibly tripping a few perky people who smacked her in the face with their ponytails. I can see that ruining your opinion of gyms and the people who go there. Just because I own a gym doesn’t mean I’m a stereotypical gym rat. I do not own a Speedo, or baby oil. I have never gotten a spray tan.

Fine. I got a goddamn spray tan once, but it was for my sister’s destination wedding in the Bahamas, and I just wanted to fit in, ALL RIGHT?