The Girl with the Man with a Plan Ch. 01

Chapter One -- Recruitment

Alright, here's the thing. The average reader probably wouldn't make it very far into this story unless I bait the hook with a little tasty morsel of literary expectancy. So, I'll start with a spoiler alert. (Everybody loves spoiler alerts.) This will have a happy ending. There. You know. However, if you want to get there, you're going to have to consider some ... unpleasant concepts.

If you read fiction, you should be used to that. A lot of current lit starts out by asking you to believe in something you would ordinarily never even consider. Everything else makes sense ... but the author insists that you blindly trust in the "truth" of some off-the-wall concept. Like ghosts. Or vampires. Or aliens. Mine should be a little easier to swallow, because people like me DO exist. You don't just have to take my word for it. Look it up, if you don't believe me. We ARE real.

I am not well. I have a few ... emotional issues. And that would be putting it mildly.

Mine will be a story of the relationship between good and bad; acceptable and abhorrent; moral and evil. Pick your own group of descriptors. Doesn't matter. All the same. The difference in this situation is perspective. If you've ever read any story about this sort of thing (assuming that it's written in in the first person, like my story is), then you tend to root for the narrator. He's the good guy, right? He's the fellow who fights what is bad and bests those who are abhorrent and vanquishes evil. Right? It probably wouldn't be very entertaining if the point of view was the bad guy's, now would it? But obviously, that's what I'm about to attempt here.

And, as for what IS good and acceptable and moral in our story; well, that describes HER, not me. SHE is one you will inevitably be cheering for in this narrative. Certainly not me. And, since it WILL have a happy ending, she will be the one who comes out on top in the struggle. Right? Right?

Now, don't get me wrong. I am not inherently evil. Well, maybe I am. Quite frankly, it wouldn't make that much difference to me, one way or the other. But you need to get your terms straight. I am NOT a psychopath. I AM a sociopath. You need to be able to tell the two apart before we begin our tale. Don't turn me into something worse than I already am. And believe me, what I already am is undoubtedly bad enough to begin with. You might be able to effectively argue that all psychopaths are sociopathic. But the opposite is certainly not the case. Point in fact: me.

I do NOT go around pulling the wings off flies or drowning puppies. That would be unacceptable. The thing that's going to blow your mind is my reason WHY it's not acceptable. I couldn't care less about flies (and, if you've ever been on the giving end of a flyswatter, neither could you). Never really cared much for dogs, either. But I would have to ask myself: What are the benefits? What are the costs? What's the point? How would I gain by doing something?

Make sense? The psychopath kills and maims and hurts because he likes it. The sociopath just doesn't give a shit one way or the other. He doesn't hate the world around him. On the other hand, he certainly doesn't love it, either. The world just ... IS. So are the people in it. I can truly say that I've never really hated anyone. On the other hand, I've never loved anyone, either. People just are. Like rivers or buildings or taxes.

Oh, I still have pretty much the same wants and desires that anyone does. I have goals. For example, I like sex. A lot. I get a big kick out of it. I like the way it feels. Likewise, I crave power and money. But I really couldn't give a shit about how those around me act or feel as I achieve those goals. Hurting a sexual partner (either physically or emotionally) would normally not matter a whit to me. The problem, as far as I'm concerned, is not the feelings of another human being, but rather the repercussions which might ensue by causing that pain.

It's rather walking a fine line when a man has no conscience. On the one hand, I simply don't care about people at all. On the other, I constantly have to worry about the consequences, either socially or legally, that I might face by doing almost anything. I am the reason governments write laws. I am the reason they think up punishments.

The year was 2019. I saw her on a chilly October noonday, down of the first floor of our building in the cafeteria. I have reason to remember that it was a Friday. I was at a table near hers, but not adjacent. She had joined a group of secretaries because there was space at the table, not because she had been invited. Most of the others (five girls and one guy) were eating taco salads because that was the special. I was eating a taco salad, too; though I had almost immediately regretted that choice, and I spent most of the meal picking through the thing in search of some hidden appetizing morsel that wasn't overtly presenting itself to me.

The others seemed sublimely intent on ignoring her; and she, in turn, appeared to accept this state of affairs, as if the tableau was a comfortable one. The conversation at the table was a little loud, so everyone who sat around it could hear; but she never spoke, never commented, never contributed. Until, suddenly, she did. And THAT drew my attention. What that comment was, and why she said it, and why I found it so fascinating will all be explained soon. But it's important to note that, while her question was answered, it was without undo notice or added comment; and it held no interest to anyone around her except to she herself. And to me. It most definitely mattered to me. I rose from my picked-over meal and abruptly left. Destination: HR.

Two hours later, there was an almost-nonexistent knock, and I looked up from my desk to see her at my open office door. She was about to knock a second time, but snatched her hand back as if the portal was ablaze. She met my inquiring scrutiny, and then forced her eyes toward her shuffling feet. She was blushing for some reason.

"Mister ... Mister ... Baxter? The receptionist in Personnel said you ... said you wanted to see me?"

I studied her intently; and, since she was looking at them, I started at her feet. Plain flat shoes. Cheap. No stockings on legs that held my interest for a moment. Nice. I decided her legs were most definitely her best feature. If I had my way, that wouldn't be the case for long. Slender waist. Not much up top, but that didn't matter. We would be able to do something with the hair, too, but that was a canvas we would paint later.

And then there was the face. That poor face. She wore very little makeup, which made sense. Lipstick would have only drawn attention to a mouth that was much too wide, sitting below a long, pointed, almost hooked nose. The eyes were nice, but overly prominent cheeks made them appear much too close-set. Still, I would not have called her ugly. Plain. She was painfully plain. She was the type of girl most people wanted not to notice, and her demeanor seemed to beg them to do just that.

"Are you Polly?" I asked, rising.

Startled, she took a step back. "Yes?" Her meekness surrounded her, an ineffective suit of armor.

"My secretary had to leave," I lied, advancing. She shuffled backwards, away from me, until her butt hit the edge of the outer desk, and she wound up half-sitting on its edge. I pretended not to notice. "I want you to fill in for the rest of the afternoon." I pointed, and she forced herself to look. "I need you file those two boxes of client data ..." I shifted, and she turned her attention, "... in those top two drawers of the file cabinet."

Her hand came up involuntarily, and she ran her fingers along the tops of the files in the box. "Mr. Baxter, I'm just a temp hired by the typing pool. Surely, you wanted someone from the secretarial pool? I don't know why they sent me."

"They sent you because I asked for you. Now, start sorting and filing. I'll be going out for an hour or so. I'll check your work when I get back."

She studied the boxes. "How do you want them sorted?"

"I want them sorted accurately and efficiently. I want them sorted so that you can find the right one immediately when I ask for it. I don't care about the particulars. Just do it. Oh, and give me your shoes."

"But shouldn't your secretary ...?" She paused, shocked. "What?"

I sighed in exasperation and held out my hand. "Your shoes. Give me your shoes."

She was already using the toe of her right foot to work off the heel of her left shoe. "W ... Why?"

Oh, perfect. She was going to be just perfect; I could tell already. Even with the most outrageous request imaginable, she was instinctively submissive and obedient. I said nothing, simply stood there with my hand out toward her, and she bent down, picked up her shoes and handed them to me. "I don't understand," she murmured, barely above a whisper.

I turned and sauntered back into my office. "You don't need shoes to sort files," I groused in as crabby a tone as I could muster. I put her shoes in a plastic shopping bag, then carried it back to the outer desk. "Your personnel data card in HR says you weigh 105 pounds. Is that correct?"

Her mouth fell open in shock. Dumbly, she nodded. I turned to leave.

"No!" she suddenly interjected. Heaving a sigh, I paused and turned back, meeting her eyes, which seemed frantic for a moment, then resigned. "One-ten," she said softly. She thought another moment and added "Without shoes."

I simply inclined my head in recognition of this new factoid and headed for the elevator. "I'll be back in an hour and a half. If anybody calls, take a message."

My own shoes have rubber soles, though I'm not sure why. If I wanted to make an impact on someone, you'd think that hearing me coming would better suit that purpose. And yet, I tend to sneak up on folks; which is exactly what I did when I returned, slightly behind schedule. Realizing that she didn't know I was there, I paused and watched her for a long minute as she neared the end of her task. I was astounded, and not a little impressed, as I realized that she was not just stuffing folders into file drawers. She was pausing to visually scan each one, flipping pages to familiarize herself with the contents, before carefully choosing where the file should reside. I'm not sure what alerted her to my presence, but she suddenly jumped a little and spun to face me.

"Mr. Baxter! You startled me!" We stood staring at one another for a long moment before she ventured further. "Mr. Congreeve's office called. I took a message."

I was trying hard to judge her feelings, her character, her limits. She was breathing deeply, probably from the shock I had given her. I could see her nipples outlined in the front of her plain white blouse, though she was obviously wearing a bra, as well. I hoped that my gaze hadn't lingered there overlong; and I forced my eyes to the file cabinet.

"Tell me how you sorted them," I ordered gruffly, completely ignoring her comments.

She blinked. "Um ...." She turned toward the files and once again ran her fingertips gently, caressingly, along the little tabs at the top of the folders. In her meekness, her pride showed through. This was something SHE had done. At least for a little while, this had been hers. "The local contracts are in the second drawer. There are more of them, so it's fuller than the other." She shut it and pulled out the top drawer. "International contracts are up front here. Then the three military folders; and then finally, the other out-of-state files." She slid the drawer shut and turned back to face me. She desperately wanted to own this victory. Her posture screamed her need for praise.

"What did Congreeve want?"

The question stung her. "Um ... It was just his secretary, really. He had told you that he intended to call you tomorrow; but now he's playing golf. He wants you to call him on Monday."

I nodded. "It's five o'clock. You probably catch the number six bus. You should leave."

I could see it in her eyes. The question. Not about my harshness or lack of interest, but about how I knew which bus she rode. It took all of my will power not to smile, but I pulled it off.

"I ... I ... My shoes."

I handed her the large department store shopping bag. "They're in here." She took it automatically. "There's another pair in there, as well," I continued smoothly. "I asked the lady at the store to pick a pair that matched the dress."

Dumbly, she opened the bag, and she peered inside as if she half-expected something to jump out at her. "The dress? Oh, my God! Mr. Baxter!" With a shaking hand, she pulled the top part of the garment out and stared at it as if it was a sacred artifact. "What ...? Why ...?"

"For efficiency's sake, Miss Pike. I wanted to take you to dinner tonight. I saw that dress in a store, and I decided that I wanted to see you in it. Your shoes didn't match, and so I bought you a pair that did. Simple. I got your address from HR, and I'll pick you up at seven. Now, hurry or you'll miss your bus."

Her hand went instinctively to her hair. That must be some sort of reflexive reaction peculiar to the female of the species. "You ... You want to take me out?"

I heaved an exasperated sigh. "A date, Polly. Yes. I'm taking you out. Dinner. Dancing. Etcetera. Etcetera. Pick you up at seven. Unless you miss your bus. Go. Now."

She picked up the shopping bag and took a few tentative steps in the direction of the elevator; then she paused and turned back. "Where are you taking me? I can meet you there."

I wasn't expecting this, but it didn't shock me. "No. I'll pick you up. Go."

She stood still, marshalling strength she didn't possess. "I ... I don't live alone."

I nodded. "Yes. You live with your brother. I know. It's in your personnel file."

"And his kids," she said meekly. I gave her a questioning look. "And ... and his wife."

"Ah," I mused aloud. "His wife. It's the old 'Evil Sister-in-law' routine, is it?"

"She hates me," Polly muttered softly, casting a look left and right to see if she was being overheard. "She won't like the idea of me ... doing something ... fun."

"Do. Not. Miss. Your. Bus," I ordered firmly.

She spun and sprinted ten steps before coming to a sudden halt. Frantically, she dug in the bag, tossed her old shoes onto the carpeted floor, and stepped into them. Then, she continued her run in the direction of the elevator, getting there just as the doors were closing and squeezing inside.

Lazily, I wandered over to the southeast side of the floor, meandering between dozens of cubicles until I came to the glass wall; and I peered down at the corner of Market and Forbes. I saw her running, but she made the bus with plenty of time to spare. In fact, she wasn't even the last one to board. Smiling thoughtfully, I turned back toward my office. God, she was perfect!

An evil sister-in-law offered a tantalizing challenge; but I resolved not take too many risks. Polly was the solution to ... well, everything. Still, settling with the sister would only draw her closer to me. If I played it right, she might even see me as some sort of savior.

I glanced around the floor and its cubicles and offices and rapidly disappearing employees. This could be it. This could be the one. It was, by far, the most spectacularly diabolical plot I had ever conceived. This could all be mine.

And it all hinged on plain young Polly Pike.

-----------------

The little house was north of the city, east of Ross Park. The area had built up as a blue-collar area, as had most of the neighborhoods in Greater Pittsburgh; but the coming of the mall and surrounding shops had lent a "Yuppyish" sort of vibe.

I stopped my Prius by a curb across the street, and I studied the battered pickup truck and older model SUV in front of the dwelling. The one-car garage was obviously too packed with junk to allow parking a vehicle there. I had done a couple online searches for the brother, but nothing came of it, and I wondered if unemployment might have entered into the equation recently.

Oh well. In for a penny, in for a pound. As I crossed the street, I reached into my pocket and pushed the "lock" button on my car remote. There was youthful shrieking from somewhere deep within the dwelling, but a commanding female voice put an end to whoever or whatever was making the sound. I rang the bell.

The man wore a pair of tight-fitting blue jeans and a stained white tee shirt. "We ain't religious," he told me flatly.

"Amen to that, brother," I told him. "Neither am I."

He studied me more closely. "Waddayawant?"

"I'm here to pick up Polly," I told him, giving him a smile that displayed my dentist's hard work. "We're going out."

"Polly? No shit?"

"No shit."

"Geeze. Whatdaya think of that!?" he exclaimed with amazement. "Come on in, pal! Want a beer?"

I followed him down a short, cluttered hallway that was devoid of pictures, and into a steamy kitchen. "Naw. I'm driving."

"What's that gotta do with anything?" he asked. He reached into a somewhat modern refrigerator, extracted two cans of Iron City and tossed one to me underhand. I caught it neatly, but placed it unopened on the kitchen table, which had been set for five.

"Really," I said flatly. "Not right now. Thanks anyway. Maybe when I bring her back."

Two children, issuing noises that left no doubt as to the source of those shrieking sounds, scrambled into the cramped room, and came to an abrupt halt, staring at me as if I was some sort a space monster. They were followed by a woman of perhaps thirty-five, wearing a flower-print dress. She looked older than her husband, and for some reason, I wondered whether or not the kids were his. She, too, halted and stared. "Who are you?" She reached up and patted her hair. Must run in the family.

"He's takin' Polly out on a date!" the man announced loudly.

"Say what?" the woman retorted. She looked very pointedly at me. I was expecting just about anything; and, so as far as I was concerned, the ball was in her court. Did she feel that? My total lack of interest in her and absolutely anything she thought? By my reckoning, there were exactly nineteen ways she could attempt to prevent this event, and I had a counter for every single one of them.

And then, there she was: the main character in the evening's drama, wide-eyed and blushing. Every head turned toward her. I'm not sure what the dark blue material was. It was shiny, like satin; but it was more like a thick chiffon, if there is such a thing. It really was a beautiful dress; but alas, it was never meant for a woman like Polly. Her frame was too narrow up top, despite my mathematically exact description to the sales lady at the store; and the narrow straps were always just shy of slipping off her shoulders. Those thin straps, of course, meant no bra. The perky nipples that had attracted my attention earlier in the day were almost screamingly prominent in this thing; and they only magnified the fact that they were perched on very small breasts. Her legs looked good, though. Very good, in fact.

She had worked hard on her hair, and it showed. Today, there had been no curl to it at all; but she'd managed to impart a bit of a wave that caused the brown flow to lightly caress her almost-bare shoulders. She tried valiantly to smile. I was glad she hadn't attempted too much in the makeup department.

The young boy and girl turned toward each other and said in perfect unison: "Aunt Polly has a date!"

The boy rounded on his mother. "If Aunt Polly's getting married, can I have my room back?"

But the woman wasn't listening. "Where the FUCK did you get that thing?" she screamed, spittle spraying. "That's gotta be a four hundred dollar evening dress! It's fuckin' Dior! What are those shoes? Prada? You told us you didn't have any more money! You still owe us three weeks room and board! You're behind on your tab!"