Authors: Cupideros
“No!” he pumped his fist like I was a foil going into a melodrama battle, riding in the front lines of a Crusade, and lowering my one quarter-inch wide and two-inch long silver visor, heading straight for the enemy. PR Man came back and leaned over my right shoulder from behind. His hand gripping the back of my chair not unlike some guerrilla theater action. He said in a strong masculine voice in my ear as his faced pointed forward and he pointed to the Casablanca couple on his desk. “You pierce their male hearts like a cold heartless bitch of a woman.”
I got the funny feeling of Antonio Banderas giving me one of Zorro’s romantic speeches before he donned his black mask. Somewhere my quests to avoid a wedding bet turned into a journey of epic magnitude of us against them; winner take all; no emotions allowed. From the psychologist chair into my sex therapist couch and into the military recruiter’s office in less than a minute, I went. And people wonder why there’s so much sexual violence in the military.
PR Man worked hard on transforming me into an avant-garde would-be bride who sooner or later stepped one bloody silver boot after another on the male hearts seeking a loving wife and companion. “What about the sentence I like to tell the truth faster sexually?” I tried to guide him safely out of the eleventh through thirteenth centuries, to today.
PR Man clapped his hands and sat down. He reposed himself. “Women really don’t desire much sex anyway. I suppose you should tell him what little desires you have right away. He can then please them and the relationship can proceed in the traditional fashion.”
I was too leery to laugh. “What is the traditional fashion?” I mean this I had to hear, because PR Man’s obviously attractiveness must have counted for something in the lovemaking department.
“He will annoy you, beat you, abuse and neglect you, call you names like slut, whore, make you do all those household chores and then you will find yourself finally able to be the sexual being you were born at birth, but forgot about due the brutal sexual repression farce education system our society puts females through.”
“I know I am a sexual being. Women have sexual desires. We don’t need or want males to annoy us, beat, and abuse us, neglect us. Call us names like slut and whore and pile up household chores so that we can finally be free to be the sex-loving being we women and girls truly are.” I said angrily.
PR Man stared, in quiet repose. “Occasionally it comes out. There we have it. You told the truth faster sexually. The trade shows tie-in to avoiding marriage. Keeping thinking of that street theater of sexual truth and you’ll surely avoid marriage this year.”
I giggled hesitantly. Then I laughed. Then I guffaw laughed.
Slowly PR Man allowed a smile to roll onto his thin lips. He banged his pencil on the desk as if hitting a cymbal to allow the sound to emphasize his point. “I think you’re ready for this No Wedding Bet Campaign, Megan Bedrosian. I think you’re ready.”
Chapter Three
“Megan’s Wedding Cakes and Catering is located in the business district right.”
I added information to PR Man’s conversation in a whisper. “In a little brownstone, I rent the first floor where the baker shop is located. I live in the upstairs apartment overhead.” My cell phone had vibrated eight times already while I talked with PR Man. Usually I receive at least five calls a day about pricing, delivery dates and special instructions.
Either everyone suddenly wanted to get married or Olivia already sent out her marriage men spawns. I hoped she didn’t give out my number. But worse than that, she’d call me to announce another hook-up date.
“That’s a great setup, but inconvenient for our purposes. See we want to separate your personal life from your work life.” PR Man then proceeds to call one of his rolodex mom-and-pop agencies. “Yes. You have a little furnished studio apartment you sometimes use for photo shoots out in West Artott.” He put his hand over the cell. “That’s really not too far from your place on the highway, Megan.”
“I’m used to traveling all over the city, and suburbs doing my wedding catering.” I waved him to go ahead.
“Okay. Right. Yes.” PR Man nodded. “Yeah but on and off. Not like for 365 days straight...Perfectly legal business. Yes. Some streamers. Voice Over work. Spot advertising. Right. We’ll come by and get the keys later on today.”
Somehow I felt almost sleazy—like PR Man became my pimp and I his mistress set up in the suburbs to do some whoring. I had to get things clear. “This is not a search and sex try out PR Man.”
He paused; not understanding for a good minute. His mind busy, racing on, to other parts of the grand plan. “Nooooo! You thought.” He laughed. “Strictly legal. This will be your spot advertising address to receive Wanted Personal Ads, and we’ll film you there for other promotions I have in mind.”
I gave him my anxious look. “What other kinds of promotions? I loved details when anxious.”
PR Man returned a mischievous look. “MOS means old time commercial film without sound and speaking actors to reveal your backstory. Why you don’t want to get married? Called
Germanism mit-out sprache technei
. Highly effective in leading others to interpret your own point of view using their energy and time. This will also be the place to possible record that ballad of Megan.” He started to put his cell in his pocket and gather up his graphics board. “We need to look over the place first.”
“You should know I can’t sing a lick,” following PR Man down another maze of hallways.
“You won’t have to. Just like all those talent shows on television. There’s a girl out there who’ll sing it for you. Do a good job as well.” He copied the parody of me and sped down several closed door hallways to a middle-aged woman wearing what looked like a black butcher’s apron. Even tied in a sock bun, her bedhead black hair flew this way and that. A large machine blow dried some over sized prints.
“I’ll have the bus posters,” ready by the time you get back,” she said.
“How?”
PR Man said, “This is our graphics artist, Michelle Loy. Michelle this is Megan Bedrosian.”
I shook hands with the busy woman. The green and red colored ink on her face suggested some hands-on coloring work. Like I often use different cake icing per what the wedding bride wants. “You have a firm handshake.”
“I need one for lifting these huge bus posters.” She tried to brush back a dark cowlick of black hair that fell across her right eye. “Steve loves to do things digitally. So while you were signing the press release he sent a copy of your picture to me. Steve you have the photo copy of your parody photo?”
“Right here, Michelle,” PR Man handed over the rattling, 11 by 14 photo copy. “I’ll need you to do a storyboard when I return. Maybe for a not getting married ballad.”
Michelle burst out laughing as a surprised, embarrassing look morphed on her oval face. “I love it. He’s such a crazy sense of humor. I’m surprise no gal has snapped him up yet.” She turned to me double checking the likeness to cartoon in her hand to my life-size realistic expression.
“Don’t expect my smile to grow that wide. That’s not humanly possible. Besides, I must be in the wrong profession. Everyone at my catered weddings just cries and bawls their eyes out. I don’t know why?” My eyes lit up. The woman really loved her job. Michelle appreciated the detail in the picture.
“You two are perfect for Limber & Love Public Relations and Client relations.”
“So...” I said finally confirming my suspicions. “It is a somewhat naughty name.”
“Not really, Megan,” said Michelle spinning around and starting to walk back to her huge drawing table, lit up from the underneath and tilted at a thirty degree angle. “I just have a dirty mind. Everyone else’s mind here is straight out of the 1950s.”
“Off to your adventure of meeting the Ogres and Dragons and Tyrants,” PR Man as he tapped my shoulder.
“Michelle is a fun person, PR Man.”
PR Man remained silent as we followed the invisible dropped crumbs through the maze of closed door offices. “Yeah, if you want to play the newlywed game every week. But you didn’t hear me say that,” PR Man turned around flashing his slight smile.
Suddenly we entered one of the mysterious doors and met a balding fifty-five year old man.
“Megan Bedrosian, meet the owner of Limber & Love.”
“Really. I kept thinking about the name of your firm.” Andy Strumillo had a happy face. Almost like the yellow happy face except he wore thick black rim glasses and the side of his hair was grey instead of bald. He wore a teal blue suit and white shirt. I couldn’t help but think he’d laugh out loud when hearing what type of advertising campaign I wanted.
I enjoyed his gregarious voice, like he never experienced a sad day in his life. “I laughed out loud when I heard what type of ad campaign you wanted, Megan. It reminded me of why my great great great granddad didn’t use our name for the firm.”
“I see the humor. Strumillo’s Public Relations hardly matches the fun of Limber & Love.”
After we shook hands, Andy said, “My great great granddad started the business. He used to do a lot of beach modeling contests in the early days.”
“I like the name, but don’t tell anyone,” Megan said, following Amy Steel’s conservative lead.
“Everyone says that!” Andy said. “Everyone loves the name Limber & Love.”
* * * *
“You really need a bold yellow arrow line drawn on the wall for maze challenged people like myself,” I said to PR Man.
He kept stepping as though at any minute a fire breathing dragon might step out of a door and he’d have to fight to save my life. I didn’t relish needing saving in an office. I had already had my life turned upside down with strange people trying and believing I was the single white female ready to marry.
I knew Cynthia’s motivation. Once prodded to marriage and happiness, it became impossible for other women not to pass the marriage virus on to their closest female friends. Now how Olivia managed to avoid being the object of the bet eluded me; other than not catching the flowers. She could have broken tradition and accepted my gift.
Who would know she didn’t catch the bouquet of flowers? I certainly lacked a reason to tell. We burst out of the maze again and I heard Amy Steel’s voice saying. “Maybe I’ll see you in the Robotic Park one day.”
“Good night, Amy,” PR Man said stiffly, as if Amy carried the marriage virus.
I turned back around and tried to comfort, Amy. “We’re in a hurry. The contest not to get married within a year is in full swing, from all the cell phone rings I’ve been having.”
Amy said, “Oh. That’s who is stalking you. A married man.”
I exited the door, too late to explain to Amy. “I’ll clear things up when I return this week.”
Already my life found new meaning. Except instead of poring over cake mixes and confectionary suppliers and pots and pans and ovens, I now pored over how to make myself wholly undesirable to the opposite sex. I swore never to spend more than forty percent of my time thinking about men. Now because of the bet I accepted, I needed to follow through and close out my agreement. I will not get married this year. No matter how enticing the situations or men may become.
I did have a bit of a problem. According to tradition the men take the initiative in asking the girl out. If it was the reverse, this wedding bet would already be in the bag. I’d simply refuse to ask or notice that some guy begged me to accept going out with him out on a date. Men, I realized enjoy all the benefits of dating. They can ignore every compatible marriage-minded girl in their vicinity while they chase after the bimbos and booty calls that they know will end in broken female hearts and stroked notches on the belts of their male ego. I was on the defensive, just like PR Man suggested.
I followed PR Man in my car and he drove like a maniac. He’s never had a child that’s for sure. He’s never driven a cake to a wedding either. I huffed and puffed and wanted to blow his car over. Still and all it was better than being in the same car with PR Man’s intoxicating cologne playing dance numbers on my college party memory days. Not that I partied much. I ended up a Librarian after all. He pulled into the drive way of the out of the way studio apartment.
The sleazy feeling rolled up from my gut again. I turned my mind toward positive thoughts. If he wanted to make a move on me, he certainly had Michelle Loy’s approval. All I needed was to scandalize the Triad was to be pregnant on my wedding day. “PR Man I know other ways exist to prevent me from marrying anyone before the end of the year. Please do not take those short cuts.”
“What?” he said perfectly oblivious to his own driving recklessness?
“I took a lot of risk just to follow you here.”
“You look fine. Spotless.” He started to walk off then stopped. He checked his watch. “I apologize for my wacky driving. I never realize how fast I’m going until I arrive ten minutes ahead of scheduled.”
I glanced at my watch. We were ten minutes ahead of schedule. “Next time I’ll drive or you drive, but I’m not riding the draft of your car exhaust anymore.”
“Fair is fair,” PR Man pointed. “There is our contact.”
We walked up to the guy, rather young, obviously an intern.
PR Man introduced us. “Hi. Shawn Posado, this is Megan Bedrosian.”
We shook hands. His hand shake limped like a bent cane.
“Nice to meet you,” he turned back to PR Man. “We used this for our country scene shots or our small town ad copy or video. The cozy feel is intentional. We do have a more urban studio not too far away.”
“This will be fine,” I interrupted.
PR Man looked back at me like I’d stolen his thunder. In actuality, I didn’t need any more excitement. I imagined this being a fun bet to win. It had started to turn into quite a chore. :”Trying not to get married is as hard as trying to get married,” I quipped.
Both men laughed as we entered the one flight walk up to the first floor.
Shawn said, “See, it’s easy to reach. You can move equipment in and out of the front or the side entrance to the building. “Everything is stocked with food and amenities.” He opened the door and the smelled of daffodils and petunias assaulted my nose.
“Flowery air scents.” Shawn said noticing our wide-eyed reactions. “People who love the outdoors love filming here.”
PR Man walked around and examined everything. I noticed the careful decor. Who designed this for you?”
“I have to get back to you on that one,” said the young man who seemed unable to grow a beard. He looked someone you meet in a youth hostel overseas in Europe.
The small kitchen table held ample room for two people to talk or have a cup of tea.
“Excuse me,” I told the men. “I have to answer this. Yes. Olivia, how are you? You what? Have another date for me. No, not a date,” I said walking away out into the hallway so the men couldn’t here. “You want me to go to a Lover’s Dance tomorrow night. It’s Tuesday. Who goes to a dance on Tuesday evening?” I held the phone away from my ear.