Fluffy, Page 2

  “More like television, I think. I’m not sure.”

  “Oh, my God, Mallory. This job sounds like it’s p–”

  My phone dies.

  One other thing about Perky: She’s always right. I do need to charge my battery.

  I love her enthusiasm about my new job, though. I’m sure the next word out of her mouth was going to be “perfect.”

  But I frown at my dead phone.

  Hmm. I called Perky to tell her where I’m going. To be my safety net. Every woman knows that you don’t go somewhere alone to meet a stranger you communicated with on the internet. That’s how people end up chained to basement walls or tucking a fifty-six-year-old man into bed while changing his diaper and feeding him breast milk he bought on eBay from a bottle he trashpicked at the local children’s consignment shop.

  Don’t look at me like that. This exact story was covered in a podcast series and the outcome was just as bad as you think.

  But I’ll bet even he had a date to his high school reunion.

  My phone battery’s dead, so I can’t map the rest of the trip, but I remember the address. 29 Maplecure Street. Pfft. As if maple ever cured anything. Maple bacon, maybe.

  Maple bacon donuts? Definitely.

  Great. Now I want a road trip to Portland to the Holy Donut and to have a date with a box of bacon-crumble-covered maple potato boyfriends. You can’t have sex with food (American Pie excepted), but it makes for a fine companion when real men aren’t in abundant supply.

  Speaking of men, as I pull up to 29 Maplecure Street, I see a cluster of them, three in a circle, all smoking. Beards abound. At first glance, I assume they’re a moving crew.

  But they aren’t wearing matching t-shirts with company logos.

  Hmm.

  As I put the car in park, I take a deep breath and steel myself. Meeting new associates is always nerve wracking. My grey knit dress from Athleta should be just right, the intersection of polished and cool with enough functional stretch for bending and lifting. Real estate agents dress up to look successful; the interior designers I occasionally meet dress up, I think because it's their nature to choose beautiful things.

  And they accessorize. I've got big silver hoop earrings and an armful of black beaded bracelets.

  “You’re fine, Mal,” I tell myself as I step out of my car. I am my own cheering section. Running a hand through my curly hair, I briefly wonder if I should have done a sleek ponytail. One of the guys looks up and sees me, saying something to the others. Like a herd of gazelles noticing a large lion nearby, all the heads pop up in unison.

  I give a small wave, my fingers like wind chimes.

  They look away.

  “It’s just a four-hour gig,” I mutter, my pep fading fast as I sling my black bag over my shoulder and start toward the front door. The wide walkway is laid in a simple pattern of beige stone. Beige is such a boring word for the subtle kaleidoscope of color that gives the stone texture and nuance. My mother thinks that beige is as exciting as clipping your toenails, but there are thousands of shades in this world designed to evoke emotion.

  And each is important.

  Whoever owns this house takes fabulous care of it, little details emerging into a gorgeous, discerning whole. Money makes it easy to maintain a showplace, but cash alone isn’t the key.

  You have to care.

  “Hi, there,” I say to the bearded trio as they grind out their cigarette butts, carefully rubbing them in the perfectly manicured grass then cupping them in their palms. Their care impresses me. I’m not a fan of smoking, but what really bothers me are smokers who leave their butts everywhere.

  One of the guys, blond with a full face and a ZZ Top look, holds the door open for me. “Ladies first,” he says in a barrel-chested voice.

  The other guys laugh. Being mocked by men isn’t new to me–I got plenty of it in high school, for being the band/drama/honors/newspaper geek–but I’ve learned to ignore it and move on.

  “Thank you,” I say with grace they don’t deserve, walking up the granite steps.

  “No, thank you,” one of them mumbles, giving me a wink and a short, appreciative whistle as I walk up. “Nice ass.”

  I blush. Wasn’t expecting that.

  The house is extraordinarily designed, open concept with high ceilings, and I should appreciate it more, but my ears are ringing from being sexually objectified by a guy who looks like he’s an extra on Hardcore Pawn.

  I was just turned into a piece of eye candy.

  Me.

  I’m not sure whether to be flattered or horrified.

  After a few seconds, I decide. It’s not hard. I am a mature, capable, competent professional with a high degree of emotional self-regulation and a sharp business mind. I know how to handle myself in any given situation. Perceptiveness and the ability to pivot to gain leverage are key in my profession. The answer is clear.

  Let’s go with flattered.

  Down a wide hall and to the right, a giant kitchen beckons. From what I can see, the central island is bigger than most boardroom tables. Aha. This must be where the cooking show takes place. I stand in the foyer, hesitant. A few people are walking around, glancing at me, but no one approaches to introduce themselves.

  Asking for “Spatula” seems rather gauche. This is the point where I realize I have no idea what his real name is. I’ve been hired by a kitchen utensil used to scrape up wet, goopy stuff.

  Huh.

  Well, I might be a bit intimidated, and I may be out of my element, but there is one thing any good stager can do: arrange a room.

  So I begin.

  To my left is a sitting room. It's mostly empty, but there is a big ottoman, a red circle made of leather, and a cream-colored sofa. Oddly enough, the sofa–an overstuffed, three-cushion monstrosity with huge arms that looks like something out of a bad QVC television set–is horribly positioned, at an odd angle, as if someone brought it in and just put it down anywhere. Starting to work before I’ve even met my boss, I try to shove the sofa into better alignment, but it's surprisingly heavy. Instead, I grasp the red ottoman and move it, positioning it in front.

  This furniture definitely doesn't match the house it's in.

  I scan the room. Metal stands with huge lights are set here and there, with big power packs and heavy cords on the floor nearby. They must be doing the interview with the chef in here. In a corner, I see an aquarium filled with small orange fish. A long, narrow table behind the sofa holds a giant gold bowl, cracked like a mirror mosaic.

  It is overflowing with small packets of ibuprofen.

  And bottles of coconut oil.

  I pause, bent over the red circle, mind roaming. I know coconut oil is all the rage these days, so maybe it’s just trendy, but what a weird decoration in the living room. Or maybe it's a cooking ingredient?

  My eyes pick up on three red packets that say “Ribbed.” Wait a minute. Are those condoms? I stifle a laugh. As a home fluffer, you can never underestimate how quirky some people can be. At my old job, we once fluffed a house full of one-eyed dolls dressed to look like Liberace.

  Riding black horses.

  But condoms in a bowl are a little bizarre, especially in a group setting. Coconut oil breaks down latex. Is someone here actually stupid enough to combine the two?

  And–wait. Why would someone here combine the two?

  “Hey!” one of the beards shouts at me from across the room, interrupting my thoughts. “Why’d you move that?” He points to the red ottoman.

  I crook my finger at him and beckon. My first impulse is to apologize and move everything back, but then some stronger part of me kicks in. I’ve been hired for my expertise. This client is ignoring me. Some employers want a lap dog. A yes person. Others need you to show them you’re in command in order to get respect.

  I lift my chin up as I motion for him to come to me. “We need to move this sofa,” I declare.

  “Why?” The other two beards look at me, as if they are one hive moving in uniso
n.

  “Because the energy is all wrong.”

  “Energy?”

  “Look at this,” I declare, moving my hands in grand gestures, taking up space before I plant them on my hips. Power pose. Research shows I can increase testosterone levels in my body just by putting my palms on these large-and-in-charge hips.

  Large, anyway.

  “Look at what?” ZZ Top seems intrigued, his dark sunglasses suddenly lifted up to reveal intelligent blue eyes framed by wrinkles. He’s about my dad’s age and looks calm and resigned, like men in their fifties sometimes do. He knows himself, and unlike the other two beards, who are poking each other and snickering, he’s actually willing to listen to me.

  “Feng shui living room principles say you’re inviting serious medical harm if you position this furniture the way you have it.”

  “Medical harm?” ZZ Top says, moving his hand toward the other two guys to shush them.

  A small man with a concave chest, wearing a moss-green henley shirt and old, paint-splattered jeans moves swiftly in from the hall. His baseball cap says something about the Red Sox, which is about as common in the Boston suburbs as seeing someone drinking coffee from Dunkin’ Donuts.

  “Medical harm?” the small man echoes, mouth pursed. Thick wrinkles around his mouth tell me he’s a serious smoker. The reek of cigarette smoke that fills the space between us is a tipoff, too.

  “If you want to attract prosperity, avoid pain, and keep the energy flowing properly, you need to move the entire room around,” I insist.

  “But the lighting’s all set,” ZZ Top says. “Sound checks done. It’ll set us back an hour if we have to redo it.”

  Little Man holds up one finger to the guy, who shuts up instantly. “You’re serious?” he asks me, dark brown eyes taking me in, his expression changing quickly to something sexual and not a little creepy. “Wait a minute. You’re Mallory.”

  I sigh with relief and extend my hand for a firm, professional shake. “Yes. Mallory Monahan. Are you Spatula?”

  “Yup.” He shakes my hand like it’s a window sheer.

  No one blinks at his name.

  “Guys, this is the new fluffer!” he calls out. His eyes roam up and down. “Man, you dressed up. Don’t need a dress for this.” He looks down at my wedge heels.

  Murmurs of appreciation ripple through the room, followed by some laughter. “Want some extra work?” one of the beards calls out, winking at me.

  I start to say more to Spatula, but he cuts me off. “What’re you saying about how we position the set?” He looks at the red ottoman. “Who moved that? Now Jasmine’s gonna complain about her knees.”

  “I moved it.” I point to the beam above. “Did you know that positioning anything you sit on at that angle is–”

  “We don’t have an extra hour,” he declares, cutting me off.

  “Do you know how important it is that the qi move properly in this room?” I protest, slapping my hands onto my hips so hard, I stagger a little. “You really don’t understand how severe this is. You risk bankruptcy, medical problems, and even loss of reputation!”

  “I ain’t worried about my reputation, Mal,” Spatula cracks, bringing everyone in the room to roiling laughter.

  “But surely you want the room to look good and to have good energy. Any show set is about prosperity. Optimizing health and wealth.”

  A suspicious look comes my way. “Health? What kind of medical problems are you talking about?”

  “You name it. If the energy flows too fast or too slow, it can ruin everything.”

  He nods. “I get that. Happens all the time on set. We have pills and, well,” he sniffs, “you for that.”

  I point to the red ottoman. “Red is the color of passion, so you’re off to a good start.”

  “Great!” He shouts to ZZ Top. “Lenny! Get me more red in there. But don’t move nothin’. We ain’t got an hour to spare.” The shrug he throws my way isn’t an apology.

  It’s an order.

  “It would be really helpful if you gave me some specs,” I snap, deciding I need to be more forceful.

  “Specs?”

  “Design specs. You know. What’s the look you’re going for here? How I arrange everything will depend on that.”

  “The... look?” He has a rat-like face, small eyes set close together, the bill of his baseball cap making them seem like they’re peeking out from a dark cave.

  “Yes.” I wait, suppressing my natural instinct to chatter on. During the last month of my extended unemployment, I’ve turned to female empowerment books as a way to up my game. The careful pause gives me the upper hand.

  As silence stretches between us, I’m starting to think the only hand this is giving me is one with a middle finger poking up out of it. My palms start to sweat as Spatula frowns.

  Finally, a dawning look hits him and he says, “We’re going for height.”

  “Height?” Great. Something I can work with. I look up at the twelve-foot ceiling. “The light in here is really good for that. The room could use some color.”

  “I thought you said red was good.”

  “It is. But we need more.” I tap my fingernail against my front teeth. “Coral. Or, no... how about some soft flesh tones, and maybe a little tan?”

  “You like to work with flesh?” he asks, chin set in an admiring way, as if I’ve passed some test.

  “Of course! What pro in this industry doesn’t?” I give him a confident grin designed to make it clear I know what I’m doing and we are definitely on the same page.

  The skeptical look melts off his face as he laughs, a phlegmy sound that matches his reek of cigarette smoke. “You’re a hoot, Mal. Can I call you Mal? Or is it Mallory?”

  “Either. My friends call me Mal.”

  “Ok, then. Mal it is. You know, if you work well with Beastman, this could be the first of a lot of gigs.”

  My pulse picks up, the spot on my neck where I can feel it against my collarbone like a signal. “Seriously?” I don’t ask him to repeat the name, but I’m a bit puzzled. Did he say Beastman? No way. Must have been Eastman. Maybe a nickname? I heard it wrong.

  Energy shoots through me like a drug. I’ve hit the jackpot.

  These folks have lots of work for me, and the money is excellent.

  I rub my palms together and raise my eyebrows, eagerness pumping through me. “My hands are itching to get to work.”

  He frowns again. “Itching? You’re not contagious, are you? Because we don’t normally screen fluffers for diseases, but...”

  My turn to laugh. “What? No!” I hold out my palms to show him. “It’s an expression. You know. It means I’m eager to get down to business and show you how I can make this all come together.”

  “Beastman is a pro at coming together,” Spatula says.

  If I were Perky, who has a mind that lives in the gutter with occasional side trips to Decentland, I’d be snickering.

  “Sounds like Beastman knows what’s he’s doing,” I say, staying neutral. Professionals don’t go looking for sexual innuendos in every work situation. That’s for amateurs.

  And barista best friends.

  He doesn’t seem happy about it. “We’ve told him before about not moving too fast, but it works for the creampie scenes. Makes them really pop on screen.”

  Some part of me relaxes. Of course. Cooking is all about getting moving parts to work together for a perfectly timed finale. I turn around and look back at the stainless steel kitchen, the Sub-Zero refrigerator, the Bertazzoni range. Oooo, a Bosch built-in coffee maker! Someone knows their kitchen design.

  None of the crew is working in there. All the lighting and camera guys are moving down the hallway in this direction. Huh. You’d think the kitchen would be the center of activity at this point.

  As I look around, I realize I'm the only woman here. Huh, redux. That's weird.

  “Calibrating is hard work,” I say, trying to show him I know my stuff as I make eye contact and smile. “Timing
is everything.”

  “Especially when it comes to the payload,” Spatula says somberly as he walks me down the long hallway. I must have misheard that, because payoff? Sure.

  Payload?

  He leads me into a small room, where I come face to face with a completely naked man covered in more hair than Sasquatch.

  And he’s rubbing coconut oil on his decidedly hairless balls.

  3

  “That’s a penis,” I gasp, pointing at the obvious. If my neck pulse was pounding before, now it’s become an angry cat trapped in a tumbling clothes dryer, screaming and clawing to get out.

  “Yes.”

  “A big penis!”

  The man grins nice and wide. “Sure is.”

  “Why are you naked?” I’ve heard of Jamie Oliver, on Naked Chef, but he wasn't actually naked. Pretty sure, anyway. “Is this some kind of trend in the industry I don’t know about?”

  Sasquatch laughs. “It’s my job.”

  “It’s your job to be naked?” What kind of cooking show is this? Aren’t there health department regulations about this kind of thing? Beastman looks like a rug with arms and legs. I’m trying to imagine a cream pie made by a shedding bear.

  I start to gag.

  “Well.” He pauses and looks down at himself. “I guess I don’t have to be naked until we’re filming, but I like to get into character nice and early.”

  “Beastman is all about method acting,” Spatula explains.

  “And what method is that?” I squeak, controlling my throat muscles. This is definitely not the place to have a gag reflex.

  “Not method. Meth head. Get it? Say it fast.” Spatula seems inordinately pleased with himself.

  “You’re a meth head?” I ask Beastman, taking a step back.

  “No.” Beastman glares at Spatula. “That’s just a stupid joke he keeps saying, as if it’ll eventually get funny.”

  “It never will,” I say, shock tearing the air out of my lungs.

  Beastman snorts. “See? Told you.”

  Spatula shrugs. “I think it’s funny.”

  “You think trampoline videos of guys bouncing out and cracking their balls on fence posts are funny,” Beastman shoots back. He looks at me as if to say, Can you believe that?