51.
I said, “--No—”
“I didn’t think so,” Sally said. “She didn’t want you to know, for some reason.”
I didn’t say anything. Devon was getting pictures of Fred’s dick. Jesus.
“And Devon, you know, she did was she was supposed to do, too—she told Tee, she told HR, she told the union. And nobody fucking believed her, either.”
“Who’s our union rep?” I asked. If I’d ever known, I’d forgotten. I never paid much attention to the union.
Sally said, “Nancy!”
“Jesus,” I said. Who else? “Of course.”
“And Nancy and her husband are partners with Fred in that stupid dog farm. So she’s not going to do a goddamn thing.”
That I didn’t know. That might be important. I stood there, thinking.
Sally turned away and pushed the cart a few feet and then stopped. “This place is just so fucking corrupt—and the corruption just stepped all over Devon.”
I thought about Tee. Fucking Tee. I remember the day after Devon died, Tee saying how Devon had a good job, how she never had any problems. Did I remember Tee—pausing—with uncertainty, with the knowledge of a goddamn lie—right before she said that? Maybe not.
But what a piece of shit that woman was.
Sally asked, “Did you come across Fred’s dick in any of Devon’s papers?”
“No…,” I said, thinking Fred, not dick. But then of course I quickly remembered the dicks printed out and glued into the sketchbook. “Well, maybe—I don’t know what Fred’s dick looks like.”
“Lucky you,” Sally said. “It’s in her emails for sure.”
“I haven’t been able to get in her emails.”
“You might want to try harder,” Sally said. She pushed her cart around the corner, into the pet supplies aisle. I followed, pausing to grab a big canister of cat litter. Sally waited for me to catch up.
“And so,” Sally said. “Last spring we both started getting pictures of a different dick.” Sally tapped on her phone a few times and then passed it to me. She said, “Look.”
I took the phone. On the screen was a big sprawling red half-erect dong with a nasty oozing herpes sore on its head.
“I’ve seen that one,” I said. I handed her back the phone. “It’s in one of her notebooks.”
“Yeah,” Sally said. “I think it’s Ted’s.”
“Ted’s got a giant cock?” Fuck me. I was suddenly oddly—jealous.
“A giant infected cock.” Sally slipped the phone into her back pocket and sighed. “I don’t think Devon reported this one, but I did—to Tee, to HR, to the union. And of course nothing happened, right? Everybody said they couldn’t know who sent the dicks—they were sent from some old AOL email account. It’s a mystery dick.”
I thought of something. “Are you sure it’s Ted’s dick?”
He was a loser rape-poem writer. I kept wanting to think of him as dickless.
“There were poems in the emails—Ted poems, the same poems he’s got taped to his office door. I guess it’s him.”
“HR could maybe check the IP address and be sure,” I said.
“Too much trouble for those stupid fuckers,” Sally said. “It’s easier for them to think I’ve got dicks on the brain.”
Sally pushed on, down the pet aisle and around the corner to the soda aisle. She stopped and got a 12-pack of Diet Dr. Pepper, and I got a six of Coke Zero.
Sally asked, “You didn’t know about any of this, did you?”
And—what was I supposed to reply to that? That I was a naïf? A fool? A blind delusional privileged professor, fragile and pouty? Well, I guess I was—I was all of those things. A cold aloof standoffish angry sack of sand, too.
I said, “--No—”
“I didn’t think so,” Sally said. “She didn’t want you to know, for some reason.”
I didn’t say anything. Devon was getting pictures of Fred’s dick. Jesus.
“And Devon, you know, she did was she was supposed to do, too—she told Tee, she told HR, she told the union. And nobody fucking believed her, either.”
“Who’s our union rep?” I asked. If I’d ever known, I’d forgotten. I never paid much attention to the union.
Sally said, “Nancy!”
“Jesus,” I said. Who else? “Of course.”
“And Nancy and her husband are partners with Fred in that stupid dog farm. So she’s not going to do a goddamn thing.”
That I didn’t know. That might be important. I stood there, thinking.
Sally turned away and pushed the cart a few feet and then stopped. “This place is just so fucking corrupt—and the corruption just stepped all over Devon.”
I thought about Tee. Fucking Tee. I remember the day after Devon died, Tee saying how Devon had a good job, how she never had any problems. Did I remember Tee—pausing—with uncertainty, with the knowledge of a goddamn lie—right before she said that? Maybe not.
But what a piece of shit that woman was.
Sally asked, “Did you come across Fred’s dick in any of Devon’s papers?”
“No…,” I said, thinking Fred, not dick. But then of course I quickly remembered the dicks printed out and glued into the sketchbook. “Well, maybe—I don’t know what Fred’s dick looks like.”
“Lucky you,” Sally said. “It’s in her emails for sure.”
“I haven’t been able to get in her emails.”
“You might want to try harder,” Sally said. She pushed her cart around the corner, into the pet supplies aisle. I followed, pausing to grab a big canister of cat litter. Sally waited for me to catch up.
“And so,” Sally said. “Last spring we both started getting pictures of a different dick.” Sally tapped on her phone a few times and then passed it to me. She said, “Look.”
I took the phone. On the screen was a big sprawling red half-erect dong with a nasty oozing herpes sore on its head.
“I’ve seen that one,” I said. I handed her back the phone. “It’s in one of her notebooks.”
“Yeah,” Sally said. “I think it’s Ted’s.”
“Ted’s got a giant cock?” Fuck me. I was suddenly oddly—jealous.
“A giant infected cock.” Sally slipped the phone into her back pocket and sighed. “I don’t think Devon reported this one, but I did—to Tee, to HR, to the union. And of course nothing happened, right? Everybody said they couldn’t know who sent the dicks—they were sent from some old AOL email account. It’s a mystery dick.”
I thought of something. “Are you sure it’s Ted’s dick?”
He was a loser rape-poem writer. I kept wanting to think of him as dickless.
“There were poems in the emails—Ted poems, the same poems he’s got taped to his office door. I guess it’s him.”
“HR could maybe check the IP address and be sure,” I said.
“Too much trouble for those stupid fuckers,” Sally said. “It’s easier for them to think I’ve got dicks on the brain.”
Sally pushed on, down the pet aisle and around the corner to the soda aisle. She stopped and got a 12-pack of Diet Dr. Pepper, and I got a six of Coke Zero.
Sally asked, “You didn’t know about any of this, did you?”
And—what was I supposed to reply to that? That I was a naïf? A fool? A blind delusional privileged professor, fragile and pouty? Well, I guess I was—I was all of those things. A cold aloof standoffish angry sack of sand, too.