The
Muffin Man
Anna
Rohaly
I
met him on the stairs as I was on my way back from my first date with
the perfect man. The man on the stairs was tall with a heavy build,
had deep set blue eyes, and flour streaks on the side of his face. A
large wooden platter rested on his shoulders, loaded with confections
of his creation. I could smell cherry pie, lemon muffins, and
something like an eclair. They smelled good, but I really did not
want to stop. The last thing I needed was tray full of sweets adding
to my waste line. I had made it half way up the stairs, when there
was a yell from above me. I looked up just in time.
The
muffin man had been walking onto the landing above me when the
residents of that apartment had rushed out towards the stairs. He
had knocked into the muffin man who, losing his balance, tripped
backwards. I looked up just in time to see a meringue pie floating
towards me in slow motion. My mind did not go blank however. Instead
it flew to the month before when I had met the perfect man.
His
name was Roger and I had met him at a job interview. I walked into
his plush office, filled with fake plants, large books, and shiny
plaques which seemed to fill the east wall. The view out his window
was the skyline of New York. It was breath taking.
As
it turned out, Roger Mortison was no less breathtaking then the view
outside of his window. His hair, dark brown, was slicked back out of
his face in a distinguished yet fashionable style. He was in a three
button suit and from beneath the pant leg of trousers peeked shoes
even shinier then his many plaques. His smile displayed a full set of
teeth, perfectly straight, and he did not wear glasses so that his
gray eyes were not hidden from my gaze. His chin was dented like a
newborn baby's butt crack and was square and strong, just like his
hand shake.
“Hello,
I'm Lindsey Roberts,” I had said, my voice shaking in the awe of
his majestic form. Before him, I felt like a peasant before a perfect
god. He flashed me a heart melting smile and I settled into an overly
stuffed leather chair. My mind scrambled and I tried to overcome my
flustered nerves by smiling and adding silly prattle to his constant
questions.
“What
is your job experience?” He asked, his voice deep, sexy,
resonating. I pulled out my resume and tried to collect my thoughts.
I was hungry to impress him, more than a simple belly ache kind of
hunger, but the hunger of a starving person sitting out on a street
corner.
“I
worked at a gas station right after I got out of college,” as if
that were relevant, “I was the Dear Abby columnist for the daily
paper in Pittsburgh for almost five years,” that was a little
better, “And I have spent the last two years working in a lab in
Philly that took care of old documents from the Civil War.” There,
surely that would leave an impression.
“Well,
that is certainly interesting, though I'm not sure why people bother
with old garbage like that,” he flashed me another smile, “I'm
sure you'll be glad to know that any documents you'd be working on
here are only ten years old.”
I
glanced down at my resume, feeling rather defeated before I glanced
up and caught him giving me the up and down. Heat rose in my face and
I felt oddly elated and embarrassed at the same time by his attention
to my looks. I was certainly glad I had not worn my awful pleated
skirt today. Instead I had on a rather daring red dress, which ended
above my knee and scooped down to show just the faintest hint of
cleavage. Professional but sexy. Perhaps too sexy for an interview.
His eyes locked on mine and I instantly changed my mind. Perfectly
sexy.
Roger
continued to pepper me with questions about my career experience, my
goals, and my work ethic. He winked at me when he asked, “Will you
be willing to stay late with me and put in a few more hours every now
and then?” He was so hot late nights filing papers would be a
breeze. He'd keep me awake, that was for sure. I nodded and he
continued his lines of questions.
Finally,
about forty-five minutes after my interview had began, he stood and
shook my hand. I was ushered out of the office. A middle aged woman,
her hair pulled back into a tight bun walked past me into the office
as the next in line to interview. I stopped by reception.
“Miss
Roberts? Could I just get your contact information verified before
you go?” The young woman asked. I took the pen and from her and
wondered if she was involved with Roger Mortison. Even though I had
only known him for forty-five minutes, I felt just a little bit
envious that she got to stay near him for the rest of the afternoon
when I handed the pen back. At the elevator, I ran into the other
interviewee and we shared an awkward ride down to the first floor.
After nodding to her for a second, I ducked my head and left the
building.
I
got the call the next day, saying that I had been hired as Mr.
Mortison's personal assistant. I would be accompanying him to
meetings, keeping track of his business relations, and even going on
business trips with him. I nearly puked I was so nervous. I went
shopping the very next day and bought an entirely new wardrobe,
hoping to look just as attractive as I had looked for our interview.
The
day I started work I woke up at four in the morning. I took a fast
shower, shaved my legs and arm pits, and dried, curled, straightened
and pinned my wavy hair into complacency. After applying a fresh coat
of make-up and trying on about nine of my new outfits, I ate a rather
meager breakfast and sat, staring at the clock. It was six-thirty and
I was not expected at work until nine-thirty. I was just a bit early.
In the end, I fell back asleep on my couch, messed up my hair, and
was ten minutes late to my first day.
Roger
spent the morning sending me around the office with papers, having me
get coffee, and introducing me to everyone in the office. He showed
me to people with great gusto and, after offering me his arm and his
most dashing smile, whisked me around the office. We went out
together for a business lunch before I spent the afternoon taking
notes at his meetings and helping him file all of his papers. He kept
me so busy that I did not leave until nearly eight that night. I
reached my apartment that night, walked through a cloud of baking
cookies aroma and made it back to my room. I collapsed into bed after
a late supper, grinning like a lunatic. I had dreams about Roger all
that night and woke to repeat the day all over again.
After
having worked for Roger for over three weeks, he began working until
nearly midnight each night and flirting ceaselessly. He had always
tried to be charming, but this turned into pure flirtation until one
night as we were closing up the office, he grabbed my arm by the
elevator, put his other hand behind my head and held me in a long,
hard kiss. Bubbling with excitement, I skip from my car into the
apartment like a small child. I skipped right past an open door which
smelled strongly of chocolate crème brulee. The next day Roger asked
me out to dinner. Agreeing, we planned on Saturday night. I was
looking forward to another goodnight kiss. Or maybe two.
That
night, I wore a beautiful emerald dress. Knee length, halter top,
ripply fabric the dress by itself was dazzling. I curled my hair, put
on a crystal necklace, and by the time I was done, I didn't look too
bad myself. Taking a deep breath to calm my nerves, I descended the
stairs, past the smell of lemon meringue and to Roger. Offering me
his arm, we walked out into the brisk night together.
Roger
took me, in his Mercedes Bends, to a lovely sea food restaurant.
Chandeliers sparkled like sunlight on water and we were seated at a
corner table covered with a sea blue cloth. The cheapest plate cost
about thirty dollars and I could feel butterflies of nervousness as I
tried to decide on what price range I should choose. He noticed,
leaned over and touched my arm lightly.
“Lindsey,
may I make a suggestion?” He paused for me to nod, “Try the
Lobster Creole.”
I
had never eaten lobster in my life. In all honesty, I hated seafood
normally, but tonight I would make an exception. I gave as sparkling
a smile as I could manage and placed my order. We sat and talked and
sipped champagne. When they finally brought out our food, I was
starving, hungry enough to eat seafood. I chowed down, actually
enjoying the shrimp, garlic, and lobster combination on my fork. It
was not until half way through my dinner, that I began to feel a
little off. My face felt hot and my lips felt numb. I glanced up.
Roger was staring at me and not with that adoring star he had been
giving me earlier. Mouth crinkled, eyebrows cocked, utter disgust was
written all over his face. I put my hand up to my throat.
“Oh
my gosh!” My skin felt bumpy and swollen. I reached up to my face
and and felt my lips. It was like coming back from the dentist after
receiving a full does of Novocaine, I could not feel my fingers on my
lips. At least I could breath. Worse then the feel of my swollen face
and numb lips though, was the feeling left by Roger's reaction. He
had been holding my hand over the table until then, but withdrew it
quickly, as if I were a contagious leper.
“Ugh,
um, Lindsey, your face,” His own face did not look so perfect
anymore, “You're the color of that lobster.” He did not miss a
beat as he stood up and began pacing the restaurant shouting, “Does
anyone have anything that could fix her face!” I really did turn
the color of a lobster then, and my face burned worse then it have
before it started. Just before the swarm of people pressed in around
me, I caught sight of him doubling over a trash bin, barfing his
entire forty dollar dinner up into the dumpster. Humiliated, I sat
and tried to ignore the people coming up to the table, whispering,
“Oh Lord! Look are her!” before pretending to search for an Effie
Pen they did not have. I reached for my coat. Roger came running up,
still green.
“Lindsey,
I'm sorry, I- I-,” He turned and barfed again onto one of the
lovely tapestry covered chairs. “I just wasn't expecting to see
your face like that. You just got so – ugly, I wasn't expecting
it.”
I
picked up a napkin, walked up to him, and shoved it into his hands.
“Well, don't worry, you won't have to see my face anymore.” I
stormed out of the building and haled a cab. Scrambling into the back
seat, I glanced up and saw my face in the rear view mirror. Red,
splotchy, and in some places appearing to melt, I did not look nearly
as bad as I thought I had. Still, it was not a flattering look.
“Wow
lady, looks like you had something you was allergic to,” the cabby
chuckled before launching into a less then charming story about his
daughter's fifth birthday and the clown that was allergic to the red
dye punch. Apparently the guy went off the deep end and was
practically foaming at the mouth before he was escorted from the
premises. I was more than glad when he finally pulled up outside of
my apartment complex and I could escape the creepy clown story.
As
the cab pulled out of sight though, I stood on the curb, looking down
the road. This was supposed to be the perfect evening, where the
perfect guy took me on the perfect date. And this perfect date was
supposed to end in the perfect marriage, the perfect family, the
perfect life. Now all I was left with was a stinging memory of
insulting comments and copious amounts of fishy smelling vomit.
Shaking my head, I realized that I had been an idiot. The perfect man
did not exist. A tear trickled down my read, puffy face as I headed
inside.
I
hoped none of my neighbors were out in the halls so that I could be
ugly in private. But of course, this would be the night that the
baker guy is not holed up in his room perfecting his chocolate crepe
recipe. And of course this would be the night that somehow, by some
sick and perverted twist of events, I would find a lemon meringue pie
heading straight for my face. Before the thought of ducking even
entered my mind, the pie hit its mark. It was so cold that the impact
startled me less then the temperature and I jumped backwards, letting
the tin fall, clanking loudly as it rolled to the bottom of the
flight of steps. The delicious lemon cream filled my mouth and my
eyes, though squinting shut, burned a little as the cool whip leaked
in at the corners. The temperature felt good on the rest of my face,
but I reached up and wiped my eyes. This was the perfect ending for a
crappy day.
“Oh
miss, miss,” There was a clattering on the stairs. The muffin man
must be coming. “Oh my gosh, I am so sorry! Here let me help you!”
He immediately offered me his apron and began guiding me like a
seeing eye dog up into his apartment so that I could wash the
meringue off of my face. All the while, the cool whipped cream felt
lovely on my burning skin. Still, it was sticky and I was more than
happy to get it off so that I could go to bed and make this day end.
Standing
by his sink, I washed the thick layers of sugar, cream, and lemon off
of my face with cold water. When I finally was mostly de-pied, I
straightened up and looked in the mirror. Miraculously, the cold pie
had made the swelling in my face go down quite a bit. I looked far
less puffy, though still a little red. I supposed that could be from
embarrassment too. The baker offered me a towel.
“I
really am sorry about that,” he said, smiling apologetically, “My
name is Michael.”
“Michael.
It's nice to meet you finally,” I said, to tired to even try to be
interesting, “I always smell what you are baking when I pass by in
the hallway. What exactly do you bake for?”
So
began a conversation that lasted until three in the morning. The next
day, instead of reporting to the Mortison Company for work, I went
with Michael and applied for a job at his down town bakery for the
chief of advertising. I got the job and three months later, when
Michael finally asked me out, we did not go to in fancy clothes, in a
fancy car, to a fancy restaurant. Instead, we rode the metro into
town where we ate at a tiny little hole in the wall Italian
restaurant. Their ravioli is sensational and instead of drinking
sparkling champagne, I shared a sparkling conversation. It made the
record books for sweetest date ever. Ever.
It
was not until date seven however, that Michael confessed the first
time his heart skipped a beat for me. It was not the many times I had
walked by in sexy outfits on my way to or from work. Instead, it was
when the pie had fallen away and he saw me in the light of his own
delicious creation. Fringed in white froth, spread with yellow cream,
I had stood their in shock in my emerald dress half way up the stairs
licking my lips. He said it was the best compliment he had ever been
given. After all, it was not everyday that you could pie a gorgeous
woman in the face and expect her to still enjoy the pie, he said, let
alone forgive you. I just rolled my eyes. Maybe a man did not need to
be perfect. Maybe he just needed to have some sugar and spice and be
everything nice. Maybe he just had to be a clumsy muffin man with the
perfect recipe for lemon meringue pie.
