The Melvins have already camped out in the conference room. It's very inconvenient; that's where I lock myself when I need to be racist!
Beverley Something, debuting a brilliant new idea for dealing with all racists.
Seriously, can we just have Bigotry Rooms? Like Smoking Rooms in airports. Small, bad-smelling places with awful furniture and all-glass walls so we can point and laugh at the exhibits.
Beverly and Jeremy go out once a month and talk trash about everyone else in the practice.
Well, I started off writing this as comedy, and it ended up a weird little character study. I'm so sorry, Anon! It was, nonetheless, fun to write, and a nice change from Mindy/Danny stories. Thank you so much!
“Well, everyone, I would love to stay and work late, but I have to go enjoy a romantic Friday night with my boyfriend, who promised that this weekend we would get through an entire restaurant meal without complaining about the markups on wine. And you know what that means!” Mindy wiggled her eyebrows suggestively.
“That I need to get out of the moonshine business and into the vino,” Beverley offered, looking up from where she was inexplicably shelling peas.
“No, Beverley, and please don’t,” Mindy warned. “I already had to lie to that inspector that all your stills were for medical-grade disinfectant, I cannot pass off one of those grape-squishing buckets.”
“We could use it as a birthing tub when it’s not grape season?” Morgan offered, turning to Jeremy for approval.
Jeremy’s objection to this plan came out as a strangled scream, and Morgan slung an arm around his waist in case he fainted. He patted Jeremy’s face comfortingly.
“Morgan!” Jeremy was almost hysterical. “Why do your hands smell like wildlife?”
“Ah. Okay, so don’t get mad, but -”
“I will certainly ‘get mad’, Morgan, if you have brought any more dogs into this practice.”
“Well then we’re fine! Not a single dog in this building. Or at least none that I brought in. Charlie from the third floor has a seeing-eye dog, but he’s not for sale. I checked.”
“Good.” Jeremy stood up straight, tugging on the lapels of his suit jacket to straighten it. “Enjoy your weekend, Mindy!” he called after her, and she threw a careless wave over her shoulder as she sped towards the exit. Jeremy sighed. He still had at least an hour of paperwork to get done before he could leave for his Friday night.
***********
An hour later, Beverley knocked on his office door, walking in before he could answer.
“Well, British, you ready to go?”
“Shhhhhh!” Jeremy hissed, furtively checking outside for eavesdroppers before closing the door. “What if Morgan heard? I told you: if we’re to do this, the rest of the office cannot know.”
“I don’t see why not. It’s not like we’re rolling in the hay together or nothin’.” Beverley gave him an exaggerated wink. Jeremy shuddered, brushing off his jacket sleeves as though something was crawling up them.
“Indeed we are not. I have not yet sunk that low. Regardless, this habit of ours is not among my finest moments.”
“Aw, give over. Come on, British. It’s time.”
************
The bar was dingy, the sort of place Jeremy had once assumed were only found in American movies about innocent men on the run from the law. It was dimly lit, punctuated by ageing neon signs advertising beer no-one had ever heard of. Brown leather barstools lined the bar, and a green lamp swung over a pool table, creating a shifting cone of light in the gloom that only served to highlight the motes of dust skittering through the air.
Beverley greeted the bartender with a toothy grin and a careless salute. He lazily grabbed a bottle of something amber, dumping it on the bar with a satisfying thump. He placed a shot glass on either side and, as an afterthought, a brown bowl filled with stale pretzels. Beverley was already perched on a bar stool, filling both glasses and shoving one into Jeremy’s hand before he had even taken his own seat.
“To our co-workers,” she said with a devilish smile.
“To our co-workers,” he echoed wearily, and threw the shot down. He grimaced, and Beverley hooted with laughter, refilling his glass.
“You tired, British?”
“Of my staff? Is it that obvious?”
“You know they have a pool going.”
“For what?”
“Oh, take your pick. When you’ll decide to destress by joining a knitting circle. When you’ll find Jesus. When you’ll crack and leave the country under an assumed identity - that one was mine. And since I’ll organise your documents, there’s no way for me to lose.”
“I might take you up on that. I hear Guatemala is lovely.”
“Really? I’d think by now you’d be sick of bats.”“Why on earth would I be sick of bats?”
“Oh… you haven’t been in the hot pipe room for a few weeks, have you?”
“I try to stay out of any room that Morgan dries his underwear in - Morgan! He’s keeping bats at the office now?”
“Aw, they’re just babies. Got separated from their mama, poor things.”
“Guatemalan bats got separated from their mother in Manhattan?”
“Yeah. Well they fell off the back of a truck, if you know what I mean,” Beverley smirked, “So I said to Morgan, you raise them up and they’ll make a real nice stew. Or you can sell them. They make a nice little profit, rare bats.” Beverley shrugged. “He didn’t speak to me for a week. The bats sure like me, though.”
“Beverley, first thing on Monday you are getting rid of those bats. I don’t care if you bake them into a pie, I want them gone.”
“Bat pie,” Beverley mused. “Now there’s an idea.”
Jeremy groaned, folding his arms on the bar and collapsing onto them.
“Why can’t I keep control of these people?”
“If you ask me, you just need to let yourself be as nuts as we all are.” Beverley picked up a handful of pretzels, squinting at them suspiciously. She shrugged and tossed them into her mouth, chewing with relish.
“I am not nuts. I may have gone through a period of emotional instability, yes. And it is true that I did use food as a coping mechanism. But I’m better now - I’m thin and handsome again. I have a beautiful girlfriend who is somewhat tolerant of the opera, and who has a son who is somewhat tolerant of me. I’m managing partner of my own medical practice, with staff who come to work at least half the time, and most of whom do not bring dangerous animals into the building. I even have nights like tonight, with alcohol, which I have been informed is the American man’s version of therapy.”
“Yep. Nuts. You’ve just got to embrace it.” Beverley poured two more shots, sighing. “Listen, I’m going to give you some advice. And not like that time I taught Tamra how to pick locks - this is good, clean advice.”
Jeremy sat up straight, gazing at her with consideration. He picked up the shot glass, holding it at eye level as though it was some kind of battle of wills. One or the other of them won, and he threw it back. Wincing, he wiped his mouth.“Alright. Let’s hear it.”
Beverley leaned in close to him, confidentially.
“Castro wears a size 11 shoe.”
“What?”
She sat back, nodding with all the confidence of a sage. “I’m telling you. You want to fix all this, that’s all you need.”
She threw back one last shot, and hopped off the stool with surprising dexterity. Grabbing her purse, she looked at Jeremy with something he could have sworn was fondness.
“See you next month, British.”
***********
On Monday, Jeremy walked into his office, only to find a portly security guard sitting in his chair.
“Excuse me?”
“Dr. Reed! I’m Castro - Head of Security for the building. I just wanted to come up and see if there’s anything I could do to repay the favour.”
“Favour?”
Castro grinned, and stood up, bouncing out from behind the desk. “For these.” Jeremy looked down to see a pair of neon high-top Nikes, the most garish shoes he’d ever seen in his life. Mindy would love them, and from the way Castro was bouncing, they were almost certainly something special.
“Size 11,” he breathed, suddenly understanding.
“You got it. You don’t know what it means - most people never remember my name, let alone my shoes. These must have set you back a pretty penny,” he whistled.
“I have a friend,” Jeremy said softly.
“Well I’m your friend now, that’s for sure. So anything you need done - locks changed, new cameras installed, anything I can do to make your life easier? Just let me know.”
A world of possibilities opened up before Jeremy’s eyes. Possibilities that would definitely drive his coworkers mad. Possibilities that he knew would only prove that he, too, was nuts.
“Oh, you are a friend indeed, dear Castro. Have a seat. We have some talking to do.”
