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Authors: Molly Harper
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brain screamed as my head dipped toward his throat, my hair brushing against his
chin. That summer grass scent wafting from his collar overwhelmed me. I pushed off
his chest to get some distance and realized I was basically cupping his pecs in my
hands like some perverted teenager.
Vaughn eyed me with calculated interest, poised to say something that would no doubt
piss me off royally. I snatched my hands away as if his very respectable chest muscles
burned my skin. I snagged Ray’s papers from the table and made for the door. “I’m
going to take this to my office and start brainstorming. I’ll get back to you in the
afternoon with some ideas.”
Josh and his confusing scent stepped toward me, which had me scrambling back toward
the door. “I don’t think that’s the way Ray intended for us to do this.”
“I’ll see you this afternoon,” I called over my shoulder.
• • •
A few hours later, Vaughn and I discovered that we had creative chemistry, like bleach
and ammonia. While I had more of an open-flow creative process, drawing inspiration
from random images and word-association games, Vaughn’s thinking was very linear.
He went from point A to point B with no side trips.
I tried to play up the humor of the encampment. I suggested taglines like, “Ground
your kids back to the nineteenth century” and “Embrace a simpler time, which required
a minimum of ten layers of underwear.” Vaughn was more focused on “heritage” and “honoring
the past” as his message, which was boring as all hell. But I had to admit that he’d
found some great stock photos from previous encampments—happy families sitting around
their campfires in their old-fashioned clothes and long rows of precisely lined-up
reenactors with clouds of blue smoke billowing from their rifles.
He refused to consider my suggestions and I scoffed at the very idea of presenting
a summer activity as exclusively educational. The meeting ended on an abrupt sour
note when I suggested using a puppet dressed in a Union uniform to narrate an Internet
video, emphasizing the event as family friendly. I even pulled up a YouTube video
of a puppet type we might use, a freckle-faced redhead with yarn hair wearing a farmer’s
hat and playing “Goober Peas” on the banjo while footage showing dairy cows played
in the background. It was adorable and if we put our version together quickly, we
could distribute it to schools to drum up student interest before kids were released
for summer break. I had absolutely no malicious intent when I started the video. But
it seemed to send Vaughn into some sort of fit, scrambling back in his chair as if
Farmer Ben were going to reach through my laptop and grab him.
“So what do you think?” I asked him carefully.
“That’s just . . . awful,” Josh wheezed, turning a bit green as he stood, knocking
over his chair, and practically bolted from the room.
“What just happened?” Kelsey asked, staring after him.
“I don’t know,” I said, frowning. “Which is a problem, because now I can’t duplicate
it.”
She shook her head. “That is a man who does not like puppets.”
I pursed my lips, considering how this information might be useful. “Very interesting.”
• • •
The office became oddly polarized after the YouTube incident. Josh and I were still
the key aggressors, but our staff members were slowly drifting to their chosen sides
and giving support in upsetting and unprecedented ways. With Vaughn refusing to hear
my suggestions and treating Kelsey like a barista/lackey, she was less than inclined
to do any copying or faxing he needed before 4:30 p.m. And I suspected Theresa the
IT gal’s hand in Vaughn changing my e-mail password. I spent the better part of a
day trying to figure out why the image of a screaming zombie popped up every time
I tried to open my Internet browser. The good red pens
chin. That summer grass scent wafting from his collar overwhelmed me. I pushed off
his chest to get some distance and realized I was basically cupping his pecs in my
hands like some perverted teenager.
Vaughn eyed me with calculated interest, poised to say something that would no doubt
piss me off royally. I snatched my hands away as if his very respectable chest muscles
burned my skin. I snagged Ray’s papers from the table and made for the door. “I’m
going to take this to my office and start brainstorming. I’ll get back to you in the
afternoon with some ideas.”
Josh and his confusing scent stepped toward me, which had me scrambling back toward
the door. “I don’t think that’s the way Ray intended for us to do this.”
“I’ll see you this afternoon,” I called over my shoulder.
• • •
A few hours later, Vaughn and I discovered that we had creative chemistry, like bleach
and ammonia. While I had more of an open-flow creative process, drawing inspiration
from random images and word-association games, Vaughn’s thinking was very linear.
He went from point A to point B with no side trips.
I tried to play up the humor of the encampment. I suggested taglines like, “Ground
your kids back to the nineteenth century” and “Embrace a simpler time, which required
a minimum of ten layers of underwear.” Vaughn was more focused on “heritage” and “honoring
the past” as his message, which was boring as all hell. But I had to admit that he’d
found some great stock photos from previous encampments—happy families sitting around
their campfires in their old-fashioned clothes and long rows of precisely lined-up
reenactors with clouds of blue smoke billowing from their rifles.
He refused to consider my suggestions and I scoffed at the very idea of presenting
a summer activity as exclusively educational. The meeting ended on an abrupt sour
note when I suggested using a puppet dressed in a Union uniform to narrate an Internet
video, emphasizing the event as family friendly. I even pulled up a YouTube video
of a puppet type we might use, a freckle-faced redhead with yarn hair wearing a farmer’s
hat and playing “Goober Peas” on the banjo while footage showing dairy cows played
in the background. It was adorable and if we put our version together quickly, we
could distribute it to schools to drum up student interest before kids were released
for summer break. I had absolutely no malicious intent when I started the video. But
it seemed to send Vaughn into some sort of fit, scrambling back in his chair as if
Farmer Ben were going to reach through my laptop and grab him.
“So what do you think?” I asked him carefully.
“That’s just . . . awful,” Josh wheezed, turning a bit green as he stood, knocking
over his chair, and practically bolted from the room.
“What just happened?” Kelsey asked, staring after him.
“I don’t know,” I said, frowning. “Which is a problem, because now I can’t duplicate
it.”
She shook her head. “That is a man who does not like puppets.”
I pursed my lips, considering how this information might be useful. “Very interesting.”
• • •
The office became oddly polarized after the YouTube incident. Josh and I were still
the key aggressors, but our staff members were slowly drifting to their chosen sides
and giving support in upsetting and unprecedented ways. With Vaughn refusing to hear
my suggestions and treating Kelsey like a barista/lackey, she was less than inclined
to do any copying or faxing he needed before 4:30 p.m. And I suspected Theresa the
IT gal’s hand in Vaughn changing my e-mail password. I spent the better part of a
day trying to figure out why the image of a screaming zombie popped up every time
I tried to open my Internet browser. The good red pens
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