Wednesday, April 4
2:00 P.M.
NewYew headquarters, Manhattan
254 DAYS TO THE END OF THE WORLD
Susan was wearing a skirt when she came into work, just barely shorter than her lab coat, and Lyle, walking behind her, had to try very hard not to imagine that the skirt had disappeared altogether. He quickened his pace to walk next to her.
“One small blob for each man in the test,” he said, pulling a plastic bottle from his shirt pocket. The bottles were simple plastic tubes, filled from the test batch at the plant; the labels were handwritten with a black marker: “14G.” “We get their thoughts, we take copious photos, and they get their money on the way out. Easy.”
Susan nodded. “Is it against the rules to fraternize with a business associate?”
Lyle stopped short. “What?”
Susan stopped and turned back to face him. “Like, if I meet someone at work and I ask them out on date—would I get in trouble for that?”
Is she coming on to me? Lyle smiled. “No, I don’t think that’s a problem at all.”
“Great,” said Susan, “because I’m going to ask test subject one for his phone number—he was way too cute to pass up.”
Lyle steadied himself with a hand on the wall, then slowly started walking again. “I see.” He walked into the testing room and stood silent for a moment before finding his voice. “Welcome … back, to the…” He paused.
Test subject one wasn’t there. Five men and one empty chair. “Where’s the other guy?”
“How should we know?” said the skinny one. Lyle couldn’t remember his name: Ronald something?
“Of course, I just…” Lyle looked at Susan. “Do you know where he is?”
Susan shook her head. “I wish. Restroom, maybe?”
One of the other subjects raised his hand. “He wasn’t here when they led us in from the lobby.”
Lyle frowned. The test results would still be valid without all six men, of course—this was only a minor test to appease his conscience, after all—but it would appease his conscience a lot more effectively if the subjects didn’t drop out halfway through. He handed the folder to Susan, pausing to pull out the ID forms the subjects had filled out last time.
“Give them the questionnaires and get started,” he said, forcing his voice to be cheerful. He still felt Susan’s unwitting rejection like a punch in the gut. “I’ll give him a call; maybe we can reschedule.”
Susan put her hand on the forms anxiously. “Oh! I can call him if you want.”
Lyle pulled the forms away gently. “Don’t worry about it; I can handle it.” He turned and left the room, flipping through the papers as he walked back down the hall. Jon Ford. Even the man’s name was handsome. Lyle grumbled and sat at the desk in the lab, picking up the phone and dialing Ford’s number.
“Hello,” said a voice, “Jon’s phone.” The voice was male and kind of goofy.
“Is this Jon?”
“No, man, this is Trav. Jon’s sick.”
Crap. “Really?” Lyle closed his eyes. Don’t let it be the lotion. “What’s wrong?”
“Flu or something—he was puking all night the other night, and crapping like a weasel. You from the shop?”
Lyle sighed in relief. It’s not his skin. He paused. Wouldn’t hurt to ask a few more questions, though. “No,” he said, “I’m not from the shop. Tell me, ‘Trav,’ do you know if Jon was experiencing any … dermatological symptoms?”
“Dude, are you the doctors? Because I told your nurse, I don’t know what kind of insurance he has.”
“Yes,” said Lyle quickly, “I’m a doctor, but I’m not looking for the insurance information. I need to know if he had any problems with his skin—a rash or a welt or a reaction of any kind.”
“No, man, nothing like that, it was just the runs and stuff. Should he be taking something?”
“We’ll have to get back to you,” said Lyle. “Thanks for your time.” He hung up without waiting for a response.
Nothing wrong with his skin—we’re fine. He opened the files on 14G, pulling up the records for the previous product tests; Susan could finish the final test on her own, and Lyle was in no hurry to see her again. He could start the paperwork now, and plug in her results when she returned.
Susan returned about thirty minutes later. “I went ahead and finished the test,” she said, rubbing her hands. “This lotion’s great, by the way—they couldn’t stop raving about it. We could probably use some of these guys in an infomercial if we had a good stylist to clean ’em up. You call the hottie?”
“Huh?”
“Test subject one, the cute guy who didn’t show up—you called him?”
“He’s sick,” said Lyle, looking back at his screen. “Some kind of flu.”
“Gross,” said Susan, then paused. “Can I have his number?”
“No, you cannot have his number, he’s a test subject.”
“But you said that wasn’t a problem.”
“I didn’t think you meant…” He paused.
“Yes?”
He glanced at Susan, just barely, and looked back at his computer. Susan’s jaw dropped.
“Oh! You thought I meant—” She covered her mouth and stepped away. “Oh my gosh, I am so sorry, that is not what I meant at all.”
“Yes, well…” Lyle looked down at the computer. “I think we’re done here.”
“Not at ALL.”
“Thank you, Susan, I got that; not at all.” He stood up. “Start a final report for the test: five out of six subjects loved it, sixth subject unavailable.” He stopped and scowled. “Carl’s going to hate that. I’m going to have to track this guy down and get a final testimonial.”
“Are you going now?”
He walked out without speaking, down the hall to the elevator, desperate for fresh air. His one chance to tell Susan about his feelings had snuck up on him, and he wasn’t ready, and he’d blown it. She had no interest in him whatsoever, plus now she thought he was a creepy jerk. The elevator dinged, and he stepped in.
Susan’s voice floated down the hall. “I’m really sorry about the dating thing, Lyle! That’s not what I meant at all!”
The doors closed.