Bobbie Bymaster grimaced as he watched Liz's glance skitter away. She shrugged slightly, then winked at Matt Molinsky, the American Spleen Association's new hire who'd coined his own title: Director of Corporate Relationship Building.

Wonder what Liz, ex...cuse me, Ms. Elizabeth Bell-Chan will think when she finds out? Bobbie thought. Wonder if she'll wish she'd waited for a reply to all her offhand, "What's up's?

Liz was as unfathomable to him as his own mother. Who'd awaken either sing-songing: 'I love my B-Boy, 'cause he's the boy for me/If I didn't have my B-Boy/I'd be one sad Mom-mee" or ratholing into the dark cave of her four quilts, yelling get the hell outta here. Bobbie knew that nowadays this was labeled emotional abuse. He wondered if having a name to call what was happening to you was a comfort to the new victims.

Bobbie watched Liz wrinkle her nose at Matt. Just like that disgustingly perky actress what's-her-name. Matt creased a perfect "V" between his brows--arched, kinda girlie, probably plucks 'em.

Matt pointed his index finger, thumb straight up, "I'm gunning for a record year," he drawled, then read from his "Think Outside the Box" report. We're capable of reading it ourselves.. Bobbie mentally rehearsed how he'd describe Matt to Connie. Insufferable. Then he remembered, with a pang, that he wouldn't be telling Connie anything.

Liz nod, nod, nodded in Matt's direction. Just like those bobbing chicken-things you see in car windows. Matt continued, "It's always frightening to face stretch goals like this fiscal year's." Liz's delicately furrowed upper lip suddenly protruded. Monkey-like. Bobbie knew she was running her tongue across the gleam of her teeth to erase lipstick stains. She flashed Matt a giddy smile, then turned toward the Board members. Bobbie remembered how Connie, who'd left to "pursue other career options"--read, fired--had called the Board "the men with no lips and the ladies who lunch." Bobbie smiled.

"We're lucky to have someone with Matt's awesome background join our team. As you know, increasing our research funding will help us reduce deaths and disability from spleen-related diseases." Bobbie winced. Sometimes he felt Liz was almost parodying the company line, other times he squirmed from the glare of her Stepford-employee intensity.

He wondered if a woman had ever worried about lipstick-teeth before smiling at him. Maybe that little MagnaComm bitch Hallie before she did him in? No. Connie? No, not even Connie. Connie of the brownies plastic-wrapped on his desk, Connie of the clippings that might interest him. Connie who'd stammered asking him to join: "The Bookies"--all women, he'd discovered later--who were reading down Oprah's Book Club list: Where the Heart Is, Midwives. Connie, whom he'd feared responding to, because then he'd know for sure he'd joined the: "Rigbys/Father McKenzies/Obsessives/Aloners " as his favorite Deathrocker song put it. He was proud of liking Deathrocker--even knowing who Deathrocker was--in this crowd of Ex-boy-tation and Venetian Love Gone Blind fans.

A phone b...r...r...ing'ed in the reception area. Tiffanee chirped, "American Spleen Association, join us at our Love-is-a-Many-Spleendored-Thing Walkathon, may I help you?" Matt droned on, "With the recession there's increased competition for the donor dollar...zero in on top-tier sponsors..."

Bobbie flashed on Tiffanee. Yesterday he'd peeked around a partition, caught her reaching up under her skirt, tugging at the crotch of her pantyhose. He memorized the sight for later use. But he'd improve on the image: she'd roll the hose down to her ankles slow...ly, kick off the platform sandals that looked like they were made from melted-down tires, wiggle out of the hose, then lean back against her desk, legs spread, hike her skirt up over her...

"Bobbie?"

Bobbie jumped, felt a hot blush pulse from his face at everyone's smirks. Had someone asked him a question, had... then he realized he was next on the agenda. He covered his confusion by distributing his handouts.

"Thanks, Matt-ster. I won't bore everyone by reading my summary," Bobbie tossed a quick, pointed glance toward Matt. "Why don't you take a few minutes to look everything over?" Did Liz notice I was in the ozone? His heartbeat shuddered. At his former job--MagnaComm--he'd received countless "Needs Improvement" on the "Interpersonal interactions" and "Clarity of communications" performance review categories. He'd vowed things would be different at the Spleen Association, a fresh start. As always, a lightning-quick bolt of anger sizzled through him when he thought: Fucking MagnaComm.

Liz plundered through her purse, Matt checked his pager, one Board member asked another about a golf game without lowering his voice. Nobody was reading what he'd slaved over. What about their interpersonal skills, huh? Huh? But he calmed himself by remembering how lucky he'd been here.

For whenever Liz asked him to meet with her, he'd spend the afternoon worrying. And for nothing. For it was always something innocuous: to proofread the Annual Report or to ask if he'd seen the Amante Low-Income Housing write-up in the Sentinel--and why can't we get that kind of publicity? He worried that she'd discovered his white lie about being "downsized" from his job at MagnaComm. But what does it matter, really? Harassment, my ass.

"Spleen-did report, if I do say so myself." Nothing. Not even a chuckle. "Unfortunately, last year's raffle didn't garner the sales we'd hoped it would. This year..." Lately Bobbie had noticed he couldn't hear himself speak. He sensed, rather than heard, his words flowing outward; he could tell no one was offended, or irritated at him by the neutral expressions they turned his way, but he couldn't hear himself. "...so I decided to give up a few evenings and attend the Gaming Commission's Raffle Officer training myself." Suckers. Came up with The Plan on comp time.

Liz ahem'ed. "Think we could table the raffle changes until next meeting? Deborah needs to leave so she can hook up with the Best Practices honchos at one. We need to jump ahead to 'Gala T-shirts.' Deborah?"

Deborah bared her teeth. Toilet bowl white. "Thanks, Liz. The Decorations Committee decided we'll drape the t-shirts over the back of our presenting sponsors' chairs and tie them with tulle bows..."

Should I gather up the reports? Sit down? Leave? Bobbie plopped onto a typist's chair with a small kidney-shaped backrest he'd had to roll in from another office. He studied their faces as they listened to Deborah. She gestured expansively, her glossy plastic nails glinting in the light. Bobbie was sure he was the only one who noticed their half-moons of grown-out cuticle. Wonder what they'll be doing when they hear the news? Or will they read about me in their morning papers? Will they even recognize my name? Call each other, ask, "You read about Bobbie Bymaster? From the Spleen Association?' He sat, a statue, checked to see if he was feeling anything. No.

He couldn't stir up the pleasure that would usually tingle through him upon envisioning an imaginary interview: "Mr. Bymaster, what made you decide to auction off your spleen on E-bay? Did you need the money? No?" Not even a tiny thrill from the usually soothing daydream of him, in an expensive suit, saying he was going to donate all the money to charity--but not to the Spleen Association. That'll make people wonder. I could say: Helping just one person will be all the reward I need.

After the meeting, he slumped in his cubicle decorated with NASA pennants, with photos of the moon, with autographed posters of liftoffs--"I'm a junkie," he'd joke, "a space junkie." He frowned when he heard their voices, their good cheer slicing through him: "Later." "See you next month. Going to the Sunrise Sampler?" "Let's grab some takeout from Wok and Roll." He opened the GalaPSA.doc on top of the file he was working on: spleeninfo.doc. "The spleen has been called the most ignored and misunderstood of all organs, though it is an integral part of the immune system. Although you can live without a spleen, one's resistance to infection will be lowered."

He sat back, crossed his heels on top of his desk, picked at the lint on his sock. He imagined a "Movie of the Week" scenario. A young boy, a hemophiliac; yes, that was it, that was good, catching every disease until my selfless act. What if the kid thrives, goes on to...

Nothing. He felt nothing. Just like after Connie. When he'd tried to will himself to cry, to make his voice tremble, to feel. Anything.

The realization whammed him: if he couldn't feel, he wouldn't be able to feel his fame. Not feel the new-found respect, the chagrined why-was-I-so-blind-to-how-great-this-guy-is?, not be able to savor the limelight.

What to do? He pondered...uh huh. Time to MagnaComm the good ol' Spleen Association. Phone messages that don't get delivered, files that get disappeared, bills that end up round-filed before they're opened, hard drives that get brought to their knees by computer viruses.

That would have to be enough. For now.

He smiled.

This is Otis Black Barrington's sequel to his award-winning story A Dish Best Eaten Cold (Oct/Nov/Dec 2001 in the archives.)