Stevie

Simon Whitaker has everything- a great job, a family, a beautiful house... And a baby blanket.

Stevie

When Simon Whitaker turned three years old, he was given his very own big boy bed. Upon his return from an afternoon in the sandbox, he found that his crib, once a gated fortress standing tall in a teddy bear infested carpet-moat, had been torn to pieces and was leaning against the garage door, waiting to go outside. In its place was a long, skinny bed with four pillows, a brand new stuffed rabbit, and a comforter that still smelled like the plastic in which it was wrapped. Simon clung to his mother’s skirt as she gently guided him into his room, cooing quietly like a pigeon the whole time. She reached down and picked him up around his waist, let him nuzzle into her shoulder, then sat with him on her lap.

            “What’s wrong, Simon?” she asked, her auburn hair folding softly under her ear. Everything about Simon’s mother was soft. Her eyes were soft, her hands were soft, and her breasts were soft. Simon clung tighter to his mother.

            “Everyone needs to sleep in a big boy bed sometime,” she said, a smile crossing her face. “Why, can you imagine if Daddy and I slept in a crib? That wouldn’t do at all for a married couple!”

            Simon ran his fingers along the threads in the comforter. His hands were still dirty from filling his Tonka truck.

            “Did you see what was on your new comforter?” his mother asked, pointing to the designs that sprawled across the length of the bed.

            “Monkeys.”
            “And what are those monkeys doing?”

            “They’re asternauts.”

            “That’s right! They’re astronauts!  Just like we read about in your book, right?”

            “Yeah.”

            Simon’s mother smiled again. Simon loved it when his mother smiled.

            “How about a little nap? Would that feel good right now?” she asked, stroking her little boy’s hair as she reached over and pulled the comforter loose from under the mattress. Normally, Simon hated naps, but this day was different. His mother wasn’t hurrying to give him a peck on the cheek, locking him behind the bars of his crib, then rushing downstairs to finish the dishes and laundry. She was sitting on the bed, fluffing the pillows, and stroking his hair. Simon crawled under the comforter and stared at his mother as she stretched to reach the end of the bed.

            “And a big boy can’t take a good nap in his big boy bed without…?”

            Simon beamed.

            “Stevie!” he giggled. His mother laughed, then pulled Simon’s yellow cotton blanket from the foot of the bed, where it had been neatly folded and waiting for its owner to return. Simon pressed the blanket to his face, traced his finger over his embroidered name, and closed his eyes as his mother rubbed his stomach. Each one of Stevie’s threads reached for Simon’s face and squealed with static-filled delight when they were able to kiss him. Simon breathed in the hundred aromas that blended meticulously within Stevie’s fibers. He could smell his lunch, his father’s Old Spice, his mother’s lotion, the yard, the pine planks from the clubhouse his father built, and everything that made napping easier for little boys like him. Simon squeezed Stevie tighter as his mother pulled the comforter over him and sighed as Stevie wrapped itself around his arms. Soon he was asleep, dreaming of horses and the lady on the six o’clock news, and Simon’s mother went downstairs, trusting Stevie to keep him safe inside his new bed.

            Stevie stayed rolled up inside a He-Man thermos on Simon’s first day of kindergarten. Stevie was there when Simon sang his first solo with the Fisher Valley Boys Choir. Stevie waited patiently on the shelf in Simon’s locker when he started high school, and again when Simon carried the Fisher Valley Wildcats to the state championship his senior year. Later that year, when Simon delivered his valedictorian speech to an auditorium of nearly a thousand spectators, Stevie was tucked into his belt underneath his robe.

            Soon, just a year after Simon earned his Masters Degree, he was married. Amy Prior was a blonde-haired whisperlike woman, and seemed to many to be the human embodiment of a pair of sensible flats. She smiled when she was happy and smiled brighter when she was upset. She let Simon choose the wine they drank, the company they kept, and the four bedroom, three bathroom Colonial on the corner of Fifth and Broadview. Amy asked Simon if it was necessary to live three blocks from his mother, but like everything else he told her, it made complete sense. His father was dead, and Judith Whitaker was not the type of woman who should be left alone. Amy apologized for being so ignorant and continued to unpack the bedroom boxes. She knew better than to say anything as she pulled her husband’s yellow blanket from the box, folded it neatly, and placed it tenderly at the foot of the bed.

 

. . .

            “How do you like your new office, big shooter?”

            Simon took in his surroundings as he hung his thumbs from his belt loops. It was just as he imagined it would be: eight stories up overlooking the river, a shiny new zebrawood floor, and a gleaming nameplate sitting on the edge of a mahogany desk. He smiled broadly, the telltale signs of age creeping across his clean-shaven face. He turned as Mr. Warren clasped his hand over Simon’s shoulder.

            “Feels good to be on top, doesn’t it?” he asked, taking a deep breath inward. The wood smelled as if it had been shipped from Brazil that morning. Simon laughed.

            “I’m not on top yet, Mr. Warren. Last time I checked, you were still holding down the fort at the head of the table in the meeting room, so until you decide fishing is more fun than working, I’m still just second in command,” he said lightheartedly. Mr. Warren shrugged. For a moment, Simon thought a cloud of dust was shaken from his shoulders as they heaved.

            “Well, there’s no one I’d rather have in the passenger seat than you, Whitaker. Now, I’ll let you get settled before the press conference,” he said as he left through the frosted glass doors.

            The office already felt like home. For years, Simon had been working his way through interviews, coffee runs, late nights and skeptical clients, and now he was the Vice President of The Warren Group Marketing Firm. He placed the box of his belongings on his brand new chair and began to place them on his desk. The portrait of his three boys was first. His two older ones, Jacob and Jonathon, were twins. They were nine years old, and they had a shared passion for soccer, Little League, and rollerblading. In the photo, they each held onto little Josiah, who had giggled and squealed the entire time he was in front of the photographer. They all wore matching red sweaters, and their hair was combed to the left with a matching deep side part. Amy wanted to take nice photos of the boys in a pile of leaves in the backyard, but conceded to Simon when he mentioned that the black backdrop in the professional studio would look better with his office décor. It was only natural that he should get his way, and after all, he had allowed her to dress them in the red sweaters instead of shirts and ties.

            Beside the picture of the boys, he placed a wedding photo. Amy looked lovely in her empire waist Vera Wang gown. She and Simon were leaning against one of the columns outside the courthouse in the photo, and it made Amy’s nineteen inch waist all the more obvious. Simon used to tease her about her size and about how if he wrapped his hands around her waist, he could get his thumbs and forefingers to touch. Amy loved when Simon teased her. It was how he got her to smile for this particular photo. It was his favorite. The colors woven into the brick courthouse complimented the wood grain of his desk perfectly.

            At the bottom of the box was an old friend, Stevie. Simon reached inside and brought Stevie to his face. The smells were all still there. He smelled the campfire of his first Boy Scout camping trip. He smelled a thousand meals in his childhood home. He smelled his mother, fresh and warm like whole grain bread and a square of sunshine on berber carpeting. Stevie felt the same against his cheeks. The cotton had grown softer with age, and it was still Simon’s favorite sensation. He shaved diligently twice a day, knowing his harsh whiskers could snag the delicate fibers. He wove the fabric through his knuckles, squeezing and stroking it as it passed through his trembling fist. His breathing quickened as the frayed corner trailed across his thigh.

            “May I come in?”

            Simon pulled open the bottom drawer with his toe and threw Stevie into it. His  heart fell into his gut as he glimpsed Stevie curled in a heap in the shadowy compartment, but he bit his lip and kicked it shut as quickly as he had opened it.

            “Yes! Please come in!” he shouted, a bit too loud to be considered an “indoor voice.” He felt his knees buckle under him and fell into his chair. A perfectly formed woman with ruddy curls and a pair of chiseled calves covered in black tights floated into the room. She held a clipboard against her chest, which did nothing to hide her flawless bosom. Simon cleared his throat as the woman leaned forward to shake his hand.

            “I’m Marcella Keyes from HR. I just need to drop off some forms you need to fill out and get back to me by the end of the week. Nothing too pressing; just some of those pesky forms that go with every promotion,” she said, her brown eyes simmering behind her frameless lenses. She set the clipboard on Simon’s desk.

            Simon flipped through the pages, his favorite ballpoint pen in hand.

            “This doesn’t seem too difficult,” he said, “Why don’t you sit down, Miss Keyes? I’ll have these finished for you in just a second, then you can take them back to your lair and do what you need to do.”

            “My lair, Mr. Whitaker?”

            Simon laughed quietly.

            “Well, yeah! No one knows what you HR people do all day in those offices. As far as we know, you’re concocting potions and praying to the Earth Goddess!”

            Marcella raised an eyebrow.

            “Sir, if you don’t mind my saying, that statement right there is part of the reason why HR branches have come to exist. The workplace is no environment to demean your coworkers’ positions. Besides, none of us underlings really know what you big shots do in these fancy corner offices, either.”

            Simon threw his signature on the last three highlighted spaces and slid it across the desk to Marcella. She maintained her stoic expression as she placed the papers into her briefcase.

            “I apologize, Miss Keyes. I was out of line,” he replied quietly, though he was still a little unsure of what he had said to offend her. Marcella rose from her chair and smiled, waving her hand as though his indiscretion was floating around her like a fly.

            “It’s fine. I just jump into my default ‘all-work-no-play’ mode once in a while,” she said, making her way around the desk. Before Simon could stand up to shake her hand, she was leaning over him, using his German-engineered leather executive chair as a brace.

            “And if I could be so bold, Mr. Whitaker- If I was a big shot with a fancy corner office like this one, none of the underlings would really know who I was doing in here.”

            Simon felt the blood drain from his face as Marcella spun away from him on her Manolo Blahnik stilettos and marched out the door, her pencil-skirted back end keeping time with the sound of her feet hitting the hardwood floor.

            The commute home seemed longer than usual

            The straight stretch between Exits 164 and 165 seemed to last for an hour, and the rain didn’t help. Simon pulled into the garage, shut off the ignition, and sat for a few moments with his fingers curled around the handle of his briefcase. The only sound was that of his breath rattling inside his lungs. He hadn’t seen Marcella in at least three hours, but she was still there. He could still feel the heat of her body pulsing over him with every heartbeat, and he could still smell the cinnamon on her breath.

            “Sweetheart, what are you doing?”

            Amy leaned into the garage from the door that went into the kitchen. She wasn’t as pretty as she was in the photo on Simon’s desk. After a long day of making sure Jacob and Jonathon didn’t murder each other, she looked like a murder victim herself. Simon clenched his jaw.

            “Nothing. I’ll be right in,” he replied coolly.

            The table was already set and covered in a feast fit for the vice president of a marketing firm when Simon went into the house. The twins were loading their plates with sweet potatoes and ham, and Amy was in the middle of a heated debate with Josiah about whether or not he needed to eat his mashed peas. The good china, which normally sat collecting dust in an antique cabinet in the corner of the dining room, had been meticulously polished and arranged to professional standards on the table. The only light came from a set of candles placed in different areas of the room. The candlesticks looked familiar.

            “What’s all this for, Amy?” Simon asked, his fist still wrapped around his briefcase. Amy looked up from Josiah and smiled.

            “Do you recognize the candlesticks?” she asked quietly. Simon shrugged. Amy shrunk, but continued to smile. She knew her husband was a busy man. It wasn’t realistic to expect him to remember their significance.

            “It’s our tenth anniversary,” she said in a shuddering exhale. Simon draped his coat over the back of his chair at the head of the table. He remembered Amy sitting on his lap as they opened their wedding gifts in tandem, and he remembered her uninhibited delight as she tore the paper off the silver candlesticks. They were a gift from her parents, - the same parents with whom Simon had discussed the impracticality of many wedding gifts just before he proposed.

            Marcella’s silver bangles glinted in the back of his mind.

            “I’ll be right down, okay? I’m just going to run upstairs and change clothes,” Simon said as flatly as he could. Amy smiled and nodded her head approvingly.

            Simon left a trail of clothes behind him as he reached the second floor. His suit coat lay over the banister, his tie swirled to the ground in front of the bathroom, and his shirt found its place over the doorknob to his bedroom. Simon threw his briefcase onto the mattress and opened it. Stevie was still neatly folded on top of his stack of folders. He buried his face in its delicate threads. They were less like cotton and more like a silky negligee the deeper he pressed himself into it. The smell of his mother’s lotion became the smell of Marcella’s perfume though she . hadn’t touched a single fiber, and he pulled t out of the briefcase and let its frayed corner drift like a feather over the stubble on his neck. A shiver ran from the balls of his feet into the back of his skull. A deep moan rolled out of his throat as Stevie fell across his bare chest.

            The next day, Stevie was curled safely in a ball in the bottom left drawer of Simon’s desk. Knowing it was there while he stressed over clients and figures was almost as comforting to him as it would be if it were in his lap. The more he stared at the spreadsheet in front of him, though, the more his mind drifted to Marcella’s breasts. Just once more, he told himself. He just needed to see them one more time, and he’d be able to focus on his work.

            “Sarah,” he called into his intercom, “Can you please send Miss Keyes into my office? Tell her it’s quite urgent.”

            He sat in disciplined composure until she arrived.

            “You needed to see me, Mr. Whitaker?” she asked, stepping halfway into the office. There was still a hint of ruddiness in her cheeks and down her neck, as if she had just been blushing. She was bare-legged today. Simon raised his eyebrows. He hadn’t thought of the answer to the question he knew she would ask.

            “I uh… I was just hoping we could go over some of those forms from yesterday. Just so I know what’s going on. I didn’t really read them, I guess,” he said. He could feel his breath quickening. Marcella smiled and opened her briefcase.

            “Of course, Mr. Whitaker,” she said as she sat down across from Simon. He shook his head.

            “My eyes aren’t quite what they used to be. You’d better bring those papers here,” he said hurriedly. All he needed was one good look, and the blouse she was wearing certainly allowed for one good look. Marcella sat on the corner of the desk and began to point out key phrases from the paperwork. Her musk was overpowering, but not in the way that would cause alarm. It blended delicately with the soft overtones of her lotion and complimented the sheen of her clean shaven legs. The fabric of her skirt stretched around her thighs and displayed every inch of her perfectly carved muscles. The fabric on the end of the skirt ran over the edge of the desk like linen stream. She dipped lower so her pillowy lips grazed Simon’s ear.

            He reached for the fabric of her skirt.

            She reached for the back of his neck.

            He wrapped his arm around her willowy waist.

            The heel of her Manolo Blahnik stiletto hooked around the handle of the bottom left drawer of Simon’s desk as she lifted her knees. Simon froze as Marcella struggled briefly to free herself, and in turn, drowned Stevie in the sharp fluorescent light of the office.

            “Simon…Is that a…” she began, her eyes locked on Stevie, who was cowering in fear at the bottom of the drawer. Simon’s embroidered name could do nothing but expose the truth. She tried to continue her sentence, but gave up and laughed nervously instead.

            “Something’s wrong with you. Something is really, really wrong with you,” she finally sputtered before she flew out the door.

            Simon remained in his chair, his lungs marinating in the pit of his bowels. He glanced at Stevie, unsure of what to think of his most trusted companion. He felt his body crumble under its own weight and land in a heap under his desk. Stevie soon found himself in Simon’s lap, and then crawled languidly inside of his shirt. Simon traced his embroidered name with his finger and closed his eyes as Stevie rubbed his belly.

Author's Note

First off, if this isn't "your kind of story", don't give me a bad review just because it doesn't fit the style of fiction you normally read. Just because it doesn't fit your taste, that doesn't mean it's of poor quality. Look at it as objectively as you can. What do you think of Simon's relationships? Do you think Stevie is "characterized" well enough? Should Stevie be left as an inanimate object, or do you want to see Stevie take on more and more human characteristics?

Reviews

[Nisho Olme]

I liked it, though I must admit that I did notice 3 mistakes that I assume are there due to not having anyone proofread it. Regardless, I liked it. While it was a bit more sexual than I had expected, and while I felt there might be some disunity between him going to bed and then suddenly fast forwarding through major milestones in his life, I enjoyed how the story progressed overall. My biggest issue, however, is his children's love of both soccer and little league. While it is possible to love both, there is hardly the time for both in the average child's day. While league games are generally on different bays, most teams practice anywhere from two to three times a week, which would leave far too many overlapping days of practice. Anyway, that's my take, I'm tired.