The Sexpert

No gasps, no golf claps, just blank stares.

“I believe that the only way someone could have known about our idea is if they already work … HERE.” He really lands “here” in a super-operatic way. “Or, at the least, they are in some way affiliated with Le Man.”

Heads turn. People glance at each other. Not in a guilty-seeming way, in a “what the fuck is happening right now?” way.

“So we are here today to work on trust. We must learn to trust each other. To rely on each other. To help each other and not to tear each other down!”

I have to admit, Pierce gives one hell of a speech. Maybe I can get him to give mine from now on.

“So, as we spend today climbing these”—he pats one of the climbing holds—“uh… And, what are these? They’re not rocks.”

I glance over out of the side of my eye. “They’re, uh… polyurethane.”

“These polyurethane handholds! Let them be a symbol! A symbol for each other! Think of these not as polyurethane rocks, but as polyurethane hands! The polyurethane hand of the person next to you!”

He’s really kind of blown this metaphor apart, but it hasn’t dimmed his commitment. Which is its own special kind of leadership skill.

“And if one of you does, in fact, know who might be behind this scurrilous action, I hope you’ll take my real-life, skin-and-blood hand at the end of today, and hold it, secure in the knowledge that if you are honest with me, I will be kind in return!”

Huh. I always kind of thought that Pierce felt like the whole “king/kingdom” thing was sort of a joke, but now, I’m—

He waves his hand with a regal flourish. “And now… Build. Grow. Trust!” He gestures to the wall behind us, and slowly, his slightly confused employees wander over and begin climbing up and mostly falling down.

He steps off the pads and back into the main area of the gym, turning around to see a bunch of magazine employees struggling to maneuver up the walls. Over to our right, something I can already tell is going to result in a human avalanche begins forming. Pierce nods his head, satisfied.

“Dude,” I begin slowly, the way one does when approaching an unstable person. “Um, are you OK?”

“Fine. Why?”

I decide not to say anything and shake my head. “No reason.”

We watch the struggling going on in front of us for another moment and then he says, “Talked to my dad a couple nights ago.”

“Oh. You did?”

“I did.”

“How was that?”

“He’s not thrilled about our sales.”

“Isn’t he?”

“He isn’t.”

The human avalanche collapses as expected.

“So…” I start. “What’re you—?”

“Look at that.”

I look at where Pierce is looking. Myrtle is pulling herself to the top of the wall she attacked. And I do mean attacked. She tore up it like she’s been doing this for years. And now she stands at the top, looking down at everyone struggling. She doesn’t have chalk all over her like I do when I finish topping out. She doesn’t even look like she’s broken a sweat.

“She’s something, isn’t she?” Pierce says.

“Uh, yeah. I guess so.” There’s something in his eyes as he stares at her and suddenly it dawns on me to ask, “Dude, are you two—?”

“I think it’s her.”

A beat. I blink.

“Come again?”

“I think it’s her.”

“Her what? You think what’s her? You think she’s—?”

“I think she stole my idea. I think it’s her. I think she’s the Sexpert.”

I look at Myrtle staring down at all the struggling Le Manians. She reaches over the edge to help one of them up and lifts him with a strength that surprises me.

“Really? You honestly think that?”

“Makes all the sense in the world. Doesn’t it?”

Watching her, it does make some sense. I can see why he’d think that. And it would be way more plausible than my half-cooked idea. (Even if my half-cooked idea is based on at least circumstantial evidence, as opposed to a feeling, but still…)

“Why would she do something like that, do you think?” I ask.

“Why does anyone do anything?”

“I… That’s not an answer.”

He doesn’t say anything more, just stares at her as she walks over to the hand ladder and begins to lower herself down.

“Really?” I ask once more. “You really think it’s her?”

“Who else?”

“Sorry! Sorry I’m late!” comes the flustered, urgent, familiar voice from behind us. Both Pierce and I turn to look at the same time. The explanation for her lateness is suddenly squelched and she stops talking and stares at us. We stare back.

“Oh,” she says.

“Hey there,” I say.

And then we stare some more. And finally, after a moment of no one saying anything, the thudding of bodies landing on padded mats behind us the only sound, Pierce leans in and whispers, “Uh, that’s that girl who works for me, right?”