A Daddy for Alexi by Joe Satoria

1. ALEXI

TUESDAY

It’s going to be ok.

A mantra I felt had lost meaning. Overused. I was beyond saving. I was beyond ok. All I had was slow breaths and telling myself, ‘it’s going to be ok’.

I tried. It failed.

Listening to the same woman snapping at me down the phone. Ten minutes now.

In her pause for a breath, I read from a script. “I’m—I’m sorry you feel that way,” I said. Holding back the swell of emotion in my throat, gulping it down like I was suppressing some monster.

“Well, what are you going to do about it?” the sharp voice snapped back through the headset.

I’d gone from making coffees in a small café, in a town nobody had been to, to doing what I thought would be admin work; low stress, and steady pay.

Staring at a computer monitor as others spoke inside the office cubicles. It was the first time I’d worked in an office; I thought the environment would help me.

It was making me worse.

“I can pass along your feedback to our research team here at Fizz, the future stop for all your bubbly drink needs,” I answered, less than enthusiastically in response. I was reading from a script. My eyes blurring at the words, trying to force them into focus.

“No, you’ve got the number on the can for any customer complaints and queries,” she snapped.

I knew the call was recorded, and that was only adding pressure. The tension headache and throbbing in my chest. “Yes,” I said through dryness in my throat. “It is, and I’ve taken your feedback.” The grip of my pen was weak; I could barely scribble on the notepaper.

“Aren’t you going to offer me any compensation?”

“Compensation?” I repeated. Nearing a panic attack. My slick palms dropping the pen, and my vision drifting like I wore my body as an exoskeleton. “I—um—I—”

“Yes!” she screamed. “Is that something you can offer? What are you? New? Dense?”

She was calling me stupid. My body threw itself into action as my mind froze. With a jolt, my hand flopped across the keys. A click and the call disconnected.

Repeating the mantra through deep pants, I kept my chin dipped to my chest. The itchy collar of the shirt I wore, scratching my neck. It was a new shirt; I bought it specifically for this job.

“It’s ok,” I let out in a whisper.

Slowly, I removed the headset. The sounds of the surrounding office, undisturbed, not regarding anything I went through. I kept my head low. I didn’t want anyone to see me; I didn’t want to disturb them.

The team was small, but the company was growing, always more faces appearing. I kept to myself. I didn’t think I’d be on the phone, but three weeks ago during my first week here, they brought it up. I couldn’t back out. I’d moved my life out of the small town for this city, and now I was in the world’s smallest bedroom.

After a moment, with my head focused on the keys, I looked up to the monitor. On the clock, it read 12:24. I needed to leave for lunch, but I feared I was frozen in the chair. Clicking on the mouse, I set my status as ‘away’.

“On lunch?” a cheerful voice chirped ahead of me.

My supervisor, Kate, she was probably only a few years older than me. She was always happy, even when dealing with asshole customers.

I hummed, looking at her. “Yeah, I—I’m taking my lunch.” My body aching where I’d hunched and recovering from what happened. “Is that—is that ok?”

She nodded. “Of course, make sure you remember to type up your notes.”

I nodded. “Thanks.”

Fizz was a drinks company, very new, and eager for feedback. Part of me thought they were being paid to call us. I hated that. I was sold the job on emails, sitting at a desk, and making a salary.

I had dreams. I didn’t want to do this forever. I wanted to save so I could go visit my online friends. They were the only people who understood me, and that felt impossible these days.

With my small lunch bag in hand, I walked down the aisle of office cubicles. Out in the hallway, there were frosted glass windows lining the wall. They had doors into larger office spaces and meeting rooms. I’d seen shadows behind them as people paced back and forth.

I went straight to the men’s toilets. I needed to see myself, look myself in my eyes and reaffirm everything was going to be ok.

It was a daily ritual. Thankfully, nobody was ever in there. A square room with two toilet stalls and three urinals. It was all fluorescent and white, harsh as it reflected back in my eyes.

Fizz was located in Manchester. They rented one floor of a large office building. It was within walking distance from the city centre. Close to where I was living, but I never had the energy to explore the city.

Pressing the faucet, water gushed out. I cupped a hand and splashed some of the collected water in my face. It dripped down my chin. My hair was growing out. Thin, flat to the side of my face as it framed my cheeks, almost.

Looking at myself in the mirror, the strange lighting unnerved me. I wore a chunky knit dark blue sweater over an itchy white shirt, thankfully no tie. It wasn’t my style at all, it didn’t say who I was—unless I was a corporate drone.

If I knew Kate wouldn’t end up in the kitchen-eating area, I might have picked a stall and ate my sandwich in there. Nobody came by, and it was always quite clean.

I’d never worked in an office, so I didn’t know if it was big or small.

In the kitchen-eating area there were three circular tables, and people were always in there, making coffee, eating, or on the phone.

I saw the same faces, over and over, but I only ever spoke to Kate, or waving a hand at the others from the customer services team. We were all of a similar age. I’d just turned twenty-two.

Sitting at an empty table, I prepared myself. My light blue packed lunch bag had all my things inside. I pulled out my phone and Bluetooth earphones, followed by a ham sandwich in plastic wrap and a small carton of orange juice.

I usually had a pastel purple teddy bear case on my phone, but I removed it before work. My phone felt bare without a case.

I liked to listen to music while I ate, it helped with anxiety and the nervousness feeling of being watched. Plus, it was calming to listen to the same music over and over, my lips moving slightly as they synched to the songs. I knew all the lyrics.

Halfway through my sandwich, I looked up to see a man. He wore a light blue shirt with a navy-blue tie. His sleeves rolled up to his elbows. Green eyes and shaved black hair. His lips moved. I stared, admiring the dimple in the cheek and stubble catching the light. His hand pressed across the length of the table.

“Huh?” I grumbled, yanking an earphone out.

Chuckling, he continued to smile. “Are you waiting for someone? I wanted to know if I could take a chair.” His brows raised on his forehead.

“No, no, you can take it,” I said.

“Sorry for disturbing you.” He planted his hands on the back of the chair, his forearms flexed to reveal a thick vein running down them.

“I was just—eating lunch.”

He nodded, his smile pulling at the dimple in the side of his cheek. “I see that,” he said. “Are you new? I’ve seen you around but, I don’t know where. My name is—”

“I should go,” I said, immediately pushing out my chair, feeling the anxiety in my stomach. It told me to move; quick, anywhere.

“Right, well, thank you for the chair.”

Flustered, I threw the half-eaten sandwich into the lunch bag and walked off.

I think I handled it well.

You handled it well, Alexi. I told myself, puffing my cheeks.

Out in the hallway, I rested my back on the wall. Pressing a hand against my cheek. I was hot.

It was April; I shouldn’t have been sweating through my clothes.

When I worked in a coffee shop, I was just making coffee. It wasn’t the biggest or best job, but I never felt the burning rush up my cheeks like this.

Resting my eyes, I allowed myself to lean more of my body against the wall. I heard the door swing through the ear without music.

“Oh. I figured you didn’t get far.”

Clutching my bag, I turned. It was the same guy. He was overstimulating eye candy. From the way he dressed so smartly, to the way his body language offered up a warm confidence.

Stuck for words, my throat swollen. I stuttered over an introduction.

“Alexi Drake,” he said.

My name? Why was he saying my name?

He presented my grey Totoro-print lanyard with my name badge attached at the bottom. “I’m guessing this is yours,” he said. “You forgot it in there.”

That would help. I needed that to get into the building. “Thank you,” I said, trying to accept the lanyard into my arms, fumbling and juggling my sandwich bag and phone in them.

“Here, let me,” he said, reaching over my head. He placed it around my neck. “You won’t lose it that way.”

“Tha—thank you.” My fight or flight in constant flight mode. I shouldn’t have been flying at all; I didn’t even have a pilot’s license.

“I’m Warren,” he said, holding out a hand. He chuckled, probably at the sight of my hands being full. “I love Studio Ghibli. I take it My Neighbour Totoro is your favourite.”

Tongue-tied, I didn’t know how to respond. “I love Kiki’s Delivery Service, actually,” I finally said. “I love—” my lips pursing together, scrunched.

“Oh, that’s a good one. Not my favourite, but definitely a top ten.”

Visibly about to crumble into a pile of dust, he smiled. “I should—get back. I’m—I’m customer services.”

“Ah, an important part of the business,” he said, “let me know if it gets too much, I can show you where to blow some steam.”

“R—right, thank you,” I said, a little louder than inside my brain.

I didn’t know what that was, but it made me feel worse. The entire interaction, replaying it over in my head on the short walk back to the cubicles.

I was back early, noted by Kate with an enthusiastic wave and a chuckle as she glanced at her wristwatch.

The last thing I wanted was to look eager, or like I didn’t want to do the work. How come it was impossible for me to just skate by in the middle, neither eager, nor uninterested? But on a small team like this, under the radar didn’t exist.

All it took was a little breathing control, and I could get through the rest of the day.

I lived in a small flat. I answered an advert on a spare room website. In all, the flat had two bedrooms, a small bathroom, a living room, and a small kitchen. It fit three people, me, and a couple. Amelia and Tim, they were nearly thirty, and as soon as they got pregnant, I would be out on my ass.

I knew because they’d told me as much. And I also heard them trying for this baby every single night, sometimes multiple times. I didn’t think that was physically possible. I rarely saw them, only heard them in the late hours.

My room had a window facing out on the alley at the back of the block of flats. It looked over the recycling and general waste bins.

One single bed, and one wall filled with posters of my favourite films. There was also my small collection of plush toys on my bed. One wall was my closet and all the costumes and outfits I’d collected. There was also a small, mounted TV; it was connected to a gaming console.

Since starting work at the company in customer services, I played every night. I needed it to recharge. For a moment, I liked being Alexi, the boy who could grow large turnips and sell them for five-thousand gold pieces.

Other than that, I spent most of my time on a web forum called LittlesBoysAndToys. That’s where I felt relaxed enough to tell anyone who asked what I was going through. It’s also where I found more people who loved what I loved, the feeling, the outfits, the act.

Squeezing my phone into the purple teddy bear case, I laid back on the bed.

It was too much effort to undress right now, and my skin had stopped itching.

In one hand, my half-eaten sandwich from lunch, and in my other, I scrolled through my messages.

BrattyBoy69: Alexi, where have you been all day?

Alexxxi: I had to work. It’s Tuesday. I want to collapse.

BrattyBoy69: Didn’t you visit the group on here? There are men volunteering to be sugar daddies, but obviously make sure they can offer you sugar before you give them anything.

I didn’t like the idea of that. I knew he did. People liked him. I was quiet. I thought being quiet was always something good, until I realised people hadn’t meant anything good by it.

Alexxxi: I don’t want someone to give me money. I just want that feeling. You know. I want someone to stroke my hair and whisper in my ear until I fall asleep.

BrattyBoy69: I’ll pass on that. I’m happy with men showing their love language in the form of gifts.

It wasn’t so much I hated gifts, but I preferred people to be there physically. I also liked to dress and feel cute. But I hadn’t found anyone who fit me like that. Everyone was so occupied with dumping themselves into any hole, they didn’t care if they fit.