The Spiked Heel

They fell into a warm silence, sitting on the edges of their desks, listening to the hum of the factory below them. The factory had been on the job since eight that morning, and there was a certain luxury attached to hearing the sounds of toil and knowing that their own labor had not yet begun. They seemed to sense too, on this morning, a happiness pounding beneath the factory’s effort. They sensed it humming through Prefitting and Lasting, sensed it vibrating ecstatically all the way down to Packing and Shipping. This was the day, the machines sang. This was the day George Kurz got flipped out of his flabby flaccid fanny.

“I can’t wait,” Aaron said. “I know I’m a morbid bastard, but I can’t wait.”

“I’m going to applaud,” Griff said. “Kurz is going to stick out his hand for that final tender handclasp, and I’m going to start clapping, I swear to God.”

He heard the click of high heels in the outside corridor, and he turned his head quickly. Marge Gannon breezed into the office like an assault wave at Anzio, her short blond hair bobbing at the nape of her neck, her green eyes sparkling.

“Good morning, good morning,” she chanted, and then she stopped dead in her tracks, looked over her shoulder, and whispered, “Has it happened yet?”

“Not yet,” Aaron said.

“Good,” she answered. She threw her coat onto her desk and then pulled off her gloves and put them and her purse into the top drawer. Her eyes gleamed with mischief. “I wrote a poem for G.K.,” she said. “I wrote it on my own time, and I’m not even charging the firm for it.”

“Let’s hear it,” Aaron said.

“Steady, boy,” she answered. She was wearing a woolen suit, the ruffles of a blouse showing at her throat. Her feet were encased in a pair of Julien Kahn’s caramel calf pumps, selling in retail outlets for $22.95, but which she’d picked up from Mauro in Wholesale Adjustment for six dollars and some change because one shoe had a slight damage. She wore the shoes extremely well, for, whereas Marge was a small girl with only an average figure, she had been endowed with splendid legs. It was Marge’s contention that such legs should not be wasted on a typist’s job. Typists were a dime a dozen, but good legs were hard to come by. And good legs in a fashion house should understandably be utilized for the modeling of shoes, or so she reasoned, and so she showed off her legs at every possible opportunity.

Griff did not entirely disagree with her reasoning. He had tried, on his various sorties to the Chrysler Building Sales Offices, to generate some interest in Marge Gannon and her really, remarkable under-pinnings. But each time he’d mentioned her possibilities, he’d been brushed off with a Sales-to-Factory pat on the back. He had not, in all truth, been sorry. Marge was a damned good typist, and her determination to exhibit her legs, which — let’s face it — were really and truly superb legs, incomparable legs, pinup-girl legs, damned exciting legs when you got right down to them, did a lot toward adding a certain amount of class and distinction to the Cost Department. It also added a lot of loiterers from every other department in the factory, people who allegedly came in to chat, but who really came to admire the crossed legs and exposed knees behind Marge Gannon’s desk, Marge enjoyed the audience. She knew her legs were good, and she knew any prospective employer would adore having them adorn his offices, at possibly twice the salary Julien Kahn was paying her. But she dangled the carrot of self-delusion before her pert Irish nose, and the carrot was stamped MODEL, and the dream was most appealing to her, and dammit! what better place to make a start than at one of the top fashion houses in the country?

She plumped her shapely bottom down on Aaron’s desk, crossed her legs, jiggled one aristocratically shod foot, and reached into the pocket of her jacket for the poem she’d created. She unfolded the sheet of paper with a good deal of pomp. She cleared her throat.

“Come on, already,” Aaron said.

“Don’t get nervous,” Marge answered. “If you’re nervous, watch the pretty legs. They’ll soothe you.”

“It’s the pretty legs are making me nervous,” Aaron said, smiling.

“Fresh,” Marge said, and she made an attempt to pull her skirt down over her knees, but the skirt somehow resisted and she shrugged and went on to more important matters.

“To Our Beloved Comptroller, George Kurz,” she read.

“Hear, hear,” Aaron said.

“Now hush,” Marge said. She jiggled her foot once more, cleared her throat again, and began reading the poem.

“Our affection for you, dear old G.K.,
Will never erode, rust, or D.K.
We love you — no buts
We don’t hate your guts,
But we’re glad you are going A — way, A — way…”

“Say, that’s…” Aaron started.

“There’s more,” Marge said.

“Let her finish,” Griff said, smiling.