Quicksilver 1

Author's note: This dawdling, mostly fictional June-October romance diary-novella, set in ancient USA before the Internet, cell phones, and digital watches and printers, is unconnected with any other work called QUICKSILVER. All players are 18+. Views expressed may not be the author's. Details may be incorrect. Condoms are not mentioned. Enjoy this VALENTINES DAY 2021 contest entry!

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QUICKSILVER

Hot bike couriers! Horny babes!

Rancid reporters! Cult artists!

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He is such a nice young man, always polite, usually clean if sometimes sweaty, and though he does not seem gay, he does not stare into my lush cleavage like visitors I wish to distract. So many other bicycle courier fellows are rude or at least brusque, and sloppy, and obvious horndogs. They are not so bad that I will complain to their companies but I am certainly not comfortable with them.

Some couriers from Speedy, Allen's, Confidential, Draper's and Sunburst are a bit problematic. That is a nice way to say 'skuzzy'. Those I see from Quicksilver are much nicer, as far as I am concerned.

And this fellow — his name tag says he is Nate K. — is easy on the eyes, as they say. Especially on warmer San Francisco days when denim shorts display his legs. He also fills that Quicksilver t-shirt snugly. Very strong looking, very athletic. Rather tall; dark hair over his ears; green eyes behind thick black-framed glasses above the dark, bushy moustache on his rugged face; big bright teeth when he smiles; and a mellow baritone voice. Yes, nice. And those strong shoulders and lovely legs!

I hold the front desk at the Salman & Johannes law office in downtown San Francisco, California. My desk plate shows only my name, Lydia Barnes, with no title. Mr Salman's and Mr Johannes' secretaries may run their practices and paralegals but I run everything else at S&J LLC. My title, if I needed one, would be Office Manager, or Company Goddess.

Or call me The Gatekeeper. Anyone, anything, any whichever except direct phone calls; whatever arrives or departs S&J LLC, goes through me. I screen everything. All incoming and outgoing mail and deliveries, all faxes, all clients and solicitors, face my steely eyes. Gray eyes, actually. Close enough.

We — that means *I* — schedule pick-ups almost daily, maybe more, and material arrives almost as often. Documents must go to and from various offices in greater downtown, and the civic center, and the airport express carriers. Our paralegals record depositions on tape reels and we send those to a low-cost Chinatown service for transcription, hopefully returned the next day. We use photographic and graphic services for visual presentations; so specifications, film, prints, and charts must move back and forth for those facilities.

If it is too big, delicate, bothersome, or time sensitive for the post office, it goes by courier. This never ends. Thus do we stay in business. Thus do I pay my own bills.

But back to Nate. I should take him to lunch someday soon. Such an active young man must have a strong appetite. I could get to know him better. Yes, he is probably in his early twenties and I am nearly forty, but I stay fit at the gym and I do not look bad, if I do say so. My natural platinum bob hardly shows its silvering. Construction workers cat-call me. I do not mind much.

===== Tuesday, week 1 =====

Nate just now arrived to deliver packets of briefs and supporting papers from Caldwell and to take a heavy sheaf of discovery notes to the District Attorney's office. This is a warm day. His legs are lovely.

Uh-oh. Mr Johannes buzzed me, warning of a fat package to go back to Caldwell, but it won't be ready for five minutes. That means ten minutes. Can it go with this delivery?

"Nate, can you delay for a few minutes? We have something more to go out. I'll log the order."

"I can probably wait, Miz Barnes, but I'd better check in."

He picked up the Quicksilver dedicated phone. S&J LLC does significant business with Quicksilver so it is cost-effective, as with their other busy clients. Commercial walkie-talkies are not feasible amid tall buildings clustered downtown. He spoke quietly with his dispatcher and turned to me.

"No rush runs right now so yes, I can wait a bit." Ooh, the depth of his voice strummed strings in my heart! Calm down, girl!

"Would you like some coffee while you wait?" A freshly brewed pot steamed on a side table.

"Many thanks, Miz Barnes. Coffee powers me through my day."

He stirred three sugars into his brim-full tall cardboard cup. Yes, he would certainly have an appetite. He sat on the edge of a hard chair and sipped.

"Tell me about yourself, Nate. You speak well. College man?"

He laughed, and sipped again. "Well, junior college so far, a year in San Diego and a year at City College here. Anything more takes money; I save as much as I can but it's slow going on a bike messenger's pay. You probably have more degrees than I'll earn anytime soon."

"I earned my teaching credential after my B.A. in English Lit but trying to instruct middle schoolers didn't suit me," I said, "so I took work as a legal secretary. Then I found that many lawyers were more immature... but at least the pay is better. What's your focus?"

He sipped once more, a deeper drink, now that it did not steam.

"Electronics, with liberal studies on the side so I won't be too

nekul'turnyy

, uncultured."

I caught the Russian reference. Nate showed surprising depths.

He continued. "My ex's father designs missile guidance systems and brought me spare mil-spec semiconductors from the rocket plant. Developing circuits is fun but I need more theory and practice to work in electronic engineering. I can't pick up enough only from library books and journals. And I can't afford university yet. Sooner or later..." His smile drooped.

"What, you were married? But you're so..." I could not finish.

"We were young and stupid and mis-matched. It couldn't last. Good thing California is a no-fault state. The divorce was less painful than the marriage." He drained his coffee and stood.

Mr Johannes' florid secretary Tracy hurried out with a package.

"Oh good, you're still here," she panted. "Caldwell wants this soonest. Can you get it there fast?"

Her face was flushed. She was much too excitable. Or Mr Johannes had been fondling her again. Tsk.

Nate tucked the package into his shoulder satchel and smiled at her. "That's my next stop; it'll be there in three minutes. Thanks for the coffee and the chat, Miz Barnes. See you next time." His strong, lovely legs quickly carried him out the door to his bike.

Tracy went back for her coffee mug and filled it. No sugar for her; she starves herself to stay slim.

"Great looking guy, isn't he, Lydia? Too bad my Brad isn't so fit. Gotta get him to exercise."

"Get him to sign on as a bike courier. None of them are chubby." Yes, I was snarky.

"I seriously doubt I'd convince Brad to leave the brokerage," she sighed. "Mortgage, kids, clubs, all that. Not gonna happen. He says he's always busy. Busy working on a coronary."

Another sigh. "I saw a World War I poster of a chic

fraulein

saying enthusiastically, 'I must marry an aviator. Black suits me so well!' That's not me. I don't want to be a young widow. Or an old divorcée."

I nodded but could not cheer her. She slunk back to her desk. With my history, I am not one to give marital advice. Ask a professional, not me.

=====

Nate was back that afternoon with fat bundles of tapes and transcripts, and a packet from the slimy DA's office, and he had time for a small cup of coffee and a brief chat. Tracy ran out with another packet to rush to Caldwell.

Before Tracy materialized, I verbally probed Nate a bit more. Maybe I could discover how to have him physically probe me, but I am in no hurry, or so I tell myself.

I asked him, "Nate, what do you do when you're not working or studying?"

"Well, after work at home — my landlady Suzie rents rooms in her Noe Valley flat — early evenings, we tenants take turns cooking in the large kitchen, then we eat our dinners in the parlor watching Star Trek reruns on Suzie's big TV. Afterward I'm in my room reading or songwriting, or maybe out playing board wargames with geeky and disreputable neighbors."

He drank half his small cup.

"On weekends I might pedal my ten-speed Raleigh, go tent-camping down the coast. But I also like busking in tourist zones, like near Fisherman's Wharf and Ghirardelli Square, or at the cable car turntables. I finger-pick and sing with my guitar case open for donations: cash, jewels, or joints, I'm easy. I used to duet with my best friend, him playing soprano sax; but then my wife moved in with him. So now she's my ex-wife and he's my ex-friend. Good riddance."

He finished his cup, Tracy handed him the packet, he called his dispatcher for latest instructions, and with a waved hand, he was gone, his lovely legs flexing. He is so distracting!

When

can I have him for lunch? And for dinner? And for breakfast? Whoa, girl!

So, he is a divorced, athletic, wargaming, tent-camping, pot-smoking street musician, with ambition to be an engineer. I will remember this.

===== Wednesday, week 1 =====

Nate arrived for a delivery and a non-rush pick up just before noon the next day. We exchanged smiling greetings. I asked him, "Do you take a lunch break around now?" I watched him nod YES with a smile as he wrote a note in his little log book.

"Nate, I'd like to treat you to a good lunch and talk some more. Zion Cafe just down the block has good food."

"That's very nice of you, Miz Barnes, but I usually eat big meals because I pedal my butt over steep hills and burn upwards of 5000 calories per day. Wang's Chinese buffet around the corner would be more cost-effective, if that's okay with you. And I thank you very much for the offer."

"I love good Chinese," I said. "But won't it be noisy?"

"It's still early so it won't be too crowded yet. And the booths give some isolation. Let me call dispatch and let Jenkins know I'm off for an hour."

Nate brought his bike inside and left it behind my desk for security. "It's not safe to leave it on the sidewalk too long," he said. "These clunkers aren't stolen very often but there's no need to tempt a junkie."

A competent thief would not target a 'clunker' delivery bicycle, he told me. A heavy frame covered with ugly paint, and the company name on a steel plate under the seat; a big basket in front; thick, wide tires; heavy one-speed gearing with only a pedal brake. Even disguised, if it is not ridden by a uniformed courier downtown, it is obviously stolen. It cannot be sold, or used. Leave it be!

I draped my purse over my shoulder, Nate fetched his shoulder satchel, and we were off! I wore a nice little sun dress on this warm day. It and my slightly high pumps showed off my tight, exercised calves and butt, and a bit of cleavage. I am fairly tall, shoulder-high to Nate. I saw him look at me as a woman. I tingled! Easy there, girl!

=====

We found a quiet corner booth at Wang's, a nice clean place. Dirty eateries or those with poor food do not survive long in this busy downtown. I picked a small shrimp salad and Nate filled his large tray with fried juicy noodles, saucy vegetables, and every sort of creature flesh. We both took jasmine tea. Nate ate politely but quickly and went back for refills.

I noticed that he ate and drank carefully, both lunching here and taking coffee at the office. He never slurps sloppily, never loads that bushy moustache with debris or liquids. Such a clean young man! With lovely legs, yes.

"So what's your story, Miz Barnes? What's a nice lady like you doing in this crazy city?" He resumed eating, giving me plenty of time to answer.

"Call me Lydia, I'm buying lunch," I said smiling, thinking of what to reveal. "The short version: I started out as a child, as they say, up in a deadly boring little Sacramento Valley farm town."

Nate paused between bites. "So you're a farm girl?"

"No, my folks run the general store. Anyway, I survived that, and the motley schools, and I got myself to Sacramento State as soon as possible. I took my degree and certificate and then a job in an equally boring tiny farm town down in the San Joaquin Valley where I endured disinterested sufferers of puberty, pimples, and angst, in and out of the classroom. And do you know what Central Valley weather is like? It ranges from bothersome to miserable."

He nodded and kept eating. I sipped my hot tea. It was good.

"Pile a year of tortured teaching onto a lifetime of tortured weather, and I had HAD it! I saw an ad for secretaries in San Francisco in the Chronicle so I came to The City, started working for lawyers, and here I am. I've been with Salman and Johannes for a decade now and I pretty much run the place. I! Am! The! Gatekeeper!"

We both laughed. He paused between bites and asked, "So, Miz... I mean, Lydia, what do you do when you're not working? Any games, hobbies, crafts, obsessions? Family, partner, kids, pets? Pardon me if I'm getting too personal." He resumed eating but watched my eyes.

"Games? I was in the chess club in high school. THAT really killed any possible extracurricular social life. Hobbies? None to speak of. Crafts and arts? I paint with acrylics, temperas and watercolors, often outdoors with other

plein air

addicts, I mean enthusiasts. Obsessions? Other than art, and regular gym work to stay toned, I can't say."

My hidden obsession? To have a lasting relationship. But I could not tell him, not yet.

"My family? We're not real close now and we don't visit much; most are still in my boring hometown. I see my sister Milla and her husband Ted in Sacramento every few months. Partner? Not now. Kids? Not yet, if ever. My biological window for that is closing. Pets? I guess my best friend is Figgy, that's Señor Figueroa, a fine feline beast, but I'm always sweeping up the long black hairs he sheds."

I sipped more tea. "More personal? I never keep friends very long; we always seem to drift apart. Maybe it's me, maybe it's them, maybe it's both, maybe it's fate. But even short-term friends are better than none." I tried not to sound sad.

My hands, flat on the table, bracketed my small tray. Nate reached across and lightly covered my hands with his.

"Lydia, what's a pretty woman like you doing all alone here in Fun City, in Baghdad by the Bay? I'd expect to see packs of lustful hounds baying hopelessly at your door!"

I heard the unspoken question: Why am I lunching with a delivery boy and not a doctor, lawyer, executive, whatever? I was not ready to fully answer that yet. Not even to myself.

My hands clenched, then opened weakly; his followed softly.

"I've kissed a few women..." there, I said it! "...but I'm not really attracted. And men? The good guys are either taken and not cheaters, or they're workaholics wanting zero non-business disturbances, and/or they're gay or asexual. Friends without intimacy. The others are cheaters and/or arrogant jerks, or they're bigoted or otherwise offensive, or are broken."

I looked in his eyes. "Are you broken, Nate? Or taken?"

He watched me for the longest time before answering. My heart quivered.

"Not taken. Sometimes I'm out with somewhat intimate friends. They and my other pals apparently don't think I'm fatally broken, though they aren't shy about pointing out my many shortcomings and how I can improve myself."

We both laughed and finished our teas. He stood and combined our emptied trays.

"I'll take these up, and then we really must go. My break is over and my bike's in your office. Think we can double-time there?"

"Catch me out the door. I can walk fast."

We quick-stepped around the corner without bumping too many pedestrians. Nate ushered me in, called dispatch, thanked me deeply for a wonderful meal, grabbed his bike, and departed with a wave and a CHEERIO! I grinned.

=====

Mr Salman returned early from his lunch, as usual; he disliked empty time. He looked at me, at my grin. The corners of his mouth twitched slightly into an almost-smile.

"A pleasant day, Miss Barnes? A tasty lunch?"

"Good company, sir. And today has not been too painful. Not yet, sir, but the day is still young. Opportunities for disaster always await."

Another fractional smile. "Continue your excellent work of keeping dragons from our gates, Miss Barnes. Good afternoon to you." A nod, and he walked briskly back to his office.

Coming from Mr Salman, that was almost a Nobel Peace Prize! I glowed, from the praise, and the lunch. It has been a good day.

===== Thursday, week 1 =====

We — that means *I* — had scheduled a morning packet pick up and delivery but Nate did not arrive. The courier was Anthea, a girl I had seen here before. She was fairly tall, with vivid green eyes in a freckled but plain face, and a long, fiery crimson ponytail. She filled her Quicksilver tee quite attractively and her modest shorts revealed fabulous athletic legs.

She is a Quicksilver Girl but that song was not about her. With good make-up and lighting, she would be model quality... in a smaller market than the Bay Area. I did not quite feel jealous that she worked with Nate. My face is better and my body ain't bad. Now, if I can just have him for dinner. And dessert. If I could... but my mind wandered.

"Is Nate off today?" I asked as she loaded a small paper cup with coffee and sugar.

"No ma'am, Jenkins has him on a special run, all around the South-Of-Market area, all the photo studios and labs, and tech agencies, and engineer offices out there. It's for something big that's going to hit the media pretty soon. He'll really earn good money today."

"Oh?" I was curious. "How does that work?"

"I guess no one told you. We get basic hourly pay, and then a bonus for each delivery over ten that day. We love the press runs. A bank or other big firm downtown has a press release going to all the dozen media outlets in range of Market Street, the news rags and broadcasters. That run usually takes less than an hour and a half, depending on traffic and elevators. Get a couple of those a day and we eat well! Nate might have forty or more stops today. He'll be able to afford those new guitar strings he's been angsting over like a baby."

She checked her wrist watch. "Hey, nice talking, ma'am, but I'd better call dispatch now. Jenkins is on the rag today. Oops, I mean extra moody. I blame this big event."

She gave me a thumbs-up while on the Quicksilver phone.

"It's cool, ma'am, I'm to wait here till..." Tracy hustled out waving a packet "...till the next pick-up is ready. I guess we can log this now. Jenkins will be happy with the fast turnaround. I'll get some bonus runs today. Yay-hoo! Enchiladas tonight!"

The lively girl slipped the packet into her shoulder satchel and trotted off. A pair of unannounced vendor's agents entered in full sales mode. I projected politeness while throwing them in the crocodile-filled moat, I mean sending them out the door. Beware! For! I! Am! The! Gatekeeper!

===== Friday, week 1 =====

Today was strange with no deliveries inward or outbound except the usual postal mail. But the fax machine stayed busy and all other phone lines buzzed constantly, even as I was leaving. I hate end-of-week percolation. Let the paralegals sort it out.

I felt fried. I took the bus home, honored and fed Figgy, showered, drank a big fruit smoothie, dressed casual, and risked walking the long city block to the gym for my workout. Yes, in my handbag I keep pepper spray, and a long hat pin, and only five bucks. I learned prudence, even in this decent neighborhood.

Julia and Romero welcomed me to my regular session of removing accumulated physical discombobulations. Work all those muscle groups, indeed! I liked staying strong and sleek. I traded jokes with those few gym-rat guys and gals who spend Friday evenings here instead of partying. These gym rats, and some of my painting group, and a few downtown secretaries and staff, are the closest I have to friends. After Figgy, of course.