Happy All the Time (7 page)

“Okay, let's see. The waterfront improvement.”

“Wrong again.”

“One more try. That mini study on upper-middle-class attitudes toward mass transit?”

“No,” said Misty.

“No?” said McKay. “What, then?”

“The Hispanic language project,” said Misty.

“Right. Right. Well, how do you like it here? You've been here a couple of weeks, right?”

“No,” said Misty.

“Yes, you have,” said McKay. He smiled abstractly and then left.

It hadn't taken Misty long to figure out that the office was Denton McKay's roulette wheel. You never knew where he would land. He wandered down the halls and popped into the first office that took his fancy although he was never certain whose office it was. He was also full of plans. One day he sat on Misty's desk, looked at her with little recognition, took a cigarette, and said: “I've just been down to Washington. Big conference on job rotation. Great idea. What do you think? I think we ought to get the publicity people more involved in the actual work of the Board. Get them into planning meetings. Teach them to do computer programs and stuff like that. Get the research people down to the PR floor, so the entire staff understands everything that's going on. I think the mail boys ought to come too. I think they ought to know what they're mailing. Whaddaya think?”

Misty was silent.

“I'm a big fan of job rotation. Get the receptionists in on it too. Isn't that a good idea?”

Misty said: “I think it's the worst idea I've ever heard. Or close to it.”

“Oh,” said McKay. “Gee.” He seemed crestfallen. He took another cigarette, which he stuck behind his ear, and left. Misty was sure he still did not know her name. When he saw her in the halls, he absentmindedly called her “chicken”—the endearment he called his children and colleagues he could not identify.

Denton McKay liked plans and he liked to change plans. He called meetings of the staff, which were then canceled. He sent around a memo asking each staff member to state the project he or she was working on, but this effort at refining operations was then rescinded. Most of his time appeared to be spent bumming cigarettes from people whose annual income was about a fifth of his own. This offered him some minimal contact with his staff.

His deputy was Roy Borden, a pale man who wore pale pink glasses and kept in his office photographs of the golden retrievers bred by his wife. A great deal of hearty laughter between Roy Borden and Denton McKay covered an essential hatred. This enmity was hard on the staff. Roy Borden issued an edict and Denton McKay quashed it. Projects approved by Borden were held up for McKay's signature. Most of the staff paid little attention unless these things got in the way of their work, at which point they were forced to go to McKay, a move Roy Borden noted and resented. Those staff members who were politically oriented divided themselves into the Borden Camp or the McKay Camp. Misty, who sat in her office and worked, belonged to neither. In fact, she was unaware that they existed until the week that Board members later referred to as “the siege.”

Doors were slammed. Hurried meetings were called. Heads of departments sat in the conference room drinking cold coffee and waiting for either Denton McKay or Roy Borden to show up. Walking through the office was like stepping through a mine field, but no one knew the cause of the tension.

One morning Misty made a foray down the hall to find out what was going on. The only person she could think of to ask was Maria Teresa Warner, whose title was “coordinator.” All business dealing with Board projects passed through her hands. She and Misty had never had a real conversation, but they had chatted in the halls. The measure of each had been taken by the other and although neither had moved to institute a friendship, some sort of tacit mutual approval had been established.

Misty appeared at Maria Teresa's door. Maria Teresa was on the telephone. She had a cap of dark brown hair, wide brown eyes, and when she smiled she revealed a gap between her front teeth, of which Misty was very envious. Her voice was low and modulated. It was impossible to eavesdrop when she was on the telephone; the modulation turned into a murmur. She looked up and waved Misty in. Then she hung up.

“What's going on around here?” said Misty.

“Don't shout,” said Maria Teresa. “Sit down and respond in a soft voice.”

“Okay,” said Misty. “What's going on around here?”

“Classic power struggle,” said Maria Teresa. “Roy is leaning all over Denton. Denton's wigging out. Of course, he isn't normally what you'd call plugged in. It's so stupid and complicated I can't even remember what the issue is. Oh, what difference does it make? This office is run on pure whim.”

“What does Roy want?”

“Roy wants Denton's job, is what it looks like.”

“Don't you have to have Denton's father to have Denton's job?”

“Not the way Roy sees it,” said Maria Teresa.

“How come Denton doesn't fire Roy?”

“Denton hired him,” said Maria Teresa. “No one else wanted him to but he insisted.”

“I don't get it,” said Misty. “I thought the heads of departments were supposed to be advisers.”

“What planet do you live on?” said Maria Teresa. “Denton runs this show. He likes to make sure everyone knows it. He likes it that no one ever feels secure around here—or maybe you haven't noticed. All the junior staff sit around shivering. He once told me he thought security was a deterrent to creative work. Then he went off to some seminar in Wisconsin and came back saying that creative work flourished under secure conditions. Can you imagine? And him grubbing cigarettes right and left. Since I don't smoke, he steals my
Times
and drinks my coffee. And as for Roy, Roy is a monster.”

“He is?”

“Of course he is. He's been here for two years and all he's done is rip people off. Like Betty Miller—she was here before you. She did all the work on that pilot project on making the local schools independent corporations and he got all the credit for it.”

“Do you hate it here?” Misty said.

“Do I have an independent income? Did my grandfather invent something useful like air or thumbtacks? Do I like food and shelter, if you get my drift?”

“I get it,” said Misty.

“Oh, well. You know what Eugene V. Debs says: Class war, not imperialist war. I just sit here, boring from within.”

Vincent was oblivious to office politics. There was no reason for him to pay attention. He worked in a rarefied atmosphere, being one of the truly creative types Denton loved and feared. Since the publication of a paper on thrift now considered a classic in its field, Vincent had become a star of sorts. As such, he was left alone and the worst he had to put up with was smarminess from Roy Borden and oversolicitousness from Denton McKay.

The office gossip Vincent picked up he usually forgot, but now it was clear to him that something evil was afoot. He was called into meetings that were hastily canceled, or if actually held had a purpose obscure to the participants. He received contradictory memos. He heard muttered conversations in the men's room. For the first time in his tenure, closed doors abounded at the Board.

Misty was not a special case. She sat in the office trying to work, but the uneasiness in the office bothered her. One noon, she was punching at her calculator dispiritedly when Maria Teresa Warner appeared.

“You'd better lay low,” she said. “You're in the line of fire.”

“Me?” said Misty. “What did I do?”

“Nothing. You're only a pawn in the game, as it were. Denton told Roy three weeks ago to fire some nonessential people. Roy wouldn't do it. Then Denton decided that no one could be let go, so Roy has decided to act, and you're on the list.”

“But why me?” said Misty. “What did I do?”

“You don't understand,” said Maria Teresa. “This has nothing to do with anything. Denton hired you. Roy is trying to fire three people Denton hired and you're one of them.”

“But I haven't done anything.”

“That doesn't matter. Roy has decided to make an issue of this so Denton has decided to feed him a couple of Christians, in a manner of speaking. What's a few Christians to a lion?”

“I don't get it,” said Misty.

“I can't understand why you can't understand. It's just prep school in the adult world. They're sniping at one another. Denton has more money than Roy and he belongs to better clubs. That drives Roy crazy. I think Roy is one of those boys boys like Denton used to dump on in prep school and now Roy is trying to get his revenge. Get it?”

“And so I have to worry about paying my rent while those two maniacs fight out their adolescent traumas? But why did he pick me?”

“Just remember what Samuel Johnson said about schoolteachers,” said Maria Teresa. “They are men amongst boys and boys amongst men.”

“Rich people make me sick,” said Misty.

Misty spent the rest of the afternoon in her office with her door half closed. She studied her checkbook and savings account book and she calculated on her machine how much it cost her to live each month. Noises in the hallway made her jump. When she looked around her office, her eyes filled with tears. She loved her work, and where else was a linguist with degrees from the University of Chicago and l'École des Hautes Études going to work, if that linguist did not want to teach? Her work had been going so well, and now it was all going to end. She turned her swivel chair toward the window and stared unhappily at a girl watering her office plants in the building across the street. She was about to cry, but Vincent interrupted her. He looked cheerful and unruffled. One glance at Misty and he knew things did not look promising.

“Will you have dinner with me?” he said.

“You can go to hell. I'm about to be fired.”

“Oh, that,” said Vincent. “Did you take that seriously? I just heard about it. Denton is on his way over to talk to you. Nobody's getting fired. That was just one of those Denton-Roy ignorant army clashes. Now it turns out that Roy was just having the last laugh. He just quit. Seems he had a big job in Washington all lined up and wanted to make life rough for Denton before he left.”

Misty's face went white. A red curtain of fury fell over her eyes. She picked up the first thing she could lay her hands on and threw it against the wall. It was a heavy glass ashtray and it tore a hole in the plasterboard before it shattered to the floor. Then she got up and made for the door.

“Where are you going?” Vincent said.

“To tell Denton to shove it,” said Misty.

She was gone before he could stop her. Vincent sat down at her desk and wondered if he would have stopped her. He felt he would not have. She was off to do battle with Denton and he was worried and proud at the same time. This was accompanied by admiration and tenderness. He was seized with love. Sitting in her chair in her office, he felt very close to her, but when he looked around, he realized that there was very little to feel close to. Her suede coat hung over a chair. On the floor lay the shattered ashtray. On her desk was a ceramic dish of paper clips, her calculator, and a stack of papers on top of which was a spark plug that functioned as a paperweight. There were no plants, no posters, no photographs. He lit a cigar. In addition to worry, pride, admiration, tenderness, and love, he also felt guilt. He was so used to the cavalier behavior of people like Denton that it hardly registered. This, he felt, was nothing to be proud of. He wanted to race down the hall and knock Denton's teeth down his throat and save Misty. But when he thought of Misty, he felt that perhaps someone would have to come and save Denton.

An hour later, she was back.

“What are you still here for?” she said, grabbing her coat. Her face was pale and grim.

“I was waiting for you,” Vincent said.

“Then get me the hell out of here and just take me somewhere.”

She did not speak in the elevator, in the taxi, or in the banquette of the expensive bar Vincent took her to. When the waiter appeared, Misty seemed unable to speak. Vincent ordered whisky and soda.

“What will you have?” he asked her.

“One of those things they have in old movies,” she muttered.

Vincent ordered her a gin fizz. Silence descended again until the waiter brought the drinks. This gave Vincent a little time to consider the options. If Denton had fired Misty, if he could not see Misty every day, he would simply have to throw himself at her mercy sooner. If she had not been fired, he had a few months to go before throwing himself at her mercy. He looked at her quickly out of the corner of his eye. She sat huddled in her green coat looking malevolent.

“All right,” said Vincent. “Drinks are here. Please take one long sip and tell me what happened.”

Misty took a sip. “My, this is disgusting,” she said. “Well, here's what happened. I found Denton coming down the hall looking for me. I said I was looking for him. We went into Roy's office because it was nearest. He must have gotten out fast—there wasn't a thing in it. Then I told Denton that he was a son of a bitch and that he may have gotten away with fucking around with other people's jobs, but he wasn't going to fuck around with mine, and that I quit. I said I was quitting because his kind of cavalier ownership, his brand of whimsicality came a little too close to threatening my livelihood and it was clear he either couldn't see the connection or didn't care. I told him I didn't want to work for some prep school snip.”

“You said that?” Vincent said. “What did he say?”

“He looked sort of sick. He said he hoped I would stay, that the whole thing had gotten out of hand and that no one was ever going to be fired. I told him he ought to go out and get a job and find out what being an employee was like.”

“What did he say?”

“He apologized,” said Misty.