Shooting Stars (17 page)

“You didn’t have time for me. You started working long hours. Who knew what you were doing.”

“Working. That’s what I was doing . . . working. And you were the one urging me to get ahead,” I say.

“What did you want? Not what I wanted. While you were neglecting me, he was here,” she says.

“That’s bullshit. And you know it.”

“No, it’s not. Well, I quit my job. And now I’m his full-time manager, because I believe in him and fully support him.”

My anger boils. She’s not remorseful for what she’s done to me and continues to take personal digs at me. “Get out.” I point to the door. She seems perplexed by my irascibility at first. Then, she walks out, but doubles back for Robbie’s sandwich. I plop back down on my air mattress, a defeated man. Yet I can still overhear the two of them.

“Did you get my sandwich?” he says.

“Yeah, baby.”

Where did I go wrong? I know I wasn’t the greatest boyfriend or most successful man in the world. But if there was one person I thought I had an edge over in life, it was Robbie. I think about calling Felicia. I just want to ask her if I was really that horrible a boyfriend. She hasn’t talked to me since I let her get into that U-Haul by herself. She’d definitely agree that I’m a piece of shit. There has to be someone that could boost my self-esteem right now. My mind draws a blank. I reach for the pills, pound a few more, and lie back, staring at the ceiling until my eyes close.

B
ack to work
after my life debacle. I wonder how quickly it’s taken for all the rumors to spread about my absence. Who knows what the story has grown into. I’ve probably been committed to an insane asylum. Or better yet, I’ve slit my wrists with love letters I couldn’t bring myself to mail to Alexis. How long will it take for someone to casually glance at my wrists? I really don’t want to deal with all these speculations and people in my face all day. I definitely don’t want to see Dontrelle. That bullshit he pulled at the job interview was beyond fucked-up. If I see him, I might tackle him again. But I need this job, so I can’t do that. And he’s strong as fuck, plus my head is still sore.

It’s time to go back to approaching work like a true professional. I’m not gonna get another job. And I’m taking a break from interviewing and sending out applications until that whole Becker Financial fiasco dies down. As soon as I show up, I notice something is different.

“Where’s Eddie?” I say.

“Not sure,” Dolores says.

“I don’t see his coat or briefcase. He usually gets in really early.”

She reluctantly peeks over the cubicle wall and looks at his desk. “What do you know?” She sits back down with the same disinterest. She doesn’t care about much except her cigarettes and twice-a-year vacations to Fort Lauderdale to visit her sister. I only keep asking her questions because she sits right there.

“Is he on vacation? I’m sure he had to mention something.”

“Listen,” she says. “I’m reading my morning gossip. I’m not that little shit’s secretary. I don’t have his schedule. Isn’t he your apprentice or whatever? Shouldn’t you know these things?”

“I should. But I’ve been out of the office the last few days. Terrible sickness. That’s why I’m asking you.”

“Oh really? I didn’t hear about
your
sickness. I heard Alexis had a case of the ‘I don’ts.’ Is that contagious?” She can’t help herself from laughing uncontrollably.

Shit, I wonder how many people know. I bet Eddie told everyone. I knew I couldn’t trust him. I scowl at Dolores. She still laughs. Then, I decide to defuse the situation by going to get breakfast.

“Are you heading to the police station to put out an APB for your mentee?” she says as she laughs some more.

I contemplate punching her in the face. She thinks because she’s old she can’t get punched in the face. But after what I’ve been through the past few weeks, it’d be in her best interest not to push me. I’d make it look like an accident. A quick elbow right to the bridge of her nose while I’m reaching for her stapler.

I can’t worry about what people say, or who’s here or not. Though I can’t show Floyd I’m a good mentor if my mentee has abandoned me. He probably had an interview. I knew he’d snake me. I trust him, and he picks up and leaves for a bigger and better higher-paying job. But not until after he takes all of the knowledge and work ethic I showed him and reaps the benefits. Same shit that happened with dumb-ass Rodney—using me.

The day sneaks up on me, and I get caught up in my work. Still trying to get back into the flow of things, because I’ve been out of it for a while. Whenever you miss time, you’re always greeted with an inbox full of bullshit e-mail requests and voicemails that really didn’t need to be left. You return to a workload twice as big as the one you left. Aren’t we a team? Shouldn’t someone pick up the slack? In the army, if one man goes down, then another soldier picks up the flag. I know this. I saw
Glory
in social studies. Eddie did do most of my work, but not all of it like I had hoped. He did clear up a lot of things, though. It was probably his guilt for leaving STD that made him do it.

Right around lunchtime is when I begin to come to grips with Eddie’s departure. He probably wanted to take a few days off so he doesn’t lose his vacation time. Then, call us next week to say he found a new job and won’t be coming back. At least, that’s what I would do. That sneaky son of a bitch. You don’t work hard to accrue all of this vacation time to give your two weeks’ notice and they say you can’t use it. That’s a slap in the face. Corporate America is good for that conditional love. Hugging you as you’re doing their bullshit work, and pistol-whipping you as soon as you decide to leave. My cheeks are all marked up like a stepchild with a smart mouth. Hold up! I hope he didn’t take my resignation letter with the hopes of using it for himself. I unlock my drawer, expecting it to be gone, but it’s there. He’s not completely heartless after all.

Now, I have to try to figure out what this kid has been doing with these newfangled spreadsheets he’s been working with. I probably should’ve paid closer attention to what he was doing, but I was the one training him. I don’t have time for that new college technology he’s trying to use. Maybe if I was eager like him I’d learn those things. STD does offer a wide selection of training courses for free, but I have better things to do with my time than spend an hour or two in a classroom. This might take me a while. Maybe I should get up and grab a Snickers from the vending machine so I can get some energy to figure this shit out.

“Sorry I got caught up, boss. My allergist double booked some appointments,” Eddie says as he rushes back to his desk.

I turned around, surprised. “Allergist?”

“Yes, you didn’t see the note I left on the cube?”

I look up and there’s a yellow Post-it dangling from the top of my monitor.
I’ll be in 3 hours late tomorrow. Allergist appointment. Eddie.
And the picture of a smiley face sneezing on some flowers.

“I would’ve left a voicemail, but I know you don’t check those,” he says.

“Oh, yeah. That note. Thought it said
dentist
. You should really work on your penmanship.” He has excellent penmanship.

“Will do, boss,” he replies.

“Can you stop talking to me like I’m your slave overseer?”

“But I thought you said we’re like slaves here?” he says.

“Good point. Very good point. Still, turn it down a notch. I’m not
the man
. They are.”

“No problem,” he says.

I still don’t believe his story. “So, dentist appointment?”

“No, allergist.”

“Right.” I get up and try to read his facial expression. “You’re wearing regular work clothes. No tie. No nicely polished shoes.”

“Was I supposed to wear a tie?”

“No, of course not if you’re going to the allergist.” I continue to look around. He’s pretty good. Not giving up any clues as to if he was on an interview. “You didn’t happen to go anywhere else?”

He smiles. “Why, is it that obvious?” he whispers.

“Yes, it is.”

“I went to see my fiancée after my appointment. Her office is in the same building as the allergist. I must still be glowing from our smooch,” he says.

“Please, don’t ever say ‘smooch’ again.”

“Other than that, I tried to rush back to work. I got some extra eyedrops samples. Do you need any?”

He pulls out two small boxes of eyedrops from his jacket pocket. Nice touch. “No, that’s okay. But try not to do personal things on company time. It’s not the image we want to portray here at STD.”

He smiles. “Didn’t you take the whole afternoon off last Friday to go to the movies?”

He said it so loud that I’m sure everyone heard. Is he trying to set me up? “Shh,” I say. “First of all, don’t question me. Second of all, it was the new Jason Statham movie,
Kill or Be Killed
. You’re kinda obligated to see it the day it comes out, okay?”

“Sure,” he says.

I sit back down and determine my inspection is inconclusive. I’ll keep an eye on him. Just don’t trust him. I decide to start charting any of his peculiar behavior in my notebook.

But now that he’s back, I can ease my way back into work. His absence made me too frazzled, and I thought I was going to have to do too much after taking a few days off. But now I can ease up a bit.

I
t’s right after lunch
, and I’m completely back into the swing of things. I’m free to do to more important things now that my helper has returned. I made a list of to-do items I want to get accomplished before it’s time to go home: watch some old
Goodtimes
episodes online (my old roommate just e-mailed me a great website), play some online poker, and then do a little clothes shopping since my suit jacket is ripped. I’m even gonna see if any new job postings are out there. I want to take a break from job hunting altogether, but you never know. I might see something that I’m right for. When I do such activities at work, I try to do them all at once. The trick is to minimize the windows on your computer and always be alert. Even with our low cubicles, it’s pretty difficult for someone to see what you’re doing on your computer screen if the window is small enough and you position your body at the right angle, unless they come to a total stop and take a good look at your screen over your shoulder.

I’m constantly watchful for people spying on me when not doing what they consider work. But I haven’t been in the office for a few days, so I’m a little rusty. And right when I convince myself the rust is all in my head, I look over my back and Floyd is right behind me. I have no idea he was standing there. But I guess I got trapped in the outcome of J.J.’s hot prom date. I swing my chair around, and it’s too late. Floyd’s shamed look hints to the importance of the group of people he’s with. The humiliation comes from him hosting potential clients. Apparently, he was giving an upstart Japanese video-game company a tour of our facilities. All I hear is him saying, as he attempts to cover up for me, “This is one of our hard-working model employees, Kevin. He’s probably doing some complex administrative work. He’s one of our most attentive employees.”

The four Japanese men are either frowning or looking confused, because they can see I’m doing just about everything but work. Then, the tallest man, who must’ve been the main decision maker, says to Floyd in heavily accented English, “This is what you call hard work in America?”

A now-red-faced Floyd doesn’t know what to say. I never see him flustered like this, and I’ve caught him masturbating in his office on more than one occasion, to some suspect pervy shit I might add. “Well, I believe he’s doing research, Mr. Yoshi,” he says.

I try to help out: “Yes, extensive research.”

The youngest Japanese guy says, “Are you analyzing life in the 1970s American ghetto?” Then he starts singing the theme song: “Ain’t we lucky we got ‘em . . . Goodtimes!”

Boy, do the Japanese love American black culture. Who knew the Evans family had crossed over?

“Not to mention he’s on CareerBuilder,” the young Japanese guy says.

“Let’s keep it moving. I have other things to show you.” Floyd ushers the men away from my cubicle. “I have Chloe, another one of our fine employees.”

I sit at my desk and watch the men fawn over Floyd’s blond star. Of course, they’d rather look at her. I mean, she’s doing work, but her looks give her an edge. Now, I see her talking. They’re all laughing. What the fuck? This can’t bode well for my promotion.

“She speaks Japanese too,” Eddie says. He shakes his head and sits back in his seat. I see her bow as they leave her desk elated.

About forty-five minutes later Ginny Wells, the vice president of sales, comes over to my cube. She looks frazzled, as if it was a severely urgent matter. “Excuse me, can you help me with something, please?”

“Sure,” I reply as I leap out of my seat. She probably needs help with a business decision. Maybe wants to run some important ideas by me so I can serve as a voice of sound reason. Probably heard about Robot Day and knows there are more un-mined gems in my head. She reports to Floyd, and helping her will definitely get me back in good standing with him when he finds out. Also, she might tell other managers, and the word of how awesome I am will spread like chlamydia through a whorehouse in Peru. I follow her back to her office. I’ve never been inside of this office, only seen it from the outside. It’s pretty nice in here. Not as nice as Floyd’s, but only a small notch below. A sturdy oak desk and a butter-soft leather chair, not like the IKEA rip-offs we have in our cubes. This is real wood and metal. I sit down in the chair and wait for her to take out whichever business proposal she wants me to read.

“Here,” she says as she looks at me sitting down.

“Here what?”

She points to a stack of five file boxes sitting in the corner of her office. “I need assistance with these.”

“I can’t read all of those,” I say.

“No.” She laughs. “I need you to take them to my car.”

I look at the boxes again. “No thanks,” I reply. This bitch saw me at my weakest. Probably overheard the whole Japanese-client ordeal. And thought I’d jump at the chance to help her, because I felt bad. Nope. Not me. Fuck her.

She looks puzzled. That was definitely not the response she was planning on. “Excuse me?”

“No,” I repeat. “First of all, I will not be
assisting
you. So there is no need for you to use the word, because that would imply you will be lifting the boxes and taking them to your car along with me. Perhaps I lift more than you. I take three. You take two. Nope, you expect me to lift all five boxes and take them to your car. Right or wrong?”

“Well . . .”

“Exactly. I don’t lift boxes, or anything for that matter. You’re able-bodied. And unfortunately for you, but fortunately for me, that is not in my job description. I don’t do manual labor.” I point to my belt holding up my khakis. “Do you see a weightlifting belt? A tool belt? How about a back brace?” I show her my hands. “Lifting gloves?”

“No, but I don’t understand.”

I’m pretty exasperated at the whole idea of what she tried to pull and having to point out the absurdity of it. I say, so slowly that a retard could comprehend, “Get someone else to do it. I am leaving now. Through that door.” I point to the door. Then pat her on the back and try to leave for the second time.

“Are you serious?” she says.

“Are you
seriously
asking me that question?” I say. “Read my lips.
Not in my job description.
Listen, I bet you don’t even know my name.”