Shooting Stars (20 page)

C
hloe
, the only employee in the company that’s beloved by all. She’s lauded by her superiors for her excellent work. And her peers love her because she’s always willing to lend a helping hand when they need her. The women admire her without a shred of envy, even though she’s beautiful, smart, and talented. The men fawn over her because she’s in the top five most attractive women at STD. Well, really, she’s top three, but I like to use the round number of five to make room for any droppage with new hires. The janitors love her because she empties out her own trashcan and recycling bins. Then, she takes it one step further by cleaning off her own desk and wiping down her computer screen with Windex every day so they don’t have to do it. In fact, the possibility is extremely high that I’m the only one who doesn’t like her. It’s so bad, but it forces me to question if I really have an issue with her at all. And really, my answer is no. She’s never done anything to me directly or indirectly that I can remember. She’s even helped me out a few times, but that doesn’t change the fact I need to get the promotion. The promotion is essential to my lifestyle goals, and she stands as the one obstacle in between me and it. I have to stop her at any cost.

With all this going against me, it’ll be hard making her look bad. Turning the whole office against her will be even more difficult than creating the illusion of me being the model employee. I’ve decided to hit her first with the thing employees like the most.

It’s early Monday morning and all the bleary-eyed employees are moping around the office with glum faces due to the realization their two-day reprieve from this hellhole has come to an end. There’s always only one thing they look forward to on Mondays: Breakfast Day. For the past three years, on a rotational basis, someone brings in breakfast food for the entire department. And everyone flocks to the same company cubicle to enjoy the variety of different breakfast foods.

Dontrelle, Frank, and Mike walk over to the cubicle, salivating at the delicious options they’re about dig into. “I’m so glad it’s Breakfast Day. I hope the breakfast captain brought in Krispy Kremes, ’cuz I’m hungrier than a mofo. Do you know I had a dream about Krispy Kremes?” Dontrelle says to the other two.

“I’m not bullshitting,” he continues. “And I woke up with my dick hard right after the dream.”

Frank and Mike laugh. “I don’t know what
exactly
that says about you, but it says
a lot
about you,” Mike says.

Dontrelle shrugs it off. “Floyd would’ve understood that shit.”

Frank says, “I heard from a friend of mine, he left his wife for a stripper named Cleo-clap-tra in Atlanta. Don’t know if it’s true or not, but it’s a reliable source.”

“I believe it,” Dontrelle says.

They step inside the cubicle and there’s no food. Dontrelle immediately goes to the two cubicles right next to it, which are occupied by employees. It’s clear to him there’s no breakfast this morning, and all three of them can’t take it. But Dontrelle is the worst. “My mind is playing tricks on me, son,” he says. He really starts losing it. First comes the sweating. Then, he starts scratching his neck tattoo and shaking his head back and forth. “Why? Why would someone do this?”

“It is Monday, right? I mean, yesterday was Sunday,” Mike says. “Or am I dreaming now?”

“I better wake up right now, with or without a hard-on, but with a Krispy Kreme,” Dontrelle says.

“Whose week is it as breakfast captain?” Frank says.

Mike walks over to the board and looks at the calendar. “Chloe’s,” he says.

As if she was magically summoned like a genie, Chloe appears in front of the cubicle. Which is probably best, because I’m sure Dontrelle’s next action was to go looking for her. “Good morning, fellas. What’s for breakfast?” she says. She notices something is up, because no one is smiling or answering her. She peeks inside the cubicle and sees there’s no food.

Dontrelle isn’t amused by her total disregard of their sacred day. “That’s fucked-up, son!” He’ll call someone “son” regardless of gender when he’s really upset.

“What?” she says.

Dontrelle is about to say something, but he gathers himself, knowing it was going to be really inappropriate. So Mike jumps in: “You ignore the sanctity of Breakfast Day. Then, you have nerve—”

“The audacity,” Dontrelle interrupts.

“Yes, the audacity,” Mike continues, “to come in here all smiles and giggles, and taunt us by asking, ‘What’s for breakfast?’”

“Hell yeah. Hell yeah. That’s like spitting in our faces,” Dontrelle says.

Chloe doesn’t know what to say. She looks at the calendar, stunned. Then refers to her Blackberry. “It’s not my week. I’m positive it’s not. I have it planned in my Blackberry.”

“Now, you’re calling the Breakfast Day calendar a liar on top of all this?” Dontrelle says.

“Despicable,” Frank chimes in. “It’s okay if you forget something work related, like a report or a project, but not this.”

“Breakfast Day means so much to me. It’s a day when I don’t have to make breakfast at home. Drive to work right past fast-food options, like a Croissanwich from BK or a McGriddle from McDonald’s. All because I know what’s waiting for me. You know I almost choked on my own spit once, cuz I was salivating so much? I come into work and get greeted with an assortment of treats. The finest juices. The sweetest pastries,” says Dontrelle. He stares Chloe up and down. “I wouldn’t expect this from you, of all people.” The three guys leave Chloe standing there speechless.

I decide to distance myself from this little prank so I wouldn’t get connected. Luckily, this week was my turn. I don’t know why they always put my name on that calendar. I never bring in anything but a carton of milk and some Munchkins. All I had to do was change my name with Chloe’s.

L
ater that afternoon
Barbara walks into the copy room, probably to retrieve some “research” she printed out for her Christian Slater fan blog. She has the nerve to look at me with a condescending eye, because I’m rumored to be lazy. But I have my suspicions she’s no different, and she goofs off as much, if not more. As soon as she steps to the printer, she’s taken the bait for my trap.

She looks for her printout, but nothing has printed. I see her look at the digital touchscreen menu on the printer, and there’s an error message. I take this as my cue to walk into the copy room. She’s more inclined to walk away from the printer if it’s malfunctioning, because she really doesn’t want to be bothered and gets confused by the error messages. She wants to go back to her desk and cancel her print job. So that, when the copier does get fixed and the error message goes away, there aren’t unclaimed photos of a bloated forty-something former teen heartthrob lying around in the room. Everyone knows whom they belong to.

“Hey, is the printer okay?” I say.

“Not sure, I printed out some . . . reports, but I’m not getting anything. Maybe I printed to printer G. Let me go back to my desk and find out,” she says.

I can’t let her do that. “No, let me figure this out. I’m pretty good with these things. Just stick around,” I say.

She rolls her eyes but stays. “Well, it can’t be jammed. This brand-new copier is supposed to never jam,” I continue. I get down on one knee and open up the paper compartment. I start pulling out big clumps of paper. “Smells like something is burning. Might be an electrical short.” I inspect some more. “Wait a minute, somebody jammed all this paper into the printer. What the fuck?”

“What idiot would do that?” she says.

“I don’t know, but this is a pretty severe fuckup. It’s like they’re trying to sabotage the new printer.” I stick my finger deeper into the printer. When I pull it out, there’s a substance on my hand. I taste it as if I were a detective on CSI.

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” Barbara says as she winces.

I look away while trying to decipher the flavor. Then, I turn back to Barbara. “Honey. Organic orange-blossom honey, to be exact.” I touch the keypad and discover the same substance. “It’s all over the buttons too.”

“The only person I know who keeps a steady supply of honey in the office is Chloe, for her fancy herbal tea she drinks every day. Do you know she makes her own tea? Dries the leaves and everything,” she says.

“That’s not the point. Let’s stay on track here. She’s ruined this brand-new printer. And you’re the one who’s found it.”

“So?”

“Do you know how much this machine set STD back?

“Nope,” she says.

“Neither do I, but I’m betting it cost a shitload. And our new boss is looking for reasons to get rid of people. Who do you think he’ll blame for this?” I say.

“What should I do?”

“Well, I’d tell Hunter Chloe did it. Cover your own ass. That’s the only logical thing to do. You know how protective they can be of their new appliances. Remember when they thought someone broke the coffee machine?”

Barbara now looks extremely scared. “Yeah, they suspended that poor guy for a month without pay.”

“And it wasn’t even broken. The electric socket shorted out,” I say.

“And when they found that out, they kept him on suspension,” she continues. “Oh no, I can’t afford to lose my job over this. I just can’t. They’re doing a
Heathers
reunion with the original cast in San Diego. And I have to be there.”

“Of course you have to be there,” I say. “Well, you know what you have to do.” Then, I walk out of the room as more employees enter the copy room. They will undoubtedly have questions as to why it’s been destroyed.

T
he next morning
, around ten forty-five on the dot, I spot Chloe in the break room all by herself reading the newspaper and eating carrot sticks. I sit right beside her, even though every other seat in the room is open.

“What are you reading?”

She holds up the newspaper without saying anything, to tip me off that she’s busy and doesn’t want to be bothered.

“Is that today’s?” I continue.

She looks at me as if I’ve unanimously just won a king-of-the-assholes pageant. I don’t think I’m getting anywhere with her. Not sure why she’s over-the-top friendly to everyone but me.

“How’re things going?”

“If you don’t mind, I would like to finish up my break in peace,” she says.

“Sheesh, can somebody say ‘antisocial’?” I respond.

Hunter walks into the break room and goes straight to the vending machine. I begin to speak louder to draw attention to myself. “No, I will not have sex with you! Stop asking me!”

“What?” Chloe says.

“I am tired . . . sick and tired of your sexual advances. They are totally unprovoked, extremely unwarranted, and completely unethical. Have you not taken your test on office ethics?”

She looks around, embarrassed by my outburst.

“What do I have to do to get you to stop?” I say.

Now fed up, she gets out of her seat. “You’re delusional. I can’t believe I work with a lunatic.”

I get up and block her path. Hunter has been looking at us the whole time. How can he avoid it? I’m making a pretty good spectacle of Chloe. She pushes me out of the way. I fall to the ground and scream in agony. Hunter switches his focus back to the vending machine, as he really doesn’t care about me getting sexually harassed or my plight of being physically assaulted in the workplace.

“We need to get rid of all of this candy in these machines,” he says as he surveys the contents the vending machine. “It’ll make us more productive.”

Chloe stops trying to exit and walks over to him. “Like carrot sticks?” she says, showing him her snack.

“Yes, exactly. I can always enjoy a good carrot stick,” he says. She opens up her Tupperware container and offers some to him. He takes one and crunches into it. “Delicious.”

“I also make my own hummus. I often say, a good car needs to run on optimum fuel. And the same principles should be applied to a good worker,” she says.

Hunter nods his head and agrees. “And from what I hear, you’re a promising member of our organization. Let’s talk about this some more.” He turns around and tries to leave.

I can’t believe this shit. I’m being taken advantage of by a fellow employee, and he has nothing to say. I haven’t gotten up from being shoved to the ground. He looks down at me.

“Stop playing around and get back to work,” he says as he steps right over me with his cowboy boots. Chloe walks around my body.

As I get up and brush myself off, a few other employees walk in, ready to begin their morning fifteen-minute break. They don’t pay me any mind. One would think seeing a fellow peer on the floor might be alarming, but not to these jerk-offs. Maybe it is, but just not when that peer is me. They go right past me and turn on the TV, tuning in to a daytime talk show. It would be ironic if the topic were sexual harassment in the workplace, given my very recent situation, but it’s not. This show is one of those morning shows that rip off
Good Morning America
and
The Today Show
, but it caters to the locals.

The hostess announces a musical performer, and it’s none other than Robbie. He’s wearing my suit on stage, but he’s added some rhinestones that spell out his name to the back and some purple tassels to the sleeves. He’s doing his typical routine. He’s in his full raunchy splendor, grinding on the floor and against audience members. Yet this assorted bunch of housewives in the crowd loves it. People in the break room are tapping their feet and clapping as well. One woman turns to me and says, “Boy, this guy is good. For a minute I actually thought he was Bobby Brown. But he’s better. Much better.” I give her a death stare that doesn’t deter her incessant clapping.

“Looks like your man is blowing up,” Jake says. I didn’t even notice him walk into the room. But the performance has garnered quite a crowd in the STD break room. Does anybody work anymore? “Is that your non-interview suit too?” Jake laughs. “He sure is living the dream.”

Robbie wraps up his performance with the host and hostess meeting him up on the stage. They are both all grins as Robbie towels off his brow.

“That was some show you put on,” the host says.