Shooting Stars (21 page)

“That’s what I try to do. Give the people what they want,” Robbie says.

“I broke a good sweat,” the hostess says. “Looks like I can skip my spin class today, with that cardio workout.” She gives a fake chuckle and does her offbeat white-person dance steps.

Robbie commences to pour a bottle of water all over his face, which catches everyone off-guard. “I’m dead tired too,” he says. “Thank you for having me here today. But can I have a moment to thank someone here who’s very special to me?”

“Sure,” the host says. He looks a little leery as to what Robbie might have in store.

“Can you come up here?” Robbie says as he motions to the crowd.

The camera in the audience pans to Alexis. She sees herself on the monitor and makes her way out of the crowd and onto the stage.

Robbie lovingly grabs her hand. “You are my manager, my friend, my lover, my sex slave, my maid, my tender roni,” he says. Robbie kneels in front of her. Everyone in the crowd starts cheering. The same goes for the people in the break room. Jake looks at me with the biggest grin I’ve seen on him since he told me a story about gymnast triplets he met in the Dominican Republic. Robbie pulls out the engagement ring I gave Alexis. “Will you be my tender roni for life?”

She screams while she puts on my ring. Her reaction is way more animated than during my proposal. Go figure. She doesn’t say anything, only screaming loudly as she jumps around.

“I don’t know much about women,” the host says. “My wife can attest to that, but I think that’s a yes.”

There’s a huge standing ovation in the crowd. The band starts playing music. Robbie takes this as a cue to start singing again: “The truth about a roni. She’s a sweet ol’ simple girl.” Nobody is clapping louder than Jake. My face is enraged, but to the point my feet will not let me leave the room.

T
here has
to be an angle to get to Chloe. I know I can do it. I need to find an opening and exploit it. And I need to do something soon. Every day I’m woken up by phone calls from bill collectors. Some are a little more persistent than others. My student-loan collector is starting to call me at my job. It’s humiliating pretending someone has the wrong number at your work phone. I’ve been sitting in my cubicle brainstorming all morning, then I get a eureka moment.

Today I got in so early the air was a little stifling. It’s not warm outside, but the building gets so hot. And the AC was turned off. So now the office climate matches the hell I believe STD to be. I always felt like a sweatshop worker when here, but now the working conditions match. I tried getting her to go out to lunch with me and getting her secretly drunk, to the point she makes a jackass of herself when she gets back to work. I even bought a Breathalyzer to keep at my desk, but she always turns me down. I wonder if she can see right through my plans. Nah, she simply doesn’t like me.

A few hours later, I get it. I need to find an exotic pet store and get a tarantula or snake. Something poisonous, but not deadly. After a quick Google search, I find a place and call it.

“Yes, do you have an animal or insect? Something scary. Flying piranha or something,” I say to pet-store worker.

“We don’t have piranhas, but we did get a shipment of pythons last week,” she says.

As I’m about to respond, annoying-ass Ted walks over to my desk, undoubtedly to pester me about some bullshit. “Hey, are you talking to Alexis?” he says.

I motion to him that I’m on the phone.

He keeps talking: “Tell her I said hi.”

“Sorry, I’ll call you back,” I say. Then, I hang up the phone. “You didn’t see me on the phone?” I say.

“You didn’t tell her what I said,” he says.

“That wasn’t her.”

“Oh, she’s still not talking to you. Can I have her phone number, then?”

I stand up. “You’re working my last nerve.”

“Geez, calm down. I didn’t come over here for that,” he says. “I really wanted to let you know that I was speaking with our contact over at Gemco Paper. And he wasn’t happy. You need to do better. Just do your part. That’s all I’m asking. We can’t risk losing them as a client.”

“You’re not my boss. Get the fuck out of my face,” I say.

He jumps back because of my tone. “You can’t talk to me like that.”

“Why not?” I say.

He doesn’t have an answer.

“Go,” I say.

He’s beside himself, and walks away. It’s like the building must’ve sensed my anger, because as soon as he leaves the fire alarm goes off. Great, a fire drill. I hate these so much. It’s a big fucking bore. But I have to follow the fire-drill procedures this time, because last time I was cited for staying at my desk during the whole drill. I got a fine from the fire department, even after I pretended I was deaf. I didn’t even know they could do that shit.

I follow all of the other employees as we’re ushered out of the building. There are fire-drill monitors with bright orange vests directing everyone. We all go into the parking lot and stand about twenty feet from the building. It’s as if we’d be safe at that distance if there was a real fire or disaster in the building. If shit started exploding, or even if there was a real small fire, I’m getting in my car and going home. As I walk outside, the fire trucks pull up. The fire department gets to play dress rehearsal and ring their horns and whatnot. They seem to be having more fun than anyone involved. Well, almost anyone. The STD employees’ lives are uneventful to the point a fire drills excite them. I see one woman taking cellphone pictures of the fire trucks as they pull up, so she can post them on her Facebook page. Pathetic.

Eddie is over by Hunter, talking to him about something. Hunter looks like he’s listening intently. I wonder if Hunter is asking about the mentoring job I’m doing. Eddie better be giving him excellent feedback.

I
t’s been almost
a week since I started my assault on Chloe’s character, and everything has been met with mixed results. The guys still have some animosity toward her due to the breakfast debacle. She brought in homemade pies and chocolate milk the next day to clear the air. Everyone raved about the pies. Everyone except Wally, because the word around the office was they were better than his. He can be such a bitch ass about his pies. Her gesture might’ve swayed them back to her side, but I’m hoping they have long memories. At the time, Hunter was livid about the printer issue and brought Chloe into his office. I couldn’t hear what went on, since the office still has Floyd’s soundproofing. But she’s still here, so it couldn’t have been that vicious. Although, I’m hoping he told her something like he’s giving her one more chance. That’s what Floyd would’ve done. Then tied it in with singing the Biggie Smalls song “One More Chance,” maybe even ended with a “baby bay-bay” like he always did. His Biggie Smalls references forced me to go buy his albums so I knew what he was talking about. Boy, do I miss his buffoonery. I never thought I’d say that.

The sexual harassment was a total failure. Hunter didn’t even flinch. Jake keeps telling me I’m not doing it right. According to him, I’m taking it too easy on Chloe. “It’s 2010, you’re on some 1970s
Animal House
pranks, muthafucka.” I’m doing it my way. He’s going to have to deal with it. It’s my promotion, and I gotta earn it.

Eddie’s still doing a majority of my work . . . with flying colors too. He’s almost done training, and I’m going to have to get back to my original workload, which sucks. But his terrific output is helping me twofold. It makes me look like a great mentor, and it frees me up to think about new ploys to rid myself of the perfect nuisance that is Ms. Polly Perfect. I’ve only come up with that nickname recently, and it’s not even that good. But I’m still brainstorming as I get interrupted by Aida. I still don’t understand how she got to be a manager. Or what she does now that is managerial and different from what she was doing before. For my quarterly review she didn’t even come prepared, just came into the room with sugar-free hard candy and a calculator. She thought I was giving her a review, instead of the other way around.

Aida walks into my cubicle with a clipboard.

“What do you want now?” I say.

She never picks up any communication clues, thus cannot see I don’t have time for her foolishness. They must not have had subtext in the 1920s. “Our springtime office party is a potluck. I need to know what you’re bringing in,” she says.

I turn back around to my computer, away from her. “Napkins. Put me down for napkins.”

“Sorry”—she looks down at her clipboard—“you can’t do that again, Frank has taken napkins.”

I turn back around to her, even more upset. “But I always bring napkins. That’s my thing. My trademark.”

“Yes, we know. But he’s already on here.”

I get up and look at Frank. He notices me and smiles.

“And you always bring cheap ones too,” she says. “We’ve gotten complaints.”

“How do you know they’re cheap?”

“They have ‘McDonald’s’ printed on them.”

“But they work, right? That’s the point of a napkin, to work.”

My napkin debate with a geriatric is halted by a commotion. Aida would’ve heard it too, if it were 1974. I get up to see what’s going on. Two rows over, Hunter and Monta are standing up arguing. Monta is using excessive hand motions. All the employees are gathered around, looking to see what they’re arguing about. I get closer to hear. Monta’s wearing a neon-green sleeveless net shirt that is pretty transparent. You can see pretty much everything from the taco meat on his chest to his shiny nipple piercings. Really, it’s not much of a shirt at all. He’s also wearing jeans with rips in them, rolled up to his knees like he’s going to a trendy nightclub on a fly-fishing-themed night. I have a hunch, but I think this ensemble is the root of their disagreement.

“Why? Why? Why?” Monta shouts.

“Because I’m your boss, and I said so. You can’t wear that outfit in the office. I make the rules,” Hunter says.

“Don’t give me that. I know why you’re against my outfit. It’s because I suck cock,” Monta says.

Now, Hunter turns red in the face. He didn’t anticipate this conversation getting this far out of control, and the entire office is looking on. “That’s preposterous. I don’t know or care to know what you do in your social life.”

“You know what I do. And you’re holding it against me. A tight-ass redneck like you. It has to boil your blood that you have a bend-over boy working for you. A pole smoker. Or maybe it gets you going. You wonder what it’s like when I toot the skin flute, don’t you?” Monta inches closer to Hunter, making him more uncomfortable.

“Please back up, young man,” Hunter says.

“There’s no problem with my outfit.”

“Well, I can see your chest hairs popping through little holes in your shirt,” Barbara says from the crowd.

“Shut up, Barbara,” Monta says. “Go masturbate to your Christian Slater calendar.”

“I am warning you,” Hunter says.

“Warning? You threatening me? You hear that, y’all? He’s threatening me.”

“I’m doing nothing of the sort,” Hunter says.

Monta points to Chloe, who’s wearing a tight short skirt and a tank top. “Now, look at what she has on.”

“That’s tasteful,” Hunter says.

“Tasteful? You mean, you wanna taste her pussy. Her titties bouncing all around. Why don’t you tell her to put on a bra? And her skirt, if it rides up half an inch more I’ll see her vajayjay,” Monta says.

“We’re not talking about
her
clothing. We’re talking about
yours
. And those are the rules. I’m not going to debate them with you, and that’s that.”

“So I can wear the outfit she has on?” Monta says.

Now, Hunter is in a bind. “Sure, if it’s tasteful,” he says. He doesn’t mean it.

“Almost have my vajayjay on display?” Monta says.

“You don’t have a vajayjay.” I bet he never thought he’d say those words. “Or do you? Never mind, I don’t want to know. But her outfit is appropriate,” Hunter says. He has no idea how far Monta will go. They are now chest-to-chest in a showdown of wills, and Hunter is sweating profusely.

“See, you like me rubbing my nipples against your shirt. You’re happy I have this shirt on. Probably wondering how I get my chest so supple,” Monta says. “Baby oil.”

“You disgust me,” Hunter says.

“Okay, see. There we have it. Everyone has heard your bigotry now.” Monta unzips his inappropriate jeans and pulls his scrotum out. Now, he’s parading around the office with his ball sac dangling out of his pants. “Hey, everyone, look at me. This is acceptable at STD, because Hunter says so.” He’s skipping around now and really enjoying himself.

“You’re fired. Get out of the office immediately.”

“Remove me yourself, so you can come and touch my balls,” Monta says as he releases three violent pelvic thrusts in Hunter’s direction.

“Security,” Hunter says. Now, the security guards corner Monta. They wrestle him down to the ground and remove him from the office.

I’ve never seen anything like this before. A few people have been recording the whole fiasco on their cellphones. Part of me is glad I’ve seen this, just for the sake of retelling the story. But Monta was my good friend. One of the few people I did talk to. Of course, he’d fly off the handle once in a while, but he’s a good guy.

Hunter follows the security guard as they remove Monta from the building. He then comes back and notices Monta left his computer on. I’m already back to my seat, but I wonder what he’s doing.

“He’s probably going through his computer and e-mails,” Jake says. “That sneaky little fucker.”

“Why? Why would he do that?” I say.

“I don’t know. That’s the sort of thing sneaky little fuckers do. Maybe he’s trying to find more evidence for letting Monta go. And he has to know nobody likes him. Trying to find proof of who doesn’t like him.”

I immediately think about the long ass-e-mail chains Monta and I would have, talking about how shitty this job is and talking about everyone in this place. We even had one as recent as yesterday, talking about Hunter.

“Me and Monta have e-mails.” Jake shakes his head. “He probably deleted them, though, right?”

“Yeah, of course he did. Or . . . he’s reading those right now.”

I’m frozen with fear. I think I’m going to be sick.

Hunter sits over there for a while, maybe five minutes or so. He taps a lot of keys. Then gets up. I think he’s pretty much done. He unplugs Monta’s computer and takes it with him into his office.

T
he next two
days go as normal. I backed off my master plan against Chloe for a little bit. By no means was I giving up, but this is more of a regrouping, if anything. I knew I had to change my strategy. The harder I gunned for Chloe, the more Hunter favored her. Maybe he likes underdogs or favors fuckups. I could show him a really good fuckup if that’s what he wants. I also wanted to lay low fresh off Monta’s getting hauled outta here like a Vietnam War protestor. I’ll be damned if some shit backfires and that happens to me. I was also beginning to think Hunter hated me. He hasn’t come out and outright said it yet—well, at least not to my face. Just some mumbles here and there that I can’t make out. Rumor has it, in light of the entire dress-code debacle, Hunter is about to enforce a strict dress code. I decided to get out in front of the curve and started to wear bow ties to work. I was going to get the bolo tie like Hunter wears, but I didn’t want to make it too obvious. But my bow tie does make me look professional and takes things up a notch in terms of being dapper. I stand out. Even if it’s because I look like a “bean-pie enthusiast,” according to Jake. Still, Hunter hasn’t really paid me any mind.

Adding to my discomfort, I’m not feeling well today. Woke up with a headache, and it’s been throbbing ever since. I thought it’d go away by now, but it’s still kicking. I think it may be all of the stress I’m under. Working those long hours and trying to frame Chloe at the same time are taking a toll on my physical health. My mind and body need to recharge. But I can’t take a day off. I wonder how I’m gonna react when I become a manager. My responsibilities will be three times as much. But I’ll have the role already, and that’s when my true talent of delegation will take over. I’ll dole out work to my underlings like it ain’t shit. And they’ll love me for it, ’cuz I’ll tell them some funny jokes or buy them gifts from the dollar store. Might even take them to lunch. A fast-food lunch and give them spending limits. Underlings don’t know what being treated well is like, because they’re always treated like shit. So when they get something, anything, it’s a bonus. I know this firsthand, since I’ve been an underling all of my life.

This headache needs to vanish, and luckily Dolores always has medicine for any ailment. It’s a benefit of working around someone who’s in that stage of their life. Someone sprained their ankle during the last fire drill, and she had a splint. I have no idea why, but I try not to rationalize the mindset of my co-workers.

I stand up and lean over the cubicle wall. “Hey, I have a headache.”

“Maybe your bow tie is too tight, Mr. Redenbacher,” she says.

“Do you have any Advil or Tylenol? Maybe something for migraines.”

She looks at me, spooked. “Who, me? No. Why would I have that?” She starts looking around.

“Because you always do. Come on. Stop playing games, I’m serious.”

“Are you trying to get me fired?” she says.

I’m truly baffled by her response. “What are you talking about?”

Eddie overhears us, as he does all the time. He’s really fucking nosey, and decides to chime in: “All medications are illegal in the office unless you have a doctor’s note. Even over-the-counter meds. You need notes for them too. It’s all about Hunter’s Clean Living initiative. Do you read any of your memos?”

“You can’t be serious,” I say.

Eddie grabs a red piece of paper he has thumbtacked to his cubicle wall and hands it to me. I begin to read. I guess that dress-code thing did come true, and it wasn’t only a rumor.

“This is some bullshit,” I say. “These rules are getting out of hand. He’s treating us like we’re children. I held my tongue last week when they told us each row can have only one person in the bathroom at a time because lav passes are now mandatory.”

“Well, that was mainly because of your incident,” Dolores says.

“That water fight was over three years ago.”

“People got injured, though,” Eddie says.

“You didn’t even work here.”

“But I heard about it, sounded gruesome,” he says, with his face that has gone from naive in the first few months to a smug know-it-all now.

“Then, they began confiscating our cellphones every morning and not returning them until we leave at the end of the day,” I say. “You know how demoralizing it is for a grown man to have to put his cellphone in a locked plastic bin for the day? And we only have a community phone for employees who aren’t customer service to use in the office? What about work-related calls?”

“We have to wait our turn,” Dolores says. She’s already submitted to the overpowering fascism of Hunter. You can see it in her defeated eyes.

“Makes sense to me,” Eddie says. And he doesn’t know any better.

“If it really does, then you’re a fucking idiot. And he took the Internet away. How can we function when all non-work-related websites are blocked?”

“They didn’t have the Internet in the seventies, and they did fine,” he says. “Now, we can completely focus on our work. I think it’s best for everyone here. Limited distractions lead to increased productivity.”

“You sound exactly like him,” I say. “Did you take that right from the memo?” I pick up the red piece of paper and spot the same words, verbatim. “See, it’s right here.”

Eddie and Dolores both look at me like I’m a madman.

“He took away my free lunch.”

“That was a perk,” Eddie says.

“I earned that. Now, I’m a grown-ass man with a lunchbox.”