Shooting Stars (23 page)

I make it over to the kitchen, and about twenty-five employees are jam-packed into a seven-foot-by-seven-foot room, all jockeying to get a glimpse at the empty refrigerator. By looking at the expressions on their faces, an onlooker would think the fridge was full of severed heads. The woman who initially found the empty fridge is being consoled by a woman whose name I don’t know. She rubs her shoulder and places a cold rag on her forehead, as if she just pulled her from a car accident.

“Maybe the cleaning lady cleaned out the fridge?” a man says. Nobody is buying his hypothesis as a logical solution to this catastrophe.

My bewildered co-workers don’t even move. I find this extremely weird, almost to the point I want to confess, because I’m tired of them staring at the refrigerator like their lunches are gonna magically reappear if they will it hard enough. Maybe they think we have the David Blaine model of Frigidaire.

“I bet somebody put all of the food in the freezer by mistake. Check there,” another man says. Not staggered by his stupidity like I am, someone checks. It’s empty as well.

That must’ve been the cue that we’ve reached rock bottom on the company’s dumbness scale, because to our rescue comes Dontrelle. “Yo, sons, I’ve found the lunches. They’re outside,” he says. I was wondering how long it would take for them to find them.

The pack of galloping dumb fucks follows Dontrelle out to the parking lot, where they see all of their lunches, treats, and whatever was in the fridge strewn about on the hot parking lot tar, wearing fresh tire marks and mangled like roadkill. Tupperware containers are broken. Salads have their croutons replaced with shards of glass. If they were stunned before looking at the empty fridge, they are now completely mortified. You would think there was a pack of baby seals, all clubbed, in the parking lot, and we’ve accidentally stumbled upon their remains, like the opening of an Animal Planet police procedural:
Law & Order: ASPCA
.

“What sick, twisted person would do this to someone’s food?” I say, as everyone shakes their heads. “This person would have to be a complete threat to us all.”

A few people start to see what they can salvage from the pile. Frank puts his hand on my shoulder and says, “At least Kevin got us that big breakfast this morning. If not, I’d be starving right now and even more upset.”

“Yeah,” says the crowd.

“I’ve found someone who might be able to put together some of the pieces of this puzzle,” Jake says as he walks toward the crowd side by side with one of the landscapers. “He was out here the whole time and saw everything.”

I take the initiative to serve as the spokesperson of the group. What better way to show off my leadership qualities? I approach the landscaper. I speak slowly so he can understand me, using only small words: “What . . . did . . . you . . . see?” I emphasize
see
by pointing to my eyes. I thought that was a nice touch. He looks at me. “Who . . . did . . . this . . . señor? Tell us . . . por . . . favor.” I’ve exhausted all of the Spanish I remember from tenth grade, and I hold up a dollar bill as reward for his info.

The landscaper says in perfect, succinct English, “I saw a man come out here really upset and pace back and forth. He was doing a lot of cursing. He resembled a squirrel in many ways. Balding. Glasses. He muttered something about not being invited to a party. Then, he went inside and came back out with those lunches. Then, he drove over the lunches with that brown minivan.” He points to Ted’s car.

“Are you sure it was that car?” I say.

“Yes, I’m positive.”

“Thank you, landscaper. You’ve been extremely helpful.” I hand him the dollar bill and turn to the crowd. “Wow, I wouldn’t expect that from Ted.”

“I would. He’s a piece of shit,” a woman says.

“I’m a hit that motherfucker with a brick until blood leaks from his bald-ass dome piece, son,” Dontrelle shouts. He didn’t even have a lunch in the fridge; he’s just adamant when it comes to altercations of any kind.

“No, you don’t have to,” I say. “There’s a better, more sensible way to take care of this.”

A
n hour later
, inside of the office, Ted is being questioned by Hunter while surrounded by security. “This is ridiculous,” Ted says. “I would never do that. I wasn’t even here. I was working.”

“Working on destroying our lunches after you couldn’t join our breakfast party,” the woman who discovered the empty fridge says.

“That sounds like a perfect motive,” Hunter says. He takes Ted’s nameplate off his cubicle.

Ted hands over his badge. He’s going out in a more agreeable fashion than Monta or Creepy Bathroom Chuck. Good for him. I still hate him, but at least I can admire how he’s handling this. He really did nothing wrong, but he was a douche bag that nobody liked. And that’s enough. The only bad thing that comes of Ted’s firing is Hunter making every employee sign a decency contract before we leave for the day. It’s amazing how fast he draws that shit up. Now, we have strict guidelines to follow for our behavior in the workplace. And it literally describes not touching someone else’s possessions or food. Thanks, Ted.

G
oing
to see Winston today feels more obligatory rather than the usual recreational. The more I’ve become dedicated to the office, the less time I’ve had to do things I enjoy. But I guess that’s what being an adult is all about. You don’t get to waste time at an amusement park shooting the shit with friends. But Winston isn’t just
any
friend. That’s why I’m here now. Checking in on my old buddy.

As I search for my season pass in my glove box, I realize how long it’s actually been. Two months. Normally I’d be here at least once a week. Twice a week when times were tough and I really needed my batteries recharged.

Regardless of the last time I was here, the park still looks familiar, even though it doesn’t seem like anyone recognizes me. But that’s probably because I have a new air of success surrounding me. The ring-toss booth still looks the same. Same ol’ prizes. But Winston isn’t manning the booth. It’s a teenage Hispanic boy.

“Hi, is Winston off today?” I ask him.

“Who?”

“Winston, this is his booth. The guy who normally works here.”

The boy’s face turns white. “Oh, I’m sorry,” he says.

“Sorry about what?”

“He . . . he passed away,” he says.

What? How could this have happened? Why didn’t anyone call me? I thought I was his emergency contact. Tears begin to well up in my eyes. I just saw him . . . shit, that was two months ago.

I finally compose myself, and find the kid has his hand on my shoulder.

“How did it happen?” I ask.

“I . . . I don’t know.”

How can he not know? I would think that’s some pertinent information you should know if you’re breaking someone’s death to people. As I wait for a better answer from the uniformed bad-news messenger, I hear a distinct cackle. It’s Winston. Now, the kid is laughing too.

“I’m sorry. It was too good, but I couldn’t keep a straight face much longer,” Winston says.

“What’s going on?” I say.

“Mr. Stansbury gave me instructions to tell anyone who looks like a bill collector and comes around here looking for him that he’s dead,” the kid says.

I look at my outfit.

Winston nods while pointing to my outfit.

“This is Victor, my apprentice. I’ve been training him the past month,” Winston says.

“Oh, okay.”

“And this is my friend Kevin,” Winston says. “How have you been? Things must be going well.”

“I know it’s been a while. You know, you just get caught up with projects and deadlines.”

“Yeah, I remember how it was,” he says, with a look as if he doesn’t have fond memories of his office-working days.

“I think I’m getting closer,” I say.

“To what?”

“The promotion.”

“Is that still what you want?” he says.

“Sure. Why wouldn’t I?”

“I don’t know, why wouldn’t you?” he says.

I hand over a five-dollar bill for three rings.

“I saw you on TV the other day,” he says.

My head sinks.

“That was brutal,” he continues. “Mad Dog is a coon.”

“Ain’t he though?” I agree.

“I tried to warn you about that woman.”

I toss. I miss. Rust.

“Yeah, I know,” I say. “But how are things with you?”

He sighs. “It’s good. The kids are good. The grandkids were over just last weekend. I’m through with this place, though.”

“Why?”

“Just tired. I know this isn’t much, but I feel like it’s too taxing on my body.”

“I thought you’d never slow down, old man.”

We laugh. I toss another ring. I hit.

“It’s time for me to take a break. Or one day you’ll come here and Victor won’t be lying about my death. I don’t want to die at an amusement park, passed out into fluffy creatures. Plus, I’ve worked enough in my life.”

“I feel like that sometimes too,” I say.

He looks at me.

“What?” I say. “These last few months have been tough.”

I toss another ring. I hit. Back in my old groove.

“You wanna play another round?” he says.

I look at my watch.

“I can’t. Got an early presentation tomorrow. And I want to go home and prepare.”

“Look at you. I’m halfway proud,” he says.

As I walk back to my car, I realize this is the first time in a long time that I’ve hung out with Winston and didn’t ask him for advice. It feels good to be able to figure things out on my own.

C
oming
home from work feels more and more gratifying. I’m getting a lot of work done during the day, but part of me is really getting a kick out of getting people fired. At first, I felt bad about making innocent folks lose their job. But when I thought about it a little bit harder, I realized they did sort of deserve it. They were assholes who were benefitting from the kindness of good people like me and bringing the overall work environment down drastically. In a way, this was my first executive decision. While driving home, I sit and anticipate Jake’s nightly phone call, and who’s he gonna say is next on my list. I feel like a deadly hit man waiting for my next target. Walking to my condo door, I’m too elated to even think about what I’m going to have for dinner.

Then, I see her waiting for me at my door. I have no idea what Alexis is doing here, but I won’t let her bring me down. I keep strutting toward the door. “Can I help you with something?”

“You changed the locks?” she says.

I laugh. “I gave you that key when I still had hopes of you coming to live with me.”

“Can I come in?” she says.

I unlock the door and crack it slightly, but stand in the doorway. “Not really, I’ve had a long day. And I would like just to relax.

She says nothing.

“Is this about your brother’s rehab?”

“No, but he did call me about getting kicked out because of an unpaid bill. Why’d you stop paying?”

“He’s not my brother,” I say.

“But he used to call you bro.”

I go to close the door, because I don’t like where this conversation is going. She stops me by shouting, “I need your help.”

“No, you don’t. You have a fiancé for help. Ask him.”

“He’s gone missing.”

“He’s homeless and used to running the streets. Or is it wedding jitters? You set a date yet? I don’t know how far in advance you have to book a Walmart parking lot, but—”

“Okay, he’s not missing, so to speak,” she says. “I think he’s with another woman. He took my ring right off my finger while I was asleep. And my bank account is empty,” she says.

I laugh in her face, with no care for her feelings. And it feels good. This day is getting better for me. “Oh, that sucks. Don’t know what to tell you. What do you expect me to do?”

“I don’t know. I didn’t know where else to go,” she says.

“Not here. You can’t come here.”

“Why? Are you seeing somebody?” she says.

“I don’t know.” I wasn’t expecting her to say that, or for me to respond that way.

“Either you are or you aren’t,” she says.

“That’s not the point. It’s none of your business. And I have to make dinner.” I walk into my condo. “Have a good night . . . or not.” Then, I shut the door.

“What’s for dinner? I’m hungry,” I can hear her say through the closed door. I walk to the couch and set my things down, and bask in this feeling.

I
guess
every business has its own corporate culture, and STD is no different. I’m sure all other corporate cultures would bug the shit out of me as well. See, it’s not only the people I work with, but the things they do. And it’s also the things they make us do. All of it is mind-bogglingly stupid. When the Philadelphia Eagles made a deep playoff run one year, every Friday before a game was Football Jersey Day. Every single employee would wear their Eagles jersey to work; it was both impressive and sad at the same time. You would’ve thought they were giving them shits away at the supermarket with every purchase over two dollars. The women would wear pink Eagles jerseys. Someone explained to me that they were pink to support breast-cancer research, but I couldn’t see past the dumb football cause to the charitable cause. What’s worse is that the jersey day eventually bled over to non-Fridays. At first, they would wear them on Mondays sometimes if they played on
Monday Night Football
. Then, that turned into if the team won on Sunday they’d wear jerseys on Monday. Thus, people bought multiple jerseys. Then, they began wearing them on Wednesdays to get over Hump Day. Some people had one for every day of the week. And then, they began throwing pep rallies to get geared up for the games. I never participated. They would also watch the games together, with a steady rotation of venues where they would go. They’d always ask if I was coming to those too, as if they didn’t notice while they’re dressed in full-football-asshole regalia from head to toe I was wearing a plaid shirt and jeans. When they did notice, they’d ask, “Where’s your jersey, fella?”. And I’d reply, “I don’t have one.” That was sometimes met with an offer to get a spare jersey from their car. But I would decline, and they’d get really persistent. I’d just say, “I’m rooting for the other team. The team of good taste.” Then, I’d gently pat them on their head like the naive children they are. And more times than not their head had an Eagles baseball cap, Eagles fedora, Eagles visor, Eagles bandana, Eagles Santa hat during Christmas, or, once, a real Eagles helmet on it. Yes, an adult working inside of an office building and wearing an Eagles football helmet to show “support.”

There’s also Fifties Day, when all of the managers are forced to dress up like stereotypical caricatures from the 1950s. There are a lot of leather jackets, slicked-back hair, polka-dot dresses, cardigans with letters on them, and bows in hair. It’s like you come to work one day and you’re stuck in a
Happy Days
episode. The cafeteria serves burgers and shakes. A few mangers are on roller skates. And they always say stupid shit, like call you a “square” if you make fun of their outfit or refer to you as a “hip cat” when you turn in your work. Or they might ask about borrowing some “bread” for a “soda pop.” The freak show culminates at 2:00 p.m., when they have a mock rumble with two gangs, the Stapler Sharks and Printer Laser Jets, complete with plastic switchblades. Having your manager walk around like John Travolta in
Grease
is pretty revelatory. They can’t possibly want to do it, but in order to keep their shitty jobs they have to. They might as well walk around in a fucking monkey suit, but I’m sure that day is coming soon. And all the executives would walk around and give the midlevel managers bananas if quotas are met. Then, they would put them in a cage and watch them fling their feces at one another. And these are my superiors? How’d they become
superior
to me? What a collection of soulless goofballs and bozos.

However, today is definitely my least favorite day of the year. It’s the STD Unity Fair. It accelerates way past retro Randall Cunningham jerseys and Fonzi-isms. While I don’t find anything in this company necessarily fair, especially the promotion practices, we still have a carnival and picnic for all of the employees. They couldn’t quite bring themselves to allow us to have a full day off from work. They have to get most of the day’s labor from us, or else how would they get the surplus of profits that fund this wonderful fair, right? So they give grown adults a set half-hour time slot to attend. Some people have to go as early as ten thirty. I always go at lunchtime. Who the fuck goes to a barbecue at ten thirty in the morning? They’re such assholes. The event has been downsized since I started with STD. It was once a field trip to a casino. That morphed into a trip to Fun-2-Sea Land for two years. That eventually became a picnic site about fifteen minutes from the job. And now, it’s a fair right in the company’s parking lot. I would assume, at this rate, next year it’s going to consist of us sitting in our cubes while someone stops by and drops confetti on our heads right after handing us two Hershey Kisses—leftover Easter candy, of course.

The fair focuses on getting employee engagement up. And not the type of engagement where Alexis turns my life upside down;
engagement
is corporate speak for making employees feel like their job gives a fuck what they think. Getting the employees engaged means giving them cheap food prepared by the office cafeteria, but the only difference is we’re eating the nasty boiled hot dogs and greasy fried burgers outdoors. The quality of the food doesn’t stop me, because the free aspect makes me feel obligated to get my adequate share. To me, it all qualifies as my total compensation.

The fair activities are those you would have children play on a field trip, which falls right in line with how they think of us: children who can be easily appeased. How else would you explain them following up a round of layoffs with a pizza party? Each employee is assigned a team and given game tickets. Then, you compete in games and try to accumulate more tickets. The team with the most tickets gets a prize, such as winning a half day off or an Applebee’s gift card. Yippee. Needless to say, I always throw my tickets into the trash. I have no time to indulge in their silliness. There’s a guess-your-weight booth, which a majority of the employees avoids, especially the women—the same way they avoid exercising and vegetables. Which is weird, because I think they would have an advantage. If I was forced to guess a number, I’d be at a loss and eventually give up and say, “Fat as fuck.” They could make a killing on game points.

As is the case with most of the events thrown by STD, my feelings toward the fair are in the minority. Practically everyone seems to be having the time of their life. I normally use the event as a diversion and go home early. That’s a half day for me without having to play a new game. But since I’m now “investing” myself in the company, I have to be here. I run into Eddie, who looks like a Make-A-Wish kid in Disney World. He’s holding a fistful of tickets and a giant stuffed Tweety Bird, and munching a huge bag of bright blue cotton candy.

“This is freaking awesome! I hope this day never ends,” he says.

“Yeah, it’s fucking great,” I say.

He looks at my empty hands. “Your tickets?”