Authors: C. A. Huggins
He looks at me as if expecting me to have some type of ulterior motive. Then, he cracks a smile. Well, not really; it’s his version of a smile, which is more like an un-frown. But this is the first time I’ve ever seen it in relation to something I’ve done and not to one of Chloe’s skirts. “Great, I’ll take a look at it tonight,” he says. “You better head home, it’s late.”
“I know, but I just want to finish up a few things before I go.” Then, I leave him and float back to my desk. I wish I could moonwalk, because that’s exactly what I would’ve done. I have no idea why I feel validated by a man I don’t like one bit, but it feels great. And that feeling outweighs the confused emotions I have. I’ll wait about ten minutes after he leaves, then pack up my stuff and go.
W
hat am I doing
? How’d I get this deep into this? This doesn’t feel right. I should be able to get a job on my own merits. Why don’t I have that confidence? It’s probably because I’m already behind all of my peers. Most of them have wives and kids. Not to mention proper careers. Everyone I went to school with has professionally lapped me at least twice. Now, I have to cheat and cut across the track just to keep pace. I’m sure they cheated too, but they keep it to themselves. I wouldn’t put it past them. Every time they’re talking about their new jobs or new cars it has to be some fabrication. Not everyone can be that lucky.
It’s my right to fraudulently get ahead. Nobody who’s gotten to a top position has done it the right and honest way. Politicians do it all the time. Use inside information. Anything they can get their hands on. And they defame their opponents, until they’re the only logical option for the voters to choose. That’s basically what I’m doing. I’m weeding out the unfit challengers. Jake is my campaign manager. I don’t want this job to define me, but what am I supposed to do? This is the world I live in, a place where your job is who you are. I haven’t even thought about dating since Alexis, but I know the first or second question out of a woman’s mouth is “what do you do for a living?” Even when you go to a doctor for a checkup they ask you what you do for a living. It’s your label. And my label sucks, but it’s etched in stone. And I can’t get it off me.
I can’t help but feel everyone knows I’m not fit for the job. When I’m with my old college alums, they know I have no clue about life. I think they can guess I live paycheck to paycheck. I go to Atlantic City with a group of friends and I’m the only guy on a budget. And they’re the ones with wives to answer to and real responsibilities like mortgages. I’m the one at the restaurants ordering the grill cheese instead of a steak. It’s ridiculous what I have to sacrifice to get that grill cheese. I’m the one that has to juggle which bills can get paid each month, and what can wait until next month. I even have a system based on different cutoff-notice dates, and I drive around without car insurance. They don’t have to go through that. That stress is undoubtedly gonna shave off some years at the tail end of my life. And that might be the time when I begin to reap the benefits of all of my hard work. This isn’t fair. I’ve worked as hard as them. Well, maybe not exactly as hard, but close enough. When I did work hard, I got nothing in return.
I think it’s in my nature to be envious. I’m the guy who sees someone park in a handicap spot and wishes I was handicapped. All of that for priority parking. I can’t explain it. It’s just the way that I am.
Walking to work each day, I teeter on wanting to hide from the world, not only people who know me. I know I’m a disappointment to my peers, friends, co-workers, and family. But even strangers know. I can tell from how they look at me. Everywhere I go I see a person’s salary hovering right above their head, like I’m looking at a living comic book of some sort. The guy who looks like a lawyer, 250K. The teacher, 70K. The taxi driver, 55K. How’s he making more than me? He hasn’t even been in this country long enough to shake his accent. The guy selling roasted nuts, 40K. Fucking nuts are more lucrative than what I’m doing. And they all see how much I make too. I can tell by the way they look down at me. I know it doesn’t make sense, but it also makes a whole lot of sense at the same time. I went to college and came out lower on the totem pole than people who barely graduated high school. The job I have now I could’ve definitely gotten without a degree. I should be mad at my college, they didn’t prepare me for shit.
Or maybe it’s the whole institution of college. I probably wouldn’t have learned shit no matter which school I went to or which major I studied. All they do is take your money. Waste, at the minimum, four years of your young-adult life. Then, regurgitate you back into the world with tens of thousands of debt to begin a life of destitution as you work your shitty job so you can pay them back for the nothing they’ve given you. Isn’t life grand?
I walk to the other side of the street due to the oncoming bunch of bankers, who all make mid–six figures, approaching me; I don’t want them to judge me. I see a huge crowd in the alleyway. The sea of people separate slightly and I see Robbie performing, with Alexis right next to him banging a tambourine. That side of the block isn’t safe either. I opt to walk in the middle of the street.
I
’ve been summoned back
to Jake’s command center. He doesn’t call it that, but I’ve dubbed it as such. Has a ring to it and matches the overall feel of the building. I’m hoping this meeting doesn’t last that long. All of the usual suspects are here, including the same pieces of shit loitering outside, with the addition of a few more. They must’ve been out recruiting, because they have a blind guy with them now. For all I know, he could’ve been a regular member of their crew but called out sick the first time I was here, or was on a lunch break.
Jake and I sit at a table in the middle of the room. “One small request: can we have these meetings a little earlier?” I ask.
“Why?” he says.
“I have to get up early tomorrow.”
“You sure it’s that?”
“Nah, I think he’s scared of this neighborhood,” Shifty says from his seated floor position in the corner. He very well could sit in a chair, on a table, on a crate, steal a couch, but he’s still on the floor. I don’t get it. Probably not much to get with him.
“No, I got shit to do, unlike you,” I tell Shifty. “He’s making me uneasy, can you get him a chair?” I ask Jake.
“I don’t need no fucking chair,” Shifty says.
“He don’t need no fucking chair,” Jake repeats. “See, there are chairs. He just prefers to sit on the floor. Go figure.” As soon as Jake finishes speaking, Shifty lets out a loud fart, which serves as an exclamation point for the statement. Jake must’ve gotten used to Shifty’s filth, because he keeps talking without missing a beat. “The plan is working so far.”
“Yep, Hunter even commended my work today,” I say.
“Whatever, but now it’s time to get take it up to level ten,” he says.
“Huh?”
“Turn it up a notch.”
“Yeah, I kinda figured that was level ten, but Hunter already doesn’t trust Chloe. All we have to do is finish her off,” I say.
“How do you expect to finish her off?”
I don’t have an answer, because I know whatever I say he’ll label “stupid” and will find numerous faults in the idea.
“How late are you on your mortgage?” Jake asks. I don’t say anything. “That’s what I thought. Don’t bitch out on me now.”
“But he’s a bitch. Bitches bitch,” Shifty says.
“Eat a dick,” I tell him.
“I’ll eat it, only if it has crack in the center of it,” he replies. I don’t know how to come back from that response.
“I don’t want to go too far. You know what I mean?” I say to Jake.
“No, I don’t know what you mean. All I understand is how to get a job done,” he says.
My shoulders tense up. Then, I relax. He’s never taken me down a wrong path. And most of what he says works out. “What exactly are we going to do? And don’t feed me none of that need-to-know-basis bullshit.”
“Shit, getting a little hyped up, huh?” Jake says. “I like it. I like this side of you. Okay, I’ll tell you this much. The secret plan lies within Shifty.”
“You’re giving her gonorrhea? That’s what I mean by too far,” I say.
Shifty blurts out, “Hey, I don’t have gonorrhea.” Jake and I both look at him. “Okay, I do.”
“No, I’m not gonna give her anything. What type of madman do you think I am?” Jake says.
“Well . . .”
“Stand up,” Jake orders Shifty. A wobbly Shifty struggles to his feet and leans against a stack of boxes to keep himself up. “That man right there has taken more drugs than Keith Richards if he owned a chain of Duane Reades.” Shifty grins as if he’s just received the best compliment ever. Then, he crumbles back down to the ground.
I look Shifty up and down, but I’m not sure what that statement has to do with Chloe.
“My sources told me when STD was conducting their drug tests. I had him piss in a Gatorade bottle.” Shifty holds up the halfway-filled bottle. “Then, I switched Chloe’s sample with Shifty’s at the lab.”
“How did you—”
“You don’t want to know,” Jake says.
“Whatever you gotta do,” I say.
“See, that’s the spirit,” he says.
“But why is he still holding the bottle full of piss?” I ask.
Jake shrugs. “I don’t know, that’s on him.”
H
unter sent
me an instant message first thing this morning, asking me to come to his office. I really didn’t think he was telling the truth when he said he’d read the report last night. I thought that was boss-speak. He probably didn’t like it. He might’ve been up all night waiting to chew me out about it. Pacing back and forth in his Republican pajamas while he gets his negative wording right. This meeting is probably going to be epic. I’ll do what I normally do while getting chewed out: focus on something in the room right behind the person and sing the lyrics to a favorite song of mine in my head. Today, I think it will be “I Don’t Want to Miss a Thing” by Aerosmith.
Standing in front of Hunter’s desk, I start to sing the words to the song in my head so I don’t get screwed up.
“Please sit,” Hunter says.
I pretend to be partially confused as I take my seat. “Is there something wrong?” I say. Of course there’s something wrong. Me. My work. My place in this company. There are a lot of things wrong.
“The damage-control project plan was splendid,” he says. “I read it twice last night it was so good. Which is pretty impressive given the short turnaround due to your self-imposed deadline. But I can tell you worked very hard on it.”
I sit there waiting for a
but
to come out of his mouth. And when it doesn’t, I smile. “Just trying to do my best to help the team,” I say.
The telephone on Hunter’s desk rings. He excuses himself as he picks it up. “Yes, this is he,” he says. His face tenses up. “She does work here. . . . No, she’s a very, very, very mediocre employee. In fact, she’s one of my worst as of late, if I’m going to be perfectly honest with you. I think the words that are often used to describe her performance are
piss poor
. She’s holding on to her job by a thread as we speak. If you want her, you can have her. Goodbye.” He slams the phone headset down. “I apologize for that disturbance,” he says to me.
“No problem at all,” I say.
“But that’s about the eighth call I’ve received in the last two days from another company asking about Chloe, asking if I could give them a reference,” he says.
“Wow . . . that’s so inappropriate.”
“It sure is. Glad I’m not the only one who thinks so,” he says.
“I mean, show some tact.”
“I know,” he says.
“After the whole manifesto scandal too. Maybe she doesn’t value her job like she should. That didn’t only hurt her, but also all of her co-workers and our clients. Then, the audacity to lie to you about how much she loves it here and wants the management position. I don’t know what to say.”
“That’s what it seems,” he says. “I had her pegged completely wrong,” he says.
I get up and put my hand on his shoulder. “Didn’t we all? Even the best of us were fooled.” He looks at me like I’ve pimp-slapped his favorite calf. I quickly remove my hand from his shoulder and sit back down.
“I need your help with something else,” he says.
“Sure, whatever you need. As your most dependable employee, I’m here for you.”
“Getting the feeling I’m starting to lose my troops out there, with all of the testing, personality exercises, and new rules and regulations. All of these things were necessary to weed out the loose-end employees we had, but it’s impossible to have everyone understand. And it seems like you’re one of the few that do.”
“Yes, sir. I know every great general has a master plan and everything serves a purpose,” I say.
“As someone who’s out there and has been in the trenches, what can I do to boost morale?” he says.
“Raises,” I say.
Hunter laughs. I was serious, but I laugh with him anyway.
“How about a little celebration?”
“Sure,” he says. “How many pizzas should I order?”
“No, not that.”
“Balloons too?” he says.
“No, everyone loves a good happy hour. That’s small. There’s alcohol, food, team unification. You can’t beat that.”
“Good idea. You did it again,” he says.
I’m two for two these last few days.
“You can even pay for it,” I say. “Get everyone right behind you and ensure people show up.”
“I’m not doing that,” he says.
“On the company credit card?”
“No.”
“It could be a tax write-off,” I say.
“Do you even know how taxes work?”
“Not really,” I say. “Well, at least buy the first drink.”
He thinks about it. I imagine he is calculating the cost in his head. “Fine, first drink. Create the e-mail and forward it over to me so I can send it out.”
“Will do. So what else do you want to talk about? Everything good at home? Eating right? Seen any good movies—”
“You’re dismissed,” he says.