Shooting Stars (5 page)

“Gone.”

“Gone?”

“To a new job over at Zincon,” she says.

Get the fuck outta here. I applied to Zincon. They didn’t even call me back. He better not have gotten the Pension Data Manager position.

“Do you know what he’s doing over there?” I ask.

“Managing data or something,” she says.

I plop down in my seat and let that new piece of information sink in. The boy-band auditioner, who’s still standing with his hand extended and a huge smile on his face, takes this as his cue to sit down as well.

“He got a new job, and I didn’t know anything about it?” I say. “Earl? Slow Earl? I-trained-Earl Earl? Dumb-as-shit Earl? What the fuck?”

“I don’t know why he didn’t tell you, considering how happy you are for him,” she says. She always has the habit of needling me when I’m emotionally vulnerable. “We had a going-away party for him and everything,” she continues.

That’s what that was? Now, I’m glad I didn’t go. Even gladder than I was before, when I didn’t know what it was for and didn’t go. That piece of shit.

A
bout two hundred
employees sit in the Americas Room, the biggest conference room in the building, on the third floor. The room is only used for really big meetings. And it’s two rooms, the North America and South America rooms, minus the big divider in the middle. Attribute that to the clever genius of the planners of the building. They also came up with the idea of naming each floor after a continent and every room after a country. This frequently leads to one STD employee coming up to another and asking questions such as “Do you know where Japan is?” Awkward, but everything here is awkward.

The seats are in rows like a movie theater, except this is a feature absolutely no one wants to see. Think, watching a video of yourself being mauled by a pride of lions. People typically sit in the same sections for these meetings. At the front of the room is Floyd, waiting for everyone to get seated so he can begin. In the first row is Mort; he works in my department, but that’s not the interesting part about him. He’s either a dwarf or a midget. I always get it mixed up, and it pisses him off. He needs special help all around the office. Drives a little scooter around the building most times. But then there are the occasions he walks, but it’s easy not to see him. I once almost kicked him square in the face. But can you blame me? You don’t expect someone to be three feet tall, or whatever he is, right around a corner when you’re rushing to the bathroom. Come to think of it, I hope Floyd doesn’t give him the promotion. I mean, he’s always in the front of these meetings. How can Floyd not feel bad for him? I don’t even know how he’s effective in his job, with his little hands typing on his little scaled-down keyboard. He better not get the promotion over me. Anyway, I always sit in the back. Sometimes I nod off. But now sitting in the back will work in my favor, because Floyd’s giving me good news. And I’ll get a good walk up to the front of the room.

They’ve brought a few refreshments and set them up on a table as soon as you walk in. Before I take my seat, I notice Chloe viewing the crackers and cheese.

“What do you think about today’s meeting?” I say. I think I caught her off-guard from the way she looks at me.

“Oh . . . um, yes, I think it should be quite good,” she says.

She’s not giving me much, but I press a little more. “You know that management position in our area hasn’t been filled yet?”

She smiles. “Of course I know. It’s been open for exactly seven months. I’ve been waiting to hear about it. I hope today is when we find out.”

“Think you have a shot at it?” I say.

She looks around. “Sorry, looks like it’s about to start. I’m going to find a seat.” She scampers off.

All the employees sit with the same dazed look on their faces while Floyd gives his PowerPoint presentation. The only twist to the meeting that would get the listeners’ attention would be the mention of layoffs. If that were the case, the room would smell like perspiration and desperation and the refreshments would be left uneaten. But, for once, there are no such rumors, resulting in everyone being at ease. We sit and watch various charts and graphs of the company’s goals and expectations for the quarter. Although, if we meet said financial goals, it never translates into more money for the workers. So why bother?

My ass now feels as if I accidentally sat on a hypodermic needle filled with Novocain. I’ve been sitting here for about forty-five minutes already, and these normally go an hour. I positioned my cellphone on my lap so I can check the time without being too obvious. The only thing that’s keeping me awake is the occasional wisecracks from Jake. I can tell the meeting is coming to a close, because the PowerPoint is displaying the announcements for the quarter. First, Floyd brings attention the employees whose anniversaries with the company occurred in the last quarter. He starts off honoring the employees celebrating five years, then ten years, and so on. They stand and each grouping gets a round of increasing applause. Floyd ends with a man who’s been with the company for forty-five years, and he gets the biggest reaction from the room. I sit here wondering if these people even should be admired. What honor is it in staying in the same place for more than ten presidential administrations? I feel it teeters more on the pathetic side of things. What was the business even like when this relic started? When did the abacus give way to the calculator? Did they all dress up in suits with fedoras like in black-and-white movies? How was it when the first computer showed up in the office? Did all of his co-workers stand around in awe when the first Post-it note was used, admiring the way the yellow piece of paper stayed affixed to the wall of the cubicle? I hope I never ever get to that stage in my career.

“I want to do something different today,” Floyd says. “I want to talk about the people who currently make this company thrive. The people who’re going to take us to the next era of Schuster, Thompkins, and Dykes’s history. Who is going to write the new chapter? Who is going to be manning the ship?”

This is it. My coronation.

“The new pension operations manager, or POM, because you know we love to use acronyms here . . .” says Floyd with a snicker. There are scattered, hopefully forced laughs in the audience. “. . . will be Aida O’Connell.”

I place my hands on the plastic arms of my chair and propel myself out of my seat. A few people’s eyes shoot up at me in a way that makes me realize what I actually heard, and my name wasn’t called. I try to play it off by stretching, but the humiliation has already been done.

I don’t know exactly how old Aida is, but it’s anywhere from seventy to one hundred ten. She always wears dated Laura Ingalls
Little House on the Prairie
dresses. She doesn’t realize her name was called either. She’s sitting there near the far wall, looking out of the window and counting cars in the parking lot below, wearing an outfit that looks like she lifted it from Betsy Ross’s closet. The woman sitting beside her taps her on the shoulder. Then, she follows the tap by whispering into her ear. A big grin appears on Aida’s face. You would think we’ve just told her World War II was over and the troops were coming home. She slowly shuffles her boney frame up to Floyd at the front of the room. She begins to cry as everyone gives her a standing ovation. The only things missing from this scene are confetti and balloons falling from the ceiling. She’s so frail, that party favor combo dropping down might knock her unconscious.

I turn to Jake and mouth the words
what the fuck?
I probably could’ve screamed it and nobody would’ve heard me in here. He shakes his head.

“I know you want to rush out of here and get back to work. But I do have one more important announcement,” Floyd says, hushing the crowd. “The fun isn’t done yet.”

Jake elbows me in the arm. My demeanor slightly changes.

“Kevin Taylor, come on up here,” Floyd says.

I hop up out of my chair even faster than I did the first time, but this time, when I get on my feet, I add a little quick spin.

“I knew it, I knew it. It’s my time. My time to shine,” I say as I prance up the aisle like a Southern Baptist preacher, to the front of the room with Floyd. I’m smacking people’s hands along the way. If I knew Floyd was up for it, I would’ve given him one of those jumping high-fives, like we were in an eighties chewing-gum commercial. I stand there with a big Kool-Aid smile on my face, like a contestant on the
Price Is Right
waiting to find out what I won.

“Wow, he’s the most enthusiastic person ever in one of my meetings,” Floyd says.

“Hey, I knew it would be a special day when I woke up today,” I say. “I knew it.” I pump my fist into the air. Some would think I’m laying it on pretty thick, but I’ve been waiting for this for years. A wonderful feeling courses through my body. I’ve never accomplished anything like this. I’ve never won. Never got what I wanted. I can’t act like I’ve been here before, because I haven’t.

“We also have a new employee starting today. Eddie Kaufman, come on down here,” Floyd says.

The young man who was sitting in Earl’s seat comes to the front of the room. The pure joy on my face turns to confusion.

Floyd continues, “With all of our new employees, we need one of our most experienced employees to help them navigate the ins and outs of our complicated business operations. For Eddie, that person will be Kevin. Kevin will be the first mentor in our inaugural STD Mentor Program. He’s an ideal candidate because he’s been at the helm of the same position for seven years now. If anyone knows what a pension administrator has to do, it’ll be Kevin. He’ll serve as Eddie’s flashlight to help guide him. He’ll be Eddie’s machete to chop down the jungle.”

If I was indeed a machete, I’d stab both of them with myself right this moment. Floyd has to be joking with me. He’s a prankster at times, but the more I wait, it doesn’t seem like this is one of those times. Everybody was looking at me excitedly, but now it’s a totally different look on their faces.

“Eddie will shadow his mentor. Do everything the learned professional does, in order to make himself an efficient employee with Schuster, Thompkins, and Dykes.”

This little shit stands right next to me and attempts to put his arm around me. I’m too shocked even to fight off the arm of my new force-fed Siamese twin, like I was just slipped a roofie by a date rapist. And that’s the last thing I remember about today’s town-hall meeting.

M
y first inclination
is to quit, but I need this job for the time being, until I can find another. I’d like to go into the men’s room and cool down, but that never works. Someone’s always in there. It could be Creepy Chuck following me in there. That’d do the opposite of cooling me down. Or worse, the Booger Bandit might’ve struck again. I don’t know who it is, but there’s an employee, presumably a man, who’s always putting boogers on the wall facing the urinals. And they’re not normal-sized boogers either. These suckers are huge and sometimes bloody. And they always sneak up on you. Because you’re taking a piss, and then you notice the big booger is there, staring you dead in the face. And you can’t look away; it’s kind of like an eclipse or a car accident. And that’d only make me more furious than I already am. I don’t know what would possess a grown-ass man to do such a thing in a public place, especially a professional man. But they must hate this job as much as or more than I do. That’s one unhappy bastard.

I’ve never been disrespected in front of the whole company like that before. That’s why I’m back at my desk; I don’t want my emotions take over and to make a hasty decision. I see people walk by my desk, unsure whether to congratulate me or say they’re sorry. Now, I have to be a mentor to someone I don’t even care for. I refuse. So I’m gonna handle it like I do all other tasks I don’t agree with: completely disregard it.

Jake is the only one who doesn’t fully realize I want to be left alone.

“That’s so fucked-up, bro,” he says.

I don’t respond.

“What are you gonna do about it?” he continues. “I hope you’re not gonna sit there and take it. Are you?”

I know he will not go away until I say something to him. I figure if I say anything, he might simply go away. “What else can I do?” I say.

My words seem to make him dig in even further. “You need to take action, man. Fuck that shit.”

“There’s nothing I can do,” I say.

“Go into his office and tell him how you’re feeling right now. Tell him you ain’t gonna keep taking him fucking you over like this,” he says.

Jake is pretty adamant, and most times I would take this as him talking shit. But he has a valid point. I should stand up for myself, or else Floyd will keep passing me over. But what I should do and what I’m gonna do are two different things. I‘m not gonna get into it with Floyd. Maybe this is a test and he wants me to take charge.

“You’re acting like a real bitch right now, all passive and shit. You should be fuming. And he needs to know it,” he says.

I’m getting increasingly madder the more Jake emphasizes how bad I got screwed. He’s describing exactly how I feel. It’s really like Floyd came into my house and stole something from me, then sold it right in front of my face. “I deserve that promotion. And on top of that, he turns me into a babysitter for this jerk-off,” I say as I point to Eddie, who can hear our entire conversation. “I’m tired of them stepping over me.”

“He basically spat in your face, bro,” adds Jake.

“Exactly.”

“Wipe it off.” He hands me his lavender Italian silk handkerchief to wipe off the imaginary spit. “Go in there and let him know you ain’t having it.”

I rise up with a new sense of purpose and storm off, while Jake looks on as if he’s just sent his son off to fight the town bully in order to get his bike back.

I stand outside of Floyd’s office, with all of my emotions brimming inside of me. I contemplate kicking the door down, but settle for releasing all of my frustration on the unsuspecting door with three thunderous knocks. I don’t even wait for him to answer. Or maybe he did answer, and it was muffled by my pounding heartbeat. I barge in like a one-man SWAT team ready to break up a hostage situation. I’m met with the loud bass thumping of Floyd’s music. I’ve seen this before. When he has a good day or is feeling really positive about a presentation, he blasts music in celebration. It’s so loud he doesn’t recognize I’m in here amid his arm-waving and shouting at the top of his lungs.