Shooting Stars (6 page)

Floyd yells: “I call shots—like a Boss. . . . Stack knots—like a Boss. . . . Cop drops—like a Boss. . . . Paid tha cost—like a Boss. . . . When I floss—like a Boss.”

He makes a horrible attempt to cover up his embarrassment when he notices me in the room with him. “K-Deezy, what up, my playa?”

“Don’t start with that,” I reply.

He has a blank look on his face.

“K-Deezy, K-Dawg, Special K, K-Smoove, K-Slice. All of that. My name is Kevin,” I continue.

“Okay, didn’t know it got to you.”

“That, among other things,” I say.

He realizes this is unlike any other jovial visit from me when we can shoot the shit about last night’s episode of
Entourage
. “Well, sit down. We can talk about it.”

I look at the chair and think about sitting.

“I’ll stand.” I don’t want him to have any kind of advantage over me, and I want to harness all of this anger I have right now. Relaxing might take a bit of the edge off. “Aida? Let’s be serious. Why’d you give my promotion to a corpse?”

“I know you’re upset,” he says. “But it had to be done. I don’t know how to explain it to you,” he says.

“Give it a shot. Help me understand, ‘cuz from where I’m standing, it looks like you screwed me.”

“Listen, I wanted to promote you, but even though I’m the boss, I only have so much leeway. You’re a tough sell to the rest of upper management right now.”

Floyd’s words are like a fire hose to the face. I haven’t felt this way since my dad told me professional wrestling wasn’t real. See, I know I’m not a great worker and basically don’t give a fuck about this job or the company. But I didn’t know management knew I didn’t give a fuck. I always thought I hid it pretty well with my smoke-and-mirrors approach.

“‘Tough sell’?” Still doesn’t mean I’m willing to give up my charade. I’m a ride this bitch out till the wheels come off.

“Not everyone . . . well, mostly everyone doesn’t believe you’re suited for the job. And you can’t really blame them, with the way you’ve performed.”

“‘Performed’? I’m one of the best employees out there. I bust my ass every single day for this company. Sure, I march to the beat of my own drum, but that shouldn’t be used against me. My out-of-the-box thinking should be viewed as one of my merits.”

Floyd doesn’t look like he agrees with me. He rifles through the piles on his desk and pulls out a thick red folder that’s held together with several pink rubber bands. Then, he holds it up and shows it to me.

“And that is?”

“Your file,” he says.

“Didn’t know I had so many positive recommendations.”

He opens it up and starts reading from its contents. “You often turn down work that you don’t want to do. Citing, and I quote, ‘That’s not in my job description.’”

“My role has a very specific outline of my duties and responsibilities, which are clearly outlined in the STD employee handbook on the company’s webpage. It’s not my fault others want me to step out of my role and do their tasks or something. That’s not what I’m supposed to be doing. I should be commended for knowing the company’s rules and not allowing myself to be taken advantage of.”

“Because of you we had to fix the computers to ensure nobody would change the clocks on them in order to leave early,” he says.

“That’s me helping with a process improvement.”

“Three times you’ve tried to collect workmen’s comp,” he says.

“I know it’s hard for you to believe, in your cushy office, but out there”—I bug my eyes out for emphasis—“it’s a war zone. And sometimes the workplace isn’t safe. Like the time I slipped on water and tweaked my back.”

“You were having a water fight in the men’s bathroom,” he says.

“Witnesses. Do you have witnesses?”

He holds up a piece of paper. “Yes.”

Touché.

“You argued the monitors were turning you blind.”

I laugh because I forgot about that one. “That would’ve worked. I should’ve committed the whole way and got the Seeing Eye dog instead of only the cane.”

“You argued for paid pregnancy leave,” he says.

“Why not paternity leave? That rule is fundamentally sexist to the very core of humanity.”

“You don’t even have kids!”

“And I won’t until they amend the policy. I’m still mulling over taking that one to the Supreme Court, so I’m going to stay mum on it for now. Quite frankly, I’ve probably said too much as is.”

He can’t have much more in there. I think that sums up everything he could have against me.

Or so I thought, because he continues, “You have extremely low evaluation scores from your peers. Managers say you’re ‘below expectations across the board.’ Even subpar customer-approval scores.”

“No way. That’s a lie. I know for a fact I have a few good customer-call reviews.”

“I’ll give you that,” he says and smiles. “But only when you have friends call in and fill out the survey for you. And even then, you’re only getting average scores.”

I need better friends.

“You barely talk to anybody in the office and never have any good input in meetings. Most of the time you’re completely silent in them,” he says.

“What do you mean? I’ve had some great one-liners in meetings. Those don’t count now?”

He says nothing.

“And don’t forget my awesome suggestions to improve workers’ morale in the office.”

“I’m not talking about suggesting we have freestyle-dance battles every Friday before lunch between departments to see who can leave at noon,” he says.

“Everyone knows that was vetoed because people knew I’d win. But how about Spandex Day? Or Robot Day?”

He cracks a smile. “Well, I did like Robot Day.” He does the robot dance around his office. “See, I’m not your enemy, but we have to prove to the others you’re up to the task. That’s why I created this mentorship for you. By succeeding with Eddie, you’re guaranteed to get the next promotion in three months. Everyone’s pushing for Chloe, but I make the final call. And I can hang my hat on your mentoring and get you the job.”

“I need money now. I’m not sure if I can wait.” He gives me a look to tell me that’s the best he can do. “Okay, here’s my suggestion, because that is what I do. I tap into my brain and great ideas seep out. You know how we get paid every two weeks?”

“Yes,” he says.

“How about if you pay me daily?” He just looks at me. “Weekly?”

“Are you okay?” he says. “Gambling debts?”

“No, bills. I got a lot of bills.”

“We all do, K-butta. Penthouses have bills. Big ones. Much bigger than small houses.”

“Try one-bedroom apartment,” I say.

“Really? One bedroom? What’s that like?” he says.

I see I’m getting nowhere with him. “All I have to do is show this kid the ropes. Make sure he doesn’t fuck up, and I got it? You’re sure about that?” Now all of my hopes and dreams have been linked to the idea of helping someone I do not know. It seems easy, but so hard at the same time.

“You have my word,” he says. And we shake on it.

I
t’s lunchtime
, and Jake and I sit in a booth at the Applebee’s we frequent every Tuesday. We like to keep a good rotation of lunch locations. This place is always crowded and loud at noon, but Jake knows the hostess. And that’s how we maintain our priority seating. I’m demolishing my cheeseburger while he slowly munches on his steak and baked potato, all the while bombarding me with questions.

“You have to train and help out that little Bart Simpson–looking motherfucker, because Floyd says so?”

“Yep,” I reply in between sips of my Sprite.

“That fucking sucks. I don’t know him or anything, but he looks like an annoying douche bag. Always smiling and shit, like a retard. Wait . . . is he retarded?”

“No.”

“Oh, okay. See, I would feel bad if he was really retarded. I know it’s not right to judge someone, but I hate him. Hate his fucking guts,” Jake says.

“May I interject something for a minute,” says Eddie, who’s quietly sitting one booth over.

“No, you’re still on punishment,” Jake says.

“He’s apologized already,” I say. “And it’s been long enough. Come on back.”

Jake looks at me as though I’ve messed up.

“His food is getting cold,” I say.

Eddie comes back over and sits on my side of the booth.

“What I wanted to say is, I didn’t know you could order alcoholic beverages,” Eddie says.

We both stare at him.

He continues, “I mean,
technically
we’re still at work, even though we’re at lunch. And consuming alcohol is forbidden. That’s what I was getting at.”

“Let’s not talk about it anymore, because
technically
I will stab you with this knife if you keep bringing it up,” Jake says, holding his steak knife as it drips with A.1. He then takes a gulp of his Long Island Iced Tea.

“If this mentorship is going to work, you’re going to have to trust that we know what we’re doing,” I tell Eddie. “Floyd would not have put me in charge of your development if I wasn’t one of the best employees in the company. So if Jake decides to have a cocktail during lunch, do not question it. We know what’s best.”

Eddie nods as he realizes there’s some credence in what I’m saying.

“Yes, listen to him,” Jake says. “It’s not like he’s ever directly killed anybody before.”

I shoot Jake a look.

“I said, directly,” he says.

“That wasn’t my fault.”

“You persuaded an obese man to join our company basketball team,” Jake says.

“I thought the exercise would be good for him,” I said.

“Too bad his cardiovascular system thought otherwise,” he says.

About twenty minutes into our lunch, Jake notices Eddie keeps looking at his watch. I’ve already caught him doing this about five minutes ago, but I didn’t want to bring it up, given Jake’s strong feelings toward him. It would be a horrible if my mentee got stabbed during our welcome lunch. But Jake isn’t one for holding his tongue.

“What’s wrong, you have to be somewhere?”

“No. Not really,” says Eddie. “Well, I know from orientation that we’re only allowed thirty minutes for a lunch break. And we’ve already been here for forty-five minutes, and it appears you’re not ready to leave. Now that’s fine, but I think I’m going to leave.”

“I drove,” I say.

“I know. I’ll walk back to the office. And you guys can stay as long as you like.”

“You’re giving us permission?” Jake says.

“You gonna walk along the highway?” I say.

Eddie nods as he grabs his coat.

“You’re gonna go back and tell on us, aren’t you?” Jake says. “Fucking fag.”

I shake my head at my new protégé. “Listen, kid, let me tell you something about the thirty-minute lunch break.”

Jake rolls his eyes, because he can recite this story word for word. But I’m gonna tell it anyway. The new guy needs this breakdown. I wish someone would’ve taken me under their wing when I started.

“By the time I get in the car to go to lunch, that’s at least five minutes off the clock. Drive to where you want to eat, such as this fine establishment, that’s about ten minutes. Wait for your food seven to ten minutes—”

“You can always call in your order ahead of time,” Eddie interrupts.

I look at him with disdain. “Why? Am I some type of fugitive?” He has no answer. I continue, “Rushing to eat my food is not good for the digestive system. So when I get my food, I have to make a decision. Do I eat in the restaurant, like a civilized individual, or take it back to the office and eat at my desk while doing work, like some sort of uncouth animal? Why the fuck would I rush? I’m a grown-ass man. Fuck them! I sit and I eat and I converse with my associates. I had a longer lunchtime in kindergarten. Now, I’m fifty times the size. I will enjoy myself. My lunch is over when I get back. So sit your ass down and enjoy your lunch and stop acting like a fucking caveman. Take off your coat and enjoy the rest of your chicken fingers.”

Jake slowly claps. “Bravo.”

“Okay, I’ll make up the time later,” Eddie says as he sits down.

Jake looks at Eddie. “Bitch.”

“Working late is for assholes,” I say.

Jake nods in agreement.

“But you have to make up for the time you miss, work a full eight hours and get all of your work done,” Eddie says.

“For what?” I say. “There was once a guy. I think his name was Max. He worked late every night. No questions asked. Then, one night with a big snowstorm on its way, his manger asked him if he could finish up a report before he left for the day. The manager knew the storm was coming, but I guess he figured since it already started to flurry and Max was already at the office it wouldn’t hurt to ask. So Max stayed. He worked until nine thirty that night, as the snow piled up on the roads. His manager went home long before him, probably immediately after he made the request. And guess what happened to Max?”

“His hard work was praised by his superiors, and he got a certificate of commendation?” Eddie says.

“First of all, don’t ever use that term again,” I say.

“What?”

“
Superiors.
How are they
superior
?” I say.

Eddie looks like he’s about to say something, but he catches himself.

I continue, “And no, Max didn’t get one of those cheap certificates that they print out and laminate. Max died on the way home. He lost control of his Miata on the ice and slid right underneath a Mack truck. Crushed him. Crushed him in that little-ass car. They put his picture on the company homepage for three days to honor his memory and sent flowers to his funeral. That’s it. They didn’t even go to the funeral, because there was an important meeting with some clients that day. And here’s the kicker about his
urgent work
. That report wasn’t even due the next day. His manager didn’t even look at it until one week later.”

Eddie doesn’t say anything, as he’s overwhelmed with sadness for a man he never met.

More time passes, and I notice Eddie is even quieter. I take this as an opportunity to get to know him. “So what’s your deal?”

“What do you mean?” Eddie says.

“You know, what are you about?”

“Oh, you want me to tell you about myself?”

I can see this mentorship is going to be a lot harder than I thought. Everything with this guy requires a detailed explanation.

“Well, I graduated magna cum laude last spring with a double major in computer science and business administration, with a focus in human resources. I’m very excited to be under your tutelage.”

“Yes, you’ve said so at least ten times already,” I say.

“Well . . . okay. I’m engaged to the love of my life—”

“Whoa,” Jake interrupts. “Getting married? You’re way too young for that. You’re like sixteen years old. A, why put yourself through that? And B, aren’t there state rules that make that illegal?”

“Actually, I’m twenty-two,” Eddie says. “And I’m perfectly ready to get married. Like I said, she’s the love of my life. My world begins and ends with her.”

Eddie reaches around his neck, underneath his tightly collared shirt, and pulls out a necklace. He opens the shiny oval locket, which he probably polishes nightly before he puts on his footie pajamas. It’s a picture of his fiancée. He hands me the locket. She’s a nice-looking girl. Looks about as young as he does. I don’t really know what to say. So I rely on something I think I should say: “Umm, congratulations.”

Jake snatches the locket from my hand. “What a sucker for love,” he says as he inspects the picture closely, like it’s a clue for a murder investigation. Then, in true Jake fashion, he offers his typical analysis: “I’d fuck her face. Wouldn’t wife it up, though, especially if I were twenty-two.”

Eddie takes offense to the locker-room talk being directed at his college sweetheart.

“That’s so cliché. Why is it always a picture of a woman’s face in a locket? Why never just her ass? Then, I can really see what she’s working with,” Jake continues.

Eddie grabs the locket back. “I want to start a family with her.” He turns to me. “I know you understand.”

I have no idea what this young kid is talking about. “Why would I understand?”

“You have a beautiful family. I saw them on the picture you have on your desk,” Eddie says.

Jake and I break out into laughter. “That?” I say.

“Not his family,” Jake says.

Eddie looks at both of us with a befuddled expression. “Then, who is it?”

Jake continues, “Who the fuck knows? That’s a random family. He keeps it on his desk so people think he has a family.”

Eddie still doesn’t understand.

I pick up where Jake leaves off. “I use them as an excuse. They ask me to stay late. I can’t, because I gotta take lil’ Larry to wrestling practice. Someone’s having a party they want me to attend. It’s always the same day as Brittany’s cello recitals. You get it?”

“He even went as far as taking wedding pictures,” Jake says.

“I was going to Photoshop myself in, but I hired a crew instead, with an actress to play my wife, and recreated a few wedding scenes. She wasn’t really an actress, more like an aspiring model and acting student from the community college. But then, she knew people, and everything worked out fine.”

He can’t believe he was duped, but I’m good at what I do. “That worked?” he says.

“All the time. Who would go out of their way to investigate and call me on it?” I reply.

“I really don’t get it. I just don’t. This gig is pretty sweet,” Eddie says as he shakes his head.

His statement is welcomed with confused facial expressions from Jake and me.

“I mean, look at it this way, some people don’t have jobs at all,” he continues.

“I don’t care about them.” I sit back and look at him, trying to figure out what I should say next. “Let’s hear more about you. How long do you plan on staying at this job?”

Without hesitation, Eddie says, “Hopefully for the rest of my professional career. I want to grow old and retire from STD.”

“You can’t be serious,” Jake says. He waves over the waitress. “Excuse me, but can I see the dessert menu?”

Eddie looks at Jake, and then almost looks at his watch, but decides not to with Jake staring at him. “I’m totally serious,” he continues. “I wanna learn as much I can from you. Act as a sponge and soak up all the knowledge you have to offer. And work my way up the ladder. They’re paying me well—”

My interest is piqued. “Whoa, how much are they paying you, exactly?”

Eddie’s about to speak, but then he catches himself. “Ah, you almost had me.” He chuckles.

Jack and I look at each other.

“They warned us in orientation not to discuss salaries or raises with other employees. It breeds jealousy. That was my first test, right?”

Jake throws one of my French fries at Eddie. “You and that fucking orientation. Say one more thing about orientation or about the employee handbook and I’m throwing this bottle of steak sauce. Go ahead. Say it.”

I put my hands in front Jake, urging him to cease fire on his impending A.1. assault. “No, it wasn’t a test,” I say. “I would like to know. Look, Floyd assigned me as your mentor. But I want to be more than that. Consider me your
friendtor
. In order to facilitate the mentor process I need to know this piece of information, and we need open and sincere lines of communication. I know how much Jake makes. And he knows how much I make.”

Jake nods in agreement.

“I guess if you think it’s best,” Eddie says.

J
ake
, Eddie, and I are back in the office walking to our desks. Right now, I’m fuming to the point that I’m walking about ten yards in front of both of them, not wanting to look at Eddie. He’s right behind me, apologizing over and over again the whole ride back. His regret only makes it worst. I don’t want to hear his voice, so I march on. And Jake can’t keep up, because he’s laughing hysterically, to the point that his face is beet red, with tears streaming down his cheeks.

“I’m sorry. But what did I do?” Eddie says as we approach our adjacent seats.

I don’t respond to a word he says. I sit down at my chair and put my iPod headphones on. And then, I stare at my computer screen and try to zone out everything and everyone but the Oasis being fed directly to my eardrums. That worked for about two minutes, until my new manager, Aida, came by with her notepad.

“They are administering the flu vaccine this Wednesday. Would you like to sign up?” she asks me.

I take off my headphones. “No, I’m trying to catch it this year.” Then, I put my headphones back on.

Just mere moments later, or so I thought, I see Eddie packing up his stuff for the day. My still-remorseful mentee says, “I’m leaving now, but I wanted to say sorry again for whatever I did earlier.”

“What time is it?” I say as Eddie puts on his coat.

“It’s five twenty-three.”

I take the piece of tape that I use to cover the clock when I can’t stop from looking at it off my monitor. “What the fuck, man? Why didn’t you tell me earlier?”

“I thought you wanted to be left alone,” he says.

“Yes, that’s true, but I also want to get the fuck outta here. We get off at five, and I like to begin shutting down at four thirty. And gradually downshift my work pace until four fifty-nine. Then shut down, so that I’m in the parking lot by five.” I scramble to get my stuff. I try shutting down the programs on my desktop, but it takes too long. I reach under my desk and yank the computer’s plug from the socket.