Time Off for Good Behavior (5 page)

She looked up to see me and slammed the file drawer shut.

“
Wanda!
”
she said with false enthu
siasm. She might have pulled it off if she could have hidden the tremor in her voice.
“
You
’
re back early!
”

I saw a few gopher heads pop up over the tops of the cubicles, the same way they always did when they sensed the ground was about to shake. I sidled
past Susie and started rifling through the pile of mail and memos on my desk.

“
Yeah. I
’
m fine now. I
’
m back.
”
I sat on the edge of my desk and folded my arms.
“
All right, Susie. Out with it. How much of my business did you lose?
”

“
Well,
”
she started, bitin
g her lip,
“
Activity Center decided they didn
’
t want to go on air until school starts again in the fall. Feeney Contracting said they
’
d get back to me in first quarter. And Finnegan
’
s Chevrolet is on Trudy
’
s list now.
”

“
What?
”
I grabbed the file from her.
“
Trudy
’
s list? What the hell is my biggest client doing on Trudy
’
s list?
”

Trudy Laverly was the devil in an inappropriate dress, the kind of person who lied to her clients to get them to sign a contract and then let the sales assistant take the heat when d
iscrepancies were found. I glanced over at her cubicle, which was conveniently empty. No doubt she
’
d heard the distinctive roar of my crappy muffler and went to hide in the bathroom. Trudy may have been evil incarnate, but she wasn
’
t stupid.

I looked at Su
sie and tried to tone down my exasperation. She may not have been the sharpest crayon in the box, but she wasn
’
t conniving or manipulative, so that put her head and shoulders above most of the other people there. Of course, Channel 8 would chew her up and
spit her out in six months or less, but that was really her problem.

“
Susie, calm down. If you bite your lip any harder, you
’
re going to need plastic surgery. Don
’
t worry. I
’
ll get Finnegan
’
s back.
”
Everything was the end of the world in television, and it
got on my nerves. Some piddly client placing three hundred dollars a month on overnights misses a spot, and people were screaming and yelling and crying and cursing like they just spotted the Four Horsemen shopping at the 7-Eleven on Main.

Susie shook her
head.
“
I don
’
t know, Wanda. Blaine said that Finnegan
’
s needed more personal attention.
”

“
Yes, and I
’
m a person. I
’
ll handle it. Stop fidgeting. Jesus. Get a prescription, will you?
”

“
But Blaine said
—
”

“
Don
’
t worry about Blaine. I
’
ll handle Blaine.
”

Blain
e Dowd was the general manager at Channel 8, and he was exactly what you
’
d expect when you heard the name Blaine: a pale-faced, sweaty-palmed, spineless weasel. He
’
d been fired from every job he ever had, usually for incompetence, although rumor has it th
a
t once or twice he
’
d been caught taking money from petty cash. Eventually his dad, Edgar, who owned Channel 8 along with half the media outlets in east Tennessee, put Blaine in charge of the station, where he could keep an eye on him. The simulated rice c
a
ke was the first of many stupid things Blaine had done with the station. We were number two in the market when he took over; now it was a good Nielsen book when we could show evidence that anyone had watched at all.

I looked over toward Blaine
’
s office, wh
ich was a big glass fishbowl in the southeast corner of the building. He was on the phone. I shooed Susie away from my desk and headed toward Blaine
’
s office, slamming the door behind me as I entered.

“
What the fuck, Blaine?
”
I was loud and could see a few
more gophers pop up in my peripheral vision. Blaine had gotten off the phone right quick when he saw me coming. Probably a wise move.

“
Wanda, I
’
m glad you stopped in,
”
he said, motioning toward the chair across from him. He sat down and clasped his hands
together.
“
We need to talk.
”

“
No shit we need to talk.
”
He bristled at the language. The worst word I
’
d ever heard Blaine say was
drat
, a fact that made it almost impossible for me to conduct a conversation with him without swearing.

“
So I guess Susie told
you.
”
He smiled one of those quivery-lipped smiles that you get from people who have never had a genuine good feeling in their entire lives.

“
Yeah, she told me.
”

“
Well, then, there really isn
’
t much more left to say, is there? There are some empty boxes d
own in Cate
’
s office. Please have your things cleared out by the end of the day.
”

My things?
I stared at Blaine as my mind processed what he was saying.

His eyes flashed in a panic.
“
Susie didn
’
t tell you.
”

“
Susie told me that Finnegan
’
s is on Trudy
’
s acco
unt list. She didn
’
t tell me that you
’
re firing me. You
’
re
firing
me?
”
I stood up and leaned over his desk, although you
’
d think the knock on the head in the courtroom would have cured me of heat-of-the-moment behavior. What can I say? I wasn
’
t a quick lea
rner.

“
Look, Wanda, it said clearly in your contract that if you didn
’
t meet your sales quota for three weeks in a row, the station would be within its rights to find a replacement for your position.
”
He grabbed a stress ball and squeezed it, then tried to
work up a smile.
“
You
’
ve been gone three weeks.
”

“
I was in a
coma,
Blaine,
”
I said, speaking slowly so he would understand. The office joke was that Blaine had a brain disorder that translated anything anyone ever said to him into
“
blah-blah, blahbiddy, b
lah-blah-blah.
”

I grabbed the stress ball from his hands and stared him in the eye.
“
You can
’
t fire someone for being in a coma. It
’
s illegal.
”

His index finger shook as he pointed to a photocopy of my contract, which was conveniently sitting on his desk.
“
You see, it says right here
—
”

“
I know what it says, Blaine.
”
I sighed. This was pointless.
“
Where
’
s your dad?
”

Blaine was trying to maintain an air of composure, but I could practically see the wet spot forming at his crotch.
“
I
’
m the general manager here.
”

“
Oh, please, Blaine. You
’
re the general joke around here.
”
Blaine gasped, and a flush crept up his neck.
“
I know you
’
ve been wanting to can me for a long time, but how stupid are you? I mean, really. I
’
ve got like twelve fucking lawsuits here.
”

“
Wanda,
you know that language is inappropriate, and actually, if you refer to the employee manual, it is grounds for termination.
”

“
Oh, bite me, you little son of a bitch. Now, where
’
s your dad?
”

“
On a cruise, and he won
’
t be back until next Friday.
”
He cleared h
is throat, stood up, and smoothed his tie.
“
But that doesn
’
t matter because the decision is mine, and there isn
’
t much left to say on the matter.
”
His palm left a sweat mark on his tie. He looked like he was about to throw up.

I took a moment. It wasn
’
t so
much that I minded losing the job. Selling television advertising was a degrading existence, and God knows working for Blaine only made that reality more biting. I
’
d saved up enough money to last me a few months, knowing that the day would come when I wo
u
ld reach my limit and quit in a blaze of glory. I tended to do that on occasion. But being fired by Blaine Dowd...

My pride wouldn
’
t stand for that.

“
Okay, Blaine,
”
I said. My palms were placed flat on the desk, and I stared him straight in the face.
“
I
’
ve
got two words for you, and I want you to remember them, because I promise as God is my witness they will haunt you to the end of your days.
”
Blaine gulped. Visibly. Audibly. Like Alfalfa on
The Little Rascals.
“
What... what two words?
”

I leaned in closer.
“
Walter Briggs.
”

His eyes darted from side to side.
“
Walter Briggs? The janitor?
”

“
The janitor
’
s name is Bob, you dumb-ass.
”
I grabbed his yellow sticky note pad, scratched
“
Walter Briggs
”
on it, and slapped the note on his desk.

“
Walter Briggs,
”
I said s
lowly,
“
is my lawyer. You
’
ll be hearing from him soon.
”

I turned and stormed out of the office, not bothering to gather my things. I could swear I heard a collective sigh of relief as the door closed behind me.

***

I slammed my front door and kicked off
my shoes, then made a beeline for the kitchen, searching through the cabinets until I found my bottle of Scotch. My father had given it to me for my thirtieth birthday, even though he knew I didn
’
t drink hard liquor.

“
Everyone has days for which the only c
ure is Scotch,
”
the card had said.
“
Just wanted to make sure you were prepared.
”
I opened the bottle.

Good old Dad.

I lay down flat on my living room floor, glass in one hand and bottle in the other, staring at the ceiling.

“
This is my life.
”
It sounded ev
en worse out loud than it did in my head. I was thirty-two. Thirty-two. I should have been a doctor. Or a CEO. Or a college professor. Something big. Something meaningful. But I went in a different direction, took a path that led to being jobless and lyin
g
on the floor of a crappy apartment with a bottle of Scotch by my side, straining to identify phantom music only I could hear. Oh, if only I could get a picture for the Chappaqua High alumni newsletter...