My tiny office is near the back, but it fits my needs: desk, computer, bookshelves, filing cabinets, and the dreaded in-tray. Its contents totter like poorly stacked Jenga blocks. I set down my coffee thermos and briefcase and head to Kelly’s office for the morning briefing. I almost forget the stack of CDs in my coat pocket and toss them on the desk. I promised Kevin almost two months ago that I’d give him my entire collection once I finished uploading it to my computer. Lots of CDs.
The office décor is edgy but not over the top. Kelly Riley has been senior editor for ten years, so every wall and corner reflects her personality, and things can change overnight if she feels a creative whim. The caramel-colored walls make it seem like we’re working in a confectionary. Tall, slim-silhouetted vases stand in the corners with seasonal reeds, flowers, and plants. May means cattails and lilac sprigs, all made from silk. If she could put topiaries in the mailroom she would. The walls carry framed photos of our most illustrious authors and publications: one writer went on to be a best seller, and she sends Kelly blown-up cover art or majestic prints from her globetrotting book tours. My favorite is a twenty by twenty portrait of Hugh Yeardley, my favorite contributor. In the photograph his face is scruffy, eyes bloodshot, and flannel shirt askew. He holds a half-burned cigarette in one hand and a pen in the other. His expression reads: change one syllable of my work and you perish.
The office hums like a well-tuned string orchestra, people bustling about with copy, mail, and odd breakfast bits. Wally from marketing struts by with a huge stack of freshly printed paper, and I wonder what he’s doing up here with that. Kevin smiles at me from his cubicle and raises one eyebrow, silently asking for his CDs. I nod and keep walking. I hear a delighted squeal and know he’s run to my office to retrieve his prize.
Kelly’s office is tidy, just like her. She dresses like a Vogue writer could walk into her office at any moment, asking for an interview. She brought me a box of chocolates from her trip to New York Fashion Week, so she knows her clothes. I’m relatively proud of my wardrobe, nothing threadbare or trendy, just classic. I can’t pull off her style, like sequins on a weekday afternoon. This morning we’re discussing her newest options, a few short novels from two romance writers in Northern Minnesota.
“All right,” she says when I walk in and shut the door. The room contains three other junior editors: Carly Witstead, Joe Carlson, and Justin Conroy (my other close colleague). They tip me nods and refocus on Kelly. But she surprises us by saying, “Everyone out but Cassandra. We have an urgent matter to discuss.” Her crisp tone hurries the others out and Justin’s eyes widen when he leaves. I shrug and start sweating. Am I in trouble for Saffron Thomas’s sci-fi thriller? The ending was terribly mundane, so I lost track of things in the final chapter. I don’t think I missed any spelling errors or general grammar mishaps. What if I left a comma splice?
I close the door and she motions me to the chair in front of her desk. She types a few lines on her computer before addressing me.
“You have been here for five years, Cassandra?”
“Five years this fall. You hired me around mid-September.” I resist biting my lower lip. If it starts to bleed, I’ll have to flee. She nods to herself and finally looks at me, her cat-eyed tortoiseshell glasses gleaming.
“I received a very interesting email yesterday regarding your work.”
“Oh?” I ask, quavering.
“Yes, intriguing…” she trails off and looks at her computer screen once more. “It seems you are in line for some time off.” Huh? “I believe it is time you had a small sabbatical. Nothing permanent. Just a few days to sort some things out.”
“I don’t have vacation scheduled until Thanksgiving.” She’s firing me! Her protégé! Her confidant!
“This is not a suggestion.” She peers down her nose at me over her glasses. “I will have the others cover your duties for the week and expect you back next Monday.”
“I don’t understand. Did I do something wrong? Has my performance level dropped?” I’m panicking now; chest heaving, breath shortening, spittle forming in mouth’s corners. “I can do better.”
“You are the best editor I have seen in many years. It has nothing to do with your work ethic or performance. You are an exemplary employee.”
“Then why—”
“I believe this will explain everything.” She opens the drawer next to her right elbow and reaches inside. The envelope is creamy and soft with an imprinted paisley design. The angry dragon inside my head roars, and I almost miss Kelly’s parting words. “Good luck, Cassandra.”
May
To-do List
Kill former friends or hire someone to kill them.
Cover up murders with clever alibi, possibly utilize mother for said alibi.
Find new friends who will not ruin life with ridiculous notions of fictional romance.
Ask Justin if online dating ever worked for him and upon hearing negative answer, make him write treatise as such.
Find way to get back to work before enforced vacation time is up. Possibly use old mountain climbing equipment for office break-in.
Remember how to use old mountain climbing equipment.
Buy more cat food.
I decide to look at the envelope’s contents over a white wine, so I wait until 11:00am before racing to the nearest bar. I should wait until noon before drinking, as an upstanding young woman would, but who the hell cares.
The Two Jacks is close to work and nicely gloomy; the perfect atmosphere for this envelope’s malevolence. I don’t know how they managed it, but Alicia must be the mastermind. She must have sent the envelope to Kelly, and Kelly loves a good intrigue, especially if she’s allowed to play a role. Go join a community theater and let me get back to work! If Carly so much as pokes her little finger into my office, I’ll destroy our whole building with homemade explosives. I imagine receptionist Amy waltzing into my office, dumping my stuff in the garbage and putting her feet up.
I breathe deeply and enter the bar.
I’m the only one in the place, and the bartender looks fairly put out when I come in. Don’t give me that look, buddy, at least it’s not five to close or something. If there’s one thing bartenders hate, it’s last minute customers. But I’m a first minute customer today, and I need a drink.
“Morning,” he drawls. Built like a Minnesota farmer, the bartender’s forearms could probably squeeze my head like a zit.
“Hello. A white wine please.” I sit on the first barstool close to the windows; it’s murky in here.
“Any particular flavor or should I surprise you?”
“Whatever expires today is fine.” He’s surprised by my answer and I can tell he now respects me more than when I came in. Wasting booze is serious in bars, and wine doesn’t last that long. “Chardonnay it is.” I hope it’s not too bitter.
I don’t have to worry, because he pours me a hefty goblet of straw-colored wine. It tastes better than I feel, so that’s a start.
He leaves me alone, using that ultimate bartender power of discerning if a customer wants to chat, and walks out from behind the bar and back into what I presume is the kitchen. Thank God. I didn’t want any witnesses if my head explodes.
I lay the envelope on the bar and stare at it. Alicia’s work for sure, because of the paisley embellishments. Care went into this envelope, into the whole plot. I pick it up and slit it open, careful not to rip the paper. I want to tear it open like an ADD-afflicted four-year old on Christmas morning, but I restrain myself. I’m a grown up.
Inside are three sheets of paper:
The first page is in Alicia’s calligraphy-style cursive: “Greetings my dear and welcome to your dating game. It’s not really a game, finding love, but then again, what about life isn’t about playing games? You pick teams, you keep score. Someone loses, someone wins. It’s all the same to the referee who comes out on top, so long as someone plays. And you are going to play. I know you hate us right now, but we’re trying to help you ba
ck into the real world. It’s not all about work. You need to get back into your life, because you checked out about three years ago. Let this experience take you somewhere new. Welcome back, honey, and I hope this time you win.”
Keeley’s slanted print comes next: “You three underestimate me all the time, calling me a hopeless romantic and thinking I’m naïve. In some ways you’re right, but I’m not all paper hearts and candy kisses. Cassie, Alicia hasn’t been around enough to notice that you’re coming apart. I don’t think you notice it, or if you do, you bury it so far in your heart it will never surface. But I see it. I hear it when you try to console me on the phone. You think it’s foolish to try and find love, but I think you just need a different option, and you need to lose control. I hope this works because if it doesn’t you’ll kill me. Love you tons.”
I know Lindsey’s the closer, the pitcher the manager calls in to clinch the win, and I expect her spiky scrawl to cover the third page, but I’m wrong: “Your first date will be in June, and his name and the location of your date will be sent to you through one of us. Don’t worry. We’ll give you details about the guy so you’re not flying blind. Topics to discuss and whatnot. We also have one other task for you. Keep a journal about every date you go on. We want details. Write about how you’re feeling. Even if the first ones are all barbed comments for us, we want them. Just write something. You wanted to be a writer once. Your other friends are in on this and will report any infractions. We have spies everywhere.”
The last page is typed on expensive paper, so it came from Alicia. Although I’m fuming, I can’t believe Lindsey didn’t send a manifesto. Maybe she’s on rationality’s side.
I swallow the wine and wait for the bartender to come back. Am I actually thinking about doing this?
I reach for my purse and fish out my cell phone. Kevin is speed-dial nine. He’s still at the office, but that boy is never without his phone. A gay man without a cell phone is like a Ken doll without an ascot; those are Kevin’s own words.
“Ciao bella, spill it? You left in a huff and everybody’s talking.”
“I’ve been ambushed by heartless wenches,” I can feel tears coming and suck them back. The last thing I need is the burly bartender seeing me cry.
“Oh, you got the envelope,” he gasps.
“I thought you knew nothing,” I say, trying to whisper ice through the phone and into his ear.
“I may know certain details.”
“They got to you too. I hate my life. Is this really my life?”
“Stop being so dramatic. It doesn’t suit you.”
The bartender returns from the kitchen and puts my tab down next to the empty wine glass. He politely turns away and moves down the bar again.
“I’m not being dramatic, you asshole. Did I ever even hint that I wanted help getting a man?”
“Babe, you can get laid if you want. Half the single male population would give their left nut to sleep with you. But that’s not what you need.”
“I wish they had gotten me a prostitute, then at least the nightmare would be over, and I could go back to a normal life.”
“Normal is beige and you’re turquoise. Normal doesn’t fit you. Kind of like those jeans I keep telling you to throw away.”
“I think I might be sick.”
“Don’t ever yack in a public place. That’s one of my top three rules.”
“How do you know I’m not at home?”
“If I were you, I’d have my head in a wine bottle.”
My mother would have been more supportive than him.
WRONG.
I call my mom when I get home, and she answers on the second ring.
“Hello?”
“Did you know about this?”
“Hello Cassie. Nice of you to call your mother while you’re at work.” I hear her typing through the speaker and realize that I’ve interrupted something. It dawns on me that it’s half past noon. Other people are still at work, where I should be. “Are you on lunch sweetie?”
“No, Mom,” I sigh and settle on the couch. “I came home early today. I’m not feeling well.”
“Being sick never stopped you from staying at work before,” her voice is preoccupied, but she’s trying to follow our conversation.
“Kelly sent me home.” I feel like a grade school kid complaining about a mean teacher, like I was sent home from school for throwing sand when I did not. “On account of my villainous friends.”
“Is today that day? Completely escaped me.” More typing, faster now. She’s on a roll.
“What day?”
“The first day of this escapade the girls planned. I think it’s a grand idea.”
“YOU KNEW?” I don’t mean to shout in her ear but can’t hold back. I’ve been waiting to scream at someone since I left the office. It might as well be Mom. “You knew they were going to do this to me, and you didn’t say anything?” Deep down I’m impressed that she kept this a secret. I never tell her anything too important, because she blabs to her sisters, co-workers, street vendors, anyone who will listen. How the hell did she manage not to spill this? “The whole world has gone insane. Is there anyone who doesn’t know that my life’s been hijacked?”
“Possibly your father. I didn’t say a peep to anyone.” She relays this information triumphantly, and it’s hard to stay angry. “I didn’t even tell your brother, but he knew about it somehow.” Even Joel hates me. My own dear little brother. If he weren’t in California I’d go over to his house and stick carrots up his nose like when we were kids.
“You could have warned me.” I rub the bridge of my nose in frustration, almost wishing I still wore glasses, so I could take them off and clean the lenses; anything to keep my hands occupied.
“Where’s the fun in that? This will be good for you. It’s not normal for an attractive girl like you to be single.”
“Guys ask me out all the time, Mom! Being single’s a choice, not some big scarlet “S” tattooed on my chest.”
“It might as well be. Three years since you’ve had a prospect.”
“I don’t want to talk about Pete.”
“You never do. Maybe if you let someone be there for you, or if you cried at least once you’d be over him.” She sounds exasperated, and she stops typing, the signal that she intends to settle in for a long conversation. That’s my cue to say goodbye.
“Bye Mom. I’ll call you later.”
“Dinner tonight? I’m making stuffed zucchini!”
The End of May and My Life as I Knew It
Those few days off work are pure, unadulterated torture. With no manuscripts to look over and no fellow employees to laugh with, I’m at a loss. What do unemployed people even do? I’ve had a job since I was fifteen. Working in restaurants shortened my life by at least ten years, but the money was worth it. I saved up enough during high school to afford my freshman and sophomore years in college, something none of my friends could boast. Even when I lived overseas, I taught English in Paris and Berlin, if only to afford more expensive beers.
I’ve always had a job; I’ve always worked hard for what I have. Not working makes me feel incompetent and lazy. The weekend is for downtime, not Wednesday, Thursday, or Friday, which is the prescribed term of exile. This must be how Napoleon felt on Elba; only he had servants to talk to. Prospero’s not the best chatter. He likes toy mice, food, and belly rubs. He is annoyed with me by 8:30am after I come back from running and getting a chai from Minnie’s place. She was surprised to see me at the counter so late in the morning but polite enough not to question it.
At 9:00am I call someone who might commiserate with me.
Justin Conroy is my second-best work friend. Kevin and I adopted him when he started at Weston’s three years ago, mainly because when he came in on his first day, he dropped his box of possessions and spilled his full thermos of coffee into the box. Kevin and I took pity on the new guy. Instead of staring at him like he was a clumsy alien, we helped him clean his stuff and sort thr
ough what papers we could salvage. One bedraggled copy of Yeats had to be thrown, but he assured us it was okay: he had three copies at home. His poetry jones cemented him in our hearts, because how can you not adore a straight guy who owns four books of Irish poetry?
The office is in consensus that Justin and I should be a couple, but neither of us agrees. Even Kevin is against the match, using one of his many euphemisms: “You don’t drink from the company well.” Kevin has ignored his own advice for years but expects Justin and I to hold firm. Justin is attractive, just not what I’m looking for. He’s over six feet tall, fairly muscular, with a bright, easy smile. His sandy hair and freckles sprayed across his nose are probably what turn me off; I’ve never been attracted to someone whose features resemble my own. Justin can tan though, that asshole. Dark hair and olive skin are my main turn-ons when it comes to appearance, which didn’t work out so well for me three years ago.
He answers on the first ring. “Hey hot stuff. How’s prison?”
“This is a nightmare! You have to tell me what happened yesterday.” Like me, Justin lives at the office. If he’s not reading something he might wither away like an un-watered fern. “What did Kelly say when I left?”
“You’re sounding a little desperate, and that’s not attractive.”
“Shut up and spill.”
“You didn’t miss much.” What a liar. There were new acquisitions to go over and four new hires in the mailroom to degrade. “Kelly didn’t tell us why you left, but Kevin filled me in.” He gets bonus points for not laughing. At least someone finds my situation humiliating. “We went over one of the new manuscripts, but she wants to wait for you to get back to divvy up the work. It isn’t so bad is it?”
“Are you kidding? What would you do if you were stuck at home with only a cat for company?”
“Can’t you go visit someone during the day?”
“Who do I know that doesn’t work during the day?”
“Lindsey?” He knows my three jailers pretty well, especially Lindsey, who makes it her mission to hit on him. It’s all in good fun for her, but I think she makes Justin a bit nervous. “Doesn’t she work nights?”
Men of the Year Page 3