Pink Slipper

by Gina Robinson

  "I’ll do it for you!" Jean stood up and rubbed my shoulders, laughing to herself.

  "The problem is our automated society," I said. "Cash machines. Self-service gas stations. You-scan at the grocery store. Think how many human contacts that cuts down on." I sighed.

  We went back to it, dialing until our fingers got sore. Leaving voicemail and text messages up the ying-yang. No one was ever in when you wanted them. We talked until we grew hoarse and had such a bad case of phone-ear that we all felt like we had cauliflower attached to our heads instead of ears. And all for nothing. No one knew anyone, anywhere, anyhow.

  Finally, Roger called a cease-fire. "Okay gang. Good progress. Before we blow through all our cell plan minutes, we’ll pack it up and continue at home. If any of you hit the jackpot, give Leesa a call ASAP."

  Candy came over and gave me a hug. "Don’t worry, Lees. Something will turn up. And when we score you that big interview, Hank and I are going to give you the makeover of your life. You’ll walk in there looking so killer they’ll make on offer on the spot."

  Yeah, but what kind of offer?

  Jean nodded. "Candy’s right. When Dan gets home tonight, I’ll hit him up for contacts. Did I tell you how much he loved the new office? He thinks you’re a perfect genius. And he knows scads of people."

  Barn chimed in. "Cara and I plan to put our heads together on it tonight."

  Everyone was so helpful, they brought me almost to tears. Then one by one, they packed up and began drifting off, leaving me to wait for my bus with the dregs of my mocha. If I stuck my face deep into the cup, do you think I could get that last bit of chocolate sauce with my tongue?

  * * *

  Which is exactly what I was trying when something else almost made me cry, but not in a good way. Ryne Garrett strolled in for an afternoon iced frappuccino. At least that’s the order the clerk called out to the barista as Ryne paid at the counter. I ducked low in my chair. He didn’t see me at first. I considered making a graceful retreat, but then—

  Ryne turned around. His eyes lit up when he spotted me. "Leesa!" He walked over to me. "Hey, how are you? Can I buy you a drink?"

  "No. Thank you." I spit the words out.

  How could that two-timing, people-studying, egghead-paper-writing cheat even have the nerve to speak to me?

  Oblivious to my cold shoulder, he pulled up a chair without asking. "What are you doing here?"

  "Waiting for the bus." As angry as I felt, I was amazed I could even speak to him somewhat civilly.

  He held his drink up. "Sure? It’s hot out there. This hits the spot." He winked. "And they let you take them on Metro."

  As I shook my head, I felt my anger rising and fighting to be unleashed.

  He looked at me and frowned. "Is it just my imagination or has the temperature in here suddenly taken a dive?"

  "Very astute, Einstein." I made very thin, angry eyes at him. The thinnest I could make. "I saw you on Northwest PM yesterday. Why didn’t you mention your television appearance to me on Friday?"

  Pause. Look up and to the left. Ryne Garrett was at a loss for words. He’d even lost his straight-ahead eye control. Could it be he was thinking up a lie?

  "You gave that ice wine, the ice wine you asked me to pick out, to your girlfriend." I slammed my empty cup down on the table. It crumpled like the cardboard it was.

  "You great big people-reading fake. Why didn’t you tell me you had a girlfriend and that wine was for her birthday? Why did you flirt with me and let me get the wrong idea? What kind of a jerk does that?"

  "Look, I’m sorry if you got the wrong impression. Portia is no secret. I just assumed you knew about her." He tried to win me over with a fake grin. "You know everything else, even my work schedule."

  "Yeah? Yet your Facebook status says ‘single’ and there’s not one post about her or picture of you together."

  "I keep my private life separate from my professional image." He sighed. "Let’s not make a big deal out of this. I’d like to be friends."

  I stared at him, unable to believe what I was hearing. "Friend! You want to be my friend? Great. Here’s the deal. My great job offer fell through and I’m in a bit of pinch. I need a new one immediately if not sooner. The JCG gang is trying to help me out with a contact. Do you know anyone at Engineering Associates?"

  Another pause. Eyes up to the left. "No, sorry, Leesa. I don’t."

  I stood up and collected my things. "You really ought to practice your lying. I know more than your schedule. I know EA is a client of yours. You’ve done at least three seminars for them in the last six months. You probably know the big muckety-mucks there. How many words have you defined for them? Maybe you should try ‘friendship’ next time."

  He stared at me a moment before opening his mouth. "Leesa, like you just stated, EA’s a client. I can’t use my professional relationship with them to help you."

  "Like hell you can’t."

  He stood and grabbed my arm to keep me from storming off. "Wait. If I used my clients to help everyone, I’d have no clients left."

  "So what happened to help enough people get what they want and you’ll get what you want? Is that just a platitude you spew? Something for the masses to follow, but not you, the elite one?"

  Unfortunately, when I get mad, my voice pitches an octave higher and wanders into shrill. This time, I was way past shrill almost into only-dogs-can-hear-it territory. "You know what I think you are? A charlatan, a fake."

  Several other patrons had turned to stare at us. But I was way past caring.

  "You can just forget about friendship. Friends respect each other. Help each other out. Friends don’t study other people to write them up in papers as oddities and use as case studies and stories in seminars." I stared him in the eye, resisting the urge to spit in his face. "One thing is certain, Ryne Garrett. You are definitely not great."

  I shook loose from his grip and stormed out.

  * * *

  The problem with storming out when you have to wait for the bus to swoop you away is that the dramatic exit seems kind of hollow. I stormed out the door, but then what? The bus stop was right there. I was considering stomping down the street to the next stop when—

  "Hey, Legs!" Big grin and wave from Mr. Street Music Guy. "You’re heading the wrong direction." He nodded back toward Starbucks. "Mr. Wonderful is still in there."

  "Mr. Wonderful is an ass. Definitely not the great man he thinks he is."

  Street Guy grinned even bigger. "Trouble in paradise? You were giving him hell, weren’t you? Shrill is usually a giveaway. I couldn’t make out the words, but I could hear the high pitch way out here." He winced.

  My lips quivered like a cry was coming on.

  "Hey, don’t get me wrong. I’m on your side. Men need a scolding from time to time. Keeps them in line."

  That’s when I felt tears well up in my eye. I crumpled and sat down on the curb. I pulled a dollar out of my bag. I might as well blow my wad. I waved it in front of him. "I’ve had a shit of a day. Play me some blues."

  "Put that money away. I don’t take pay from friends or depressed ladies with great legs." He sat down next to me. "Tell Greg all about it."

  So I did, in infinite detail. About Howard, Willie, the fire, the job, the insurance, my whole sucky life. And I got so into it, I didn’t pay any attention to whether Ryne sneaked out behind us or not. But somehow he must have, because I thought I caught sight of him darting into his building across the street.

  You know the great thing about street musicians? They understand down-and-out better than almost anybody. Greg was full of sympathy and it was genuine.

  Finally, he said, "Hey, I got a gig at a jazz club. A good one. Who am I kidding? A great one. And it’s all because of you. If you hadn’t given me that twenty, I’d have been kicked off the streets. The jazz club owner wouldn’t have heard me playing two days later and hired me."

  I looked at him through my tears. "That’s great. Really."

  He nodd
ed. "This whole story has a point I’m getting to. The jazz club owner has a brother who’s a forensic insurance investigator, a regular PI. I promised to do a gig for him at his twenty-fifth anniversary party next week. I bet I can work a deal where he takes a look at your insurance report and fire scene if I give him a break on the gig."

  I simply stared at Street Guy. "You’d do that for me?"

  "You betcha."

  "But I only gave you a twenty. And your time must be worth so much more—"

  "That twenty saved me." He gave my shoulders a squeeze. "Your JCG folks are gonna get you that job, and I’m gonna get you your insurance money, Legs. Count on it."

  Then he began playing the beautiful blues. And Street Guy was good. I began to feel just faintly better.

  * * *

  There was a nice, big, fat, manila envelope tucked in the door for me when I got back to Dad’s. Delivered Fed Ex. A present? Great. Just what I needed to perk me up, if perking were possible at this point.

  I held it under my arm as I unlocked the door and dumped my junk in the entryway. Then I tore it open and out fell a stack of papers with a letter paper-clipped to the top. An offer letter. From Hawk Engineering.

  * * *

  Dear Ms. Winsome,

  We apologize that we were unable to connect for a second interview.

  More accurately, that I never returned their calls, and with good reason.

  We have checked your references and reviewed your qualifications. Congratulations! We would like to offer you the position of senior test engineer at our Redmond facility at a generous starting salary of—

  * * *

  Generous! If I hadn’t been so down I would have worked up more outrage. This offer ranked several notches below pathetic, right up there with depressing. And I felt low enough as it was.

  Doing a quick mental calculation, I figured I might be able to make my current monthly bills on it, if I didn’t care too much about eating. And that included making only minimum monthly payments on all that credit-card debt, which would then take me until I was three-hundred and two to pay off in full. Assuming I never charged another thing in my unnaturally long life.

  Plus test engineering? Test engineering is the dregs of the engineering world. And if you fall into it, you have slim to none chance of getting out of the pit. Stuck in test engineering hell, you’re doomed to the bottom rung of the engineering career ladder, constantly testing other people’s work or designing test equipment to test other people’s work. No run for glory there. So chances of increasing the salary and attaining executive status—nil. Then there were the idiots I’d have to work with. And I’d be the token female.

  I should have been excited. It was a job.

  Out of morbid curiosity, I read on.

  Blah, blah, blah. Pass a drug test. No company matching for the 401k. Two weeks one-leave to be accrued throughout the year—

  Wait a minute! Two weeks one-leave! Who were they kidding? I’d had three weeks of vacation and two weeks of sick leave at WI. Two weeks was sliding back to just-out-of-college vacation level. This was an all-around bad offer. A career killing setback. But none of that was going to matter to the Employment Security bureaucrats. And I did need work.

  I called Roger to get a reality check.

  "Sit on it, kiddo. String out the negotiations until they ante up or give up. Or we get you that job with EA."

  I sighed. "You’re right. I’m panicking. It’s just I’ve got a COBRA payment due—"

  "Geez, Leesa, are you still making COBRA payments? Didn’t anyone ever tell you about temporary insurance? Costs less than a third of COBRA. You can sign up online, get approved, and be covered the next day. I’ll e-mail you the info. You should have come to me earlier."

  He mumbled, "I really have to finish The Layoff Survival Guide. People need it."

  Roger heaved a heavy sigh. "Look, the real deal here, Leesa, is to buy yourself some time to land a great job, a career move, not a job slide. Got it?"

  "Got it."

  "So get busy and hang tough."

  * * *

  Julie walked in from work just as I hung up. I was thinking Roger was a genius and why hadn’t I brought my problems to him before? Stupid pride, and maybe some arrogance and misplaced faith in a sure-thing job that turned out to be nothing. I guess it really is true that pride comes before a fall. But maybe when pride falls, recovery is possible.

  Julie wore that Cheshire cat look again, only her hair was down today, so she didn’t have the fake ear thing going.

  "You look like the cat that ate the canary," I said. "Good day?"

  "One of the best."

  Was my sister glowing?

  "I hired a most talented designer today."

  "You hired, Sean?" I tried not to look too smug.

  I was happy for him, even though he’d be working at WAR. That was his problem.

  "I told you he was good," I said.

  "Er, yes, he is. In fact, he’s fabulous, and full of ideas, and adventurous."

  "Not to mention hot," I added, just to goad her along a bit. "And charming."

  Julie pretended to be interested in her shoe. She leaned down to adjust the strap, probably to avoid direct eye contact. "Yes, certainly." I think even her voice had a grin in it. "I think I’ll be able to use him in a variety of positions."

  It may have been my imagination, but I sensed a bit of double entendre going on.

  "What about you? How was your day?" Julie cocked her head to study me.

  What! My sister taking an interest in me? What had Sean done to her?

  "The pits," I said.

  She stepped up to me, licked her finger, and rubbed at my forehead.

  "Ouch!"

  "Sorry. Thought that was a smudge," Julie said. "Must be a bruise. And do you realize, you have a little knot on your forehead, too?"

  "Banged it against a table," I explained. "A little too hard, I guess."

  She cocked an eyebrow. "On purpose?"

  "I was actually going more for a light, dramatic tap, just to release a little frustration. Only it turned out I was more frustrated than I thought. Or I miscalculated the height of the table."

  "Do you want an ice pack?"

  My sister the alien.

  "Does it look that bad?" I asked.

  She paused, assessing the damage. "I wouldn’t call it an asset. You’re going to have a big bruise. Concealer stick, some of that yellow stuff to cover the bruising, and lots of foundation should hide it. But it looks like it hurts."

  I stepped to the entry table to peer in the mirror above it.

  That’s when Julie spotted my Hawk offer sitting on the entry table where I’d left it. Uh-oh.

  "What’s this?" She grabbed it before I could stop her. And held it up over her head as I jumped for it and tried to snatch it back. Why did I have to be the short sister?

  "That’s private correspondence." I made another pass at it.

  She brushed me aside and ran to the other side of the room, reading as she went. "Leesa’s got an offer."

  I watched her eyes scan the page. Then she frowned, and added, "This is all you make? No wonder you’re in trouble. You should have come to us. We could match this at WAR."

  Insult to injury.

  I walked over and snatched my lousy offer out of her hands. "This is not my market value. I made way more at WI." I tapped the pages. "This is a substandard offer. Below industry standards.

  "I should probably report this to our trade organization, the Institute of Electrical and Electronic Engineers, the IEEE, for their annual salary survey. That would embarrass and black-ball Hawk!"

  Julie looked skeptical at best. "If you’re worth so much more, why is a company making you a puny offer?"

  Julie settled in on the sofa and kicked off her killer shoes.

  "Because they’re a start-up and running on the cheap. And the Seattle job market sucks right now. So they think I’ll bite."

  This is where I had to tread care
fully. Because Julie was likely to blab to Dad. And then Dad would sing that annoying song and give me Hobson’s choice. Take that stupid offer or come back to WAR or he’d kick me out.

  Playing for sympathy, I explained my day to Julie, in the condensed version due to her short attention span and her tendency to run off at the lips with my secrets.

  Shock of shocks, she gave me a stiff hug. Hugging wasn’t really her thing. I respected the effort, even if she was a little inept at it.

  "You can always come back to WAR. We could pony up a few bucks to beat that offer." She sort of snorted when she said it, confirming my belief that Hawk had given me a real insult with that petty salary offer. I mean, if cheapskate-pay-rock-bottom-dollar WAR could pay more?

  "That’s the last thing I want. Believe me. Dad and I were created to fight with each other. I don’t know how you do it, stay there and work for him. I wouldn’t last two weeks."

  Julie softened under the praise and put on her I’m-a-great-girl posture. "I’ll help any way I can," Julie said. "What can I do?"

  "Don’t tell Dad about this offer." I tapped the papers again and tried not to sound too pleading. "Keep Dad off my back?"

  "You got it."

  Something had changed Julie. Weren’t lust and fabulous industrial designers grand?

  Chapter 22

  Jobless days: 67

  August Unemployment Log

  Jobless, unemployed loser scum days: 67

  Jobless days left: Unknown.

  Rejections: Piling up.

  Goals:

  1. Help Street Musician Guy help me get my money!

  2. Apply for temporary insurance.

  3. Find a job.

  4. → Infinity Find a job.

  Thoughts for the day:

  So far my job search looks like this: NO NO NO NO NO NO . . . .

  * * *

  Okay, when does the YES part come?