The Big Dream

by Rebecca Rosenblum

  Belly clomped over to shut the door. At least she was wearing shoes that made a sound. “Shit. I told building services to box the department this afternoon.”

  Sanjeet glanced at Mark. “Should I check in with the new call centre?”

  Mark nodded, then shook his head. His hair needed a cut; it flopped like Hugh Grant’s. “I got it covered. Well, Shulman and I do. The guys in Chennai come online today at nine a.m. our time. They did a training session last week. It’s all easy. And cheap.”

  “You arranged all this without my input? Isn’t this more of an operations thing?”

  “It would seem that letting the old team go would be your implicit consent to having a new team start. Or were you planning on just letting the phone ring?”

  “You just should have involved me.”

  Mark sat in a folding chair. “We’re in a bad spot. I’m trying to improve things.”

  Sanjeet slid down the wall until he was poised as if sitting in a chair. He knew it was an exercise his trainer recommended, but he couldn’t recall the name. The song in his head was a kind of looping swirl, and it was starting to give him a headache. “It’s not a ‘spot.’ We haven’t met any of our financial targets, operating costs are way up, circulation’s tanking and staff is heading to the competition. This company isn’t going to be ours much longer. If it exists at all.”

  “That’s not the take-away I got from the head-office dudes in Chicago.”

  Sanjeet sank lower, onto the floor. “If you weren’t busy fucking teenagers, you would’ve – ”

  “I didn’t fuck her!” Mark stood, towering over Sanjeet.

  “Fine, face-fucked then. Is the technical term.”

  “Jesus. I’m here, guys.” Belly waved her brightly manicured hand and, when the men just stared at her, added quietly, “I’ve outlined the issues with overhead – ”

  “An overhead projector? What is this, grade 5 geography class?”

  “Would you listen? I was going to say, the overhead costs making it difficult to maintain an in-house customer service team.” She paused and blinked rapidly, then kept talking. “There’ll be time for your remarks after that. Stick to your script, or legal will have an aneurysm. I’ll have the packages by the door. It’ll be awkward – people have to say their names and wait while I flip through. I’m gonna get Kat helping, but it’ll – ”

  Sanjeet said, “Cat?”

  “Kat, my assistant. C’mon, Jeet, get up and focus. This is the worst day of a lot of other people’s lives, but not yours.”

  Sanjeet shook his head, then nodded. “Yeah. Yes. Ok.” He struggled to his feet, wondering if it was clear to Belly that it was Mark engaged in the fuckery, not himself. He couldn’t think how to clarify. The silence felt thick and spreading.

  The door opened again and people began coming in. They were mainly quite young – some looked like high school students. One looked like Mark’s club girl, only without the flashing green and purple. The moment Sanjeet spotted her kneeling in the hall, her mouth had been open because she’d been laughing, a small wry laugh. She had been shockingly lovely. Sanjeet never had a blow job from, or even been touched by, someone like that.

  Mark and Belly were at the front of the room, sorting thick folders on a table. Sanjeet hadn’t noticed the dangling green earrings before – she was really trying. She must have thought her job was in danger too. Belly wasn’t stupid.

  Sanjeet got up and headed for the door, nodding sharply at Mark, who followed. Belly put her hand up, fingers splayed, mouthing what was probably five minutes.

  In the hallway, Mark leaned against the wall and held out some pages. “Take a look at this? I knew Belly’s notes would be all legal crap, so I whipped this up.”

  “If we go off-script, then we’ll have the legal crap – Belly’s the one that memorized the Employment Standards Act, not us.” But he was already reading. “This might go over. Maybe value the contributions of each and every one of you is too much?”

  “What, we don’t?”

  “Yeah, no, just each and every one is a little – Tiny Tim, you know?”

  The building was fuller now; people occasionally brushed between them, smiling carefully. When they were alone again for a moment, Sanjeet began reading aloud: “A job is a time in life, a period of efforts and colleagues, successes and disappointments. We applaud your efforts during your time at Dream Inc. and wish you all success wherever you next apply your efforts.” He tipped his head to the side. “It’s pretty good. Philosophical – lets them put it a bit into perspective.”

  “That’s what I meant. I mean, this feels like a big deal, but it’s just the end of a thing, which is how all new things start.” He squinted down the corridor towards design. A woman with dark bobbed hair and large breasts pressing against her plain white blouse was approaching.

  Belly’s amber-and-honey-streaked head ducked into the hall. “Showtime, guys.”

  “Uh.” Jeet waved the papers absently. “Just give us a moment more.”

  Belly pulled a strand of hair from her mouth, ready to speak, but someone called from behind her. She rolled her eyes, then vanished.

  The breasty woman passed, nodded at them, wafted a breeze of grain and sugar – the oatmeal muffin from the caf? Her retreating form was of a wide ass in a narrow grey skirt. Sanjeet muttered, “There’s a new thing to start.”

  “Well.”

  “Well? She was better than your blowjob cheerleader? Did you see that ass?”

  “Did you see that ring?” Mark said.

  “Ah, it’s marriage that matters now.”

  “You’re not going to tell Devorah anything, right? About this thing that maybe didn’t even happen?”

  Sanjeet tried to imagine his dick and a woman like the one who had just passed and found it a little sexy but mainly repellant. He was pleased to find that a ring would mean something to him, despite that taut expanse of tweed skirt. “I try not to talk to Devorah about anything at all.”

  Mark tipped his head back. “I don’t remember, but I can imagine. It’s too easy to imagine for it not to have happened. So it probably did. I totally dropped the ball on those new contracts, drowned my sorrows in bad liquor, and fucked a teenager to cheer myself up, thus breaking my marriage vows. And blacked out. Classy.”

  “Face-fucked, remember. Or don’t remember.”

  “I’m the kind of slobbering old dirtbag the girls used to make fun of in university.”

  “Oh, we’re all that, now.”

  Belly poked out her head again, earrings swinging. Her usual ironic squint was widened, which had the effect of making her sharp nose look beaky – she was suddenly much less attractive than usual. “Guys, we better . . . I don’t think I should stall anymore.”

  Jeet tried to nod thoughtfully. “We just need another minute.”

  “You had five minutes.” In this focused mode, Belly’s long-lashed blink was not as sexy, and thus not as threatening, as usual.

  For once, he was able to dismiss her. “Just a minute, Belly.” The door shut on Belly’s alto sigh and that song was back in his head, that thrum. He started to mutter, “Something-something bathing-suits, something torture . . .”

  Mark’s head jerked around sharply – he had been peering down the hall after that magnificent ass. “Is that a song?”

  “It was playing on that chick’s laptop, in the airport restaurant? Remember?”

  “No. What?”

  Sanjeet fished his iPod out of his hip pocket. “I have it.” There was no response, so he kept on talking. “It’s a really weird song, but I dunno, I like it. Took me forever to google the right lyrics to get a title, figure out the band, download it, whole bullshit . . . .”

  “There’s an app for that, you know. It’s – ”

  “I know. I just didn’t think of it at the time.” He slid his thumb around the click wheel.

  “Is that a new one? I thought you had a green one?”

  “This one is green. It just looks
bluish in this fluorescent light.”

  “No, but a long skinny one?”

  “Oh, yeah, I did have one of those, but that was ages ago.” He continued to click, as the door opened again.

  “We’ll just be – ” Sanjeet turned to see not Belly in the doorway, but the pale low-slung boy who had wanted a muffin. He shuffled quickly past, clutching a blue folder to his chest. Another boy, bigger and older but still not a man, followed, also with a folder. After him was a pretty girl, young enough that her freckles stood out on her face like markered dots. And after her was a whole roomful more.

  To: All onsite employees; temps and contractors;

  sales staff

  From: Mark Harlan-James

  CC: Sanjeet Rafeal

  Re: Customer Service Department

  Friday 9:45 a.m.

  Dear Dream Team,

  Please note that our Customer Service functions have been transferred to the FirstLook sales team. Working from a large, modern office in Chennai, India, FirstLook has built a solid reputation for service, care, and professionalism, and we are very pleased to be working with them.

  The new team will be headed by Waheeda Venkatesan. Any questions or concerns should be forwarded to Belinda Martin, VP Human Resources, who will answer or forward to Waheeda as necessary.

  We look forward to a long and prosperous relationship with the folks at FirstLook.

  Cheers,

  Mark and Sanjeet and all of the Executive Team

  THIS WEATHER I’M UNDER

  TONIGHT, EVEN IF it doesn’t stop raining, even if I haven’t yet found those lost files for customer service, I will leave the office before the cleaning staff arrives. I will shut down my computer before I hear the crash of their cart full of recyclables catching the hallway rug, the way it does every night. I will shut down my computer, take my trenchcoat from the hook, and drive to the hospital.

  I want to get to there for the start of visiting hours, but I also want to avoid the awkwardness of watching the cleaners work. As VP of Human Resources, I am well aware that staff don’t like to feel over-supervised. As a hotel guest who once tried to help the chambermaid make my bed, I know they resent it. When I got into bed that night the sheets were tucked in so tight, I was pinned flat to the mattress.

  So I have just a few minutes to find some evidence in our computer system that the call-centre staff actually works here. Somehow, despite the documentation protocols I enforce, the customer service “Personnel Info” folder is nearly empty. There has to be more than six of them answering all our incoming calls. I could have sworn there was a big black guy in that group – I’ve seen him in meetings – yet no such picture appears in the org chart. Even if people left, there still would be files in the “Former” folder. Anyway, they must still work here because the reason I have to find them is to lay them off.

  We don’t just lose people at Dream Inc. This is a big office, but we keep track of things. Of people. The people are my job. My mother taught me to keep track of things and has always been proud that I was made VP HR at a vibrant national magazine company when I was only 39. I’m 42 now, and Dream is not as vibrant as it once was, and my mother sometimes needs assistance breathing. But life goes on and so does work. I will go see her as soon as I have found the files on the dozen or so customer-service reps that I almost know exist, and once it stops raining.

  But they aren’t in a backup folder, and they aren’t filed with the sales team, so I start jotting down names I think I recall, but then I hear the recycling-cart crash – resolution failed. And then my phone rings; not the desk phone, the real one in my purse. Mainly work people call me on it when I am not here, but so do other people: eHarmony dates from three months ago, drunk and wondering if they’ll ever have kids; offers for cruise vacations with fog horns blowing in the background. And sometimes my stoic sister, Desi, in muted hysteria because my mother has fallen down in the Food Basics parking lot, or keeps talking to the nurse’s aid as if he’s her dead husband. Or is having trouble breathing. Or more trouble. Or has been hospitalized. Or is in surgery. She could call for another reason, but she hasn’t, yet. I exist in a state of readiness.

  Except the purse strap is stuck in the drawer, jamming it shut, and I hate my pretty red Steve Madden bag. I’m on my knees by the time I finally yank open the drawer, then the bag, and rummage through parking receipts and dead pens to find the phone.

  The screen says Desi. “Hello? What’s up?”

  “Yeah, easy tiger. You ok?”

  “Nothing wrong?”

  “Many things wrong, but nothing new. Well, you’re not here. She wants you. Where are you?”

  “Work. I’m coming in just – ”

  There’s a shifting sound, and when I peek above my desk, the cleaning woman is above me, reaching for the wastebasket. “Oh!” she shrieks. “Are you ok?”

  “I’m fine.” I smile encouragingly at her, then at the wastebasket.

  “Great, see you soon.” Nothing fazes Desi.

  The woman above me is fazed though. “Oh. I’ll come back.” I have never been able to figure out her accent, though I hear the cleaners yelling up the hall almost every night. Wherever they are from, I’m pretty sure they’re from the same place.

  “No, I’m going.” I squirm up into my chair and reach for the keyboard. “I’ve just got to – ” I had about seven documents open and when I try to close them all, the screen freezes. “You can go ahead and start vacuuming or whatever.” I click Start, I hit crtl-alt-del, nothing. I try to think if I had anything unsaved, whether my mom is alert enough to notice if I don’t visit tonight, how pathetic it is trying to learn about the men and women of customer service so I can do the layoff paperwork. The cleaning woman watches.

  I reach for the power button, but even that is impotent. The woman has not begun to clean. A male voice hollers down the hall in Czech or Tagalog for all I know. The woman turns towards the voice, but all she says is “No!” Then she turns back. “Vacuum? You have a spill, a mess?” She sounds like my mother, or somebody’s mother, anyway.

  “No, no mess.” I crouch back down under the desk, flick the green power-bar button, and hear the moan of shutdown. When I pop my head over the top of the desk, the woman looks terrified. “If you weren’t going to vacuum tonight, that’s fine, too.”

  “We . . . don’t mainly. Just if there is a big spill. But the vacuum is in the car. You want me get?”

  That’s her first grammatical error since we’ve been talking. I straighten up; I must look crazy peering at her from half-under the desk. “Sure, no, you can just . . . what do you need to do?” I am certain they never dust; all my papers and Post-its and Kinder Surprise toys are always as I left them, and the dust too.

  The woman draws herself up. She isn’t young or old, just short and big-breasted and wearing a faded denim button-down. The shiny snaps strain at her chest. “We empty garbage. Vacuuming, we do quarterly. It’s the job contract.”

  “Quarterly?” I look down at the grey-beige carpeting where my knees just were. Then I look at the woman with a wad of black garbage bags ballooning from her pocket. “I was just leaving. Feel free to – ” I gesture aimlessly; her gaze does not follow. I have to go behind the door to get my coat from its hook. When I duck back around, one arm already sleeved, she is walking down the hall. Not stomping, just walking.

  They are mopping the shiny linoleum at the hospital. Even though I tried to shake the rain off myself in the foyer, I still drip with every step. There’s always something to feel guilty about. “You look for guilt,” my mother would say, if she weren’t on oxygen and discouraged from removing her mask to say unnecessary things.

  Her bed is in the corner of the wardroom under the window, which she never looks out. I wonder if the other patients resent her for that. I would. Her bed-curtain is pulled shut. Through it, I can make out Desi silhouetted by the flicker-flash of TV. I assume my mother is there too, but in silhouette, she is indistinguishable from a lumpy bed
.

  “Hey, Mom. Hey, Des.” As I slip in, they are watching a big blond man heft a shining grey plank of stone that will become, in the next half hour, a kitchen counter. Like magic.

  “Hey, Belinda. Some lady took the other chair.” Desi sits slack in the remaining chair. Her hair is loose feathers and random ringlets, sprawled over her shoulders.

  “S’ok, I’ll sit on the bed.” My mother kicks and fidgets towards the window until there is room for me. I sit beside her legs, put a hand on her shin: the bone feels as hard and heavy as ever. She shoves the screen back on its revolving arms so I can see.

  My mother was diagnosed with cancer when she was already pretty sick, though the coughing and breathlessness seemed worse once we knew they were associated with the big C. She started having to be admitted to the hospital just a couple months later, and now it’s been a year of this, of Des and I circling around and hanging out in a sleepy, nearly silent way that is all we can think of since she’s been dying. Before this, the three of us never really spent much time together.

  It’s strange to find I don’t mind all the togetherness. We like the same shows, and I’ve had the PVR for so long, it seems organic to be watching as stuff airs, on the tiny screen attached to my mother’s bed. Since I’ve been spending all my time with work problems or my mom, I’ve lost track of the PVR – I could have 35 hours of Top Chef.

  Only a year and I can barely remember what I did every evening when my mother was well and my company wasn’t foundering, or at least back when I was ignorant of both issues. I know I subscribed to Netflix, to an organic vegetable delivery program, to eHarmony. I know every couple of weeks I would stride into a Starbucks and look for a man who was looking for me. I know I liked the Netflix better. I wonder what my mother was doing in the evenings, before she was dying.

  I leave around 10:30, after prime time is over and my mother is slack under the crunchy white sheets. In the elevator, Des asks me how work is, and I say, “Fine,” because it is only a four-storey ride. I always feel I should hug her narrow shoulders before we go to our cars, but there is no history of hugging between us.