Pink Slip Party

by Cara Lockwood

“Me too,” Missy says.

  The two pause, staring at the television screen.

  “I want to break into Maximum Office’s computer system,” Missy says, after a moment. “It wouldn’t be that hard. Take down email.”

  “Could you do that?” Steph asks.

  “Yeah, I was the system administrator, so I can do just about anything,” she says.

  “You could?” I can see the wheels in Steph’s head turning.

  “All I need is a keycard to get into the building,” she says, her nose ring catching the light. “I wouldn’t be able to do it remotely. I’d have to be in the cage.”

  “The cage?” I ask.

  Missy snorts and rolls her eyes, as some techies do when dealing with lay people.

  “The server room,” she sighs.

  “Oh,” Steph and I both say at once.

  I look at Steph, but she doesn’t catch my eye. She’s seriously considering Missy’s proposition, whereas I think it confirms my fears that she’s crazy.

  “You can’t be serious.”

  “What else could you do?” Steph asks Missy.

  “I could send out emails to upper management saying they’re fired. I could probably even freeze their paychecks for a month or two.”

  “You can’t do that,” I say.

  Missy snorts and shrugs.

  “What else?” Steph asks, eyes bright.

  “Lots of stuff,” Missy says.

  “You guys are insane,” I say.

  “OK, somebody is crying out for attention,” Steph sighs at me. “Give us a status report. Are you OK? About Mike?”

  I shrug. “I can’t do much about it, can I? Missy’s hidden the phone cords. I can’t even send him a Fuck You email.”

  “It was for your own good,” Missy says. “Besides, I put back the phone cords this morning.”

  “If you want to talk about it we’ll listen,” Steph offers.

  Missy grunts and rolls her eyes.

  “No thanks,” I say.

  Talking about it will only make me want to cry, and that’s the last thing I need to do, cry over Mike.

  Besides, how can I explain that Mike was special because he was the first guy I dated who had matching furniture? He had more square-footage in his Hancock Observatory condo than my parents had in their house. He had a full-service bar, complete with matching mixer and martini glasses. He was in all senses a grown up. He was a man who would never be thrown by the sudden appearance of a cocktail fork at his place setting or a French wine list. He knew how to cook. He had a full set of pots and pans and a cabinet full of herbs I’d never heard of. He took me to the best restaurants. He ordered in French.

  And he had a fiancée. I’m not sure why I should be surprised. You can’t assume smooth, sophisticated men go around telling the truth.

  My phone rings.

  It’s Mom. She has a sixth sense about me, I think. Like she knows when her offspring are in trouble.

  “Is this a bad time?” she asks.

  “You have no idea,” I say. I want to tell her about Mike, but instead, I just say, “I found out an old boyfriend cheated on me.”

  “Which one?” she asks me.

  “I’d rather not say,” I say.

  “Was it Ron? I never really trusted him,” she says.

  “No, but it’s OK.”

  “Well, what are you going to do about men, anyway?” she sighs. Mom’s voice wavers, and it sounds like she’s going to abandon her official “phone voice” — a high sing-song bursting with goodwill.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Why do you think anything is wrong?”

  “Mom, what’s going on?”

  “Oh, nothing, it’s just your father,” she says, using the voice reserved for talking about Dad, a strained, low-pitched sigh.

  “Oh,” I say, relieved. Dad is always doing something wrong.

  “He’s being a bit of a pill,” she says.

  “When is he anything but a pill?” I say, and she laughs.

  “He’s pretending not to know how to work the washing machine. And, he says that if I don’t do more of his laundry I’m forfeiting our marriage vows. I mean, he’s now home on Wednesdays, Thursdays, and Fridays, so you think he could do a little housework.”

  “Ouch,” I say. Dad is always sinking to new lows. “Did you tell him that you’re going to donate his body to science? That they’ve never seen a live Neanderthal before?”

  Mom laughs again. She must really be angry, because normally she’d feel obligated to say, “Jane, be nice to your father, he works hard.”

  “And, money’s really tight now that your father is only working two days a week,” she says.

  “Do you need money?” I ask her. Though I don’t have any to spare, I’d lend her the $5 I just got for Grandma’s Christmas sweater on Ebay.

  “No, that’s OK,” she says. “We’ll be fine.”

  Steph and Missy are suddenly shouting.

  “What’s that noise, dear?”

  “Oh, I’ve got friends over.”

  “Don’t let me keep you,” she says, sounding more cheerful.

  I find Missy and Steph screaming and pointing to the television, which is set to CNBC. On the screen Mike is bobbing his head and talking with what seems like conviction. Underneath his giant head, are the words “Mike Orephus, CFO Maximum Office.”

  Since when did he get a promotion?

  “Shhhhhhhhhh,” I hush them.

  I turn up the television’s volume.

  “So, our profit share is up, and we foresee extended growth in the next quarter…” he’s saying. I think he’s highlighted his hair. He’s also gotten his teeth whitened.

  “Cocksucker,” Steph breathes.

  “SHHHHHHHH,” I say.

  “How about the rumors of a merger? Would you consider merging with the web-based Office Online?”

  “Well, it’s far too early to talk about any mergers at this point. But I can say that at Maximum Office we are going to keep all our options open.”

  “Does he have a fake tan?” Missy asks.

  “Shut up!” I shout, turning up the TV to absolute maximum volume.

  “We’re positioned extremely well in the market, and I think we’ve shown, time and again, that we hit our projections. Our board is not likely to make any hasty decisions.”

  “Good news for investors,” the announcer says. “Thank you, Mike.”

  “Thank you, John.”

  “Up next, a look at CEO perks, and the trends toward down-sizing them. But first, this message.”

  I mute the TV and sit down.

  Both Steph and Missy are staring at me.

  “What?” I say.

  “I think it’s time we tell her about our plan,” Missy says.

  “What plan?” I ask, suspicious.

  “The plan we just made,” Steph says, tapping her fingers together in exaggerated glee.

  They tell me their plan.

  “You are both insane,” I say, looking back and forth between the two of them, trying to figure out how long I should play along before calling the police. I suspect this is all some elaborate practical joke, and calling 911 might be exactly what they want me to do so that they can laugh at me later.

  “No, listen, it’s not that hard.”

  “You’re talking about robbery.”

  “It’s not robbery if Fat Ferguson doesn’t know his keycard is missing.”

  I stare at Steph as if she’s lost her mind, which I fear she has.

  “You’re talking about stealing Fat Ferguson’s keycard so you can get into Maximum Office. What part of that isn’t robbery?”

  “Technically, it’s not robbery if we don’t use a weapon,” Missy says. “It’s theft.”

  “Is she for real?” I ask Steph.

  “Ferguson is perfect — think about it,” Steph says. “He has no friends. He’ll be easy to pickpocket, and if something goes wrong with the prank, we’ll blame him, because we used his keycard.�
��

  “This sounds like a really dumb idea,” I say.

  At this point, I hear Ron scratching at my fire escape. He’s halfway through the window when Steph starts screaming, and Missy, reflexively, beans him in the head with a half-full can of Diet Coke.

  “Dude,” Ron exclaims, rubbing his head and straightening to almost his full height, because he never straightens completely, always keeping his back in a Shaggy slouch. “What was that for?”

  “God, Ron,” Steph breathes. “You scared us.”

  “You know him?” Missy says.

  “Jane slept with him,” Steph answers.

  “Hey,” I shout, defensive.

  “What’s up, chicks?” Ron says, raising his bushy eyebrows.

  “They’re plotting to commit a felony,” I say.

  “Sweet.”

  “Can he be trusted?” Missy asks me.

  “I hardly think so,” I say.

  Suddenly taken by Missy, Ron says, “Girl, you are seriously hot.” He grabs her hand and makes as if to slobber on it. Missy lets him, and it looks as if she’s leaning over so he can get a look at her cleavage.

  “You’re not so bad yourself,” she tells him. “Sorry about the head wound.”

  “Not a problem-o,” Ron says, taking a seat next to Missy. “Want some pot?”

  “Sure,” Missy says, taking one of his joints.

  “Don’t smoke that in here,” I snap. The last thing I want is for my landlord to raid my apartment with off-duty police officers who will arrest me for felony drug possession.

  “So,” Missy says, lighting up Ron’s joint. “All we need is a car.”

  “I’ve got a car,” Ron says.

  U.S. Bobsled and Skeleton Federation

  421 Military Rd.

  Lake Placid, NY 12946-0828

  Jane McGregor

  3335 Kenmore Ave.

  Chicago, IL 60657

  March 13, 2002

  Dear Ms. McGregor,

  Thank you for your interest in pursuing a career as an U.S. Olympic Bobsledder. We should advise you, however, that bobsledding is a very taxing and grueling sport that requires superior athletic ability and is not, as you mentioned, a sport where gravity does most of the work.

  Since you mentioned that you are not, nor have ever been, an athlete of any caliber (and we do not count grade school gymnastics lessons) I am afraid you will probably not be in a position to make the 2006 Olympic team. However, if you would like to learn more about bobsledding, we can offer you professional lessons from any number of our certified bobsledding instructors.

  Happy Sledding!

  Lee Bryn

  Assistant to the Director of Public Relations

  U.S. Bobsled and Skeleton Federation

  8

  Steph and I are in the backseat of Ron’s gray Chevy Impala, and I am wondering if I can claim kidnapping should we be stopped and arrested by the state highway patrol. Ron’s muffler is attached by a single metal wire, and his back right window is nothing but a garbage bag held in place by duct tape. It flaps in my ear every time we accelerate beyond twenty miles per hour.

  “We are not going to do this,” I say.

  “Look, you said you wanted to come, so I let you come,” Missy says, turning around and facing me from the front seat. “So shut it, will you?”

  “I only came so I could talk some sense into you,” I say.

  In the driver’s seat, Ron snorts. I kick the back of his seat and he says, “Hey, watch it, man.”

  His steering wheel, I notice, has a pink leopard-print fur cover. He’s only lacking matching dice hanging from his mirror.

  “Steph, come on, be sensible,” I say, turning to plead with her.

  “We’re just going to talk to him,” Steph says. “We’re going to talk to him and pickpocket his keycard.”

  “You’re just going to walk up to him and slip your hand in his pants and walk away with his keycard.” I don’t even try to contain the sarcasm.

  “That’s right,” Missy says.

  Ron’s Impala backfires, then shudders and dies in the loading zone of the McCormick Convention Center.

  “What are we doing here?” I ask them.

  “It’s a sci-fi convention,” Steph says. “Ferguson is going to be here.”

  “He’s into sci-fi?”

  “Lord of the Rings,” Steph corrects. “How did you miss all those hobbit figurines on his desk?”

  I shrug. “I thought they were the new corporate lawn gnome,” I say.

  “Anyway, he has a booth here or something.”

  “How do you know this?” I ask Steph.

  “He told me in New York,” she says.

  “Great,” I say.

  “OK, guys, you better get going. Ron and I will wait in the car,” Missy says, sending Ron a flirty look.

  “Sweet,” Ron says.

  “Why do we have to go?” I whine.

  “I was kicked out of last year’s convention,” Missy explains.

  I don’t think I want to know why.

  “Come on, quit whining,” Steph says, grabbing my arm.

  * * *

  Apparently, girls who aren’t wearing Klingon masks can pretty much slip by the main tables of the convention without paying an admission charge. I haven’t seen this many painted faces and bad rubber masks since last Halloween at Navy Pier. Rows and rows of tables and booths line the giant convention room, and banners above our heads announce genres like Star Trek: The Next Generation and “Frodo Fans This Way.”

  I feel like I might catch nerd by just being here.

  “Let’s hurry up,” I tell Steph, pushing her through the crowd.

  After studying the badly laid out map of the convention, we wander through what appear to be hundreds of Lord of the Rings booths. There’s one of every conceivable character in the books, and enough elves, trolls, and hobbits to fill an insane asylum.

  Steph and I seem to be magnets for the weirdos. Already, we’ve gotten a handful of free figurines and a rolled up calendar poster featuring Sean Austin. While Steph is busy trying to hoard her share of glow-in-the-dark elf necklaces, I nearly collide into a pair of thirty-something men in tights and oversized ears. They look like middle-aged Keebler elves.

  “Queen Galadriel!” They cry looking at me, then drop to their knees. One of them almost splits his tights.

  “I don’t want any peanut butter fudge sticks, thanks,” I say.

  “We are here to do your bidding, oh mighty elf queen,” the balding one says.

  Clearly, they are both virgins.

  “I bid you go get a life,” I say, tapping each one on the shoulder with my free poster.

  “Our life is to serve you, oh our mighty elf queen,” the other one says. He has rubber arrows sticking out of a pouch he’s wearing on his back.

  “You can’t be serious,” I say.

  “What the hell?” Steph cries, turning around and seeing the Keebler guys on their knees. “I turn my back for one second, and you get into trouble.”

  “They want to do my bidding,” I say.

  “Why don’t you ask them for money?”

  “Why didn’t I think of that?” I turn to the overweight elves. “You guys got twenty bucks?”

  “Bucks — what is this strange currency of which you speak?” says the one wearing the long blond wig that makes him look like the mullet-toting David Spade in Joe Dirt.

  “That’s what I thought,” Steph spits. “OK, move it along,” she adds, waving them off.

  “Here’s some free advice, fellas,” I say. “You guys might want to try hitting on a woman when you’re not wearing tights.”

  “There’s Ferguson,” Steph hisses, indicating a man wearing a giant wizard’s hat in a booth selling miniature hobbit dolls.

  “That’s not him,” I say, because the man is half the size of Fat Ferguson.

  “It is him,” Steph declares. “He’s just lost weight.”

  “Wow, he looks totally different,” I
say.

  “For those of us who aren’t size zeros, like you, it’s not easy to lose weight,” Steph tells me. Steph is a size fourteen and resents that I can wear boys’ jeans.

  “I am not a size zero,” I say. Then I add, “At least you have boobs.”

  “Let’s go,” Steph says, grabbing my arm.

  I squint harder, and see that despite the loss of weight, it is the same semi-balding Ferguson with the ’80s square glasses frames, and the cheap, short-sleeved, collared, striped shirt.

  “Ed,” Steph calls. “Ed, good to see you.”

  Ferguson turns around and his jaw drops.

  “Steph?” he asks, incredulous. “And Jane! What are you doing here?”

  Two pencil-thin adolescents behind Ferguson stare. They are clearly not used to seeing grown women in person and not naked on porn Web sites.

  “We were in the neighborhood,” Steph lies. “Want to get a drink?”

  The two boys behind Ferguson snicker. “Dude, score!” one says.

  Ferguson ignores them.

  “You want to get a drink with me?” he echoes, sounding amazed.

  I don’t remember Ferguson being so pathetic. It seems like Ferguson probably doesn’t get out much, and when he does, it’s only to talk to fellow sci-fi geeks about wizards and elves.

  Ferguson’s face falls.

  “Well, I’d love to, but the booth…” his voice trails off. “We have one more hour until we shut it down, and then I was hoping to swing by the Next Generation booth. I heard that there’s someone dressed up like Deanna Troi.”

  “She has big knockers, too,” one of the adolescents behind Ferguson says.

  “Are we seriously going to wait for him?” I ask Steph.

  “We don’t have much choice,” Steph hisses back at me.

  I look up and see the Keebler elves haven’t given up their quest. They’re back and trying to give me a garland of plastic flowers.

  Since I’m stuck at Ferguson’s booth, I send the elves out to fetch Steph and me snacks and drinks.

  “You know they’re hoping to get laid,” Steph says.

  “Well, they can keep hoping,” I say. “In the meantime, I’m thirsty.”