by Meg Cabot
cc: Amy Jenkins, Director, Human Resources
Hello, you’ve reached the voice mail of Jennifer Sadler. Sorry I can’t take your call right now. At the tone, please leave your name and number, and I’ll get back to you as soon as I can.
(Tone)
Jen? Jen, where are you, it’s Kate. I’m in the lobby downstairs. They won’t let me up. They say I’m PNG’d. I told them there has to be some kind of mistake, but they say there’s not, and they even showed me the form. It says I weigh a hundred twenty to a hundred and thirty pounds. Do I really look like I weigh that much? I only weigh one seventeen. I’ll bet Amy wrote this! That would explain it. . . . Do you know what’s going on? I’m . . . Oh, wait, here comes Amy. She’s holding . . . Oh my God, she’s holding a box of my stuff. That’s my Disneyland snowglobe from on top of my computer monitor. Why does the T.O.D. have my Disneyland snowglobe? Oh . . . my . . . God. . . .
(Click)
THE NEW YORK JOURNAL
New York City’s Leading Photo-Newspaper
Amy Denise Jenkins
Director
Human Resources
The New York Journal
216 W. 57th Street
New York, NY 10019
212-555-6890
[email protected]
Kathleen A. Mackenzie
Personnel Representative
Human Resources
The New York Journal
216 W. 57th Street
New York, NY 10019
This letter serves to inform you that as of today’s date, your employment at the New York Journal has been terminated. Your belongings from your work station have been inventoried and packed. You are to be escorted from the premises by Security, and have been listed as Persona Non Grata at this location. Should you need to speak to anyone regarding the termination of your position at the New York Journal, you will need to do so by telephone. Your initials below indicate receipt of this letter.
Amy Jenkins
Director, Human Resources
Journal of Kate Mackenzie
Well, it’s happened. I’m fired. I’m actually fired.
I’ve never been fired before. Even when I was the salad-bar attendant at Rax Roast Beef back in Luxor, and my manager, Peggy Ann, said I was the worst salad-bar attendant they’d ever had, because I picked the cauliflower out of the dressing canisters instead of stirring it to the bottom, I still never got fired for it.
Until now.
How could this have happened? I don’t understand how any of this could be happening. This morning I had a job. This morning I had no boyfriend, or place of my own to live. But I still had a job. I had a job that I even sort of liked.
And now I have no job. I have no boyfriend, I have no place to live, and I have no job.
Oh my God. I’M HOMELESS!
It’s true! Except for the fact that I’m sitting in a penthouse suite (that doesn’t actually belong to me), I have become a statistic—one of New York’s many unemployed homeless.
Oh God! Soon I’ll be living in a cardboard box! In Alphabet City (except Alphabet City has become totally gentrified—I bet even a cardboard box there costs $1200 a month . . . and they probably want first and last and a security deposit on it, too).
What am I going to do? I mean, seriously. I have no job to go to, no place to live. . . . WHAT AM I GOING TO DO????
I guess I could ask Dale for a loan. He just came into millions. Or however much they pay members of bands that have just been signed to a major label.
But if I ask Dale for a loan, I’ll actually have to talk to him. And I don’t want to talk to him. Not after the chicken-with-garlic-sauce incident. Plus he’ll just feel all superior—Oh, she couldn’t make it without me.
Ditto Mom. I mean, she isn’t about to touch a penny of what Dad left her when he died . . . not the principal, anyway. And besides, she’ll just tell me to go back to Dale again. I swear, she’d be prouder of me if I followed Dale and the band around wearing nothing but a hand-knitted poncho than she’ll ever be over my having a job or my own place to live.
Jen? No, I can’t to go to Jen, she has her own problems. I can’t keep running to Jen every time I suffer a financial or emotional setback.
Mitch? Mitch? How can I even think about going to Mitch? I mean, this is all his fault, anyway! He KNEW Amy forged that letter! He knew she forged it, and he wanted Mrs. Lopez’s lawyer to see that, because for some reason Mitch is on Mrs. Lopez’s side and not the paper’s. Which is all well and good, since Mrs. Lopez is a sweet lady and all, and none of this is her fault, anyway.
EXCEPT THAT NOW I HAVE NO JOB!!!!!!!!!! Is that what he wanted? For me to get fired????
No wait. Mitch is a reasonable person. A decent person, even. A reasonable, decent person would never get a girl fired because her ex threw chicken on his pants.
I should have have just quit my stupid job in the first place in protest over what happened to Mrs. Lopez. Seriously, this is like karma, or something. Because I didn’t quit my job, as I knew I morally should have, my job has been taken away from me.
And hey, don’t I get severance pay? Or at least unemployment? I should AT LEAST get unemployment. Why didn’t I read the personnel handbook more closely? Let’s see, I’m administration, not staff, so that means I get . . . two weeks pay as severance? Or is it four weeks? WHY couldn’t I have been union? Then the T.O.D. wouldn’t have dared fire me without issuing both a verbal and written warning first. . . .
Let’s see . . . unemployment for someone who was making $40,000 a year is . . .
Oh God. Skiboy just walked in. He says Dolly told him to meet her here after work. They’re going to some benefit dinner, or something. Doesn’t Skiboy look nice in a tux? Yum. Not as nice as Mitch Hertzog, but . . .
OH MY GOD, I CAN’T BELIEVE I WROTE THAT!!!! I am never thinking another kind thought about Mitch Hertzog again. THAT GUY GOT ME FIRED!!!!!!!!!
Skiboy just asked me what I’m doing here in the middle of the day. I told him that I was fired on account of standing up for my convictions at work. He seems impressed. He says this calls for a celebration.
And really, if you think about it, I SHOULD celebrate. I am free of the oppressive rule of the tyrannical office despot! I don’t know where I’m going to find a new job, let alone scrounge up first and last month’s rent, plus a security deposit for a place of my own while living on unemployment checks, but I’m free! Liberated! Why shouldn’t I celebrate by drinking a vodka and tonic in the middle of the day?
“Yes, we SHOULD celebrate,” I just told Skiboy. And he is breaking out the Grey Goose now.
Really, things aren’t SO bad, are they? Yes, I have no job, no life, no place to live, etc. And I can’t even move back home with my parents, because my father is dead and my mother is driving cross-country in an RV the size of Dolly’s terrace.
But I have what few are given—ooooh, Skiboy makes strong drinks—I have what you called the greatest gift of all: the opportunity to make a whole new start in life. Really, I could be anything. I could be a doctor—well, if I could get money for med school. And if the sight of blood didn’t make me feel all sweaty. I could be a politician—really, I’d be very good at that, you know, because I know what it feels like to be trod upon and broken, like the people of Jersey City or wherever. I could be a lawyer—
Oh, no, blecch, a lawyer, never! I never want to be like Stuart Hertzog. I HATE him. As much as I hate Amy Jenkins. The two of them deserve each other. I hope they both enjoy their country-club wedding and their Sandals honeymoon and their house in Westchester and their 2.1 kids and no dog because of the kids’ allergies and their gas-guzzling, environment-destroying—Yes, thank you, Skiboy, a refill would be lovely—SUV, and their two weeks in Aspen and their summer on the Cape and their JP Tods and their Tse cashmere sweaters on their two-year-old, and preschools that cost ten grand a year for two mornings a week and then the right elementary school because God forbid Junior doesn’t get into the ri
ght college so he can get the right job so he doesn’t end up like ME, A BIG FAT HOMELESS UNEMPLOYED FREAK THAT NO ONE LOVES AND WHO IS GOING TO DIE PENNILESS, BITTER, AND ALONE. . . .
Okay, one more drinkie, then I have to hite the pavement, becauge I am woman hear me rihatibgrmvn
* * *
To: Dolly Vargas
Fr: Jen Sadler
Re: Kate
Dolly, something AWFUL has happened. Kate’s been fired! Amy gave her the old heave-ho right before lunch. I don’t know what went down at the meeting they went to this morning, but Amy came tearing in here with SECURITY, cleaned out Kate’s desk, confiscated her computer, and that was that. I haven’t been able to reach Kate—I don’t even know where she is. She left a message a little before noon, but since then. . . .
Dolly, you’ve GOT to talk to Peter about this. Kate is a GOOD employee. If she’s been fired—and like this—it must be a mistake. It probably has to do with Mrs. Lopez. PLEASE PLEASE ask Peter to look into it.
And if she shows up at your place, can you ask her to call me? I’m really worried about her.
Jen
* * *
To: Jen Sadler
Fr: Dolly Vargas
Re: Kate
Darling, don’t worry. I just called home, and Kate’s safe with Skiboy. He says he’s taking good care of her.
Of COURSE I’ll talk to Peter, only you know he flew to San Francisco this morning to check on his vineyard. I mean, I’m happy to see if I can do anything to help our poor little Miss Moppett, but I’m not sure Peter’s going to be able to be of any help until he gets back.
Tell you what, though, if it makes you feel any better, I’ll call Mitch Hertzog. He’ll know what to do. After all, from what I hear from Kate—and it’s hard to tell, with all the slurring—he’s the one who got her fired. He can damn well get her hired back.
Got to run—so many new designs, so few adjectives to describe them. . . .
XXXOOO
Dolly
Hola, darling! It’s me, Dolly! I’m not home at the moment—or possibly I am, but I’m . . . indisposed. Anyway, leave a message, and I’ll get back to you just the second I can. Ciao!
(Tone)
Kate? Kate, it’s me, Jen. Dolly says you’re home. How come you’re not picking up? Kate, come on, pick up. I know you’re upset—hell, I would be, too. But this is not over, okay? Dolly and I are going to get your job back, don’t you worry. We’re not going to let that fucking T.O.D. win. We’re all in this together, Kate, and we’re going to get your job back. Did you hear me? Well, call me as soon as you get this message. I’m really worried about you, Kate.
(Click)
Hola, darling! It’s me, Dolly! I’m not home at the moment—or possibly I am, but I’m . . . indisposed. Anyway, leave a message, and I’ll get back to you just the second I can. Ciao!
(Tone)
Kate? This is Mitch Hertzog. I just heard. Look, I am so—I don’t even know how to begin to say how sorry I am. I had no idea—I mean, I suspected she was up to something, but I never in a million years thought that she’d stoop to—Listen, I am not going to let them do this to you. All I need is that e-mail Amy sent you and a draft of that letter you wrote, and we have them, okay? I’ll get your job back in no time. If you can just get one of your coworkers to forward those documents from your computer, we’re golden. Kate? Are you there? If you’re there, pick up. If not . . . well, call me as soon as you can. You have my numbers. Just . . . God, I can’t believe she did this. I’m so sorry. Call me.
(Click)
* * *
To: Stuart Hertzog
Fr: Mitchell Hertzog
Re: Kate Mackenzie
Well, I hope you’re satisfied. Your fiancée, obviously acting under your instructions, just dug her own grave. That’s right, Stu. Because I am going to bury Amy for this. Bury her. I hope this won’t interfere with your wedding plans too much. Don’t worry, she’ll probably still marry you, since she’s going to NEED to change her name by the time I get through with her. She won’t be able to get on a guestlist in town with the name Jenkins.
Oh, and tell her from me—she doesn’t know the meaning of the word fucker. But she will, shortly.
Mitch
* * *
To: Dolly Vargas
Fr: Mitch Hertzog
Re: Kate
What do you mean, “Not to worry, she’s home safe with Skiboy”? What the hell is a Skiboy?
Mitch
Journal of Kate Mackenzie
Vodka and tonic is good. I loves my vodkja tonic!!!!!!!! I love= Skiboy for mkiokhkin vosah toiniubc and fir dskoiwn k khiohmvu kjh ojjng bdf Skikjfioh vodkaolsj is goodnkjn oi dks Boy knlskn MIiktch nsk JSen ihds Skibooy knlsknf DOlly knds i liek lijnf pretty kndnvloucds skibod friend!!!!
Har hahr
* * *
To: Mitchell Hertzog
Fr: Stuart Hertzog
Re: Kate Mackenzie
Hey, don’t blame ME for the fact that your little girlfriend got her ass canned. If she doesn’t know how to play the game, she shouldn’t be playing with the big kids now, should she? Besides, the only person you SHOULD be blaming for what happened is yourself. You’re the one who brought up that stinking letter, friend, not me, and not Jeri.
The real question is . . .
Why’d you do it? Was it really out of some vestigial White Knight desire to see that Lopez woman get her job back? Or were you just trying to make Amy look bad? Are you really so jealous of my having found a woman so perfect that you can’t stand to see me happy? Is that it, Mitch?
Well, hope you’re satisfied. That Lopez bitch isn’t getting her job back, Amy’s probably going to get promoted over this, and your little blonde is going to have to head on down to the food-stamp line.
Good times, bud. Good times.
“Stuie”
Stuart Hertzog, Senior Partner
Hertzog Webber and Doyle, Attorneys at Law
444 Madison Avenue, Suite 1505
New York, NY 10022
212-555-7900
Hello, you’ve reached the mobile phone of Arthur Hertzog. I’m on the links at the moment—or maybe at the bar—and can’t get to my phone. But leave a message, and I’ll be back to you in a flash.
(Tone)
Dad, it’s Stuart. You have to come home. I mean it. I know you’re probably enjoying yourself, and God knows, you deserve a vacation, just like the rest of us. But Mitch is out of control. I really mean it. I’m worried he actually might do me—or worse, my fiancée—bodily harm. Dad, I’ve had to barricade myself in my office because just now in the hallway—right in front of Clarissa—right in front of the receptionists—he actually took a swing at me. A swing at me, Dad. He tried to physically strike me. You know he’s always been bigger than me. You HAVE to do something. Call me tonight, I’ll be home.
(Click)
Hello, you’ve reached the mobile phone of Arthur Hertzog. I’m on the links at the moment—or maybe at the bar—and can’t get to my phone. But leave a message, and I’ll be back to you in a flash.
(Tone)
Arthur, it’s Margaret. You know I would never deliberately disturb you when you are on one of your interminable lost boys’ retreats. But if you would deign to check your messages once in a while, you would see that all hell has broken loose back home. Mitchell physically assaulted Stuart—assaulted him!—in the hallway. I understand that law enforcement was not called in, but only because Stuart didn’t want the reputation of the firm tarnished by controversy. You’ve GOT to do something, Arthur. Oh, and your daughter Janice hasn’t been any joy to live with these past few days either. You might want to give her a call, too, and tell her that drugs kill! THAT’s why I violated her
privacy. Because I don’t want HER to end up like Mitch. You do know he smoked marijuana when he was in Thailand, don’t you? I swear it’s residual THC that’s making him behave this way. Oh, for God’s sake, Arthur, put down the highball and come HOME!
(Click)
Hello, you’ve reached the mobile phone of Arthur Hertzog. I’m on the links at the moment—or maybe at the bar—and can’t get to my phone. But leave a message, and I’ll be back to you in a flash.
(Tone)
Dad, it’s Sean. Seriously. I’m going to kill her. If she comes in my room one more time, I won’t be held responsible for my actions. Also, Stuart’s girlfriend is a tool. That’s all.
(Click)
Hello, you’ve reached the mobile phone of Arthur Hertzog. I’m on the links at the moment—or maybe at the bar—and can’t get to my phone. But leave a message, and I’ll be back to you in a flash.
(Tone)
Hi, Daddy, it’s Stacy. Look. You might be getting some messages. . . . I’m not saying I really understand what’s going on, but if I were you, I’d just ignore them. It’s just Stuart, being a jerk. How’s the weather? It snowed here last night. Just a dusting, but still. Snow! In March! The girls say hi, and so does Little John. Love you.