Hard Feelings: A Novel

by Jason Starr

  “All employees at this company are allowed one hour for lunch,” Bob said. “It’s in the contract you signed when you started working here. Normally, I wouldn’t be a hard-ass about this. If it happened one time, I wouldn’t say anything, but now that it seems to be turning into a habit—”

  “A habit? When did I ever take a long lunch?”

  “What time did you leave on Friday?”

  “I don’t remember.”

  “Our computer records show you swiped out at three-thirty. Again, ordinarily I wouldn’t be checking up on you, but I just don’t understand what you think you’re doing. You’re not producing and then you’re taking all of these liberties.”

  “I left early one day,” I said, “because I had to pick up a rental car. I usually arrive early and leave late and most days I don’t even take lunch.”

  “The other thing I wanted to talk to you about,” Bob said, changing the subject, “is what happened at your sales meeting this morning.”

  “Steve screwed up an easy sale for me, that’s what happened.”

  “He said he was trying to help you and then you started screaming at him in the elevator.”

  “That isn’t what happened—”

  “To tell you the truth, I don’t care what happened, all right? I can sit here all day listening to you two point fingers at each other and it won’t accomplish anything. I’m only concerned with one thing—the bottom line—and the fact is, Steve’s the top producer at this company and you haven’t closed any business so far. Until that changes I think you should watch what you say and to whom you say it. Right now I don’t think you’re in a position to say he ‘screwed up’ anything for you.”

  “You weren’t there.”

  “I mean it,” Bob said. “You’re a nice guy. I like you, and I think you can make a lot of money for this company. But you have to start showing some respect for your fellow employees and this job or you’re not going to last here. I’m sorry, but that’s just the way it is. Is this understood?”

  “Yes,” I said humbly.

  “Good. There’s one more thing I need to discuss with you. It has to do with the office situation. You’re going to have to move out into a cubicle. It’s only temporary—we’ll move you back into an office as soon as the space develops—but for right now you’ll have to move.”

  “Is this because I’m not producing?”

  “No, it has nothing to do with that. It just has to do with seniority. Since you’re newer to the company I think you should be the one to move. I know it’s not the best solution in the world, but it’ll have to do for now.”

  I wanted to quit on the spot, but I also felt like I had something to prove. If I quit it would be like admitting that Steve was a better salesman than I was.

  For the rest of the afternoon, I tried to make something happen on the phone, but I was too distracted. I kept thinking about Michael Rudnick. Just remembering the way he was smiling, looking so happy, upset the hell out of me. I made a few token calls, then I spent the rest of the afternoon surfing the web.

  I made sure I didn’t leave work until a few minutes after five. Leaving my office building, I felt the way I used to feel when school was let out—instantly free, thrilled that I didn’t have to return to the hellhole until tomorrow.

  On my way home, I decided to stop at the Old Stand on Fifty-fifth and Third for a quick drink. The Old Stand was an Irish bar, and it was filled with the after-work crowd—mostly rowdy young guys in shirts and ties. I ordered a rum and Coke and drank it in several gulps. I was about to order a refill when I realized what I was doing. I knew I could handle another drink—I wasn’t an alcoholic, for Christ’s sake—but I didn’t want to have to come home slightly drunk and have Paula start yelling at me. So even though I really wanted another drink, and could have used one, I left the bar.

  It was a sunny, pleasant late afternoon. I still had a lot on my mind, but the buzz from the alcohol made my problems seem much less important.

  I arrived at my apartment before six o’clock. After I walked Otis, I sat on the couch in my underwear, watching TV.

  Around six-thirty, Paula came home. Holding her pumps, with Otis trailing her, she entered the living room and kissed me hello. Neither of us was in the mood to go shopping or cook so we ordered from an Italian place on First Avenue— chicken parm for me and grilled portobello mushrooms and a spinach salad for Paula. We were having a casual conversation about work—Paula talked about how much she liked her new job and that she was going to be moving into a bigger office. Although I felt a strong pang of jealousy I think I hid my emotions well. I told her how proud I was of her and that her company was lucky to have someone like her working for them. When she asked me how things were going at my job I said, “Great,” and told her that my meeting today had gone “very smoothly.”

  We had finished eating and we were cleaning off the table, putting the empty containers into a plastic shopping bag, when Paula said casually, “Oh, I forgot to tell you—Doug called me today.”

  For a couple of seconds I was confused—maybe I was thinking about other things. Then I said, “Doug? You mean Doug-from-the-Berkshires Doug?”

  “Yeah, I told him where I worked the other night, so he looked me up. He said he was sorry we left without having a chance to say goodbye.”

  “But why did he call you?”

  “That was it. And to ask if we want to get together sometime.”

  “The two of you get together?”

  “No, the four of us.”

  “What did you tell him?”

  “I said okay, but we don’t have to go. I knew you wouldn’t be thrilled about it. He gave me his number, so the ball’s in our court.”

  “I don’t want to go.”

  “I knew that’s how you’d feel. It’s fine with me. I really don’t care one way or the other.”

  We finished clearing off the table, then we sat in the living room together and watched TV. I didn’t like the idea of Doug calling Paula at work—who the hell did that guy think he was, calling my wife?—but I didn’t want to say anything to her about it. After all the arguing this weekend I wanted to have a peaceful, relaxing evening at home.

  At around nine-thirty I put my hand on Paula’s lap and asked her if she wanted to go to bed early.

  “Okay,” she said.

  I walked Otis. When I returned Paula was in the bathroom throwing up.

  “Are you all right?” I asked outside the door.

  “Yes,” she said, sounding awful. “Maybe it was the mushrooms, or something in my salad.”

  She stayed in the bathroom for about another ten minutes, occasionally vomiting, then she got into bed with me, looking pale.

  “You don’t look too good,” I said. “Maybe you should drink some water.”

  “I’m all right,” she said. “I just need to go to sleep.”

  I knew that Paula was telling the truth, that she did need rest, but I couldn’t help feeling slightly rejected. Last night we’d been tired from traveling and gone straight to bed, so we hadn’t made love since Thursday night. Ordinarily, this wouldn’t have bothered me. We had gone through long dry spells before and it was never a big deal. But now I couldn’t help wondering if Paula was just making up excuses.

  Lying in bed next to her, I started reading one of my sales books, but I couldn’t focus. An idea kept gnawing at me. At first, I thought it was probably just baseless paranoia, then I was convinced it was true.

  This morning, in the cab, Paula had mentioned to me that her period was a couple of days late this month. At the time, I thought nothing of it—she said her breasts were sore and that she thought she had spotted a few days ago—but now she was vomiting and I couldn’t help thinking she must be pregnant. Ordinarily, I would have been excited about this, but, remembering what she had said the other day about not wanting to give up her career for a child, I feared the worst. She knew she was pregnant this weekend, which was why she had prepared me in advance—let
ting me know that she didn’t want a child before announcing that she was going to get an abortion. And there was only one logical explanation why she was suddenly so against children—the baby wasn’t mine. She had been having an affair, after all, with Andy Connelly or with someone else. Maybe she’d been screwing someone from her office, or even her therapist, Dr. Carmadie.

  I was about to wake Paula up to confront her when I realized how crazy I was acting—ready to accuse my wife of cheating when she probably had a mild case of food poisoning.

  I closed my eyes, trying to relax, when I was suddenly back in Michael Rudnick’s basement. It was the same as last time except for one major difference. After I was underneath him on the couch for a while there was a voice from upstairs, “Michael!”

  It was Michael’s brother Kenneth, who was a couple of years younger than Michael and a few years older than me, calling down to the basement.

  “I’ll be right there!” Michael yelled, scrambling to put on his pants.

  Then, remembering how Rudnick had been smiling so smugly on the way into his office building today, I became even more upset. I imagined cornering him in some back alley and beating him to death with a baseball bat. I was screaming, “Die, motherfucker, die!” as I swung the bat repeatedly against his head.

  I couldn’t fall asleep. Finally, I went into the living room, watching the news for a while, then I turned off the TV and went to the liquor cabinet. I poured myself half a glass of Scotch and then I went to the kitchen and mixed it with seltzer. After I finished the drink and replaced the glass, I went back to the liquor cabinet and checked the bottle to make sure Paula hadn’t put any pen marks on the label.

  6

  WHEN I ENTERED my office, at around eight-thirty, the handymen were already constructing a cubicle for me adjacent to where the secretaries in the sales department worked. I was informed that I had to have everything out of my office within an hour so that they could start tearing down the walls.

  I tried not to think about the situation. Instead, I told myself that this was only temporary—once the tide turned and I had some clout I’d either demand a new office or get a job at another company. Until then, I’d have to pretend this was all a bad dream.

  I didn’t have very much stuff to move. I put some files and books into a couple of boxes, but most of my information was on disk. I cleared out my desk and gathered some small objects—a coffee mug, a stapler, a paperweight. I wanted to get back to work right away, but I had to wait for the IT guys to hook up my computer and my phone line. In the meantime, I logged on to my laptop and sat in a corner doing some work, preparing for my eleven o’clock.

  Finally, my new workstation was ready. I organized myself and got to work as quickly as possible. I was so embroiled in what I was doing I almost forgot that I was sitting in a cubicle, until Joe from Marketing came over to me and said, “This really sucks, man.” Joe was a nice guy and I knew he meant well, but I still felt patronized. To everyone in the office I was a big joke now. They were probably whispering about me in the bathroom and by the water cooler: “Did you hear what happened to Richard Segal? He got kicked out of his office today.” Jackie, a young secretary, passed by and said “Hi, Richard.” When I had an office, she used to say “Hello, Richard.” But now that I was a fellow cubicle worker she obviously felt comfortable and informal enough around me to say “Hi.”

  I left for my eleven o’clock meeting, glad to have the opportunity to get away from the office for a while. It turned out to be the best meeting I’d had in a long time. An insurance company on Church Street needed four Windows NT consultants with programming experience for an ongoing project and I really hit it off with Don Chaney, the MIS manager. He was a young guy, about thirty, and at the end of the meeting he said he was willing to give our company a tryout. They were having an emergency with their web server and he wanted to use one of our consultants to resolve it. Assuming the job went well, he would sign us up for the major project.

  From Chaney’s office, I called Jill in Recruiting at my company to see if we had a web consultant available for this afternoon. Jill said that Mark Singer, one of our top technicians, could be downtown by two o’clock. Chaney was thrilled. We shook hands and I told him I’d call him later in the day to see how the project was going.

  Riding the subway uptown, I felt better about my job than I had in a long time. I had a big foot in the door with what could turn into a major contract. This could be the momentum swinger I’d been waiting for. Before I knew it, I’d be closing sales left and right and then I could go into Bob Goldstein’s office and command some respect.

  I didn’t want to risk being caught for taking another long lunch, so when I got off the subway I picked up a corned beef on rye from a deli and took it to go.

  Back at the office, I passed Steve Ferguson in the hallway. I was planning to say hello and perhaps apologize for the way I’d behaved yesterday, but he passed by me without looking at me or saying anything. I laughed to myself and shook my head. If he wanted to act like a child, that was up to him, and if he never spoke to me again it wouldn’t exactly be a great loss.

  I ate lunch in my cubicle while I prepared the quote for the four consultants. My old confidence was back. I was the best goddamn computer-networking salesman in New York. Soon I’d have a corner office and my own secretary and my whole life would be different.

  My phone rang. It was Jill from Recruiting and she said she needed to talk to me right away. I figured it had to do with the billing for Don Chaney’s web-server job. She probably wanted to know if I wanted to bill on a fixed rate or on an hourly basis. I finished the last bite of my sandwich, then I went down the hallway to Jill’s office.

  Jill was several years older than me, with an anorexic’s body and short, curly brown hair. She had a very repressed, “corporate” personality. She rarely smiled, so I wasn’t alarmed when I saw her serious, concerned expression.

  “What’s up?” I asked.

  “I’m afraid I have some bad news for you about Mark Singer,” Jill said. “He can’t make it to your client site this afternoon.”

  Now I knew the situation was serious.

  “What do you mean, can’t make it?”

  “I thought he was available, but an emergency came up at another site—with one of our current clients. I have no choice—I have to send him there.”

  “Isn’t there somebody else you can send? This is extremely important.”

  She was shaking her head. “I’m sorry—all the other web-server guys are busy. Can’t you reschedule it for later in the week or early next week?”

  “No,” I said. I was starting to get very upset, losing control. “You know, you told me Mark would be available. I told my client he’d be there.”

  “He’s not your client yet.”

  “What’s this other company Mark has to go to?”

  “What difference does it—”

  “I want to know.”

  “Schaefer-Riley.”

  I knew it—one of Steve Fucking Ferguson’s clients. The son of a bitch had probably manipulated all of this. He’d found out that I needed Mark today so he created an “emergency” at Schaefer-Riley, knowing a current client would get preference over a prospective one.

  “This is bullshit,” I said.

  “Don’t talk to me about it,” she said, dismissing me. “If you have a problem, talk to Bob.”

  I stormed down the corridor to Bob’s office. He was on the phone. He saw me standing there by his door and he looked over at me a few times, seeming annoyed. I didn’t care. If I didn’t get my way with this I was ready to quit, but first I was going to speak my mind.

  Finally, Bob finished his call, “. . . All right, Joe. Thanks for taking the time to talk to me about this . . . ’Bye now.” Then he hung up and said in an aggravated tone, “Can I help you with something?”

  “Sorry to bother you,” I said, “but it’s an emergency.”

  “In the future, please don’t barg
e into my office while I’m talking on the phone—I think I’ve spoken to you about that.”

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “But I’m having a problem with Recruiting.”

  I explained the whole situation, then Bob said, “So what do you want me to do about it?”

  “I was hoping you could talk to Steve,” I said, “to find out if his project can be rescheduled.”

  “I’m not going to do that.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because Steve is our top salesman right now and I respect his judgment.”

  “But, what I’m trying to explain, he doesn’t really need my consultant for his client this afternoon. He’s just doing this to screw me over because of what happened yesterday, and because he probably wants me out of here so he can take over my leads.”

  “I’ve made my decision,” Bob said. “If there’s nothing else you have to discuss with me, I’m extremely busy today.”

  I returned to my cubicle, ready to gather my things and quit. Then, gradually, my better sense returned. Quitting dramatically might give me some instant gratification, but I knew I’d regret it. It’s much harder to find a new job when you’re out of work, and I couldn’t afford to go through a long period of unemployment. I’d be much better off staying at Midtown Consulting for as long as I could bear it and start sending out résumés and putting out some feelers to headhunters.

  I called Don Chaney and explained that we wouldn’t be able to fix his web-server problem today. Predictably, he was disappointed. I asked him if he would still consider us for the larger project and he said, “Maybe. We’ll see.”

  I knew I would never hear from him again.

  I surfed the Net awhile, trying to distract myself, then I called Paula. Her assistant said she was out to lunch with a friend and I said I’d try back later. I wondered what “friend” Paula could be having lunch with and I couldn’t help imagining that she was with Doug. Maybe Doug had called her again at work and invited her out. Paula, caught off-guard, could have agreed, or maybe she didn’t have to be coerced. I remembered how Doug had been hitting on her right in front of me in Stockbridge, and how Paula hadn’t exactly seemed uninterested. It made sense that Doug would try to hit on Paula again in New York, and Paula could’ve easily been attracted to a guy who was better-looking than me and who was much more successful.