They were actually asking him if he wanted to go out for lunch, but he understood not a word. He shook his head in incomprehension. The office emptied of staff. Lunch hour ended and nobody came back. Bartholomew thought this was strange. He walked out of his office and around his floor. Nobody. Hmmm. He went down into the lobby and there was nobody there, or in the street either. He began to walk around the city, but everywhere he looked, there was unpeopled silence. He looked at the TVs that were playing in public spaces: they showed the Channel Three News Team’s chairs with nobody in them, soccer fields that were empty, traffic cams trained on still roads.
So he walked back to his office and mulled over the situation, which was actually a kind of dream come true for him—no pesky people to further degrade and cheapen the language! But where had everyone gone? He looked at his screen, where the Channel Three News Team had finally appeared in a box in the centre.
“Hi, you’re watching the Channel Three News Team. I’m Ed.”
“I’m Connie.”
“And I’m Frank, and if you’re watching this prerecorded message, it means that the Rapture has finally happened and you’ve been left behind.”
“You know, Connie, people are probably wondering why we’re speaking the way we’re speaking right now.”
“You mean, speaking like people did at the start of the twenty-first century instead of the modern new way of speaking based on text messaging?”
“That’s right, Connie.”
(Giggle) “It’s because the only people watching this prerecorded broadcast are those who never adapted to the new language and were left behind after the Rapture. Language has come a long way since then, Ed.”
“Has it ever!”
“In the old days people worried about words and grammar and rules.”
“And it was a horrible mess, wasn’t it!”
“You said it, Frank. And not the kind of mess you can remove with some club soda and a bit of elbow grease.”
(All chuckle.)
“But once people smartened up and began speaking the way they texted and began shrinking language back to its origins in grunts and groans, people became more primal, more elemental…”
“…more real.”
“That’s the word I was looking for, Connie. More real. More authentic.”
“And once people became more authentic and more interested in using noises and sounds instead of words to communicate with others, their interior lives changed. The endlessly raging, self-centred interior monologues came to an end. A holy peace and dignity fell over their lives. They accidentally became closer to God.”
“And now they’ve gone right into God’s lap.”
“Where we are now too!”
“So farewell from eternity, you sticklers who remain behind.”
“Saying good night from the Channel Three News Headquarters, I’m Ed—”
“I’m Connie—”
“And I’m Frank—”
(All) “—wishing you a happy forever!”
Temp
(1) Temp Enlivens Life-Sucking Meeting
I’ve learned over the years that the fastest way to bring an office to a grinding halt is simply to write “BROKEN” on a piece of paper and tape it onto the photocopier. Staffers walk to the machine, see the sign, feel momentarily inconvenienced and then glow inwardly when they realize they can blamelessly return to their cubicle and play FreeCell and trawl the Internet for Russian dashcam car accident GIFs.
Greetings. My name is Shannon Phelps. I’m a temp, but more than that, I’m the future of employment in the Western world. Sure, you may have a job right now, but one day you’ll be me, roving from gig to gig, with no medical, no dental, no anything else except the pleasure of not having to kiss ass or put up with imbeciles or care much about things like, say, life-sucking, boring meetings of the sort I sit in on at Taylor, Wagner & Kimura Filter Systems. TWK’s owners are systematically moving the company to China, and everyone knows it. Pretty much once a day, someone at TWK is given the axe while I, as temp goddess, casually buff my nails or stalk Facebook, looking for unflattering photos of the popular kids I used to go to high school with. There used to be a full-time receptionist, but she went on mat leave. So here I am. Temp!
Dan Wagner (the Danimal), who co-owns TWK, understands my devil-may-care, low-commitment attitude. Like today, when he called me in from the front. “If it’s okay, young Shannon here is going to take notes on today’s meeting.” Dan always winks at me, which is slightly pervy but technically not actionable as harassment.
The three Sarahs roll their eyes when Dan brings me in. Yes, you read that correctly: Sarah from Marketing, Sarah from E-commerce Strategy and Sarah from Systems. Don’t get me going.
So when the meeting invariably turns into an inevitable miasma of fear and crushed dreams, Dan will say, “Shannon, give us a lift, why don’t you. What’s your random fun fact of the day?”
“Well, Dan, what country on Earth has the world’s lowest age of consent?” This question was just racy enough to ensure that even the Sarahs listened in.
“What country would that be, Shannon?”
“Vatican City. The age of consent there is twelve.”
Everyone whipped out their gadgets and dog-piled onto Wikipedia.
“Wait,” said Sarah Number Two. “I think it might actually be fourteen.”
“Well,” said Dan, “the thirteen-year-olds over there must certainly be sleeping easy tonight. Shannon, thank you for bringing enlightenment to our universe. You are good.”
I am.
(2) Temp Accepts Slightly Random Date with Chinese Guy
Today was Thursday. In the future, every day of the week will be Thursday. We’re all going to be working to the grave and we know it, so days of the week will be meaningless. I call it Permathurs—I just happened to be in the future before most people. Permathurs isn’t totally bad, but without the Internet it would be truly horrible.
My morning highlight was when Kyle the bike courier showed me his new forearm tat, a bleeding dagger, which sounds clichéd but was actually kind of hot, even though Kyle’s not my type. Everyone in the office thinks we’re some Big Item, and when we flirt, they turn into gum-chewing zoo visitors staring at the chimp cage and hoping something frisky transpires.
Then the day went sideways. First, my ride home bailed on me—my sister, Amy, had just landed a gig teaching yoga for tweens at the now-empty Barnes & Noble on Route 34.
“Shanny, l hear buses are great these days. Like hotels, practically. You can blog about it—it’s free content—you own your bus ride!”
Second, Kevin Taylor and Andy Kimura’s flight back from Beijing was grounded for a day because of a bird-flu scare: a scheduling mess. Third, there was a norovirus outbreak at the Bunmeister during yet another lunchtime farewell party.
At four-thirty, while I was puzzling over how to bus it home, the Danimal hobbled up to my desk, obviously deeply regretting his Bunmeister Cheesetastic Meatballicious sub.
“Dan, maybe you need one of those super-drugs they give to people on cruise liners.”
“Shannon, I need you to do some overtime for me—for the company.”
At twice my regular hourly rate? “Sure. What is it?”
“I need you to take a client out for drinks and dinner.”
“What? No!”
“Shannon, here’s the thing: all of us are dying and this guy has to be taken care of.”
“Meaning?”
“Look, I’m not talking hookers and blow. I’m talking chicken fingers and three-for-one margaritas at Mister McFunbury’s, out by the off-ramp that takes you out to the oil refineries. This guy’s not high up the food chain, but we can’t not do something.”
I stared him down. “Okay. One: a week of free taxi chits. Two: cash up front for the food—my cards are maxed out. Three: drinks, dinner, dessert and goodbye. Two hours max.”
“Agreed.”
“Who is he, anyway?”
“I think he’s the idiot son of one of the engineers who’s disassembling one of our lines. Andy says he’s the guy who inserts the harpoon so they can reel it all back to Asia.”
“Sounds colourful. Okay, I’m in.”
(3) Temp Enjoys Thursday Meal Special at Mister McFunbury’s
Rarely have I ever felt so much like Sigourney Weaver at the end of an Alien movie. Around me nothing but casualties and disaster while I, Shannon the survivor, exit the doomed mothership to hop into a taxi to go on my glamorous date with a high-flying Asian businessman.
“Where to, miss?”
“Mister McFunbury’s.”
“The one where they had the hostage-taking last September?”
“No, the one by the off-ramp that takes you to the oil refineries.”
“Right.”
Mr. Xu (pronounced Mr. Shoe) was standing by the cigarette machine, as I was told he would be. He wasn’t hot but he wasn’t unhot, either—that’s an important distinction. He was my age—late twenties, kind of Banana Republic-y, and he was quite relaxed given the clattering of walkers in the place for Seniors’ Shrimpy Thursday.
“I’m Shannon.”
“I am Mr. Xu.”
“Let’s grab a table.”
We sat down, and my first instinct was to figure out Mr. Xu’s language capacity. “How long have you been in the city?”
“Two very glorious nights.”
“I’m glad they’ve been glorious. Is your hotel okay?”
“Most gracious hotel. Thank you.”
Oh dear. I was going to be dining with a fortune cookie.
Well, okay. “Why don’t we get into the McFunbury’s spirit, Mr. Xu.”
“That would be most excellent.”
I’m not totally proud of myself, but I went right for the booze. We hadn’t even ordered food yet, and I was trashing the three Sarahs. “My issue with Sarah Number One, Mr. Xu, is that on the first anniversary of Whitney Houston’s death, she Facebooked: ‘One year later, heaven took an angel from Earth too soon.’ ”
“Most unfortunate.”
“I’ll say. And my issue with Sarah Number Two is that at a Friday staff lunch, she suggested ‘we girls’ go off on our own and have a ‘cuddle puddle’ to discuss things ‘the boys just wouldn’t understand.’ ”
“So sorry.”
“And my issue with Sarah Number Three—killer martinis, by the way—is that she insists on microwaving popcorn with that nauseating fake butter smell. She says, ‘Well, I think it smells like fun. If you don’t like fun, then I feel sorry for you.’ ”
“Most ungracious.”
I stared at the laminated menu. “What do you think you’ll order, Mr. Xu?”
He looked at me. “Well, I’m not feeling very surf-and-turfy—you know, it’s a mood that you’re either in or you’re not. And I kind of carbo-loaded at lunch—I’m doing a half-marathon in three weeks—so I guess I’ll get a clubhouse with McFunbury Sauce on the side. You?”
“You, Mr. Xu, are a total dick.”
“Let us both have one more most glorious martini. Clean or dirty?”
(4) Temp’s Lack of Jeans Day Spirit Irks Co-workers
I walked into the office the next morning only to experience that sickening pang we all dread: Jeans Day—enforced perkiness among the girls while the guys make theatrical, creepy, ass-gazing gropey faces in the lunchroom. No jeans for me.
My jacket wasn’t even off when Sarah Number Three stuffed a wad of documents covered with sticky notes into my hand. “I need these alphabetized like we did last week.”
“Fine.”
She stared at me.
“Is there a problem?” I asked.
“You know, it wouldn’t have been so hard to throw on some jeans today.”
“I’m not a very jeans-y person.”
“Morale is really down around here and we need some fun.”
“Okay…”
“It’s not even for us, Shannon. It’s for the kids.”
I gagged and then the phone rang. “Good morning. Taylor, Wagner & Kimura Filter Systems, a proud, patriotic company since 1899. One moment, I’ll connect you.”
Then the Danimal rolled up to the desk, winking like mad. “How was last night’s…umm…date?”
“Date? It wasn’t a date. It was Mister McFunbury’s for exactly 120 minutes.”
“And what was Mr. Xu like?”
I wanted to keep my secret. “Nice enough. Limited English, though,” I lied.
“Did he say anything about the company I should know about?”
Boy, did he ever!
“No. Mostly we just stared at the How I Met Your Mother reruns playing on the screen above the salad bar. I don’t think he’s very espionage-y.”
“Oh.” Danimal seemed let down.
Just then Kyle walked in with a delivery. “Hot and heavy at McFunbury’s last night, huh?”
I was peeved. “What the—? It’s none of your business, Kyle. And who told you?”
“I was driving back from the oil refinery. Saw you there with your date. Seniors’ Night, too—rocking!”
“The refinery? Why were you out there?”
“I’m applying for a job.”
“Oh.”
Kyle was acting as if he and I were somehow a real couple. At the same time, I was getting surprisingly verklempt thinking about no more Kyle, with him working at that big, gross refinery for the rest of his life.
Kyle said, “I’m sick of being a temp on wheels, and it’s occurring to me that I’ll never even be middle-class, let alone some big success story, and maybe I need to get my foot in the door at a place that is never going to go out of business—hence oil.”
The phone rang; it was Xu. “Gotta take this, guys.” I picked it up. “Good morning. Taylor, Wagner & Kimura Filter Systems, a proud, patriotic company since 1899.”
Kyle and the Danimal lumbered off.
I lowered my voice into the receiver. “Hey, Shoeboy. How you doing?”
(5) Temp Is Conflicted over Co-worker’s Firing
Sarah Number Two got the axe just before lunch: the curse of Jeans Day. To be practical, a company selling itself to China doesn’t need someone to plan its long-term e-commerce solution. Her firing happened fast. One moment she was lecturing about the excessive number of time-expired dairy products in the lunchroom fridge, the next she was standing in the lobby with a cardboard box full of generic desktop crap.
“I suppose you’re happy to see me go,” she said.
“Not really. I’ve never had to dumb myself down with you.”
She gave a judgy sigh. “The world’s not one big joke, you know, Shannon.” She turned around to look at the dumping rain while waiting for her ride—which didn’t seem to be coming. Looking out at the parking lot, she got philosophical. “You know, I think that in the future we’re going to look back on the forty-hour workweek with 3 percent unemployment as a social failure—everyone was busy but no one was actually doing anything meaningful. Yes, you were busy all day, but so what?”
The phone rang. “Just a moment, Sarah…Good morning. Taylor, Wagner & Kimura Filter Systems, a proud, patriotic company since 1899. One moment, I’ll connect you.” I put down the receiver. “Sorry, you were saying?”
“I was saying that I think a forty-hour workweek may well seem as odd and cruel to future citizens as seven-year-olds working in Victorian cotton mills does to us.”
I thought about this. “I think you’re right. Where’s your ride?”
“According to my most recent text, it’s stuck in traffic across town.”
I quietly phoned to get Sarah a cab, and when it showed up, I gave her one of my taxi chits. “If it means anything, Sarah, the fridge grosses me out too. It makes me think of Gwyneth Paltrow in Contagion, especially that scene in the morgue when they slice open her skull.”
“Thank you, Shannon. I think that, in your own way, you’re being quite sweet.” She gave me a small smile and hoppe
d in the cab. It made me wonder if I ought to be nicer to the remaining Sarahs.
I looked at my watch…Lunch! Woo-hoo—freedom! Tattered back issues of InStyle magazine by the coffeemaker! Last night’s pasta in a Ziploc tub! Guys making lewd Jeans Day ass comments!
I sent Mr. Xu a quick text about our evening plans and was leaving the front desk when the fire alarm went off. Rick from Receiving ran into the office from the factory floor. “Holy crap, the warehouse is on fire!”
(6) Temp Contemplates the Remains of Detroit
My weekend was a social flop. I mostly helped my sister paint her basement suite yellow, while my scheduled meeting with Mr. Shoeman was called off at the last minute when his boss phoned with a pair of cagefighting tickets at the Civic Arena. Sometimes a girl has to know when to admit defeat.
Monday morning, Amy dropped me off at work just in time to see a tow truck drag away the charred husk of Kevin Taylor’s prized 1968 Shelby GT500, which was carbecued in Friday’s warehouse mess. Kyle rolled up just as Amy dropped me off. It was so sad, like watching a dead beached whale being dragged out to sea to be dynamited into chunks.
“Detroit peaked with that car,” said Kyle. “Motown’s high-water mark.” He gave it a salute.
Amy said, “Look at how small it is—I mean, compared to my car.” We compared and she was right; her 2010 Hyundai Elantra had almost the exact same volume as a big-ass 1960s Mustang—and yet we think of modern cars as kind of like photocopiers on wheels while the Mustang: “That’s a car.”
Kyle asked what the car was doing in the warehouse anyway. I said, “Kyle, can you keep a secret?”
“Sure. What’s up?”
“Kevin Taylor was going to sell that car to pay his wife’s casino gambling debts.”
“Seriously?”
“Seriously. A hundred and twenty grand. I accidentally overheard a speakerphone call.”
“Poor guy. My stepdad blew a $25,000 whiplash claim cheque all in one weekend.” He paused. “So, are you going to see Kung Fu Guy again?”
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