Dontrelle, Frank, and Mike walk over to the cubicle, salivating at the delicious options they’re about dig into. “I’m so glad it’s Breakfast Day. I hope the breakfast captain brought in Krispy Kremes, ’cuz I’m hungrier than a mofo. Do you know I had a dream about Krispy Kremes?” Dontrelle says to the other two.
“I’m not bullshitting,” he continues. “And I woke up with my dick hard right after the dream.”
Frank and Mike laugh. “I don’t know what exactly that says about you, but it says a lot about you,” Mike says.
Dontrelle shrugs it off. “Floyd would’ve understood that shit.”
Frank says, “I heard from a friend of mine, he left his wife for a stripper named Cleo-clap-tra in Atlanta. Don’t know if it’s true or not, but it’s a reliable source.”
“I believe it,” Dontrelle says.
They step inside the cubicle and there’s no food. Dontrelle immediately goes to the two cubicles right next to it, which are occupied by employees. It’s clear to him there’s no breakfast this morning, and all three of them can’t take it. But Dontrelle is the worst. “My mind is playing tricks on me, son,” he says. He really starts losing it. First comes the sweating. Then, he starts scratching his neck tattoo and shaking his head back and forth. “Why? Why would someone do this?”
“It is Monday, right? I mean, yesterday was Sunday,” Mike says. “Or am I dreaming now?”
“I better wake up right now, with or without a hard-on, but with a Krispy Kreme,” Dontrelle says.
“Whose week is it as breakfast captain?” Frank says.
Mike walks over to the board and looks at the calendar. “Chloe’s,” he says.
As if she was magically summoned like a genie, Chloe appears in front of the cubicle. Which is probably best, because I’m sure Dontrelle’s next action was to go looking for her. “Good morning, fellas. What’s for breakfast?” she says. She notices something is up, because no one is smiling or answering her. She peeks inside the cubicle and sees there’s no food.
Dontrelle isn’t amused by her total disregard of their sacred day. “That’s fucked-up, son!” He’ll call someone “son” regardless of gender when he’s really upset.
“What?” she says.
Dontrelle is about to say something, but he gathers himself, knowing it was going to be really inappropriate. So Mike jumps in: “You ignore the sanctity of Breakfast Day. Then, you have nerve—”
“The audacity,” Dontrelle interrupts.
“Yes, the audacity,” Mike continues, “to come in here all smiles and giggles, and taunt us by asking, ‘What’s for breakfast?’”
“Hell yeah. Hell yeah. That’s like spitting in our faces,” Dontrelle says.
Chloe doesn’t know what to say. She looks at the calendar, stunned. Then refers to her Blackberry. “It’s not my week. I’m positive it’s not. I have it planned in my Blackberry.”
“Now, you’re calling the Breakfast Day calendar a liar on top of all this?” Dontrelle says.
“Despicable,” Frank chimes in. “It’s okay if you forget something work related, like a report or a project, but not this.”
“Breakfast Day means so much to me. It’s a day when I don’t have to make breakfast at home. Drive to work right past fast-food options, like a Croissanwich from BK or a McGriddle from McDonald’s. All because I know what’s waiting for me. You know I almost choked on my own spit once, cuz I was salivating so much? I come into work and get greeted with an assortment of treats. The finest juices. The sweetest pastries,” says Dontrelle. He stares Chloe up and down. “I wouldn’t expect this from you, of all people.” The three guys leave Chloe standing there speechless.
I decide to distance myself from this little prank so I wouldn’t get connected. Luckily, this week was my turn. I don’t know why they always put my name on that calendar. I never bring in anything but a carton of milk and some Munchkins. All I had to do was change my name with Chloe’s.
* * *
Later that afternoon Barbara walks into the copy room, probably to retrieve some “research” she printed out for her Christian Slater fan blog. She has the nerve to look at me with a condescending eye, because I’m rumored to be lazy. But I have my suspicions she’s no different, and she goofs off as much, if not more. As soon as she steps to the printer, she’s taken the bait for my trap.
She looks for her printout, but nothing has printed. I see her look at the digital touchscreen menu on the printer, and there’s an error message. I take this as my cue to walk into the copy room. She’s more inclined to walk away from the printer if it’s malfunctioning, because she really doesn’t want to be bothered and gets confused by the error messages. She wants to go back to her desk and cancel her print job. So that, when the copier does get fixed and the error message goes away, there aren’t unclaimed photos of a bloated forty-something former teen heartthrob lying around in the room. Everyone knows whom they belong to.
“Hey, is the printer okay?” I say.
“Not sure, I printed out some . . . reports, but I’m not getting anything. Maybe I printed to printer G. Let me go back to my desk and find out,” she says.
I can’t let her do that. “No, let me figure this out. I’m pretty good with these things. Just stick around,” I say.
She rolls her eyes but stays. “Well, it can’t be jammed. This brand-new copier is supposed to never jam,” I continue. I get down on one knee and open up the paper compartment. I start pulling out big clumps of paper. “Smells like something is burning. Might be an electrical short.” I inspect some more. “Wait a minute, somebody jammed all this paper into the printer. What the fuck?”
“What idiot would do that?” she says.
“I don’t know, but this is a pretty severe fuckup. It’s like they’re trying to sabotage the new printer.” I stick my finger deeper into the printer. When I pull it out, there’s a substance on my hand. I taste it as if I were a detective on CSI.
“I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” Barbara says as she winces.
I look away while trying to decipher the flavor. Then, I turn back to Barbara. “Honey. Organic orange-blossom honey, to be exact.” I touch the keypad and discover the same substance. “It’s all over the buttons too.”
“The only person I know who keeps a steady supply of honey in the office is Chloe, for her fancy herbal tea she drinks every day. Do you know she makes her own tea? Dries the leaves and everything,” she says.
“That’s not the point. Let’s stay on track here. She’s ruined this brand-new printer. And you’re the one who’s found it.”
“So?”
“Do you know how much this machine set STD back?
“Nope,” she says.
“Neither do I, but I’m betting it cost a shitload. And our new boss is looking for reasons to get rid of people. Who do you think he’ll blame for this?” I say.
“What should I do?”
“Well, I’d tell Hunter Chloe did it. Cover your own ass. That’s the only logical thing to do. You know how protective they can be of their new appliances. Remember when they thought someone broke the coffee machine?”
Barbara now looks extremely scared. “Yeah, they suspended that poor guy for a month without pay.”
“And it wasn’t even broken. The electric socket shorted out,” I say.
“And when they found that out, they kept him on suspension,” she continues. “Oh no, I can’t afford to lose my job over this. I just can’t. They’re doing a Heathers reunion with the original cast in San Diego. And I have to be there.”
“Of course you have to be there,” I say. “Well, you know what you have to do.” Then, I walk out of the room as more employees enter the copy room. They will undoubtedly have questions as to why it’s been destroyed.
* * *
The next morning, around ten forty-five on the dot, I spot Chloe in the break room all by herself reading the newspaper and eating carrot sticks. I sit right beside her, even though every other seat in the
room is open.
“What are you reading?”
She holds up the newspaper without saying anything, to tip me off that she’s busy and doesn’t want to be bothered.
“Is that today’s?” I continue.
She looks at me as if I’ve unanimously just won a king-of-the-assholes pageant. I don’t think I’m getting anywhere with her. Not sure why she’s over-the-top friendly to everyone but me.
“How’re things going?”
“If you don’t mind, I would like to finish up my break in peace,” she says.
“Sheesh, can somebody say ‘antisocial’?” I respond.
Hunter walks into the break room and goes straight to the vending machine. I begin to speak louder to draw attention to myself. “No, I will not have sex with you! Stop asking me!”
“What?” Chloe says.
“I am tired . . . sick and tired of your sexual advances. They are totally unprovoked, extremely unwarranted, and completely unethical. Have you not taken your test on office ethics?”
She looks around, embarrassed by my outburst.
“What do I have to do to get you to stop?” I say.
Now fed up, she gets out of her seat. “You’re delusional. I can’t believe I work with a lunatic.”
I get up and block her path. Hunter has been looking at us the whole time. How can he avoid it? I’m making a pretty good spectacle of Chloe. She pushes me out of the way. I fall to the ground and scream in agony. Hunter switches his focus back to the vending machine, as he really doesn’t care about me getting sexually harassed or my plight of being physically assaulted in the workplace.
“We need to get rid of all of this candy in these machines,” he says as he surveys the contents the vending machine. “It’ll make us more productive.”
Chloe stops trying to exit and walks over to him. “Like carrot sticks?” she says, showing him her snack.
“Yes, exactly. I can always enjoy a good carrot stick,” he says. She opens up her Tupperware container and offers some to him. He takes one and crunches into it. “Delicious.”
“I also make my own hummus. I often say, a good car needs to run on optimum fuel. And the same principles should be applied to a good worker,” she says.
Hunter nods his head and agrees. “And from what I hear, you’re a promising member of our organization. Let’s talk about this some more.” He turns around and tries to leave.
I can’t believe this shit. I’m being taken advantage of by a fellow employee, and he has nothing to say. I haven’t gotten up from being shoved to the ground. He looks down at me.
“Stop playing around and get back to work,” he says as he steps right over me with his cowboy boots. Chloe walks around my body.
As I get up and brush myself off, a few other employees walk in, ready to begin their morning fifteen-minute break. They don’t pay me any mind. One would think seeing a fellow peer on the floor might be alarming, but not to these jerk-offs. Maybe it is, but just not when that peer is me. They go right past me and turn on the TV, tuning in to a daytime talk show. It would be ironic if the topic were sexual harassment in the workplace, given my very recent situation, but it’s not. This show is one of those morning shows that rip off Good Morning America and The Today Show, but it caters to the locals.
The hostess announces a musical performer, and it’s none other than Robbie. He’s wearing my suit on stage, but he’s added some rhinestones that spell out his name to the back and some purple tassels to the sleeves. He’s doing his typical routine. He’s in his full raunchy splendor, grinding on the floor and against audience members. Yet this assorted bunch of housewives in the crowd loves it. People in the break room are tapping their feet and clapping as well. One woman turns to me and says, “Boy, this guy is good. For a minute I actually thought he was Bobby Brown. But he’s better. Much better.” I give her a death stare that doesn’t deter her incessant clapping.
“Looks like your man is blowing up,” Jake says. I didn’t even notice him walk into the room. But the performance has garnered quite a crowd in the STD break room. Does anybody work anymore? “Is that your non-interview suit too?” Jake laughs. “He sure is living the dream.”
Robbie wraps up his performance with the host and hostess meeting him up on the stage. They are both all grins as Robbie towels off his brow.
“That was some show you put on,” the host says.
“That’s what I try to do. Give the people what they want,” Robbie says.
“I broke a good sweat,” the hostess says. “Looks like I can skip my spin class today, with that cardio workout.” She gives a fake chuckle and does her offbeat white-person dance steps.
Robbie commences to pour a bottle of water all over his face, which catches everyone off-guard. “I’m dead tired too,” he says. “Thank you for having me here today. But can I have a moment to thank someone here who’s very special to me?”
“Sure,” the host says. He looks a little leery as to what Robbie might have in store.
“Can you come up here?” Robbie says as he motions to the crowd.
The camera in the audience pans to Alexis. She sees herself on the monitor and makes her way out of the crowd and onto the stage.
Robbie lovingly grabs her hand. “You are my manager, my friend, my lover, my sex slave, my maid, my tender roni,” he says. Robbie kneels in front of her. Everyone in the crowd starts cheering. The same goes for the people in the break room. Jake looks at me with the biggest grin I’ve seen on him since he told me a story about gymnast triplets he met in the Dominican Republic. Robbie pulls out the engagement ring I gave Alexis. “Will you be my tender roni for life?”
She screams while she puts on my ring. Her reaction is way more animated than during my proposal. Go figure. She doesn’t say anything, only screaming loudly as she jumps around.
“I don’t know much about women,” the host says. “My wife can attest to that, but I think that’s a yes.”
There’s a huge standing ovation in the crowd. The band starts playing music. Robbie takes this as a cue to start singing again: “The truth about a roni. She’s a sweet ol’ simple girl.” Nobody is clapping louder than Jake. My face is enraged, but to the point my feet will not let me leave the room.
* * *
There has to be an angle to get to Chloe. I know I can do it. I need to find an opening and exploit it. And I need to do something soon. Every day I’m woken up by phone calls from bill collectors. Some are a little more persistent than others. My student-loan collector is starting to call me at my job. It’s humiliating pretending someone has the wrong number at your work phone. I’ve been sitting in my cubicle brainstorming all morning, then I get a eureka moment.
Today I got in so early the air was a little stifling. It’s not warm outside, but the building gets so hot. And the AC was turned off. So now the office climate matches the hell I believe STD to be. I always felt like a sweatshop worker when here, but now the working conditions match. I tried getting her to go out to lunch with me and getting her secretly drunk, to the point she makes a jackass of herself when she gets back to work. I even bought a Breathalyzer to keep at my desk, but she always turns me down. I wonder if she can see right through my plans. Nah, she simply doesn’t like me.
A few hours later, I get it. I need to find an exotic pet store and get a tarantula or snake. Something poisonous, but not deadly. After a quick Google search, I find a place and call it.
“Yes, do you have an animal or insect? Something scary. Flying piranha or something,” I say to pet-store worker.
“We don’t have piranhas, but we did get a shipment of pythons last week,” she says.
As I’m about to respond, annoying-ass Ted walks over to my desk, undoubtedly to pester me about some bullshit. “Hey, are you talking to Alexis?” he says.
I motion to him that I’m on the phone.
He keeps talking: “Tell her I said hi.”
“Sorry, I’ll call you back,” I say. Then, I hang up the
phone. “You didn’t see me on the phone?” I say.
“You didn’t tell her what I said,” he says.
“That wasn’t her.”
“Oh, she’s still not talking to you. Can I have her phone number, then?”
I stand up. “You’re working my last nerve.”
“Geez, calm down. I didn’t come over here for that,” he says. “I really wanted to let you know that I was speaking with our contact over at Gemco Paper. And he wasn’t happy. You need to do better. Just do your part. That’s all I’m asking. We can’t risk losing them as a client.”
“You’re not my boss. Get the fuck out of my face,” I say.
He jumps back because of my tone. “You can’t talk to me like that.”
“Why not?” I say.
He doesn’t have an answer.
“Go,” I say.
He’s beside himself, and walks away. It’s like the building must’ve sensed my anger, because as soon as he leaves the fire alarm goes off. Great, a fire drill. I hate these so much. It’s a big fucking bore. But I have to follow the fire-drill procedures this time, because last time I was cited for staying at my desk during the whole drill. I got a fine from the fire department, even after I pretended I was deaf. I didn’t even know they could do that shit.
I follow all of the other employees as we’re ushered out of the building. There are fire-drill monitors with bright orange vests directing everyone. We all go into the parking lot and stand about twenty feet from the building. It’s as if we’d be safe at that distance if there was a real fire or disaster in the building. If shit started exploding, or even if there was a real small fire, I’m getting in my car and going home. As I walk outside, the fire trucks pull up. The fire department gets to play dress rehearsal and ring their horns and whatnot. They seem to be having more fun than anyone involved. Well, almost anyone. The STD employees’ lives are uneventful to the point a fire drills excite them. I see one woman taking cellphone pictures of the fire trucks as they pull up, so she can post them on her Facebook page. Pathetic.
Shooting Stars Page 20