Shooting Stars

by C. A. Huggins

  As I approach the door to Hunter’s office, it opens up and Eddie walks out. What the fuck is going?

  “Hey, boss,” Eddie says with his shit-eating grin.

  “What’s up?” I say.

  He looks back into Hunter’s office. “Oh, nothing. Just had to talk about a few things.”

  “Is everything okay?” I say.

  “Yeah, it’s nothing major.” He laughs. And he begins to walk away, he says, “And don’t you worry. I’m going to make those callbacks to those employees who’re getting laid off before I leave today.”

  “Okay, sure.”

  I walk into Hunter’s office and he’s still standing.

  “Do you have a moment?” I ask.

  “For who?” he says.

  “For me?” I ask, as if I wasn’t sure that was the right answer.

  He looks at me. “Well . . . no. I don’t really have time.”

  I’ve made it this far. I can’t just go down easily. “That’s okay. I’ll walk with you.”

  He sighs and starts walking through the hallways to the kitchen. “Can you make this quick?”

  “Sure, sir. I just wanted to let you know, it’s been a pleasure working with you these past months,” I say.

  “I would say the same if I could,” he says. “It’s been difficult getting to know everybody on a one-on-one level—”

  “And you feel you don’t really know me yet?”

  “No, I have adequate familiarity with you, Mr. Taylor,” he says.

  “Please call me Kev . . . Hunt Diggedity Dawg!”

  He glares at me.

  “See, me and Floyd used to have these little nicknames—”

  “How many times do I have to tell you? I don’t care what you and my predecessor did. He’s not here anymore for a reason,” he says as he pours his coffee.

  “Decaf?” I say.

  “Caffeine is like any drug. It’s a sign of weakness in any man or woman. Shows pathetic character.”

  “I agree,” I say. “Do you like baseball?” I say.

  “Sure,” he says. “Doesn’t every red-blooded American?”

  “What’s your favorite team?”

  “Major League team, right? Not Negro League?” he says.

  Why in the world would I be talking about Negro Leagues? What the fuck is wrong with this guy? “My great-grandfather played in the Negro Leagues.” I’m lying, but that’s the only transition I could’ve come back with from him saying the word Negro that didn’t involve me punching him in the stomach.

  “You don’t say? Which team?”

  “Umm . . . I forget . . .”

  He starts to lose interest.

  “The Decatur . . . Ham Hocks.”

  “Okay, gotta go. It’s been great talking to you.” He walks at a fast pace out of the kitchen.

  I think that went fairly well. Definitely an experience we can build on.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Just when I thought I had things going my way, today happened. The stress from going through a full battery of tests has me exhausted. The only thing the tests made me aware of is the anxiety I have trying to anticipate what they’re going to tell about me. You can’t study for psychological tests. They tell you your inner thoughts and character. I’m not even sure who or what that is, but they’re gonna tell me by my answering a few questions?

  Following these directions to Jake’s meet-up in the shady part of town is no delight. I’m not familiar with this area, but there are all types of peculiar shit going on. First of all, shirts are apparently optional in this neighborhood. And every other streetlight is out. These citizens must not have an open dialogue with their public officials. I’m not even sure where I am. No telling how this could’ve turned out if I didn’t have GPS on my phone. And I have to admit, I was a bit surprised my GPS works here. This place seems like it’d be off the grid, even for satellites. The building Jake wants me to meet him at is on a street where it looks like they dump off convicts when they get out of prison, or it could be where people go to find a nice hit man to kill their cheating wives.

  Anyway, I arrive a bit early. I don’t want to get out of the car too soon, in the event Jake isn’t here yet and I have to wait around on the corner of arson fire and random stabbing. I would’ve liked to pull up on another street, but all of the streets are equally shitty looking. The only people outside on the block appear to fall in the category of either riffraff or vagrants.

  I’m still feeling apprehensive about getting out of the car, but I don’t want to hear Jake’s mouth about being late. I look at the directions one more time before I unlock my doors. This is the correct place, even though there isn’t a visible number on the door. But if the building to the left is 227 Woodrow Lane and the one to the right is 223, then this has to be 225. I get out of the car and walk toward the building. There are some of the aforementioned street urchins sitting on the stoop. I give them a good once-over without trying to be too obvious that I’m scared. I turn back to my car and hold out my keys, mimicking a car-alarm sound with my mouth: “Boop-boop.”

  “Nobody wants that piece of shit,” says a scraggly-looking woman.

  “Excuse me?” I say.

  “Yeah, get the fuck outta here with that punk-ass shit. Nissan Sentra nigga,” a burly Hispanic midget says.

  I can’t tell if he’s the scraggly woman’s boyfriend or pimp. But then again, who would want to sleep with her? Well, I can see him wanting to, but that’s it. He looks like the type to subscribe to the pussy-has-no-face theory. Then, I look around at my surroundings again. Okay, maybe a few people around here would fuck her, and being a stocky midget wouldn’t lend itself to having a number of options. I wonder if he knows Mort the dwarf from work?

  “Nissan Sentra with a spoiler,” she adds. Both vagrants laugh hysterically.

  “It’s a sport edition,” I say. I’m not even sure why I’m trying to justify my car to these two.

  “Ay, yo bitch, did that shit come with a pair of Uggs?” the midget says. I don’t respond; I keep walking toward the building. I don’t want to incite them any further. “’Cuz my bitch could use some Uggs,” he continues. She flashes her right foot, which displays a dirty white roller skate with no wheels.

  The inside of the building is as shady as it looks on the outside. The room is dark, but I can see someone else is in here, though I can’t make them out. I hope it’s Jake.

  “Did anyone follow you?” Jake says.

  “No,” I say.

  “Good.” Jake turns on the light.

  I can’t believe what I see. He has an elaborate setup that looks like something straight out of an action-movie set. He has models of buildings and people, charts, graphs, diagrams, and computers displayed on numerous tables. There’s also a small, disheveled man sitting in the corner. He looks like he’s close associates with my two hecklers from outside.

  “What the fuck do you have going on here? This is some James Bond–villain shit.” Jake doesn’t reply. “Is that your muscle?” I say jokingly, pointing to the disheveled man.

  Jake feigns laughter, then says with a serious tone, “No, that’s Shifty. And that’s already more than you need to know.”

  “Oh really?” I look over at him as he drunkenly grits his teeth at me in the corner.

  “He’s seen things you couldn’t even imagine,” Jake says.

  “Like wars we’ve read about in social studies?” I say.

  “Don’t test him,” Jake says.

  “It looks like he hasn’t seen soap in a long time,” I reply.

  The drunk gathers himself and comes to his feet, which seems like a struggle unto itself. “You wanna die today, licorice pants?”

  “Just a joke, man. Don’t get your dungarees all in a bunch, Swifty, you Lil’ Rascal–ass motherfucker,” I say.

  “Shifty. It’s Shifty, you tomato-soup-can sipper,” he says.

  I look at Jake to see if he understood that phrase. “Dude, relax. I’m not even sure if that was
an insult. Relax.” Shifty takes off his boot, which has a hole in it, and throws it at me. I duck.

  “Oh yeah, he likes to throw things,” Jake says.

  Shifty sits back down, now with only one shoe on, which isn’t a boot but an old Saucony running shoe. I have no idea why he’s wearing one sneaker and one boot, but I’m afraid to ask now.

  “Stop bullshitting, let’s get to the reason why we’re all here tonight. Business,” Jake says.

  “Cool by me,” I say, with my eyes still on Shifty.

  “We now have to move on to the M. Bison,” Jake says.

  “What?” I say.

  “M. Bison. The final boss,” Jake says. I still don’t get it. “Chloe. It’s time we get Chloe fired.”

  “Oh. Yeah, right. But Aida’s gone now. Chloe can stay, and we both can become managers.”

  Jake shakes his head at me. “You haven’t learned anything, have you? Why would we chance it?” He looks at me. I say nothing. He looks at Shifty, who’s biting his toenails.

  “Don’t you want to make sure you get the job?” Jake says.

  “I do.”

  “So she has to go. She’s your biggest opposition,” Jake says.

  “It might be too much of a coincidence that everyone is getting fired, don’t you think?”

  “I thought I have the reins.”

  I nod. “How are we gonna get rid of her?” I say.

  “Right now, you’re on a low-level classification. I’m gonna tell you what you need to know for each stage of the plan,” he says.

  “Why?”

  “I simply can’t trust you to keep everything confidential. And I need to make sure the plan goes accordingly.”

  I can’t believe he’s shutting me out like this. “Tell me this: he doesn’t know the plan, does he?” I say, while pointing at Shifty.

  “No,” Jake says. “Plus, the less you know, the more surprised you’ll be when everything happens. You’re a horrible liar, and I wouldn’t want your physical reactions giving away anything.” Jake walks over to one of his file cabinets and pulls out a manila folder. “What’s your favorite movie?”

  “Dr. Strangelove,” I say.

  He looks at me. “Not the movie you tell people when you’re trying to seem smart.”

  “Okay, Good Will Hunting,” I say.

  He looks at me again. “Not the movie you tell a white chick when you’re trying to fuck her.”

  I sigh. “Love Jones.”

  “Not the movie you tell a black chick when you’re trying to—”

  “Fight Club.”

  “You say that when you’re around other men to seem masculine. I’m talking about the movie that makes you weep like a baby at the end,” he says.

  “Jerry Maguire,” I whisper, so Shifty doesn’t hear.

  “Yes,” he says.

  “That little retarded midget playing the kid is so lovable. Not like the asshole midget loitering outside. But what does that wonderful piece of cinema have to do with Chloe?” I say.

  “That’s the first stage of the plan,” he says. “And that’s all I’m at liberty to tell you.”

  * * *

  With no idea of what Jake has planned today, I drive into work feeling like I was walking into a haunted house. Who knows what he’s capable of? I didn’t know he could get those drugs and a gun to plant on Aida. I also didn’t know he had a creepy headquarters in the middle of the hood. Nor did I know he knew someone like Shifty. Although, those things did provide for an interesting journal entry last night. This is the first time I actually have been scared at work. Probably because I never cared about work. Deep down inside, I knew I wouldn’t get the promotion. Having zero expectations always puts you at a special ease. I only hope whatever he has planned gets Chloe fired. I want to get this over with. If he gets caught, I don’t want to get implicated in his bullshit. Jake’s not the type to rat me out. He lives by some special stringent code. It’s okay to fuck over others, but not your friends. And we’ve been friends for the longest time. So I’m good.

  I put my coat in the closet and walk over to my desk. Something feels different today. More people are up, in their cubicles talking. Not their normal isolated selves. I wonder if we have more testing today and I forgot. There’s a red folder sitting on my chair. I hope it’s not a list of layoffs. I can’t come this far just to get laid off. That would be cold and heartless, but not bad enough that I’d put it past STD.

  The folder is labeled “Something’s Itching Me at STD: A Manifesto by Chloe Ramsey.” I look around and all of the desks have the same thing sitting on their chairs. That sneaky bastard. I begin flipping through the pages. Holy shit, he’s really lost his mind. I get up and look around the office, as more employees have arrived to find their morning reading material. I see other employees stand up and discuss the document. They’re either irate or dumbfounded. I have to hand it to Jake, this isn’t illegal . . . at least, I don’t think so. But it’s kinda brilliant. And right when I’m giving him props in my head, he walks by my desk.

  “Hey, what’s going on here?” he says. I wink at him. Then realize that I’ve never winked at another man before, and if someone else was watching from afar, they could possibly believe we’re gay lovers. He must’ve thought the same thing, because it looks like he’s weirded-out by my eye gaffe and he walks away shaking his head.

  Everybody sits down and pretends to work because they see Hunter coming. The color of the manifesto he’s holding matches his face perfectly. He marches up to Chloe’s desk and says something to her in a stern fashion. He walks away with her following him. They both go into his office.

  About twenty semi-awkward minutes pass, during which people try to work, but the only things they can think about are the manifesto and the fate of the most beloved employee in the company. Then, Chloe emerges from Hunter’s office as he follows. Her eyes are welled up. Everyone stares at her, and even though her head is down, I am sure she can feel their eyes.

  She stands in front of the room with a microphone, and says, “I would like to apologize for the statements . . .” She looks at Hunter. “. . . I made this morning with my manifesto. It was meant to be taken as a lighthearted joke.”

  Barbara raises her hand. She says to Hunter, “What about everyone in the other offices? Will they get an apology as well, since they’re not here to hear this one?”

  “What, they received this too?” he says.

  “And our clients,” Barbara says.

  “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph,” he says.

  “All through e-mail,” Barbara responds. “She didn’t say anything as vicious and personal to all the other employees in the other offices and the clients, like she did here, but I’m sure they can relate to all of the general defaming and horrible points she stated in here, such as the ‘inept corporate structure’ and ‘the work is fit for monkeys’ because most of her co-workers ‘have the brains of monkeys.’ Or right here on page one hundred thirty-six, where she says, ‘the managers frolic around as if they have hourly circle jerks and us underlings should feel lucky enough to shake their jizz-drenched hands.’ Now, that was simply wrong. Wrong and weird. But it wasn’t as personal as her talking about me and my handmade Christian Slater figurines and pictures on my desk. It’s my cubicle, and I chose to decorate it as I see fit.”

  “Duly noted, Barbara,” Hunter says. “We’re going to need a cleanup project to do damage control. I’ll put my best person on it.” Hunter looks around the crowd. He can’t find anybody. The overall number of faces he recognizes has dwindled since a lot of people have been terminated for improper behavior. “Kevin,” he says.

  I grin like I was picked first for dodge ball in gym glass.

  “By week’s end I’ll need details of what you plan to do to fix Chloe’s disaster,” Hunter says. He starts to walk away. Then, he turns back to the employees. “I almost forgot. Who parked the lime-green VW Beetle in my parking spot?”

  “I believe that’s Chloe’s car,” I say. “I
don’t mean to pile on, but it’s your car, right?”

  Hunter turns to Chloe.

  “But I didn’t—” she says.

  “I don’t want to hear it,” he says. He walks into his office and slams the door. The worst part about Hunter is you never really know how mad he is. I mean, he always has a surly disposition. But at least when Floyd was in a good mood, you could tell from him calling you a ridiculous nickname or retelling an inappropriate joke. Hunter just sits in his office quietly. I don’t know what kind of music he would play in his office to show he’s having a good time. Maybe some Kenny Rogers or Garth Brooks. What do people like him do for fun? Well, whatever now. I’m at least happy he’s given me this assignment.

  * * *

  I knock on Hunter’s office door, looking as determined as a high-school virgin on the night of the prom. He might not be in there, but I didn’t notice him leave. I could’ve very well missed him, because I’ve been pounding away at this project plan feverishly. He answers. I walk in the door as he’s packing up his things to leave for the evening.

  “Here, I wanted to give you this,” I say as I hand him a binder.

  “What’s this?”

  “It’s the damage-control initiative for Chloe’s manifesto.”

  “But you have until the end of the week.”

  “I know, but this is a very serious matter, and we shouldn’t take it lightly. And it meant a lot to me that you chose me for the job. So I wanted to get it done as soon as possible.”

  He looks at me as if expecting me to have some type of ulterior motive. Then, he cracks a smile. Well, not really; it’s his version of a smile, which is more like an un-frown. But this is the first time I’ve ever seen it in relation to something I’ve done and not to one of Chloe’s skirts. “Great, I’ll take a look at it tonight,” he says. “You better head home, it’s late.”

  “I know, but I just want to finish up a few things before I go.” Then, I leave him and float back to my desk. I wish I could moonwalk, because that’s exactly what I would’ve done. I have no idea why I feel validated by a man I don’t like one bit, but it feels great. And that feeling outweighs the confused emotions I have. I’ll wait about ten minutes after he leaves, then pack up my stuff and go.