Temporarily Employed

by Vicki Batman

  My hand crept to my hair, to the place he’d touched at my temple. A. Wellborn, a great looking, nice and thoughtful guy, wanted to eat pizza with me! And most important of all—again! Wow.

  I fingered my sore ankle which undoubtedly would bruise and swell with a knot the size of a small grapefruit. A rap on the door caused me to jump. I peered through the peep box and set eyes on A. Wellborn. Holding my breath, I opened the door.

  “Are you all right?” he asked. “I heard something. I was worried you might have fallen.”

  He really is nice. However, embarrassment never ends. I improvised, “I’m fine. Stupid me stumbled on the carpet. But thanks for checking.”

  “Anytime.” He turned and walked away. “See ya.”

  Anytime. Oh, yeah.

  Chapter Five

  I was right.

  My new job at Buy Rite Automobile Insurance Company was beyond boring.

  Two days later, I wanted to pull my hair out because of the tedium.

  But boring paid the bills.

  Thank goodness, I wasn’t a spendthrift. I would rather use my pro-shopper skills to buy clothing, or anything for that matter, as a bargain. Mom had taught her girls how to get the best value with limited funds. Now, with an experienced eye on the bottom line, I searched for highly coveted items at low-low prices.

  When I’d worked at Tuckers, my salary had seemed adequate to cover the necessities of life, including enough for the required chocolate and a bit in savings. I’d taken full advantage of the employee discount, and if a highly desirable item could be found on clearance, more the bonus.

  I didn’t have much cash saved. However, I had salted away a fifty here and a fifty there for those really big emergencies like car repairs. Just not wads. I’d refrained from spending my sparse savings and working as a temporary would replenish the coffers.

  In some respects, the Buy Rite position shared similarities to the assistant buyer’s job. I clothed myself in proper business-like attire of trendy suits and blouses in fine fabrics, coordinated with handbags and matching heels. For Buy Rite, I traveled to the copier, to the file drawers, computer, and water cooler. I employed a professional demeanor while answering the phone. Each message, mostly a question or complaint, received courteous personal attention.

  The people who worked at Buy Rite were, at first glance, nice folks who appeared not to have any higher aspirations than a job. At best, they seemed eccentric.

  Opal Brown, a single, short and chubby, peroxide-dyed blonde, was around fifty, I guesstimated. She habitually flung her page boy-styled hair away from her face. Her plump thighs rubbed a swish, swish sound when she walked. Around her neck hung thick tortoiseshell bifocals fastened on a handmade beaded chain. Opal tended to examine me over the top rim of her glasses when I asked her questions.

  Even thinking about her caused my eyes to roll. She was smart, simply not up-to-date. Her clothing of choice was impenetrable, wash-and-wear, double-knit pantsuits. I wouldn’t touch the dreadful stuff, not even with a ten-foot pole. And hot! Hot enough to trigger menopausal flashes, which were possible considering her age.

  She shot interesting comments my way about the care of my outfits, implying I spent too much on them and should consider polyester stuff like hers. “Is your blouse silk? And your skirt is cute, but I bet you have it dry cleaned, and dry cleaning is so expensive.”

  Truly, I believed she was jealous.

  Exceedingly dedicated to her job and our boss, Lester, she called herself his Executive Assistant over the passé term of secretary. Her fingers flew in incredible proficiency across the computer keyboard. Her work appeared faultless. All the files aligned just so. All the labels on the files aligned just so. And the file drawers were aligned just so. And she spoke with the kind of condescending “I know everything and you know nothing” intonation. However, she did make herself exceedingly available when training me.

  Too bad her niceness didn’t last.

  Over thirty years ago, Lester Johnson had established his career in Sommerville when he opened this branch of Buy Rite Automobile Insurance Company. According to Opal, his peers consulted him for his expertise in claims management and often recognized his contributions to the insurance industry. Numerous plaques covered his office wall, a testimony to the fact.

  Dressed in a suit and tie, Lester looked like Jabba the Hutt, a bad guy in a Star Wars movie. He stood as tall as he was wide, wrinkly, bald, and kinda oily like an unsavory cartoon character. He wore Western suits to work, but threw off the coat, usually a unique variation on tan, the minute he hit the doors, then released the top collar button behind the loosely knotted tie. Only he chain-smoked those funny cigarillos which smelled unbelievably nasty, staining his fingers and teeth a putrid brown.

  Typical of his generation, Lester stated he “wasn’t into the computer age,” even though the latest and greatest desktop sat on his desk. He preferred work to be executed in a “reliable” way with paperwork and files.

  From the get-go, I realized Lester hired me because he liked the idea of having a decent-looking woman in the workplace. My predecessor, June Short, had looked to be a tall, bony gal. Her wiry, black hair, streaked with gray-and-white frizzy strands, curled into its own thing. I’d noticed this when examining the photo of her holding an adorable looking pet Lhasa Apso, the frame inscribed with “Mike.”

  At Opal’s request on my first day at Buy Rite, I’d packed June’s possessions in a banker’s box for someone, presumably a family member, to pick up. Tears had overtaken her voice when she’d said, “I couldn’t bear to do it.”

  I, too, had been filled with sadness as I stowed away June’s belongings.

  According to Opal, June had picked up the slack from the other two with great efficiency. “She did all the claims data entry in record time.”

  I’d concluded from Opal’s insinuation I didn’t nor wouldn’t ever be June’s equal.

  The automobile claims used a software program especially created for data entry. The relevant information was entered on a preset form, sorta like fill-in-the-blanks. For example:

  #500010. Stephen Schwartz, date, address, phone number, 1998 Honda Accura crunched on June 1 at the intersection of Ralph and Jupiter Roads by sliding on wet pavement and hitting pole.

  #500011. Pamela Morris, date, address, phone number, 2002 Jeep Cherokee, stolen right door panel while parked in her employer’s parking garage.

  A Buy Rite claims adjuster received the details via email. He held the information on hand and after inspecting the vehicle, wrote the repair estimate for Buy Rite’s customer. After the adjusters entered their findings, our computer received a file which automatically generated a copy. More mumbo jumbo was entered in the program for the insurance company files, but basically, that was all. Only oodles and oodles of these things were received by email, fax, or snail mail every single day.

  The work seemed to be a chore to keep up with, but someone had to, which was me. Using my outstanding alphabetizing skills, I organized the copy, the estimate, and a photocopy of the claim check in the respective customer files. All of this could be stored solely on the computer. The hands-on action was the time-consuming and outdated portion of the temp job Lester required.

  On occasion, I photocopied or printed off pertinent documents for someone who lost stuff or to fill other requests which arose. Precisely at noon, I covered the phones for Opal who went to lunch always, everyday, precisely at noon.

  Being precisely on time was another of Opal’s attributes.

  Lester didn’t like voice mail. “It’s insensitive,” he’d said on more than one occasion. He wanted Buy Rite’s customers to speak with a real, live person, what he called “Customer Service.”

  A real live Hattie answered the phones, which I didn’t mind as this task broke the daily monotony. I conversed with other people, mostly customers, and wrote messages. Sometimes, I had nice chats, acquiring off-the-cuff information. I knew Ms. Morris and her husband were adopting a baby g
irl from China, and Mr. Schwartz, a Nordstrom’s shoe salesman, alerted me to an upcoming sale too good to pass up.

  What a job. Nordstrom had the best shoe department—like Disneyland for shoes.

  After Opal returned from lunch, I grabbed my handbag, making a quick exit for my date with high school girlfriend, Kella. Because New Yorkers say “r” on the end of words ending in “a,” my friends—aka The Funsisters cause we act like sisters and have fun—and I call her Kellar which rhymes with stellar. She was also known as Killer, fearless in exterminating humongous roaches. She was slender, medium height, and her ash blonde hair had been razored short. Her sea green eyes glittered. We’d worked together at Tuckers before graduating from college. Intelligent and highly organized, she moved from accounting to the new field of financial planning, already managing our group’s small investments. Another accounting whiz-kid.

  Kellar and I hooked up at our favorite Mexican restaurant, Muy Bueno, which means “very good” in Spanish.

  “You could eat at other Mexican restaurants in Sommerville,” our friends often reminded us.

  “Why bother?” I asked. Having speedy service every single time, Muy Bueno was consistently first-class. The hot sauce and thin, crispy chips were to die for. The king-sized frozen margarita was the specialty drink. However, I couldn’t drink a whole one because too much margarita caused me to act silly.

  We sat at our usual table to play catch-up. After setting her handbag on the floor by her chair, she asked, “So, what’s new?”

  I shared the shoe sale morsel, and we discussed our upcoming book club meeting. She asked about my temporary job at Buy Rite, and I gave her the lowdown on Lester and Opal. We didn’t spend much time discussing my co-workers because I remembered something she would find more riveting. “I haven’t told you about A. Wellborn and the stolen car parts.”

  “A. Wellborn, A. Wellborn...” she mused, her eyebrows drawing into a V. “Do you mean Sarah Anne’s brother, Allan?”

  I nodded, and we dunked the fresh-from-the-warmer chips into the zesty picante sauce.

  “That guy?”

  “Yes, that guy, the same geek from high school whose sister is Sarah Anne. But he’s not geeky now, he’s migh-tee fine. I didn’t recognize him at first, which could have been because he wore sunglasses, but more likely, because I haven’t seen him in years. His body looks buff. His legs are long, a nice behind, beautiful dark eyes and hair, and a great smile.”

  “I’m impressed with your report. Have you checked him for sexy neck?”

  Some girls were partial to butts, biceps, or long legs. I found the back of men’s necks and the part right below the ear to be particularly scrumptious. The Funsisters often kidded me about my fascination. After a fresh haircut, the skin was smooth and hair free, especially smoochable.

  “Hattie,” Kellar called me back from daydreaming.

  “Sorry.” I sipped my soda, sending thoughts of good-looking men down the sink. “Maybe I’ll get a chance later.”

  She waved her hands, causing the charms on her bracelet to clink-clink. “I have a question. Why do you call him A. Wellborn? It sounds funny.”

  “I don’t know. Maybe ’cause his name tag said A. Wellborn. Saying his first name seems too...” I shrugged, “intimate.”

  “Chicken,” she said.

  I stuck out my tongue.

  “I’m guessing it’s ’cause you like him.”

  My grin seemed best described as elusive.

  We munched on our second basket of the highly coveted chips. “Back to the original conversation… So, he’s the same Allan Wellborn? What does he do?”

  For a minute, I hesitated, mostly because I felt embarrassed to say I’d received a traffic citation from a cop I knew. On the other hand, she was best friend Kellar, and I should never be embarrassed with her. She’d already heard many—really all—of my secrets. “He’s a cop and gave me a citation for a taillight out.” My fingers shaped the in-quote thing.

  “You weren’t given a warning? How mean.” Kellar frowned. “Is it the end of the month?” She leaned forward. “You know, I hear the police have a quota to fill, and the pressure is on to write more citations at the end of the month. The other day, I saw a team of motorcycle cops parked on the side streets off of Boston. They were tagging motorists with radar guns and flagging them over.” She took another bite. “I’ve always wanted to shoot someone with a radar gun.”

  “Me, too.” Or pretend to with a hair dryer or electric drill. The idea of that kind of power seemed thrilling. “I don’t know about the quota stuff. What I do know is he pulled me over with blinding, flashing lights, which everyone in Sommerville could see, which included the biggest rat fink of all eternity, Suzanne.”

  “Euew,” Kellar said with sympathy. “She’s such a big gossip. I’m surprised everyone we know didn’t get a call when she spotted you.”

  “Me, too, especially one from my mom. I would never hear the livin’ end. And was I thoroughly embarrassed when Rat Fink honked as she flew by? Thank goodness, I’m not pulled over every day, even if by a cute cop.”

  “You’ll get over it. Eventually.”

  Kellar was right. Time did heal all wounds. Eventually.

  The waitperson served our meal. I ordered the number four—two cheese tacos and one crispy, puffed beef taco.

  Kellar ordered the number six—a chicken and spinach quesadilla. She passed the fresh basket of chips.

  I piled some on my plate. “The good news is he didn’t write me a citation for the stolen bumper and taillights.”

  Her eyes widened, and she nearly choked on a bite. “Did you say your bumper and taillights were-were stolen?”

  “Yep. Nearest we can figure, the bumper and taillights were lifted on Tuesday night while parked in my apartment lot. I remembered seeing all the parts when Dad and I changed the oil last Sunday.” I broke my taco over the cheese tacos for my own version of a taco salad. “You remember the huge splatter of bugs smashed on the windshield from our last road trip?”

  “Do I? Your car looked like you’d taken out every one between here and Canton.”

  “After I cleaned off the mess, which took a while because the dried bug stuff had to be scraped away, I remembered the taillights and bumper were on the Jeep then.” One bite of taco filled my hungry soul.

  “What does Allan Wellborn think about the stolen parts?”

  “He asked all kinds of questions. Oh, here’s another thing. When I called to report the theft, the lady who answered called him Detective Wellborn, not Officer Wellborn. Why would she do that?”

  “Which is he…Detective? Or Officer?”

  “Detective.”

  “Could he have been undercover, investigating stolen parts? Articles have been written in The Sommerville Express.”

  “I haven’t read the paper in weeks. All I know is he said officer and she said detective. The other night, he told me he’d made detective last year.”

  “All this officer-slash-detective stuff confuses my brain.” She signaled a waiter and requested a second margarita.

  Obviously, she held her liquor better than I.

  Picking up her fork, she toyed with her guacamole. “You called your insurance company?”

  Frustrated, I pitched my napkin on the table. “Hello? I’m not an incapable child. The police took a report, and the insurance company gave me the same ol’ line—the check is in the mail.”

  “Understandably, a busy day.”

  “Not a red letter A+ one, but rather a red letter, never-forget-me kind.”

  “I’ve had those.”

  I forked another bite of my concoction. “He came by with pizza.”

  “I have high hopes for a man who cooks his own food. Maybe, someday, I might meet the same type.” A dreamy look possessed Kellar’s eyes. The waiter deposited her drink in front of her, and his stepping away roused her back to life. “So, he just dropped by with a pizza?”

  “Sorta.” And I explained about the re
covery and loss of the bumper, the loss of the pizza, and the ordering of the replacement pizza.

  “A man who brings food is worth hanging on to. Remember the Funsister’s rules about food and men.” She sipped her drink. “Is he seeing someone?”

  “I don’t know. I tried asking about his love life, and he turned the tables on me.”

  “Not great lately,” she said, pointing her fork at me. “Nundom.”

  Astonished at her frankness, I reclined in my chair. “Hey! I thought you were my friend.”

  “It’s the truth.”

  “Anyway, the good news is he asked if we could do pizza again.”

  “That’s not good news; that’s excellent news. Surely, no one else is in his life if he asked you.”

  My girly chuckle warmed my face. “Me thinketh you exaggerateth.”

  Her green eyes twinkled. “What else does he cook?”

  “Possibly burgers or Chinese?” I said this in jest, implying he only knew how to order takeout. Kellar and I took a break in our conversation to eat.

  Parts of me are overwhelmingly shy. Mom said she never understood how I couldn’t go in the grocery store to buy bread or milk.

  Like other teenagers, we didn’t confide our innermost feelings with our parents. Dad didn’t tell his daughters anything about guy behavior, and Mom had barely mentioned the facts-of-life. My sisters and I had discussed our feelings while lying in bed late at night, massaging our legs aching with growing pains.

  As an adult, I did better conversing with the Funsisters regarding personal situations. However, I was reluctant to admit anything about wanting to see A. Wellborn again. I didn’t want to sabotage a possible…something.

  “You know you’re you going to see him again.”

  I blinked. Kellar wasn’t shy, and if she really wanted to know the truth, she cut to the chase. “Sure, why not?” I left out the jumping up and down and tripping on the carpet. “Maybe he’ll bring something to eat, anything, as long as I don’t have to cook.”