“Either you are or you aren’t,” she says.
“That’s not the point. It’s none of your business. And I have to make dinner.” I walk into my condo. “Have a good night . . . or not.” Then, I shut the door.
“What’s for dinner? I’m hungry,” I can hear her say through the closed door. I walk to the couch and set my things down, and bask in this feeling.
I guess every business has its own corporate culture, and STD is no different. I’m sure all other corporate cultures would bug the shit out of me as well. See, it’s not only the people I work with, but the things they do. And it’s also the things they make us do. All of it is mind-bogglingly stupid. When the Philadelphia Eagles made a deep playoff run one year, every Friday before a game was Football Jersey Day. Every single employee would wear their Eagles jersey to work; it was both impressive and sad at the same time. You would’ve thought they were giving them shits away at the supermarket with every purchase over two dollars. The women would wear pink Eagles jerseys. Someone explained to me that they were pink to support breast-cancer research, but I couldn’t see past the dumb football cause to the charitable cause. What’s worse is that the jersey day eventually bled over to non-Fridays. At first, they would wear them on Mondays sometimes if they played on Monday Night Football. Then, that turned into if the team won on Sunday they’d wear jerseys on Monday. Thus, people bought multiple jerseys. Then, they began wearing them on Wednesdays to get over Hump Day. Some people had one for every day of the week. And then, they began throwing pep rallies to get geared up for the games. I never participated. They would also watch the games together, with a steady rotation of venues where they would go. They’d always ask if I was coming to those too, as if they didn’t notice while they’re dressed in full-football-asshole regalia from head to toe I was wearing a plaid shirt and jeans. When they did notice, they’d ask, “Where’s your jersey, fella?”. And I’d reply, “I don’t have one.” That was sometimes met with an offer to get a spare jersey from their car. But I would decline, and they’d get really persistent. I’d just say, “I’m rooting for the other team. The team of good taste.” Then, I’d gently pat them on their head like the naive children they are. And more times than not their head had an Eagles baseball cap, Eagles fedora, Eagles visor, Eagles bandana, Eagles Santa hat during Christmas, or, once, a real Eagles helmet on it. Yes, an adult working inside of an office building and wearing an Eagles football helmet to show “support.”
There’s also Fifties Day, when all of the managers are forced to dress up like stereotypical caricatures from the 1950s. There are a lot of leather jackets, slicked-back hair, polka-dot dresses, cardigans with letters on them, and bows in hair. It’s like you come to work one day and you’re stuck in a Happy Days episode. The cafeteria serves burgers and shakes. A few mangers are on roller skates. And they always say stupid shit, like call you a “square” if you make fun of their outfit or refer to you as a “hip cat” when you turn in your work. Or they might ask about borrowing some “bread” for a “soda pop.” The freak show culminates at 2:00 p.m., when they have a mock rumble with two gangs, the Stapler Sharks and Printer Laser Jets, complete with plastic switchblades. Having your manager walk around like John Travolta in Grease is pretty revelatory. They can’t possibly want to do it, but in order to keep their shitty jobs they have to. They might as well walk around in a fucking monkey suit, but I’m sure that day is coming soon. And all the executives would walk around and give the midlevel managers bananas if quotas are met. Then, they would put them in a cage and watch them fling their feces at one another. And these are my superiors? How’d they become superior to me? What a collection of soulless goofballs and bozos.
However, today is definitely my least favorite day of the year. It’s the STD Unity Fair. It accelerates way past retro Randall Cunningham jerseys and Fonzi-isms. While I don’t find anything in this company necessarily fair, especially the promotion practices, we still have a carnival and picnic for all of the employees. They couldn’t quite bring themselves to allow us to have a full day off from work. They have to get most of the day’s labor from us, or else how would they get the surplus of profits that fund this wonderful fair, right? So they give grown adults a set half-hour time slot to attend. Some people have to go as early as ten thirty. I always go at lunchtime. Who the fuck goes to a barbecue at ten thirty in the morning? They’re such assholes. The event has been downsized since I started with STD. It was once a field trip to a casino. That morphed into a trip to Fun-2-Sea Land for two years. That eventually became a picnic site about fifteen minutes from the job. And now, it’s a fair right in the company’s parking lot. I would assume, at this rate, next year it’s going to consist of us sitting in our cubes while someone stops by and drops confetti on our heads right after handing us two Hershey Kisses—leftover Easter candy, of course.
The fair focuses on getting employee engagement up. And not the type of engagement where Alexis turns my life upside down; engagement is corporate speak for making employees feel like their job gives a fuck what they think. Getting the employees engaged means giving them cheap food prepared by the office cafeteria, but the only difference is we’re eating the nasty boiled hot dogs and greasy fried burgers outdoors. The quality of the food doesn’t stop me, because the free aspect makes me feel obligated to get my adequate share. To me, it all qualifies as my total compensation.
The fair activities are those you would have children play on a field trip, which falls right in line with how they think of us: children who can be easily appeased. How else would you explain them following up a round of layoffs with a pizza party? Each employee is assigned a team and given game tickets. Then, you compete in games and try to accumulate more tickets. The team with the most tickets gets a prize, such as winning a half day off or an Applebee’s gift card. Yippee. Needless to say, I always throw my tickets into the trash. I have no time to indulge in their silliness. There’s a guess-your-weight booth, which a majority of the employees avoids, especially the women—the same way they avoid exercising and vegetables. Which is weird, because I think they would have an advantage. If I was forced to guess a number, I’d be at a loss and eventually give up and say, “Fat as fuck.” They could make a killing on game points.
As is the case with most of the events thrown by STD, my feelings toward the fair are in the minority. Practically everyone seems to be having the time of their life. I normally use the event as a diversion and go home early. That’s a half day for me without having to play a new game. But since I’m now “investing” myself in the company, I have to be here. I run into Eddie, who looks like a Make-A-Wish kid in Disney World. He’s holding a fistful of tickets and a giant stuffed Tweety Bird, and munching a huge bag of bright blue cotton candy.
“This is freaking awesome! I hope this day never ends,” he says.
“Yeah, it’s fucking great,” I say.
He looks at my empty hands. “Your tickets?”
“I threw them in the trash.”
“What about your team?”
I shrug. I don’t even know which team I’m on, but I don’t tell him that. His bubble would burst all over his cotton candy.
“You don’t want to play any games?” he says. “Look at the manager-dunking booth. I know you want to do that.”
I look at the dunking tank, where a revolving list of managers will sit and launch taunts at employees as they try to land a baseball on the target. There’s a big crowd over there.
“Floyd was always good at that,” I say.
“Speaking of him, have you heard from him lately?” he says.
“No.”
“I just overheard, while waiting in line at the balloon-animals station, that someone else heard he enlisted in the Israeli Army.”
“Whatever.”
“Fine, don’t believe me. Anyway, dunk booth. Let’s go,” he says.
I look back at Eddie, shaking my head. “Only if they’d replace the water with a vat of piss, vomit, and an
imal diarrhea. Then, that’d be worth it. Until then, I’m passing.”
“Wow, talk about a party pooper. Okay . . . okay, I’ll challenge you to a game of Wii bowling.”
“Not right now . . . or never. Instead of talking to you, though, I’m going to do something else,” I say.
“Like what?”
I walk away and pretend not to hear him. I’ve spent so much time criticizing the event that I have not taken what I deserve for staying at this ridiculous affair. It’s time to eat, of course. I only want one thing. Well, two things really. Two hot dogs, to be exact. I can get them and dip off back to my desk. Or I might eat them in my car while listening to the radio. I haven’t decided yet. And it is the perfect time to retrieve my food and seek refuge, as the crowd has now left the food. I have a greater chance of avoiding the irritating stream of questions I was forced to endure with Eddie. The line is only three people deep, and I’m behind Mike. I try to walk as ninja-like as possible so he won’t hear me, but that doesn’t work.
Mike turns around and says, “Seems like these shits get worse and worse, right?”.
“Yeah, you got that right,” I reply. Then, he turns back around. I exhale because I’m grateful for dodging that bullet. I mean, Mike is okay. He does nothing out of the ordinary. And he’s not particularly annoying. Simply a regular guy, but I don’t feel like having any small talk right now. And it looks like I came just in time. The food is getting low, and the cooks have turned off the grills. The person before Mike takes a hot dog and a hamburger. There are only two hot dogs left, but there’s still a stack of hamburgers left in the aluminum pan. Fuck it, Mike could take all six hamburgers if he wants. I don’t care about them, not one bit. It’s not like he’s starving. I saw him with a plate on two different occasions already. A few hamburgers should top him off. He looks at the food selection as if he’s picking out a puppy in a pet store. He grabs a hamburger roll and puts it on his paper plate. Then, gets a hamburger patty. I sigh in relief. Then, in an exquisite exhibition of pure gluttony, he picks up two hot-dog buns and takes the last two hot dogs. The two hot dogs sandwich the hamburger on his paper plate, as it buckles under the weight of the excess.
“Sure your plate can handle all of that?” I say.
He examines the plate. “You’re right.” He looks back at the table and thinks for a minute. Then, puts the two hot dogs on another plate, so he can carry his two plates off in some sort of symmetrical display of overindulgence.
“See you later,” he says as he walks away.
I only wanted two hot dogs. Not only do I not get one hot dog, I get no hot dogs, and this son of a bitch gloats and trots off. The fucking nerve of this motherfucker. As he walks away, I think of the proper recourse for his actions. I should run up on him and take both hot dogs right off his plate, but some would view that as being uncivilized or childish. I wouldn’t view it as such, but others would. I could walk past him and “accidentally” run into him and knock the food off his plate. If I can’t have two hot dogs, then neither can he. That would be my passive-aggressive nature showing. And I can’t have that get the best of me, because I’m trying to grow as a person. I guess he has to learn the hard way. I now have the next nominee for my employee-extermination list: Mike. Mike, the office barbecue pig. Mike who probably had four hot dogs before that, and might not even finish the two he just took. He brought this on himself. It’s out of my control.
It’s been three days since the STD fair, and I think some of the employees are now coming down from their euphoric high from the festivities. I still see occasional high-fives being dished out in the coffee room while recounting a riveting ring-toss performance here and there. Also, in the coffee room is where I see Mike. He approaches me beaming with a smile. As I can tell, he cannot contain himself. “Hey, Kev,” he says. “You probably haven’t heard yet, because you don’t read e-mails. But today is my last day.”
“Really? What happened?” I say.
“I got a new gig,” he says. “With Nextanza, doing health-benefits administration for them.”
“Get out of here. I didn’t even know they had an office in the area.”
“I was shocked too. It all came together. I don’t even know how it happened. I haven’t even been job hunting that hard.”
I shake my head with envy. “How’d you find out about that place?”
“It’s hard to believe, but all I did was post my resume on a few websites a few months ago. You know how those things go. It takes a while for the companies to find you,” he says. I shake my head in agreement. “Then, out of the blue an HR rep called me the other day and offered me the job after doing a quick phone interview. And it’s a huge bump in salary over what I’m making here. They didn’t even want to see me face-to-face. It must’ve been my lucky day. Only bad thing is, I have to start this Thursday. Which I thought was weird, because I’d rather do it at the beginning of a week, but I couldn’t say no, you know?”
“Yeah, I get you. Gotta get while the getting is good,” I say.
“Exactly. That’s why this is my last day. Handed in my resignation. They didn’t seem so happy about it because of the short notice, but I gotta look out for me,” he says.
I shake his hand. “Well, good luck, man. And let me know how it is over there. I might need you to save me and throw me a lifeline, if you know what I mean.”
“No doubt, I’m sure we can use good workers like you.”
“Shh,” I say. We both laugh.
I take my coffee back to my desk and let out a smile. My joy is not because I’m happy for Mike. That would never be the case for anyone. But I’m the only person who knows when Mike shows up to the address given to him by the phone interviewer he spoke with for his first day at his new job he’ll realize he’s not at Nextanza, but a gay strip club that’s located in the seedy run-down part of town, right next to an abandoned hot-dog packing factory. Poetic justice, if you ask me.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
I haven’t heard much from Mike since he left for his promising job opportunity. One would think he would call and tell me he got duped into a fake job. Some friend he is. I guess it’s all about saving face. I wonder if he called Hunter and tried to get his old job back. Jake wasn’t too happy about me going rogue and getting Mike to leave, but it worked. That’s the first successful plan I’ve had in a long time. And I’m pretty proud of myself. I don’t know why Jake didn’t see the same joy, but whatever. I’m not gonna let him bring me down. My shit was good. He’s gotta respect that. Maybe he’ll even listen to my suggestions. I haven’t felt this good since Alexis left me. So good that I’m leaving exactly at five o’clock today. No overtime for me. I gotta enjoy my good vibes.
I head out the door, and Aida is right behind me. I wait and hold the door for her. She doesn’t move with any urgency at all, so this is a big feat for me, which I attribute to my great mood. Normally I’d rush to get out of here. I also have no hard feelings for her right now, even though the sting from her taking my promotion while being incompetent, for the most part, still remains.
Sometimes I get so stressed out while here that I forget where I parked my car. Not today, though. I’m not going to lose any valuable evacuation time because I’m caught in the back of the exit line in the back of the lot.
As I approach my car, five police cars whiz into the lot with their sirens blaring, as if they’re filming a car chase for a Jason Statham flick. The cars surround one car and block it from moving. I can’t see who it is from my vantage point, but the cops get out of their cars with their guns drawn. The driver emerges from the car with her hands up. It’s Aida. She’s as frightened as a Quaker walking through a Best Buy for the first time.
Since she’s pretty much harmless, as far as I know, I realize the situation isn’t as drastic as the cops make it seem, and I move in closer to find out what’s going one, while most keep their distance. They make her put her hands on the hood of the car. A bit excessive, if you ask me, but I’m no civil-righ
ts lawyer. One older cop goes in the car and gets her purse. He looks through it.
“Got a live one,” the older cop says. His eyes light up. You would think he just nabbed one of the FBI’s most wanted. He pulls out a plastic Ziploc bag of marijuana.
“That’s for my glaucoma,” Aida says.
“Shut the fuck up!” a young red-haired cop shouts. “Shut the fuck up!” he repeats again for safe measure. He seems like he’s a bit trigger happy. If I were Aida, I’d play it cool and try not to talk again. He must not get much criminal action in this small suburban town.
The cop continues to search through her bag, and pulls out a hypodermic needle and presents it to his cop cohorts. Hunter has now joined the cops.
“That’s for my insulin,” she says.
“Give me a reason, bitch,” the red-haired cop shouts. “Give me a fucking reason to blow your ass away.” Another cop urges him to calm down.
The older cop puts the bag down and begins to search through Aida’s trunk. Then, he lifts up the spare tire and pulls out another Ziploc bag. “It’s heroin,” he says. All of the onlookers are astonished. They look further and find a small automatic handgun. “I’ve seen enough. Let’s finish this at the precinct.”
The cops push Aida into the back of the cop car. Nobody can believe what they’ve just seen. Aida, a drug-using, gun-toting criminal. Who knew? Today I feel a whole lot safer going home to my overpriced condo in the city. The suburbs have all sorts of unexpected criminals lurking around. Even frail old ladies. At least in the city you know who the criminals are. I don’t need them being sneaky and offering me peanut brittle and shit, not knowing they have a .22 tucked into their girdle. No thanks.
Aida’s walk on the wild side got me up nice and early this morning. I couldn’t sleep much anyway. Especially after I put together the pieces of what her arrest actually accomplished. There’s no way she didn’t get fired when Hunter saw that public display. And that means there’s an immediate opening for the manager position. I arrive nice and early, showing my commitment to STD. The job is all mine. I’m running too far ahead of schedule. I don’t want to give off the impression that I’m an eager ass-kisser. And the lack of sleep has me sort of bleary-eyed. A double espresso in my hazelnut latte should give me that jolt. Can’t have Hunter seeing me yawning like crazy. My positive mood gets sideswiped a little bit when I look above the coffee shop and see my picture hovering over the building. It’s one of our billboards. Mental constipation. Yep, that’s me. I don’t let it bother me too much. But I duck inside the coffee shop before I’m recognized, as if I’m a celebrity. Maybe I should invest in some sunglasses.
Labor Pains Page 24
