by Clare Kauter
* * *
That night I slept well. I dreamt that I was back at Gregory’s Groceries for the day and I had been crowned honorary checkout chick. Jeremy Martin came along and tried to kick me out but everyone turned against him and he seemed to shrink. Someone put him on the conveyor belt and I swiped his head over and over again. Beep, beep, beep.
Suddenly I was awake and it took me a moment to realise that it had actually been my alarm clock beeping. Oh well. The image of Jeremy Martin being swiped to death was still great, even if it hadn’t actually happened. I lay there for a bit longer, thinking. Hmm. I had the feeling I was forgetting something.
Crap! My new job!
I sprang out of bed (well, I sprang as much as I was capable of at this time of morning) and raced around the room grabbing clothes to wear. I sprinted to the bathroom for a shower and when I got there I was shocked to find that I was puffed. Not a good sign.
“Charlie,” I told myself, “you’re going to have to do something about this fitness problem.”
In true ‘I’m finally getting my life together’ style, I decided to take a tracksuit along with me to wear while running home after work. Shouldn’t be too hard, I lied to myself. It’s probably only five kilometres. Really, that isn’t very far. Then again, I’d worked up a sweat jogging the distance to the bathroom and that was literally one thousand times shorter. Hmm.
When I got out of the shower I noticed that my bruise had begun to fade a little overnight, thank goodness. It was not fun to look like you’d been in a car crash. It was also very embarrassing when you had to explain to everyone that, no, you hadn’t rolled your mother’s Nissan; you’d simply walked into the wall outside Gregory’s Groceries because you’re a complete and total klutz. I hoped no one else at Baxter & Co. asked me how I’d gotten that particular injury. It probably wasn’t the kind of first impression I wanted to make. But hey, given my track record with first impressions, that certainly wouldn’t be the worst.
When I finally got downstairs, I was wearing a white blouse, a mid-length black skirt, stockings (dark, to hide the blue legs) and low-heeled pumps. I’d gone for the natural look with the makeup today, with just some mascara and lip-gloss. I went for the natural look everyday. It was the only look I could do.
My hair had decided to be wavy today so I tied it back in a bun. (Well, I tied most of it back in a bun. There were a few wayward hairs that broke free.) I’d chosen my glasses over contact lenses for the added ‘professional’ look (which worked as long as you ignored the hasty repair job I’d done on them). I had my tracksuit in my black backpack and when I reached the kitchen I added a drink bottle and some food.
While I was sitting down eating breakfast at the table my mother looked at me and sighed.
“What’s with the backpack? You’re taking fashion faux pas to a whole new level. Which,” she added, “is a challenge you seem to take up, and excel at, daily.”
“I’m going for a run this afternoon and I can’t take a handbag with me for that.” She shook her head. “What? It’s not that bad.”
“Charlie, your definition of ‘a run’ is a single step.”
“No it isn’t! I’m going for a run!” I gathered up my stuff and left before my mother could exchange my bag for another one. I power-walked down the street, fuming. A single step? Uh! I planned to do at least twenty.
By the time I reached the office an hour later I was puffed and sweating. Gee, if that was what a walk did to me then I was not looking forward to my run.
I looked up, waved to the security cameras and proceeded to the front door. It opened for me. When I stepped inside, I poked my head around the door of Harry’s office to say hello, but found it empty. If Harry was away, who had keyed me in? Whoever was monitoring the security cameras, probably. Guess they knew who I was already. Pretty recognisable, what with my bruise and all. Even in its faded state, it was still pretty obvious. I kind of looked like Jesse in season one of Breaking Bad. (I’d only made it to season one – it was way too scary for me.)
I looked to my right. It was the desk I’d seen when I first came in yesterday, with messy piles of paper balancing precariously all over its surface. It hadn’t gotten any better overnight. If anything, it was worse. Today was not going to be fun – I would have to clean it up. After all, it was my desk.
I sighed and walked behind it, nearly slipping on the files strewn all over the floor. It took me ten minutes just to find the desk lamp. (It had been concealed behind a pile of folders which I’d luckily knocked over because I don’t think I’d have found it otherwise.) I flicked it on and (wouldn’t you just know it?) the bulb blew. That was all it took. I was working at a place that scared me, I hardly knew anyone, my office looked like a bomb had hit it, I had to clean it up, my face was all weird, and now I didn’t even have a light to work by.
I lay down on the floor in one of the few gaps between the piles of mess and closed my eyes, counting to ten, breathing, and envisioning a calm blue ocean.
This sucks. Not as much as Gregory’s Groceries, but not far behind. Who the hell uses a paper filing system in this day and age?! State of the art security system but a filing system from the 70s.
“You must be having a good first day. You can’t have been here more than fifteen minutes and it’s already put you to sleep.”
It was a male voice, but not one I recognised. Whoever it was had an American accent – the kind of Southern drawl I was familiar with from watching True Blood. (Don’t judge me. It’s a modern masterpiece.) I cracked one eye open to look at him, but I couldn’t see anything so I opened both eyes. There was a guy standing there, looking down at me with a smile on his face. He looked pretty tall, but I guessed from this angle most people would look kind of big.
“Oh good, you are alive. Do you want a hand up? Or is there a particular reason you’re down there?”
“No,” I said grumpily, not sure which of his questions I was answering. I felt that I was sort of expected to give an explanation. I didn’t feel obliged to tell the truth. Too lazy to come up with a convincing lie, instead I said, “I dropped a contact lens. I was just trying to find it.”
“But you’re wearing glasses.”
“I had to put them on to find my contact lens.”
“Fair enough, but you might have better luck with your search if you open your eyes and maybe actually face the floor.”
“I’ll keep that in mind next time.” I got up and turned to face the guy I’d been talking to. He was still pretty tall, well over 6 ft if I had to guess. Luckily I was a very threatening 5 feet 3 inches, or he might have been intimidating. He had messy blonde hair that was long due for a haircut along with a two-day-old beard and brown eyes. I had a feeling his hair was always like this. He was looking casual and comfy in Levis, a plain black shirt and a worn pair of Vans. I could see his muscles through the shirt and it was pretty obvious that he took working out seriously. I placed him in his mid twenties, and while and he seemed pretty friendly, I got the impression that he wouldn’t take crap from anyone. People who bothered working out that much had to have some use for their ridiculous strength, right?
“Tim Carter,” he said, extending his hand. “Most people here call me Sharps, though.” What was that, a street name? What did that even mean? Sharp shooter? Heroin addict? Snazzy dresser?
“Um – Charlie Davies,” I said, a bit distracted by imagining his backstory. “Um, I don’t – I don’t actually have a street – uh, nickname.”
He just smiled.
“So, er, what do I call you? Tim or Sharps?”
“Whatever you want, hot stuff,” he answered, still smiling. “You appear to be living in the dark here, literally. Why don’t you turn on the light?”
“I did. The bulb blew.”
“Was that before or after you lost your contact lens?” I gave him a death stare. He grinned back. “I better go, anyway. I was gonna grab a file but I’ve got no idea where to find it around here so I might wait u
ntil you’ve started to work your filing magic. There’s a storeroom next door – there should be light bulbs in there. I’ll duck back in later and see how you’re doing. See you!”
“Bye.”
He left. Great. Now I had no distractions (a.k.a. excuses not to do work).
I decided on an action plan:
1.Change light bulb.
2.Clean office.
Simple, to the point, and dead boring.
Oh well, I told myself. Think of the money!
That cheered me up enough to manage the light bulb. I chose one of the environmentally friendly ones that were supposed to last for ages. At least I knew it wasn’t going to stop working for a while. OK, so it cast a green glow over the desk and all the stuff on it, but hey, you can’t have everything! I tried to use the excitement from the light bulb achievement as momentum to get me enthusiastic about cleaning, but it wasn’t working for me.
Eventually I decided to stop procrastinating and just get on with it, which is not as easy as it sounds. There were files inside files inside boxes wedged behind cabinets. The desk and chair were covered in files. It looked like files and paper had got into a war and these were the remnants of the resulting massacre.
I began by throwing all the files and paper into a big heap in the corner. Maybe I’d put a pot plant there at a later date, I thought – it looked like the kind of place where greenery should go. Where did one buy plants? Hmm… Maybe I wouldn’t get one. Didn’t you have to give them water or something? I didn’t know if I could handle that level of responsibility.
By 11 o’clock I had all the files sorted out into 26 piles, based on the alphabet (duh). I was amazed to find that there was actually quite a large pile for ‘x’. Hah. The X-Files.
I started putting them all in the cabinets. I took a break at midday to eat. I pulled my apple, vegemite sandwich and water bottle out of my bag and wondered if it was strange that my mother still packed my lunch. I would do it myself, but if I touch any food while it is being prepared it inevitably turns rancid. When I’d finished lunch, I kept tidying.
By one, I had the files done, so I began working on the loose sheets of paper. This was a bit harder, because it involved reading them and then putting them wherever I thought they should go. I was all done at two so I started to wash and dust everything with cleaning supplies from the storeroom. The second the wet cloth touched the desk, the surface turned to mud. Jeez. They mustn’t have had anyone working in reception for a while. Well, I was probably the only one desperate enough to take on the job.
I sat down at the desk. It was now tidy and I actually liked the look of it. It definitely needed a pot plant, I decided. And maybe an electric kettle so that I could make myself tea. And I’d need a water jug as well. Some packets of lollies would be nice to have in the desk drawers, too, for when I was running low on energy.
Speaking of which, what did the drawers have in them already? I didn’t actually know what my job was, but it seemed strange that I didn’t have a phone or a computer. Shouldn’t I have? Unfortunately, all that the drawers held were three pens (one dead), a stapler and a hole punch. Nothing terribly interesting.
I glanced at my watch. Thirty-eight minutes past four. Only eight minutes since I’d last looked. OK, I could last twenty-two minutes. It wasn’t that hard, really. Not that long. No need to look through those files. It was none of my business.
Actually, I thought, maybe it is my business. I am secretary after all. I should know what’s going on…
Who was I trying to kid? I was attempting to justify snooping through the classified information – which, you have to admit, is quite tempting. Besides, I’d seen some pretty interesting files under ‘M’. Well, just the one curious one, really. Hmm. Come to think of it, I may have filed it in the wrong order. I decided I’d better check.
I opened one of the drawers and looked. Malcolm, Mapholm (was that a name?), Martin, hold on – Martin, Jeremy? Yes! I picked it up and began to read the first sheet in the file.
Subject – MARTIN, Jeremy
Initiated by – MARTIN, Lea
Investigator – BAXTER, Adam
Lea was having Jeremy investigated! So she’d already suspected he was up to something before I’d said anything – a few months ago, by the looks of it. Then he was late home…
I started to feel kind of guilty about what I’d done, pretending Jeremy was my lover and all. I should probably go and apologise. To Lea, of course, not to Jeremy. Chances were OK that she wouldn’t hurl rocks at me if I explained myself, right? When she’d had Jeremy investigated there were no photos of me – in fact, most of these pictures were of Jeremy sitting alone, watching people from across the street (ever the creeper) – so she’d probably had a pretty good idea that I was just making it up so Jeremy would look bad in front of his customers. I decided I’d go and visit her, try to smooth things over – we’d always gotten along pretty well, and I didn’t want to lose an almost-friend. I couldn’t really afford it, given how few I had. Sure, right. I could do this. I’d survive. Probably.
I put back that file. It hadn’t even been the one I was looking for. The one I wanted was titled ‘MCKENZIE, Frank’… and here it was. I opened it and read:
Subject – MCKENZIE, Francis
Initiated by – MCKENZIE, James
Investigator – CARTER, Timothy
I checked the dates. This file was still current (a bit obvious, really, considering Frank had only died on Monday), but – wow! James McKenzie, the man suspected of murdering his uncle, had ordered an investigation into the death! I wondered if this was the file Sharps had been looking for this morning. He obviously hadn’t started work on it yet, seeing as there was just that one sheet inside it – the contract. That’s probably what he’d been working on today. Maybe I could ask him when he got back. Wait, no, I realised. Confidentiality, etc. In fact, he said he was going to come back and visit me this afternoon and if he caught me looking through his file – well, I didn’t want to know. I shut the folder and went to put it back in the cabinet when –
“Don’t bother. I’ll just have to get it out again.”
I turned around to face him. Tim was standing just a few steps away, and yet I hadn’t even been aware of his presence until he spoke. I was terrified – that was, until I saw the amusement in his eyes. So I stated the obvious.
“I didn’t hear you come in.”
“I know. You shouldn’t underestimate how sneaky I am. Another thing you shouldn’t do is snoop at classified information in full view of anyone who comes through the front door. While I admire your enthusiasm for finding out things that aren’t any of your business, there are others in this building who would be… less than thrilled to catch you doing something like that. So, maybe next time be careful.”
“I’ll think about it.” What the hell?! I’ll think about it? Gee, I sounded a lot more confident than I felt.
“Think real hard about it. Can I have that?” he asked, gesturing towards the folder that I still held in my hand.
“Oh, oh – sure. Listen, um –” I didn’t really know what to say. Please don’t get me sacked? Or have me arrested? Or killed?
He looked me straight in the eye and said, “You owe me.” Shit.
And on that note, he departed.
I shut the drawer of the filing cabinet and glanced at my watch. Five past five. I ducked next door into the storage room and closed (and locked) the door behind me so I could change into my tracksuit. It occurred to me that I really should have asked where the bathrooms were.
My tracksuit was the one I’d had since high school for P.E. and it had definitely seen better days. Even though it had been rarely worn (I’d had a knack for getting out of exercise), I’d put it to use over the years as everything from a shoe-shiner to a mop to a bib for when I was eating in bed like a slob. These days it was saggy and bulgy in unflattering places, as well as riddled with holes. I was hoping no one would see me in it (not only because it
was hideous, but also because the shirt was emblazoned with the Gerongate High logo and people wearing school uniforms when they were no longer students was just sad). That problem was solved when I realised I hadn’t brought my joggers (which, admittedly, weren’t that crash hot either – another of my high school investments that I pretended were still good enough to wear). Running in pumps not being one of my favourite pastimes (hell, I could hardly walk in them), I decided to skip the jog for today. If I felt like it I might go for a run tomorrow. Or Sunday. That was one of my life mottos: ‘Never put off until tomorrow what can be delayed until the day after.’
I gathered up my stuff and left through the front door. I turned to face the building I’d just come out of. Three stories, another building the same size but without the sign to the left, and if you went around the right hand side, there was even an underground car park. I wondered how much was owned by Baxter & Co. Probably all of it.
Out of plain curiosity, I decided to check out this fancy subterranean garage. I headed around the side of the building, being careful not to be seen. I don’t know why – after all, I had every right to be there. I mean, OK, so I didn’t have a car, but no use worrying about the particulars, right?
When I got to the back of the building, I saw the weirdest thing. Four silver cars left the garage, just to be replaced by four black cars. Huh? I was so curious about this that I actually went into the parking lot.
When I walked down the ramp, I was amazed at what I saw. The whole lot was taken up with black and silver cars. No other colours (or shades, if you want to get all technical). Just black and silver. These must belong to the Baxter & Co. workers. Hmm. This might give me a vague idea of how many people were working here. I began to count. 2, 4, 6, 8 –
Suddenly I felt a hand clap over my mouth as I was seized from behind. I struggled against my captor but couldn’t break free. The stranger had too strong a hold on me.
“What are you doing?” the person asked me quietly. It was a male voice and it was coming from an incredibly strong guy. Even with all my failed attempts to free myself the man’s feet still hadn’t moved. Or it could just be that I was incredibly weak. Probably the latter. Either way, my attacker had his arm around my neck and I couldn’t loosen it. “I’m going to take my hand off your mouth now so you can answer, but don’t even think about screaming or I’ll snap your neck like a twig. Understand?”
I nodded (at least, I tried – not the easiest thing to do when you’re in a headlock). It’s amazing how clear things seem when your life is threatened. Agree or die. Very simple.
He took his hand away from my mouth.
“I’m just walking through a car park and you attack me for it? How dare you?” I took a deep breath (or as deep as I could, given the circumstances) and hit him with another torrent of abuse. “You should be ashamed of yourself, assaulting innocent young ladies here. Or, for that matter, assaulting innocent ladies anywhere.” Did I just refer to myself as an innocent young lady? “You are a disgusting man. What appalling behaviour! You repulse me.”
I blame the way I was speaking on the restricted blood/oxygen flow to my brain. I’d started talking like my grandmother did whenever she came across an ‘impolite young man’ – all I can say in my defence is that it seemed to work when she said it.
In this case, the ‘impolite young man’ himself seemed too stunned to speak. I didn’t give him a chance to compose himself before continuing. “Well? Are you going to let me go and apologise profusely for what you’ve done? Or act like the unpleasant character you are and continue with this ridiculous power trip that you seem to find so entertaining?”
Still no answer.
By now I was so worked up, I no longer cared that my life could be in danger. “Well, come on then, do something. Say something.”
His grip loosened and I ducked down to pull my head away from him. I turned around and found myself face-to-face with Impolite Young Man himself. He had jet-black hair that curled a little at the ends. His clothes, too, were jet black – black jeans, black T-shirt (despite how lean he was, I could see his muscles clearly through it – it seemed like most people at Baxter & Co. were big fans of that mystical place known as the gymnasium) and black Converse sneakers. The amount of muscle wasn’t the only impressive thing about him. With his flawless brown skin, defined jaw line, and symmetrical features, he looked like he’d stepped straight out of a Photoshopped magazine picture advertising cologne or designer underwear or something. He was probably around six foot, but he didn’t look lanky – the height suited him. I guessed he was Indigenous, though it didn’t seem the right time to ask.
“You’re the new receptionist, right? I heard your face was smashed up. Probably from sticking your nose where it didn’t belong, if your behaviour today is anything to go by. Sorry for grabbing you,” he said casually, “but this is a security company.”
“That was a pathetic apology.”
He sighed, like he was working in retail and I was an annoying customer who wouldn’t leave until he gave me a refund for that $0.33 he overcharged me. (Trust me, I know that look well. It’s one I’ve worn many a time.) “And I’m sorry that I snuck up on you.”
“Sneaked.”
“What?”
“Technically the – the proper word is ‘sneaked,’ although it’s become common to say ‘snuck’ instead.” I stammered halfway through the sentence, realising that no one with a face that beautiful cared about whether it was ‘snuck’ or ‘sneaked’. He probably had a fashion show to be getting to and I was just holding him up.
“I also apologise for my appalling use of the English language.”
“Thank you.” Wait, what? Why was I thanking him? I blame his face. It was distracting. No one should be that symmetrical.
“Do you always talk like an old lady?”
“If you sound like someone’s grandmother they’ll do what they’re told.” I wondered how far I could go with this. On your knees, young man. Now remove that tight-fitting shirt. Wait, what?
“Do I have to apologise for anything else?” he asked, not sounding entirely sincere. I wanted to press for a better apology, but I decided it was best not to antagonise him further. He was tall and be-muscled and, you know, I was kind of trespassing.
I tried to change the topic of conversation. “What’s with the cars?”
He looked bored but told me anyway. “Because it’s around five now, some of the day workers are leaving and so they’re being replaced with night workers. Everyone here drives either a black or silver company car.”
“Why the black and silver cars?”
“To blend in,” he said, straight-faced. Like hell Porches and BMWs would ‘blend in.’ This was Gerongate, Capital of the Unnecessary Suburban Four Wheel Drive.
“Blend in? Right, so I guess this company does most of its work with the upper classes.” Impolite Young Man didn’t seem to care what I was saying. He looked at me, remaining silent. “Well, I’m leaving.” We didn’t exchange goodbyes. We weren’t exactly on friendly terms.
I started to walk away, and I was nearly out of the car park when I tripped over. Impolite Young Man appeared behind me and gave me a hand up. I was expecting him to laugh, or smile, or react somehow. He just looked disgusted, like he couldn’t believe someone had employed me. Hey, you and me both, buddy.
“Don’t say anything,” I warned him. He was smart enough to oblige.
That night, as my family sat around the dinner table (creamy cashew and mushroom pasta – good, since Mum cooked it), Mum asked me what had happened at work that day.
Well, let’s see. I’d met two guys I worked with. I knew that one had a street name. He caught me snooping through files and having a nap on the floor. The other thought I was an honorary geriatric because of the way I’d abused him after he restrained and threatened me for walking around a car park. And then he saw me trip over. And he hadn’t even taken off his shirt.
“Not much,” I answered. “B
ut they’re giving me a car.”
