by Sandra Cunha
When I’m not in stalker-girl mode, I get off two stops later at St. Andrew station, which is what I do today.
And so commences the race to my box in the sky.
On this morning, like every weekday morning before, I walk down the same gloomy, grey corridor.
Carol, my boss’s administrative assistant, greets me with raised eyebrows. She never says anything, but I know she’s keeping track.
I enter my cubicle, which is also grey. Why are cubicles almost always grey? It’s like walking into bad weather. No one likes bad weather. Imagine how much happier everyone would be to enter a striped or paisley cubicle. (Note to self: invent cubicle wallpaper.)
It usually takes me a good half-hour to get settled in properly. First, I turn on my computer. While waiting for it to start up, I check my voicemail. (None.) Once the computer is ready to go, I read my emails: personal, then work-related. Finally, I go online to see what’s happening in the world. As in, the latest celebrity gossip.
But this morning, my routine is interrupted by Carol, who is peering over the wall of my cubicle. (I can’t stand when she does that.) I quickly minimize my computer screen. It’s become an ingrained reflex.
“Erin, will you be joining us for the monthly team meeting?” she asks.
What she’s implying with her pseudo-question is that I couldn’t possibly have remembered we have a team meeting this morning. Sure, I’d forgotten but still. Not nice Carol.
“Of course, I wouldn’t miss it for anything,” I say, giving her a fake smile.
She fake-smiles back at me and returns to her desk.
Carol and I have a hate-hate relationship, although we pretend to like each other. It’s a half-hearted attempt on both our parts. She’s been gunning for my job as sales and marketing coordinator ever since I started working here, nearly five years ago. That’s right, I said coordinator, not manager. Why she’d want my job is anyone’s guess.
I grab my notebook and head to the office kitchen for some disgusting coffee. My Monday morning extra-tardiness means there wasn’t enough time to buy a latte on my way into work. But I need coffee, no matter how bad, to get me through the meeting without falling asleep—which only happened once, but I live in fear of it ever happening again.
The meeting is beginning as I sneak into the boardroom. I quickly take a seat.
“Morning, everyone. I trust you all had a good weekend. Let’s keep this brief. I have another meeting in an hour,” Bradford, director of sales and marketing, and my boss, says as he commands his troops.
Ah, Bradford. He means well, but he’s not totally with it. He’s forever coming up with “make-do” projects he believes are the most important tasks in the world when they’re just “make-do” projects. I think he secretly lives in fear of losing his job, so he has to constantly prove his worth. That’s my diagnosis, anyway.
These monthly team meetings are the definition of boring. We each have to give an update on what we’re working on, and for me that usually isn’t much.
Carol always goes first. She spends ten minutes going over the office supplies budget, lecturing the team on the importance of printing double-sided as a means to cut down on paper costs.
“Good work, Carol. Way to stay on top of things,” Bradford says.
Carol beams. (Kiss ass.) She’s also the one who decided it was no longer in the budget for us to have donuts at these meetings. (Heartless.) It was the one thing I looked forward to.
“Erin, how is everything coming along with you?”
“Huh? Um, great. I’m almost done with that project you gave me,” I say, once I realize Bradford’s talking to me.
Bradford and I have an unspoken agreement. He’s frequently in meetings or off on business trips to our U.S. counterpart. I’m sure he knows I spend the majority of my time surfing the web, especially when he’s out of town. But he appears to live by the army mantra of “Don’t ask, don’t tell.” He enjoys the status of having extra soldiers; active service is optional.
“Yes, great.” He nods as he looks away uncomfortably. (See? He knows.)
While he questions his next soldier, I daydream about winning the lottery. Wouldn’t it be wonderful? I wouldn’t have to work anymore. I’d buy whatever I wanted, including my mom’s Chanel bag. I let out a loud sigh, and everyone turns towards me.
“Sorry,” I mouth, feeling my cheeks burning. At least, I didn’t hum the jingle from the lottery commercials like last time.
The meeting ends a grueling hour later. I contemplate going back to my desk, but decide to go downstairs to grab a latte, instead. It’s not as if I have anything pressing to do.
I know I should be saving my money, but I feel caffeine falls under the list of necessary expenditures.
When I get back to my desk, there’s a stack of documents with a yellow sticky note on top. The note reads: “3x copies by noon. DOUBLE-SIDED! Carol.”
God, I can’t stand her.
I want to take the stack over to her desk and throw it in her face. She’s the administrative assistant. Why do I have to do her crappy work?
Fighting my animalistic urges, I take the stack to the copy room. I have to wait a few minutes while Shirley from accounts payable copies some invoices. She tries making small talk, but I’m in no mood for chit-chat after seeing Carol’s note.
As my luck would have it, the machine jams with my first copy. I kick it in frustration. Normally, I would try to fix it, but I can’t be bothered.
Making sure no one sees me, I leave the copy room and head to the one on the opposite side of the floor.
This gives me a weird sense of pleasure in what is turning into yet another depressing day in my world of work.
That can’t be right. I could’ve sworn it was Thursday. My online calendar confirms that it is, unfortunately, only Wednesday.
This week is especially light. I have a minor sales report to complete and a couple of miscellaneous calls to make. I wonder if anyone would notice if I took a short nap under my desk; doing nothing is tiring. I take a peek, but it’s too dusty—I’d be covered in evidence. Someone should clean under there; I could be making good use of that space.
Maybe there’s a sick room somewhere in the building. I could say I’m feeling lightheaded and need to lie down for a bit. Why haven’t I thought of this before?
As I’m searching our company’s online portal, my work phone rings.
“Erin Bettencourt,” I say, answering in my best phone voice. It’s throatier and deeper than my normal voice.
“Erin? Is that you? It’s Betty. Are you sick or something?”
“No, I was just—”
“Using your fake phone voice? Another exciting day at the office, I see,” she says, laughing.
“Yeah, I was thinking of sneaking out for a bit. What’s up?”
“I have a way for you to earn some extra money—”
“Really? Phew! I’ve been going by the vintage shop after work every night to make sure mom’s bag is still there, but I’m freaking out that someone’s going to buy it. What’s your idea? I can’t wait to hear it!”
“Listen then. Sheesh. Remember how you used to babysit in high school? I checked around and found something similar for you.”
“Great! When do they need me?” I knew Betty would come through. Did I mention she skipped a grade? She’s practically a genius. Sometimes it seems as though she’s the older sister.
“Saturday, but there’s something you should know.”
“What?”
“They aren’t kids, and you won’t exactly be babysitting.”
“Huh? What are they then, and what will I be doing?”
“Three dogs, and you’d be walking them. What do you think?”
“What kind of dogs?”
“I thought you were over that.”
“What kind of dogs, Betty?”
“Small dogs. I’ve seen photos on my coworker’s desk. But one of them is a . . . chihuahua. Don’t freak out. You’re not
a kid anymore.”
When I was four, I was bitten by a chihuahua. It was more of a scratch really but equally traumatizing. Ever since then, I try to avoid them.
“Think about it, Erin. It’s good money. You should do it.”
I mull it over in my mind. I am older now. I could probably outrun a chihuahua if the situation called for it. And it is important to face your fears.
“I’ll do it!” I say. “What time do I have to get there?”
Betty gives me the time, and says she’ll call me on Saturday morning with the address.
Who knew dog walkers make twenty bucks an hour, per dog.
Maybe this will be my new money-making gig for Project Coco. (That’s what we’ve codenamed it.)
How hard could it possibly be?
CHAPTER THREE
Project Coco Fund = $0.00
EVERYTHING IS FUZZY. I’m in a state of total confusion.
Moments earlier, I was running down the cobblestone streets of Moscow while being chased by two secret agents. To avoid capture, I had to jump from one building rooftop to another, even performing a forward flip at one point, which both surprised and delighted me that I could do.
Was all that just a dream? It felt so real. Alas, back to my less exciting waking world.
I pick up my phone, trying to make out the time through squinting eyes.
SHIT!
It’s 9:32am. I should already be sitting at my desk, not lying on my bed.
Why didn’t my alarm go off?
Frantically, I deliberate which parts of my morning routine can safely be skipped.
I smell my armpits. No shower. I’m hungry, but there’s no time. Hair and makeup? Definitely required.
Stupid! Stupid! How could I have slept-in so late?
I run into my walk-in closet and put on a black top and black skirt. (I can’t colour-coordinate in this condition.) My teeth get a two-second brushing while I pull my hair back into a low ponytail. I apply some makeup. Too much blush! I’m sweating, a lot. So I swipe on several flicks of deodorant and douse myself in perfume.
Eight minutes later, I’m ready to go. That has to be a personal record. Grabbing my jacket and purse, I head for the door.
Fuck! Where are my keys?
I swear I put them in my purse last night. Wasting another five minutes, I look for the missing keys. But I can’t find them anywhere, so I risk it and leave the door unlocked. What are the chances?
The elevator takes forever to arrive. When it does, Larry, the superintendent, is in there. He’s so gross. He’s always giving the women in the building “the eye.”
“Don’t you look all flustered—in a bit of a rush?” he asks my breasts.
“A bit, yeah.” Stop talking to me.
The elevator doors proceed to open at what seems like every floor. More and more people keep cramming in. I’m being pressed up against Larry, whose hot breath I can feel on the back of my neck. I’m going to puke or kill them all; it could go either way.
We finally reach ground level. I make it out without puking up my non-existent breakfast or getting a criminal record, then sprint for the front doors.
As I approach the corner of my street, my phone starts ringing.
Crap! It’s probably Bradford, or worse, Carol, asking where I am. I check the display: it’s only Betty.
“Hey, I can’t talk. I’m so late!” I say out of breath as I run across the street, narrowly avoiding getting hit by a car.
“Late? But you don’t have to get there until two. How do you know where you’re going? I never gave you the address.”
“Address? What address?” I slow down my pace. Something is beginning to click in my mind.
“For Greta’s place, remember? You’re walking her dogs this afternoon. Erin, are you okay?”
And then, it hits me: today is Saturday.
With time once again on my side, I return to my unlocked apartment and take a long, hot bubble bath. I’ve earned it after this morning’s events.
Afterwards, I change into something more dog-friendly, too. No need to impress the little felines. Wait, felines are cats. I mean, pooches. (I think.)
I throw on some yoga pants and running shoes. I’ll consider this my weekly workout; maybe take the pups for a run in the park. I’ve been meaning to take-up running, and this is the perfect opportunity to start. I see people running with their dogs all the time, although they don’t usually have three dogs. And I guess I’m supposed to be dog walking, not dog running.
Imagine if one of the dogs has an undiagnosed heart condition that gets triggered by our run. I wouldn’t want to have to perform doggie C.P.R. on my watch. That would be horrible. (And I probably wouldn’t get paid.)
I’m not a dog lover—admitting that is sacrilege these days. But I’ve never gotten the whole dog infatuation thing. You won’t catch me stopping to pet a dog while oohing and aahing.
Hold on a second.
What am I thinking wearing yoga pants and running shoes? I’ll be stopped multiple times, and a few of those times, I’ll be stopped by men, potentially attractive men.
I can’t wear my sweats!
Rummaging through my closet, I look for something more appropriate. But even with a closet full of clothes, I can’t find anything to wear. I finally settle on a flowy, black tank top with my favourite jeans: casual yet stylish. And to add a little je ne sais quoi, I’ll wear my last splurge before the Great Plasectomy: a pair of three-inch, red, fake-suede ankle booties purchased at a half-off sale. It’s still somewhat warm for ankle booties, but they make my outfit.
So what if this isn’t the standard uniform of those in command of the leash. I seek to defy convention; shake things up in the dog-walking world.
Plus, they’re small dogs with short legs.
How fast can they go?
I get off the subway at Rosedale station.
No one ever gets off at Rosedale station. I wonder why this station exists. Maybe it’s for all “the staff” who take care of the upper class and their offspring (including the four-legged variety).
I approach the house. No, not house. Mansion.
It’s huge. I’m not sure how to get in. There’s a gate with a keypad. Betty never mentioned a keypad or any kind of code. Although Greta probably wouldn’t give me the code right away, as she hasn’t met me, yet. But maybe in a few weeks, when I’ve bonded with her pups, she’ll want me to move in and become her official dog nanny. I’ll live in the guest-house and have gourmet meals with the family. And I won’t have to worry about work or money. I’ll get to play in the park all day and—
“Olá? Olá?”
A voice coming from the keypad transports me back to reality.
“Um, olá. I’m Erin Bettencourt. I’m here to walk the dogs.”
“They’re expecting you. Please, come in,” the voice says. (Wow, smart dogs.)
I make my way through the gate and wobble up to the front door. Heels weren’t designed for the rough terrain of this unidentifiable, expensive-looking, interlocking-stone circular driveway.
I’m searching for the doorbell when the tallest door I’ve ever seen in my life opens.
A woman appears with perfectly-styled, white-blonde hair pulled back into a tight bun. She’s wearing a simple yet exquisite ivory pantsuit. She looks great for someone who has to be like fifty.
“You must be Erin. I am Greta,” she says with an accent. (Betty mentioned her coworker was Swedish.) “Your sister recommends you highly. I trust you will take great care with my babies. They mean the world to me.”
“Yes, of course. I love dogs. All dogs. Even the really ugly ones, I mean, the less fortunate looking ones.” Stop talking, Erin.
“That is kind. It is my pleasure to introduce you to my babies. This is Huey, over there is Dewey, and . . . where has Louie gone to? Please, give me a moment. My apologies.”
She leaves me standing at the massive door. I guess DuckTales was popular in Sweden, too. I glance down at the ugli
est pug on Earth, slobbering away. Next to him, looking ready to pounce, is Dewey, the chihuahua. My heart begins to race.
Be cool, Erin. He can’t jump higher than your thigh from his position.
Greta returns with a terrier in her arms. He’s licking her face, and I swear they’re French-kissing. There’s no other way to describe what I’m seeing.
“And this is Louie, my favourite,” she whispers this to me because dogs can understand humans. “My babies enjoy taking a special route on their Saturday walk. I asked Maria to print out a map for you. Please, do follow the map, or they get quite anxious. And here are some baggies.” Greta hands me the map and the baggies.
What do I need baggies for? Oh, crap. I forgot that part.
“Um, sure. I’ll follow your map to the letter. Nothing to worry about. I’m fully trained in these matters,” I say.
“Well, you must be a professional to walk three rambunctious dogs in those heels. I expect them back by four for their afternoon nap. Ta!” She hands me their DuckTales colour-coded leashes and closes the enormous door.
I’m now on my own with the chihuahua and his thugs.
Examining the map Greta gave me, I see she wants me to take the dogs to some park that’s at least a thirty-minute walk away. And there are some instructions about a dog wading pool.
I didn’t wake up this morning to smell of wet dog. Besides, the dogs should be around people who will appreciate their clothes, err, their beautiful shiny fur. Where are their fancy dog clothes? These are rich dogs, and they’re running around naked. I wonder if they’re embarrassed. I think the chihuahua might be; she seems to blush as we pass a poodle wearing a pink, tweed coat-thingy. Wait, the chihuahua is probably a boy given a name like Huey—or is he Dewey? Maybe he’s gay. He definitely seems fashion-conscious. We may get on better than expected after all.
As I exit McMansionville, I end up on Yonge Street. There’s no way I’m going to this dog park. It’d be a waste of a gorgeous Saturday afternoon.
