Hunger Point

by Jillian Medoff

  “Well you do talk too much. But I don’t think they’re out to get you.” I look up to see Sue standing in my doorway. She has a strange look on her face. “Grandpa, I’ll call you back.”

  “When?”

  “Soon.” I hang up. “Sue, what’s wrong?”

  She hands me a piece of paper. “Adrienne found this. We wanted to make sure you got it.” She turns to leave.

  “Thanks.” Panicked, I flush with heat, and my stomach cramps as if I’m having a painful bout of diarrhea. It’s Abby’s fax. And there’s no note.

  From the Desk of Abigail Lynn Friedman

  Attorney-at-Law

  Frannie,

  Here’s the letter to Randy. I know it’s sentimental, but I’m sick of being perceived as the type of girl who doesn’t give a fuck about romance and who only wants a massive member (a jolly Johnson?) and a house in the Hamptons (however true that may be).

  P.S. Has the Waddler said anything about the limo? If he’s as cheap as you say, it’s probably a good idea not to do it again. But you really should stop sending a car every week to pick up your mother in Hartford. How can you hide that in your expense reports? Furthermore, there’s nothing wrong with using petty cash every once in a while for incidentals. I can understand lunches, a dinner sometimes, maybe even toiletries (you can rationalize those by saying that if you didn’t have a job, you wouldn’t wash your hair). But a suit? From Saks? And a cashmere coat? Are you out of your mind? You’re gonna get snagged.

  OKAY—HERE IS THE RANDY LETTER:

  Dear Randy:

  I haven’t returned your calls because I don’t know what to say. I think if we’re ever going to work this out, we need to establish a few things. I will concede that you are not solely responsible for our problems. I can be demanding on occasion. But that’s only because I give a lot. I know I came on too strong about getting engaged. I just panicked. So I’m sorry I made you crazy. I’ll stop talking about it, but you have to promise to stop teasing me about things I can’t control—like being beautiful (ha ha). No, really, you have to stop teasing me about other women. It hurts my feelings. If you want to be with someone else, fine, but I refuse to be with you if you’re seeing other people. That’s the ­bottom line. I also promise I won’t cut you down anymore for smelling so bad (I do suggest you see a doctor, but I swear, this is the last time I’ll mention it).

  I miss you so much. I just want you back. I love you.

  Abby

  I stare at the fax for a long time before I call Abby. In fact, I’m so engrossed, I forget I have no idea who else has read this. From the time they started dating, Abby’s been telling me how much Randy was pushing her to make a commitment, but she kept stalling. Well, that’s obviously not true. I’m surprised she let me read this, but then she probably forgot she lied about it.

  “I am so furious,” I tell her when I get her on the line. “How could you send a fax like this to my office? Is there something wrong with you?”

  “So you found it. What do you think? Pretty queer letter, huh?”

  “No, I didn’t find it. The Waddler’s secretary found it. Are you on drugs? What if people read it and they believe it? Abby, I could really be fired. This is not a joke. Jesus, you’re supposed to be the professional here.”

  At first, she’s indignant. “You were supposed to be standing by the machine,” she says. “I never thought it would fall into enemy hands!! Besides, who would believe all that stuff? If it were true, would I fax it to you? I thought you’d think it was funny.” When I don’t say anything, she begs me to forgive her, but I’m so mad I can’t speak.

  “Oh God, Frannie, I’m sorry.” She starts to cry.

  “Abby, stop crying. I’m the injured party.”

  “But they’re gonna fire you and it will all be my fault. What can I do? Please let me do something to make this up to you. I’ll buy you a new outfit. I’ll pay for you to go to law school. You can be a lawyer. Fuck that place, you don’t need them if they can’t take a joke.” Now she’s frantic. “Why don’t I call the Waddler and tell him it was just a joke. Please?”

  “I don’t think he’d see the humor, Abby,” but I imagine him reading about Abby’s desire for a massive member and I have to smile. I never imagined that I’d keep this job for long. I mean, really, who are we kidding?

  I avoid Vicky and the Waddler for the rest of the day. I don’t have my own office yet, but I finally realize why it’s so important. It’s more than just having privacy to call your friends; it’s also the only place you can avoid the people you work for without raising suspicion.

  At six o’clock, Vicky stops by. “Are you ready?” She looks at her watch. “We’re supposed to meet them at seven, but I thought we’d get together first and talk.”

  I glance at her face, checking for signs indicating that she knows about the fax. She’s her same smiling self, all perky and professional, but I’m not convinced. “I’ll meet you in the lobby,” I tell her. I rummage through my desk. I consider clearing it out, but decide to wait. Even if they demand my immediate resignation, they have to let me come back to gather my things.

  In the restaurant, I order a glass of wine that comes in a goblet the size of my head. I gulp my wine while Vicky talks. “I know you’ve been under a lot of pressure lately,” she says.

  “It hasn’t been so bad,” I mumble, reaching for my wine. “I’m really happy at Cuisine.”

  “Well, it’s been busy as hell for me.” She laughs. “What have you been doing all day?” You don’t want to know, Vicky old girl, I wouldn’t know where to begin. “Anyway, Frannie, I’ve been meaning to talk to you about something, but I haven’t had the time.”

  This is it. This is the big talk. I’m sorry, Vicky. I’m sorry about everything. About the limo and my dirty suits and the fax, especially the fax. You know it was just a joke, right? I may be a bit loony, but I’m not a thief. And it’ll never happen again. Please, Vicky, don’t make me leave. I have nowhere else to go. I can’t go back to Oprah. I kicked it once. I don’t know if I can do it again. “What is it?” I say quietly, looking away. Just say it. Just get it over with.

  “Regina’s leaving!” Vicky sings. “You’re getting your own office!”

  “That’s it? That’s the whole thing?” I try to resurrect some energy, but it’s like French-kissing at a funeral. “Wow, that’s terrific. Oh, thank God, that’s good.”

  “Oh, look. There’s Henry!” Vicky waves as the Waddler walks toward our table, flanked by two men wearing flashy suits. The one carrying a cellular phone has a bouffant hairdo that looks like a beehive. The other has his hair slicked back in a ponytail. He has a weird stringy thing around his neck, a cross between a bolo tie and a cameo with two silver-tipped shoelaces hanging down. As the three men move through the restaurant, I feel like I’m being approached by a firing squad.

  “You must be Frannie Hunter!!” The bouffant man pumps my hand. “Alvin Meyer, account exec.” As he pulls out a chair to sit down, he nods at Vicky but doesn’t say anything. Then he shakes her hand as if he could give a shit.

  The other man sticks out his hand. “Hugh Vandermire,” he says quietly. He takes a seat, but not without first wiping it off with his pocket handkerchief.

  I open the menu, close my eyes, and point at an entree. I open my eyes. Swordfish. When the waiter stops by, that’s what I tell him I want.

  Vicky excuses herself to go to make a phone call. While she’s gone, Alvin fires off questions to me: how long I’ve been with Cuisine, our current advertising budget, our plans for the future, and where we’d like to be positioned in the next five years. I smile politely and try to answer him honestly without revealing too much, but he’s got me all befuddled. I’m grateful when our food finally arrives.

  The Waddler is engaged in discussion with Hugh, who, I’ve noticed, wipes off every piece of silverware. This wouldn’t be so odd, but then he doesn’t even use it. He eats everything, his fish, his vegetables, even his rice, with his fi
ngers.

  “So Frannie,” Alvin says. “I know you told me, but tell me again. How long have you been with Cuisine?”

  The Waddler speaks up. “Two months. Not long.” I look at him. For a second, he holds my eye. Then he looks away. He’s read the fax, I know it! Hank, I don’t think you’re cheap. And if you are, so what? We’re all idiosyncratic.

  “Only two months? What kinds of immediate changes do you foresee?”

  The Waddler smiles slightly. “Go ahead, Frannie.”

  “Well,” I say slowly, wondering what’s going on, “first I need to evaluate my own position and adjust to corporate life.”

  “Where were you before?”

  “Operations.” I look at my hands. “I’ve made some minor mistakes in my first two months, mistakes I know I can learn from.” I look at the Waddler, who raises an eyebrow. Oh God, what does that mean? It wasn’t like I killed anyone. I flash him my best smile. “This is a whole new ball game for me, but I have a decent, honest head on my shoulders, and I believe I can rise to the occasion.”

  “I like humility in a boss.” Alvin punches my shoulder lightly. “You must get it from Henry.” He turns to the Waddler. “Hank, I hear you had a hell of a year. Profits up by 25 percent. If you let Littleton & Branise handle your ads, I bet we can raise that another 15 percent. Easy.” Alvin is practically in the Waddler’s lap.

  “What are you talking about?” I cut in. “Henry’s not my boss. I report to Vicky. She reports to Henry.”

  The color drains from Alvin’s face. Hugh coughs. “Vicky’s your boss?” he chokes out.

  I nod. “She’s the vice president. I’m the coordinator.”

  “I thought the coordinator oversaw the entire division.”

  At that moment, Vicky returns to the table. “Well, Frannie has some responsibility, Alvin, but we haven’t given her the entire division yet. We’re still working on moving her out of our secretary’s desk.”

  Obviously embarrassed, Alvin tugs on his tie. “Well, Henry, had I known, I would have waited for Vicky before I started interrogating Frannie.”

  Henry shrugs. “Looks to me like she was holding her own.”

  I beam at the Waddler, but he turns and says something to Vicky that I can’t hear. Then he excuses himself and leaves the table. While he’s gone, we make small talk as we eat. “So Vicky,” Alvin says at one point. “Guess who I had lunch with last week—your old boss, Ed Morgan. You guys speak often?”

  Vicky looks up. “No. Why?”

  “No reason, I knew you were friendly.”

  I watch Vicky. I can’t tell if Alvin is baiting her because he knows about Ed, but Vicky seems totally cool. She’s amazing. If someone asked me about a guy from my past, I’d completely decompensate. “Anyway”—Alvin leans forward—“he brought some little blond who had no idea how to act during a business lunch. Here I was pitching our agency and she’s trying to cuddle with him. You gotta wonder about some women.” Alvin winks. “That’s why it’s so great to deal with you, Vicky. You are the consummate professional.”

  Vicky jams her fork into her trout, takes a bite, and gnashes the fish between her teeth. “Alvin,” she says, “cut the bullshit, okay? It’s not the women you have to worry about, it’s the goddamn men. Why was Ed bringing her to lunch anyway? You don’t find that even the slightest bit inappropriate? Regardless, if you’re trying to get Ed’s business, stop gossiping. He and I are on the same side, you know.”

  Two bright red puddles stain Alvin’s cheeks, as if his skin was cut underneath and he’s bleeding from the inside out. “I didn’t mean to offend you,” he mumbles. “I was just making conversation.”

  The Waddler returns. “What did I miss?” he asks. The table is silent. He turns to Alvin. “So, you were saying? You think you can raise our profits by how much?”

  “Fifteen percent.” Alvin takes a deep breath. “I really think Littleton & Branise is the right firm for Continental. Hugh, show him your concept board.”

  Henry interrupts him. “We’re Cuisine,” he says dryly.

  “That’s what I meant. Cuisine. Cuisine American.”

  “America.”

  Alvin looks like he’s going to cry. There’s a long silence while we all pick at our food. Alvin swallows his pork loin and mutters a small “Sorry” to no one in particular. He looks around the table meekly and runs a hand across his bouffant do. I suddenly feel pity for him and for Hugh, whose face is contorted as he sucks on a lemon wedge. Sitting next to him, I’m the only one who hears Alvin mutter, “I guess I fucked this one up,” under his breath. I shift in my seat. God, this is really awkward. I wish someone would say something already.

  Suddenly, I blurt, “One time when I was in college, I worked for a public relations firm.” I’m speaking quickly, running my words together, not even realizing they’re coming until they’re out there and there’s no way to get them back. “I worked a few days a week while I was in school, so I was juggling courses and work assignments and boyfriends. My life was very hectic and I was often distracted. But I was hired to type and file and do general office work, so I didn’t think it would be too stressful. And the work ­wasn’t stressful, but the man that I worked for was very old-school and he had an antique intercom, and he would buzz me when he needed me. The buzz was very loud and he buzzed me all day long, and every time, it made me jump out of my skin.

  “Anyway, I began to make mistakes. Nothing major, just misfiling letters or forgetting to take messages. But every time I did something, this guy went ballistic. He’d scream at me, which got me all uptight. And the more he screamed, the more I screwed up. A lot of times, though, things weren’t my fault, but because I was already in the doghouse, he was convinced I was sabotaging him. Once, he told me to send a contract to a really important client. Two days later, the CEO called to ask him why we’d sent pamphlets for luxury time shares and cruises with the contract. Apparently, I didn’t check the Jiffy bag I’d sent the contract in. We always reused Jiffy bags and this particular one had twenty brochures stuffed at the bottom!! The CEO was already annoyed that our firm’s fees were so high, and now he got all these brochures addressed to my boss for luxury vacations!” I relax to catch my breath. The Waddler checks his watch, but his head is cocked and I know, instinctively, that he’s listening.

  “Anyway,” I continue, “this guy keeps yelling at me and buzzing me and yelling and buzzing and I’m making more elaborate and more costly mistakes. And then there’s the rose fiasco. He asks me to call a florist for him and he gives me an address and a message. No big deal, right? Just call a florist and have some roses delivered. I mean, a chimpanzee could do this, right? So he gives me this address and just as I’m calling the florist, he buzzes me, ‘FRANNIE, DID YOU SEND THE FLOWERS? I NEED THE FLOWERS SENT N-O-W!!’ And I’m fumbling with the phone and he mutters something over the intercom like ‘Rush those flowers to my wife. She and I had a fight.’ Anyway, as I said, I’m flustered and he buzzes me again to remind me to include the note, and I suddenly can’t find the paper with the address on it. So to save time, I flip through the Rolodex for his home address, and send a dozen roses with a note that says, ‘You are incredible. I loved yesterday and I love you. And yes, I can get away to Paris.’ Okay? No big deal. Well that night, he calls me and starts screaming that I am fired, that I ruined his life and he never wants to see me again.

  “I’m totally perplexed and I demand to know what he’s talking about. It turns out that I sent roses that were intended for his girlfriend to his wife. So I say, ‘But over the intercom, you told me to rush the flowers because you and your wife had a big fight,’ to which he replies, ‘What I said was: Rush the flowers, Frannie, and for once in your life, do something right.’”

  By this point, everyone is laughing, even the Waddler. In fact, he’s the one who asks me to continue. “That’s it,” I say. “I mean, I got fired.”

  “So what’s your point?” the Waddler asks.

  I look at Alvin. “Sometim
es you have to say, ‘Today’s just not my day.’” I shrug. “That’s my story.”

  Alvin’s forehead is drenched in perspiration and his bouffant is matted in the front, but he smiles. “Did you ever see the guy again?”

  I laugh. “Actually, when I interviewed for my first job after I graduated, I called him and asked him if I could use him for a reference.”

  “What did he say?”

  “He didn’t know what to say. He was completely baffled, like I was the biggest moron. So we sat there for a second in silence until I said, ‘Just kidding,’ and hung up on him. It may not have been proper etiquette, but it made me feel better.”

  “Well he shouldn’t have told you to send flowers to his girlfriend,” Vicky says indignantly.

  “He shouldn’t have done a lot of things,” I say, “but you know, you win some, you lose some. And the world keeps spinning, I guess.”

  By the time dessert comes, conversation has picked up a bit between Vicky and Alvin. As we walk out of the restaurant, Mr. Waddel sidles up to me. “Well, Frannie,” he says. “That was some story.” I look at him. Well that was some dinner. He’s thoughtful a second. “You know, we have a policy at Cuisine …” Oh boy, here it comes. “I like to have lunch with all the new hires. I’ll have Adrienne check my calendar and get back to you.”

  “You want to have lunch with me? Is everything okay?”

  He laughs. “It’s supposed to be a positive part of the Cuisine Experience.”

  “Oh,” I say quickly. “I’d love to have lunch with you.” I shake my head, marveling at myself. God, I am so neurotic. “Henry, can I ask you something?” The Waddler nods. “You knew from the beginning that Alvin had Vicky and me mixed up, didn’t you?”

  He shrugs and smiles slyly. Then he says, “I’ll let you in on a little secret, Frannie.” He turns to hail a cab. “If you don’t have a sense of humor in business, if you can’t have fun once in a while, there’s just no point in doing it.”

  “I think the same way!” I say, pumping his hand goodbye. “How about that!”